Paul Andrew Sneddon

Timescale

Bed rest.
Doctors orders.

I’m 46.

I’m on a timescale.
I’ve got stuff to do.

I get up and walk to the kitchen.
Come back.
30 minutes to recover.

Fuck’s sake.

I’m listening to Otis Gibbs.
Stories of Townes and Guy.

Window open.
It was sunny 30 minutes ago.
Now it’s raining.

The ache in my chest
reminds me of something.
That slipped my mind.

The rain cleared as I closed my eyes
and let the music play.

The Work

The boiler sounded like a lung collapsing.

My mouth was dry and the headache pulsed around my skull. I looked out in the darkness and back to my phone.

10:39am. No bars.

Just the orange glow of the street light. I caught a glimpse of myself; the surface of the mirror shifted. The colours bled out.

I took a breath.

I pulled the curtains, heard the low hum of the street light. I watched a bird fly from the trees. Like a getaway, upwards till it fell.

The empty thud as it made contact with the concrete.

I backed away from the window. Sweat dripped down my back. Scrambling to unlock the door.

It stuck.

Until finally I was out to the street.

Silent, empty houses.
Sale signs.

One street light went out and the next one went on. I ran along the street and they lit up.

I took a deep breath and I ran. Down the path and into the cemetery, dead flowers and photographs.

And here, a new grave. The earth piled high.

I saw a fox move between the rows. The grave was just mud and earth. I picked up the dirt and held it in my hands. Looked up to an empty sky.

The noise in my head growing. I got up.

Over the old railway track, there was a car parked in the middle of the road, doors open. I ran to the shore, right to the water’s edge.

My hands went down to the water. I looked down.

My hands were blue.

I saw smoke rising along the beach. There was a figure.

I thought of the mirror.

He said, “You’re late, did you forget again?”

It started to rain, it painted us blue.

He pushed me away as he disappeared.

I turned and ran.

Past the car, the cemetery, but I kept moving.

The street lights followed me back, or I followed them.

In through the front door.

Wheezing.

I wrote.

The dawn broke outside my window.

Hometown Blues

Back home for a few days.
Going for a beer.

The pub we started our pub crawls in is now flats.
The bar we met in is now a nursery.
The place we went for our first date is too.

Whole town gave up the booze.
Started making babies.
Cut out the middle part.

Must be something in the water.

So I bought a carry-out.
Found a seat.
Police moved me on.
No outdoor drinking.

Old neighbour recognised me at the bus stop.
Shook my hand.
“You look exactly the same.
Just fatter.
Much fatter.”

“Thanks, ya arsehole,” I smiled.
“You too.”

What can you do.

Hometown blues.

(C) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Me and the Rain

Open the window at 4am.
Listen to the rain
falling on the window.

The street.
The parked cars.
The garden chair
I left out last night.

Sit in the glow
of the streetlight.

Just listen.

Hear a car race up the street.
Too fast.

Then it fades.

And I’m left with the sound
of the rain.

The smell drifting in
through the window.

Pick up my guitar.
Quietly picking out a chord.

Me and the rain.

River

Content warning: this piece contains themes of depression and suicidal ideation.

If you or someone you know is struggling, support is available:
Samaritans — 116 123 (UK, 24/7, free)
International crisis lines — http://www.iasp.info/resources/Crisis_Centres/

A story about survival.

— Paul

The wind cuts across the field.
The old gatehouse shadowed against the dying sun.

Not a soul here.

On a Tuesday night in March.

The water looks dark.
Cold.
Deeper than I thought.
Deeper than I remember.

I look around the sides.
There is a path leading down.
Into the water.
The current.

All the way to the sea.

I watch the water for a while.
The wind rolls across, so it looks like it’s going the wrong way.

Debris and wood piled against the bridge.
Looks like the beavers have got ambitious.
Building skyscrapers.
I laugh.
Like something escaping.

Funny how we are drawn to water.

I’ve been thinking about walking down to the river all day.

All week.

Yesterday, I found an excuse not to come here.
Something drawing me here.

I followed a feeling.
It led me here.

But my brain, started quoting my writing back to me.

“I am of the earth, but not yet the earth.”

Ah, fuck. I wrote that?

I don’t remember.
Shit.

I did.

“Get up, you son of a bitch, get up, because I love you.”

Life is more than just me.
I am more than myself.
But just a man.

Flesh.
Blood.

A cold beer on a Saturday.

Well, did you mean them or not?
Are you out here playing?
Is this a fucking joke?

No.

This is who I am.
This is where I will live and die.

Here.

On this page.
In this town.
With these people.
With these thoughts.

The river.
The sky.
The moon sneaking on the stage.

I light up a smoke.
I run my hand over my face, the rough skin.

I sit.

In the yellow light of the streetlight.
A procession.
Slow.

A band, just accordion,
bass,
a guitar part snaking through.

Like the crowd that follows.
Carrying a coffin.
A woman crying.
Carrying a rose.

And a few that follow…
Just a few.
They nod as they pass.

The woman takes the rose.
Throws it into the water.
She looks at me.
I can’t look her in the face.
Her eyes burn through me.

She turns.
I watch as they disappear into the woods.

I sit in the orange glow.
Streetlights.
I can hear the river run.
I hold up my hands.

What are these hands?
What are they for?

They work.
I work.
Work to do.

The wind cuts across the field.
The old gatehouse shadowed against the dying sun.