Sunday

The congregation filed out. Grey hairs and suits. Alex looked at the faces. Same faces every Sunday for fifty years. Look the same, but like they sat too near the fire and they melted just a little bit. A few faces missing. More than a few, but what can you do. That’s the way it goes.

He checked his watch.

12:15.

Too early for a roll call of the dead.

Malky bumped into him.

“How’s it going Alex, me and you the last of the survivors?”

Malky had one strand of hair that went round his head like spaghetti.

“Where’s Betty, not seen much of you too recently, you alright?”

“Aye you know us pal, barely get a minute between the clubs and the work we’ve been doing, you know raising money, since Jon died.”

Alex put his hand on his shoulder. “Yous have done well, I’ll be coming down to help again this week.”

He dropped his arm as Betty appeared from the crowd. “Alex how are you,” she smiled and they hugged. “Good to see you.”

“I’m doing alright, just saying how well yous have done.”

She looked a little embarrassed but smiled.

“Thanks Alex, see you later Alex.”

He smiled.

“Aye of course.”

Malky nodded and they wandered off to speak to the minister.

Alex turned and made his way down to the street.

It was still quiet. Always was quiet for a Sunday. It made him laugh how they had the church, the police station, and then the court house. All lined up. Just need the pub now.

He cut through the park. Sun shining. It was quiet enough you could hear the birds sing. He saw Francine coming along the way, her dog bounding about her. She spotted him and made her way over in a beeline.

“Alex pal, you just back from the church?”

“Aye Frankie, how are you.”

The dog bounded over and started sniffing Alex’s shoes. He reached down and petted her.

“You alright, Honey?”

Frankie laughed. “Oh that’s not Honey. Honey died last year. Well, actually this is Honey, but not that Honey, this is Honey Two.”

“Er, aye, alright Frankie.”

They both started laughing.

“It’s just easier, you know.”

He laughed. “You’re the George Foreman of Kirkentoun.”

She looked puzzled. “Is that not the boxer? Fought Ali?”

Alex smiled. “Aye, that’s right. And the grill, remember. He called all his kids George cause he got punched in the head so often.”

She started laughing. “Listen, I better get going. Good to see you, Alex.”

She put her hand on his arm and smiled. “See you soon, eh.”

And she was gone, moving quickly after Honey.

He cut down the path, past the tennis courts and round the corner.

Same pub. Same table.

Pint waiting.

Alex smiled.

“Alright pal, you didn’t make the church.”

Davey grinned. “Funny you get older and you don’t care so much for that shite. You’d think it would be the other way around.”

Alex laughed as he took off his coat and sat down.

“What time’s kick off?”


(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Minor Key Life




I walked to the Post Box this morning.
Someone had taped it closed.
Is this a protest?

Or just someone being a prick.

I walked home. 

She asked “what you got against minor key songs?”

Me?

She started laughing.

“You live a minor key life”

“Thanks”

The sunlight cut through the hall while the radio played.
I was half expecting some big red letters to appear:

“You need this”

And then the advert for some clothes, or electronics, or whatever.

I went to the writers group

They said, you are in the right place. We’ve read your blog and we can help you, we can sort you out. You’ve got to start with paragraphs. See, the words just run right over the page in a satisfying manner. This is the way to do it, and then you call tell normal stories. Just like us.This is acceptable.:

With paragraphs, see?

Just like this.

Of course I never went to the writers group.
What the fuck do I know about writing. .

You want paragraphs, you can write your own stuff.

This is take from my collection of writing “Shore”.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Three Cats

Photo by Paul Andrew Sneddon

The rain cleared and the three cats lay sleeping in the sun.

They had found some shelter behind the wall, away from the cool breeze blowing from the Atlantic.

The boy sat amongst them and sneezed.

The ginger cat lifted his head.

Opened his eyes.

And immediately went back to sleep.

While the black cat came over and let the boy pet him.

When the music from the party stopped he could hear the sound of the waves. He felt the warmth of the wooden boards beneath him.

The boy sat with them for another five minutes before he heard his mum calling him.

He sighed.

Ran his hands along the cat’s back.

He heard his mum’s voice louder this time, a little harsher.

“I’m over here!” he shouted and then ran back to the sound of music and drinking.

The black cat lay back down and closed his eyes.

A cloud moved across the sun and for a moment they were all cast in shadows.

He shivered.

Sat.

Waited.

Just like magic, he felt the warmth of the sun again.

He stretched out. His eyes heavy. He fell asleep.

Just sun.

Sea.

And time.

They heard footsteps on the wooden boards.

People coming and going.

The smell of sunscreen.

Alcohol.

Someone lit up a cigarette, smoke drifting over.

But the cats didn’t care.

It was only when they smelt the perfume on the air.

Certain. Specific.

That they stirred.

Maria.

4 p.m.

She brought them out some water and sat down amongst them.

Ginger pressed against her trouser leg and she ran her hand along his back.

The black cat purred and looked at her. She smiled and put the water down.

The two cats started to drink but the third cat kept a distance.

“Oh Andro,” she smiled. “Always here but never quite. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

She pushed another bowl of water out towards Andro.

The cat didn’t move.

She pushed it further and sat back.

Andro approached the bowl, slowly.

Before settling to drink.

Maria smiled as she watched.

She felt the warmth of the sun, but it was much cooler here. She drank from her bottle of water.

She muttered, “You cats are lucky out here. Peace and calm and sun and sea. You should try being in that kitchen for five minutes. It’s hot, it’s sweaty and it’s not much fun.”

She heard the music playing from the party as she lit up a cigarette.

“More customers, less staff.”

She shook her head.

Ginger and the black cat came over to her.

“What a life you cats must have, eh? All the food you can hunt and I’ll bet I’m not the only one bringing you water. You’ll need to watch or you’ll get fat.” She laughed.

“It’s okay. To me you are Fugeo, Sol and little Andro.”

She smiled.

Checked her watch.

“Time to go. Same time tomorrow. Love you all.”

She scooped up the bowls, giving Andro a gentle pet as she left.

The cats lay back down on the warm wooden boards.

Fugeo shifted position to stay in the sunlight.

The sound of the waves breaking on the shore.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Moments

Moments

I sit for a while and just enjoy the music.

They are playing a blues in A. Bobby points to another guitar and to me. I pick up and put the guitar strap over my shoulder. I touch the strings; it’s mic’d up. Through a little distortion pedal.

I’ll be where the music is playing.

This is no game.

No joke.

Fuck that.

Buried beneath the city, Buried beneath the ground. Buried inside us.

The world steals. Dignity. Hope. Life.

Fuck that. Fuck off. Fuck you. Fuck. Fuck.

Bobby nods at me, and I play that guitar with every ounce of life that I ever had.

I run up from the G on the E string, up to the high string… I feel them… the strings… every note.

We’re in a moment.

The world stops.

The noise stops.

And we are alive.

I hit the strings till my fingers bleed.

I remember the little room where I first picked up a guitar. Nights alone. Playing. John Lee Hooker Springsteen Steve Earle Rancid

To here

Life Love Connection.

I nod at Bobby, and I play the chords as he takes a turn, and he can really play. A blizzard of notes and then nothing but soulful, bluesy bends.

Then Rachel comes back in.

We can take a place. A moment. These guitars, And make a place of our own.

The little crowd cheers. Someone shouts from the bar.

“Here, yous can fucking play!”

I thank Bobby and Rachel.

They invite me down to the open mic and I of course say I will be there. I get back to my seat and for a moment I just breathe.

I finish my drink and walk outside.

It’s fucking raining. Of course it is.

This is part 6 of my book Shelter.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon