Out of Habit

Life is a firecracker sometimes, and sometimes it’s a little bar like this. This just suits me down to the ground.

The Harbour Pub, it never stops surprising me just how many people it fits when it looks like someone’s front room. The library round the corner, quiet on a Tuesday afternoon. Get a book and come in here for a pint or two.

The river rolling on like it knows better than to stick around, door open in the summer with the sunshine fading out. In winter, the door’s closed and if you hold it open too long when you go outside for a smoke you’ll be sure to know about it.

Maisey behind the bar is my kind of woman, a little bit grumpy but honest, you know. Doesn’t have to be the centre of attention all the time so I get peace to read.

Friday lunchtime I go and get her and me a ticket for the lottery, £5 each and if we win we split it between us. We used to just go for it when the winnings went above £100 million. High rollers, eh. But now we just do it out of habit.

She says she wouldn’t change a thing if she won. Not a thing. I like that. I think we have that in common, though I would like to travel, visit a few places.

Until then I’ve got my books.

© Paul Andrew Sneddon

May

A light bulb is burning out as the sun sets. Talking heads on the TV. Fuck off and give me peace. The window’s open but the air isn’t moving. The shadows stretching long across the floor. I can hear a train moving through the city, there and then gone. Who the fuck even watches TV anymore. I feel a bead of sweat roll down my face as I open a beer, cold from the bowl of ice, and just hold it to my neck.

May in the city has got me dreaming of the winter.

It nearly killed me last year but it was a quicker death than this.

It used to make me laugh. I’d be walking by the beach in summer, people everywhere, big queues for ice cream, women in bikinis, guys in swimming trunks, everyone everywhere melting. Over by the water there was a church group from overseas in big thick coats, like you’d wear to the football in January or February.

The sun’s an outlaw most days.

Mobile Home

The summer nights get cold here. Seems counterintuitive, but that’s just how it is. I spent the last of my retirement money on this mobile home. We’ll just drive around, sleep where we stop. We’ve been bumping around inside it like two feral cats, and it’s turning into a blood sport.

I drink straight from the bottle. Another argument. I can’t remember what we were arguing about. She was meant to go into town to get some medicine. I was meant to go into town to get some food.

So we sit outside in silence.

As the sun starts to sink, I pick up some wood and we start a fire. I throw on my licence, my passport. She throws hers down too, and we watch them burn. I pour some petrol on. She dances by the fire and I join her, close, together, my arm round her waist and hers on my shoulder.

I swig from the bottle and we stumble into the mobile home, dishes flying, TV broken, her need and mine together. I pull her hair and she bites my chest, and then we sleep.

In the morning, I wake up and hear gunshots.

I grab the gun from the safe and go outside.

She’s standing out there shooting.

Two revolvers, twelve rounds between them, and she has fired all hers.

I load one round and spin the chamber. She reloads one of hers and does the same.

We pull the triggers.

Both guns fire.

Then the credits roll.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 stars: gorgeous commentary

⭐ 1 star: two drunks shoot each other

Out of Step

If you fall out of step with the world,
it’s hard to get back in.

You just see all the people walking by,
so sure of themselves.
They don’t see you.
They’re not allowed to.
It would break the certainty.
If they do see you,
they glance and look away.

Best to stay in line.
Follow the person in front,
flicking through their phone,
looking at the instructions,
checking with the person next to them that they are doing it right.

And yet, as I sit here and watch them pass,
the next step is my own.

Gibbons Guitar Tone

Walk through town.
Tall buildings casting shadow
under the winter sun.

Traffic queues up.
Someone’s got the window down,
making a phone call,
and you can hear them half way up the street
telling someone
they need to get cream
for those haemorrhoids.

Few folk laughing.

Walk past the pub.
Looks like a good crowd in.
The band is cranking out
Sharp Dressed Man.

I’m either in a time machine
or I’ve found the only other folk in 2026
who still love Billy Gibbons’ guitar tone.

I step inside.

The guitar player is ripping out a solo.
A few folk dancing near the front.
I find a spot by a pillar
and watch them tear through
the end of the song.

Then the guitar and bass drop out
and it’s just the drummer,
holding the groove.

The band look at each other.
The bass player laughs.
Then they lock in.

A few notice.
Heads move in time.
Most folk keep chatting.

The band turn their backs to the crowd
and lock in with each other.

The drummer looks serious,
pulling those faces
only drummers pull
when they are really feeling it.

A woman beside me starts dancing
and bumps my shoulder.
She turns, smiling.
I smile back.

The song finishes.
The crowd cheers and
the band take a break.

I head back out to the street.

The shadows have grown.
The sun is sinking.
And I’m moving again.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon