Edinburgh e-book Festival (3)

It's all happening over on the Edinburgh e-book Festival site. Here's a selection of the latest short stories:

Windowboxes by Pat Black

The Race by Brendan Gisby

Statistically Improbable by Bill Kirton

The Stabbin o' Rizzio by Cally Phillips

Civil Rights by Catherine Czercawska

There are many more stories to come over the next couple of weeks - Wee Fictions will be sharing the links. Why don't you get over to the Edinburgh e-book Festival and see what's going on - there's a helluva lot!!

Fringe Month - Hugh Macmillan

Pilgrimage

  

The four of them met at the Diggers as it was the closest pub to the churchyard. The plan was to have a pint then walk to Ali’s grave, then across town to where Drew was buried, conveniently close to the Artisan Bar.  They had a bottle of Yamikaze 12 year Old Japanese Malt to sprinkle on the ground at each site.

“There’s floaters in it, though”

“They’ll no mind” said Stevie, “they’re deid after all.”

They walked down the hill. It was a bright spring afternoon.

“Remember Kenny Morgan? He died young.”

“He drank, didn’t he?”

“Aye Paraquat” said Stevie, limping into the graveyard. Stevie suffered from some ailment which kept him intermittently short of breath. 14 pints of Guinness a day didn’t help.

Time wore on.  The sun was blazing and the distance between the graveyards seemed considerably more than a mile and a half. They had to stop quite a few times to let Stevie, by this time very red in the face, catch up.

They couldn’t find Drew in the second cemetery.

 “Christ You cannae even track him down now. He still owes me a tenner you know.”

It was a vast necropolis, apparently packed with men called Andrew who’d died before their time. The party split up, reformed, this time with no sign of Stevie.

Finally they gave up and drank what was left of the Yamikaze. It did have floaters. As the shadows lengthened, they set off to the Artisan, then after a few pints, back towards town.

“Where do you think Stevie got to?”

They were passing Greyfriars.

“That’s where his grannie’s buried isn’t it?”

They all nodded, noting its convenient proximity to Sandy Bell’s.

*     *     *

Hugh Macmillan lives in Penpont, Dumfries and Galloway. 'Thin Slice of Moon' new and selected Poems just published.

Edinburgh e-book Festival 2012 (2)

Get yourselves across to the Edinburgh e-book Festival and read this. It's a cracker of a story.

The Scottish Book Of The Dead by Gavin Broom

Great to see people writing in Scots dialect. There's nothing 'daring' or 'revolutionary' about it. It's just the way it is.

Fringe Month - Angus Shoor Caan

Intae Care.

Tinker, Sailor, Sodjer, Thief

Ye’d fun thum a’ doon the dokes it Leith

Bit ye widnae take yer weans doon there

The polis wid pit thum intae care

an’ sen’ thum sumwhere remote, lik’ Crieff.

*     *     *

Angus Shoor Caan. Sixty years of age. Born and raised on the beautiful west coast of Scotland, left school at fifteen and had a brief fling with the east coast before setting off on my travels worldwide via various ships of the Merchant Navy fleet. Saw a bit of the world with that, my only real regret being I didn't ever think to take a camera with me. Started writing six years ago when I returned to the homeland and now, having just completed Zachary Bleu, a Western, have ten novels to my name with three of them published. Also, a good number of short stories as featured in McStorytellers, two themed poetry collections and over one hundred miscellaneous odes. The published novels are Scoosh, The Reader and Violet Hiccup. Previously I had another two published as eBooks, Dhu Lally and the Bampots and Larry Kynn (A case study in misadventure) but the site folded before it could get going properly.

Happy to preview and discuss any or all of my scribblings with anyone interested.

Edinburgh e-book Festival 2012

The inaugural Edinburgh e-book Festival started today. I'll be posting links to their fiction features as they appear. First off, here's something from me - it's one of the pieces from my collection, The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories.

The Watchmaker's Wife by Andrew McCallum Crawford 

Make sure to take a look around the Festival site - there's a lot going on over the next few weeks!

Fringe Month - Garry Stanton

Greyfriars

Damp earth, patchy
late year grass.
Cold dust below.
Somewhere, from brittle branches,

black eyes
stare down.

