Paul Andrew Sneddon

Wake Up Juice

Miserable Bastards (Part One): A writer wakes up with a hangover, no plan and a ceiling that’s due to collapse.

One second,
Two seconds,
Three seconds,
Four seconds.

Time slips away.

I open my eyes.

The morning is bright.
Too bright.

Am I alive?

My mouth is dry.
My head hurts.

I can see the patch on the ceiling where the water has spread.
It used to be about the size of a 50p piece.

Now it’s more like the bottom of a bucket.

I rented this place from Jon Phillips with the last of the money from my book.
I flick through my phone, text messages to him.

No reply at all.

No reply from anyone.

I wonder if they can fix it before the roof comes in.

I run my hand through my shaggy beard and check the time.

8.50.

Ah, fuck it.

Why is it that you wake up early when you’ve got nothing to do?

No appointments.
No calls.
No agent.
No girl.

Nothing.

Ah, fuck, I’m awake now. I sit up in the bed.

The little computer by the side of the bed can barely run a word processor, but that’s all I need.

Well, I don’t really need that at the moment.
I look over last night’s files.

Nothing.

Coffee at 3am is not a great idea.

What’s worse than bad writing?
No writing.

Are you a writer if you don’t write?

I look in the mirror.
Used to be a writer.

Now I’m a,
Well now,

Now I’m nothing.

I stretch and yawn, feel the ache in my bones.
I feel the chill in the room.

Shit.

Did I fall asleep with the window open last night?

I pull back the curtain.
The window is shut, but I can feel the draft sweeping through.

Fuck’s sake.

To business.

I stand and stretch, walking across the worn carpet, past the little kitchen alcove. I put some songs on the little speaker.

Then to the shower.
And then.

Inevitably.
To the bar.

Thanks for reading. Part 2 to follow next week.

Bus Stop Boogie

Bus stop in the gentle rain,
Waiting,
Waiting.

Old couple arguing about something, nipping at each other.

Dressed like they are on a hill-walking expedition in monsoon season for the trip down to the bingo.

Sharing a packet of Wotsits.

The wet grass.
Cars rolling by in the street,
Turn up the volume,
Ian Dury and the Blockheads
Burst through my headphones.

And I’m traveling,
Borneo,
Bordeaux,
Fantastique.

Feet tapping,
Moving,
Near ready to fly.
Suddenly, shoulders start going,
And the arms,

Like a dad dancing special at a wedding,

I’m moving.

The Missus is over the road walking a dog,
Chuckles and gives me a wave.
Saxophone solo hits,
I give her a wave back.

And I’m moving like Jagger,

Moving smooth like an old soul band,
Busting some moves like Sam and Dave,
Found the 46-year-old version of the splits,
I’m channelling James Brown.

The lights are on at the bus stop,
Like a late-night club.

Me and her are dancing together,
She always was a great dancer,
Natural rhythm,
Her perfume.

The dog’s the DJ,
Spinning the songs,
Looking at us like,

“You got this.”

The old couple are boogying together,
They used to do salsa,
They announce,
“You young ones are missing out,”

They laugh.

As me and my lady dance closer,
Slower,
As the beat hits,

And we are dancing down
The Champs-Élysées,
Santa Fe,
Troon Bay,
Roses and fireworks.

We hear the bus,
but it can wait.

At least a beat.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Sunday Nights

Photo by Christina Deravedisian on Unsplash

Sunday night in the setting sun,
front step sitting now the work is done.

The universe is in my veins,

I’ve got my phone playing some songs,
rock and soul all night long.

Close my eyes and breathe it in.

Every Sunday, you’ll find me here,
some songs and a couple of beers.

Take it easy, let it roll.

Life moves fast, so got to take some time,
going to rest my mind,

The stars above the moon revealed.

The fuss and fury of the day, let it go,
breathe out, and flow.

Sit back here against the door.

The streets are quiet now; the day will end,
and tomorrow we rise for work again.

But I don’t feel alone anymore.

Cheers.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Dominoes

Sitting on the bench, a cool Wednesday morning. Tony could hear the traffic from there. Up and down Dundonald Road, all day long, the world going about its business.

Here he was, just like every other day.

The smell of flowers and cut grass drifted on the air.

Sandwiches wrapped in cling film beside him, next to his dominoes.

A bottle of Irn Bru by his feet.

The tombstones before him.

And one in particular.

Words like a prisoner, locked inside. But he was here this morning with his notebook, as always. He had pages and pages unwritten.

He had walked along the gravel path, seen dates born on, died on. Some stretched between centuries, some in weeks, days, hours.

He had gone down to the day centre again, but Wally wasn’t there. Just a crowd of unfamiliar faces watching the news. Wally’s seat empty. No one else liked playing dominoes.

The scores were still up on the wall.

Wally 123 — Tony 122.

Fuck’s sake. Cheeky git.

It didn’t feel right being there without him.

So he’d come back here.

In the silence it felt like he was closer to his friend. He reached a hand out in front of him, like it was reaching out across the great divide.

He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes.

He jumped as a school kid raced down the gravel track, disrupting the stones and shouting, “Ehoooooooooooo!”

And in a moment, he was gone.

Tony sighed.

He eyes drifted to the tombstone:

Wallace Douglas

02/03/1984 to 16/05/2024

Beloved son, brother, and husband.

He opened his notebook, held the pen in his hand.

He looked up at the sky as a great cloud rolled in front of the sun. He shivered a little.

He took a domino from the packet.

Just held it.

Or it held him.

He wasn’t sure.

Like an anchor.

A connection.

To a life lived. All those games. Defeats. Triumphs. But mostly,

The chat.

He held the domino in his hand.

They’d played in the pub till he had given up the sauce.

Then, when Wally got ill, the day centre. Then the hospital.

He sat on the bench, in the cemetery with the silence and the stone before him.

He smiled. He knew that there would always be a piece missing from this pack. It had gone with Wally. In his suit pocket. As he lay there in the open casket.

A parting gift from a friend.

He picked up his pen. He wrote:

‘Do the dead see us?

See us in our grief?

Like the other side of a glass partition?

Screaming at us,

“You’ve still got what I’ve lost.

Get up.

Get living.

Now.

While you can.

Don’t waste this.”

Or do they place their hand against the glass,

Smile.

Or would it be

You again mate. C’mon to fuck, should you not be playing dominoes ‘

The notebook open, he picked up his bottle of juice, the gas had built up and as he opened the lid it poured out over the top.

He looked up to the sky.

He’d buy a new set of dominoes on the way home today.

Midnight is Gone

Midnight. Midnight is gone. Deep into the heart of the night. Just speeding through the nighttime, past where the streetlights end. The road is quiet.

Got to get home.

Police cars burling past me down the dual carriageway. Lights flashing as I slow down a little.

Stop at the petrol station and fill up. The lady behind the screen is reading the paper, she looks tired but offers a smile. The air is cold and clean; the silence of the night is weighing down the world.

Smell of petrol.

Advertisement for a new radio station on the back of the paper.

I can’t go the radio these days, man. There are no gospel stations singing tired travellers home tonight. No local stations at all. It’s just a voice beamed in from the home of empire, reading out the latest catastrophes.

Or a 100-sound alike stations.

Same songs from Ayrshire to Aberdeen to London to Paris to Kansas fucking city. I can’t tell if that’s a real human voice anymore.

This is my resistance. While I’m still breathing. You can get yourself to fuck.

I can hear the ghosts of late-night Ayrshire.

I’ve got a coffee, got some kind of microwave food. Is it a burger? Is it a pie? It’s something in between. I can’t decide if it smells of death or heaven.

I’m back on the road. Sun coming up in the rearview mirror, calling my missus. I’m coming home.

They got me working late. Night shift, late shift, midnight ramble.

The world gives you nothing. It will strip away everything that matters if it can.

Make your own music.

Build your own story.

We’re still building.