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Galileo's Boy

The knife? It was right there on the table. But it wasn’t my fault. It took me years to make the cut.

It was my mum you see. She wanted us to be that wee bit better than everybody else. We had the end block in the terrace, nice garden, and our dad was always in work. A decent, hard-working family in a nice wee council scheme in the country: idyllic you’d think.

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GENUINE

Warning: this piece contains strong language

“Ownay I.D., boys?” the bouncer growls, eyes narrowing, his face contorted in barely disguised scepticism and amusement. Our arses, as they say, are about to collapse. This is never gonnae work. My friend and I are taking part in that most Scottish rite of passage: underage drinking.

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Give me a Reason to Climb out This Hole

Let it be said that this 'ere be th' testament o' a true scots rebel. 31st kin 2018

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Gone With The Whisky

He rattles with the whisky in between dreams and beyond. Continuity unbroken as he knocks back drams from the dawning chorus until the owl is in flight. In restless sleep his nightmares come. I do not catch a single wink myself for fear of him drowning in seas of his own vomit. He rambles incoherently in broken sentences while I gently shush him back into the land of nod. Alcohol engorged neural pathways fire spasmodic messages to his limbs. His fists clench; his legs kick. I am covered in accidental bruises, and here and there a wee cut or nick.

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