The crypts
of the rich line
the walls. But I can, still,
deep inside, hear the cries
of the poor, outside the
kirkyard gates,

where they have always been.

Metal covers graves,
to deter

the resurrection men.

All around,
blossom rots in the bosom of
moist brown
death.

The aura of autumn
is all around,

erotic

in its
cool warm aromas, and

olfactory echoes of
burnt things.
It is in the breeze.
It is in the lichened walls,
and it sits on the faces of lunch-break
workers, like the abstract future.

You can detect the plague,
even now,

lingering in Greyfriars.
You can taste
the pain
of Covenanters, their gate
padlocked now, and forever.

Nettles nestle
in green,
resting against
the Flodden wall,
long breached, as
November
creeps in, 

wearing a long dark

overcoat.

wearing a long, dark overcoat.

*     *     *

A native of Edinburgh, Garry has always been a creative soul, from co-writing Fringe shows to supplying songs for the official Hibernian FC cd back in '98. He has released an album online, has had poetry published and has in the last two years written two novels which remain as yet unpublished. A mature graduate from the University of St Andrews, he now lives in Fife and has two sons.

 

Fringe Month - Brendan Gisby

Edinburgh from an alternative past – March 1981

Up on the battlements of Edinburgh Castle, Colonel Nikolai Krakov watched, without regret, the last Russian vehicle roar down the esplanade on its way out of the city.  It was late afternoon, the warm mid-March sun shone in a clear sky, and he was the only remaining member of Russian personnel in the Castle.  Like the captain of a sinking ship, he was staying to the bitter end.

Krakov felt tired.  He rested his old, weary body against the parapet and gazed out over the sunlit panorama of the city.  For the second time in less than a year, a war was raging out there.  The thunder of rocket fire and mortar fire and the whining, staccato bursts of machine-gun fire filled the air.  Directly across from him, on the blue, sparkling waters of the River Forth, the big guns of large grey American and Canadian warships pounded the fast receding Communist shore defences.  Down to his right, the Leith contingency of the Resistance Army, under the cover of a heavy mortar screen, was progressing slowly into the centre of the city.  And away to his left, black clouds of smoke billowing high into the sky indicated the fast approach of invasion forces on that front.  The enemy was closing in.

Krakov closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his crop of grey, spiky hair.  From an inside pocket of his jacket, he brought out a sealed white envelope, which he proceeded to stare at for some seconds.  The envelope contained a ten-page letter addressed to his wife, Olga.  She’ll never receive it, Krakov thought despairingly, and I’ll never see her again.  Never.  He had cold-bloodedly murdered one of his countrymen, and a fellow-officer at that.  That the murdered man was scum, vermin, deserving of such a death, was of no consequence.  There was no way now that he could return to Russia.  He had burned his last bridge.  Very slowly, Krakov tore the envelope in two, then in four, then in eight.  He watched dolefully as the tiny scraps of paper floated downwards to land on the sharp granite rocks many feet below him.

Krakov closed his eyes again.  So what was left?  The Americans?  An old prisoner-of-war facing death in a Nuremberg-style trial for an unknown number of atrocities?  No, he couldn’t face that.  Back in his office, along with a signed statement confessing his complicity, he had left, for open inspection, every document that had ever been written in the Interrogation Centre.  The records of Edinburgh Castle, he hoped, would show, like Buchenwald, Belsen and Dachau in a previous reign of terror, how low and vile a creature man was.  If he could be sure of that, then he had salvaged something at least out of all the horror; he had made some small act of restitution for the terrible things his countrymen had done.  And the remaining detainees were safe: they could bear witness; he had made sure of that.

Krakov smiled wryly.  He leaned over the parapet and gazed down at the sharp rocks.  He always knew it would come to this.  He could never return home.  He couldn’t stay.  The rocks below looked so inviting.  It was the only way, the only escape.  At least there was some honour in this, his final act.  Like a heavy stone, his body plummeted down – to oblivion and peace of mind at last.

                                                                *     *     *

Brendan Gisby was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, halfway through the 20th century, and was brought up just along the road in South Queensferry (the Ferry) in the shadow of the world-famous Forth Bridge.  He and his long-suffering wife and muse, Alison, presently live in splendid isolation in the wilds of the Trossachs in Scotland.

Retiring from a business career in 2007, Brendan has devoted himself to writing.  To date, he has published three novels, three biographies and several short story collections.  You can find out more about his writing on his website, Blazes Boylan’s Book Bazaar (http://the4bs.weebly.com).

Brendan is also the founder of McStorytellers (http://mcstorytellers.weebly.com), a website which showcases the work of Scottish-connected short story writers.

Edinburgh e-book Festival 2012

Whether you're in Edinburgh or not, visit the Edinburgh e-book Festival site to find out what's happening in Independent e-publishing. The site is having a rolling launch over the next few days, with the main launch on 11th August. So happy to be part of this.

Fringe Month - Karen Jones

Dinner in Edinburgh

Euphemia McTaggart laid the oak table for dinner. She would have nothing common in her house and nothing from Ikea. Ikea was where Glaswegians went for cheap furniture and cheap fish and chips.  Her end-terraced villa - in what she termed one of Edinburgh’s leafy, genteel streets - warranted nothing but the best. 

She took a deep breath, anticipating a shiver of pleasure at the scent of the polish she applied to her antique furniture twice a day. She coughed and spluttered. Findlay had opened the windows again.  She hated open windows. The stench of curry, chop suey, haggis suppers with salt ‘n’ sauce and the demon alcohol oozed into her clean air.  She reached up and shut out the city.

Euphemia placed silver cutlery on floral patterned mats and called to her husband.

“Findlay! Dinner will be served in one moment.  Please come to the table.”

Findlay appeared on cue.  Euphemia smiled.  He’d insisted she get rid of the tasteful brass dinner gong and, after a few terse words, she’d acquiesced.  The first time he hadn’t heard her call, she’d put his cold tongue and green salad in the bin.  He’d been punctual ever since.

Findlay sniffed, wrinkled his nose and puckered his top lip. “What are we having?” He placed a napkin as flat on his lap as the starch would allow.

“Liver and onions, pickled cabbage and tinned new potatoes.”  She watched him grimace.  “Something wrong?”

“No. It’s just that I fancied some fresh vegetables for a change and maybe a nice wee piece of steak.”

“Steak?  Are you mad?  Have you seen the price of steak?  We’ll have no extravagances in this house.”

They ate their food in silence, the way Euphemia liked it. After dinner, she allowed television for one hour so they could watch the news.  Later, she crocheted new antimacassars for the leather Chesterfield while Findlay assembled extensions to his model railway village.

At nine o’clock Euphemia rose, yawned and announced her intention to retire for the night – it had been an arduous day.

Findlay sidled up to her, slipped his arm around her waist and whispered into her ear.

Euphemia shrugged off his hand, placed her hands on her hips and glared at him.  “What date is it today, Findlay?”

Findlay blushed and looked at his feet. “July 28th, Euphemia.”

“And did we, or did we not, have bedroom activity on July 4th?”

“We did, Euphemia.”

“Then you’ll have had your sex for July.”  She turned on her very flat heels and marched out of the room.

Left alone, Findlay became aware of the carriage clock’s relentless tick on the marble mantelpiece.  He got up and opened all the windows. If he breathed deeply enough he was sure he could smell life. People - probably in Glasgow - were having fun, spending money, dancing, maybe even having sex more than once a month. He trudged back to his plastic, glue and paint. 

Ach, well, it would be August soon.

                                                          *     *     *

Karen Jones is from Glasgow. Her work has appeared in several print anthologies, in magazines including The New Writer and Writers’ Forum, and in various ezines, most recently in The Waterhouse Review and Up the Staircase.  She was short-listed for the 2007 Asham Award and took third prize in the 2010 Mslexia short story competition. One of her stories received an honourable mention in The Spilling Ink Short Story Prize 2011 and another took second prize in the Flash 500 competition 2012. Three poems (she’s not sure how that happened) have appeared on Every Day Poets. 

Fringe Month on Wee Fictions - Call for submissions

Fringe Month!

August is Fringe Month on Wee Fictions. We are looking for your poems and flash fiction, with Edinburgh as the theme. Previously published work more than welcome.