Paul Andrew Sneddon

May

May 29th, 2026

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

May 26th, 2026

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

May 25th, 2026

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

May 24th, 2026

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
Number 7

May 21st, 2026

The rain stopped, finally.

Folk hurried through the Cross.
Shoppers, pub-goers,
chasing the sudden sun.

Stuart had the guitar.
Finding an E chord.
A scavenged piece of string
tied neck to base for a strap.
He had it slung over his shoulder,
like it had always been there.

People walked by,
didn’t pay him any attention.
The statue of Rabbie Burns
stood above him,
watching the Cross like always.
Stuart looked around.
Hair soaked.
Coat soaked through.
Drookit.

He took it off
and parcelled it up behind his feet
against the bottom of the statue.

“Right,” he said.
He smiled and started the riff to Seven Nation Army.
No one counting him in.
Just him.
Just the guitar.
Just the wet stone under his feet.
He started moving.
Shoulders going.
Head going.
The beat.

Always the beat.

No pick.
Hand to string.
Skin to string.
To fretboard.

People passed by.
Someone put a few coins
in the little cup he had set out.
He played.
Seven Nation Army.
Someone walked by
singing about Rory McKenzie.
Stuart smiled and sang:

“Oh, Rory McKenzie.”

He clapped the body of the guitar
with the flat of his hand
and played on.

May

Mobile Home

Out of Step

Gibbons Guitar Tone

Number 7