Glam Rock, Docken Leaves And Some Other Barry White.

Here we are at week 203. That number seemed so boring that I didn’t even look it up!

I’ve been thinking about animals this week. And no, not in that way! I may be a bit strange but I’m not fucking deranged!

I like beasties, they are one of the few things that make me smile. You see, a girl in at Gwen’s work has Guinea Pigs and asked if we ever had any newspapers. I always have a newspaper, Gwen not so much. It’s a woman thing, they don’t buy papers. They will go into the shop of a morning and buy everything apart from a paper. I only know that it is morning if I have a paper tucked underneath my arm.

Two stories come to mind with that thought. Firstly Frank Carson, who was a terrible comedian in the seventies, was reported to lift a paper when heading to the toilet and say ‘I’m going to give birth to a Traffic Warden’. I’ve just realised how out of date that statement is. We have the seventies, (I loved Glam Rock!) Frank Carson, Papers and Traffic Wardens – Check them all out on Google, it will explain. (Google, Tsk, hark at me! I can be hip, happening and relevant when I want!)

Secondly, I used to work with a bunch of Sectarian Numpties from Govan. One of them, when going to relieve himself would pick up a paper and state, ‘I’m going for a Barry.’

Barry White’s velvet tones were the sounds of love. But not when you consider some Scottish rhyming slang. (For those readers from America, add an ‘e’ onto shit and you get the word that rhymes with White.) Maybe he knew this and that inspired him to cover ‘Louie, Louie’

We used to have Guinea Pigs and I loved the wee greedy bastards. I reckon for their size, they could eat their weight in greens. Spinach, sprouts and docken leaves were their favourite. I miss them squeaking at me whenever I came home and rustled a carrier bag, I normally had something for them.

We had seven at one time. Two are buried where I stay now. Three at my old house. And two had really cool burials, they were buried at sea, well The Firth Of Forth really. We stayed down the harbour at the time, it was fucking freezing so as I said, they had cool burials. Weirdly they ended up beside seven of my ex-partners. Gwen is still here, she is a light sleeper and hates the taste of almonds – She can spot it a mile away.

In a lot of Leila’s correspondence with us she mentions her cats. It puts me in the notion. Not of getting cats but resurrecting my Serial Killing. Cats are the Gods of this pass-time and need worshipped!

OK, onto this weeks stories.

We had three new writers, one returning author and another of the sites legends.

Our topics this week include; releasing questionable potential, a class of children, a con, a Sergeants put-downs and trying to get a lift to the hospital.

As always our initial comments follow.


We started the week with our first new writer.

We welcome Ntombi K.

Her first story, ‘Siswana‘ was published on Monday.

‘Witty and crazy but ultimately sad.’

‘The child dying in the latrine pit broke my heart.’

‘I really enjoyed the description of the children due to their actions and not their features.’


Next up was another newster, Shona Woods.

We hope that all of them have a long association with us.

On Tuesday we published Shona’s short story, ‘White Face.’

‘Simply lovely writing.’

‘The loneliness and sadness are so very well described with a sort of desolate bravery.’

‘The indifference was heart-breaking. Even the Priest had an ulterior motive.’


And the new folks just kept coming.

Elizabeth Bruce was next up so more welcomes, hopes of a long association and a request for all of them to continue to send us their work.

The Grass Jesus Walked On‘ broke the back of the week.

‘The story about her being groomed, them running away and then becoming a pair of wee con-merchants had a bit of a charm.’

‘Well written and entertaining.’

‘Elizabeth effortlessly took us into her story.’


On Thursday we had John McLaughlin’s second outing for us with the brilliantly titled, ‘Private Snowflake.’

‘The two worlds colliding was very funny.’

‘John packed a lot into a tiny word count.’

‘I wish there had been more!’


And there is no better way to finish off the week than with the wonderful Fred Foote.

Joy‘ takes his story total into the fifties.

‘I love that this can be a statement on demons within. Reasons may just be the catalyst.’

‘Unsettling and disturbing.’

‘Another look at the damage war can do to good people.’


I wanted to finish up with a wee story about Guinea Pigs but emm, they are pretty boring and I couldn’t find anything interesting.

But what the hell, they make me smile. Especially the ones wearing make-up.




And as is the norm, a reminder about the Sunday slot.

If you want to dig out an older story that you have enjoyed and write a spiel, we’ll be delighted to publish your comments / critique with no changes.

Give it a go. What’s the alternative? Church?? Ah! Fuck!! We can’t compete with that work of fiction ever!!!!


Banner Image: Not much choice this week I don’t think – this is a little present for Hugh – not as good as the real thing but they are tricky to pack and post – thanks to

Siswana by Ntombi K

It was a Monday morning. A village hen clucked at the assembly, looking for its youngling. The school principal, Mister Rakobo, went off with the hen, leaving the assembly divided into several assemblies. The Mocking Birds choral conductor raised a hand, calming the sopranos and tenors that were going this way and that. “Whose mother is that?” inquired some. “Someone must have stolen money or something,” speculated some. “A family death? A bullying case?” Some concluded that this was not the case.

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Oh, the Wounds He Wore, Death His Neighbor (Jimmy the Meterman) by Tom Sheehan

Small-eyed, small-eared, a mole perched like an ace of spades on one eyelid, a mastoid-depressed void behind one of those ears, pale of complexion, shoulders it seemed worn down by weights almost too ponderous for life, Jimmy Griffith was the essence of obscurity as he leaned on the bar of the Vets Club. All members knew Jimmy by name and by sight, but few had ever heard him say much more than a good morning or a goodnight, or “I’ll have my second beer now, Al,” or “Brownie,” if Brownie Latefox was on duty. This was the two-a-day ritual at the end of walking his route about town, measuring water consumption, reading the meters down in fieldstone cellars or the utility rooms of newer bungalows. Read the meters, jot the numbers, cheat a bit for a friendly face, or go a step further, like disconnecting a meter for six months at a time, not a soul at the water department or in the confines of Town Hall ever the wiser. Nobody knew how happy Jimmy was to have the job, nobody in God’s creation. Or why.

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