This is the only coffee shop in town
That’ll give me dog something to eat.
He sits stretching in the sun,
Looking for stomach rubs and treats.
After a walk in the park,
Chasing pigeons, chasing me.
Barking at the squirrel,
Who’s hiding up the tree.
He sees the best in everything,
Every person, every soul.
He’ll slether your face in a second,
All in one go.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
It went from a yellow alert to an amber alert to a red alert.
Danger to life. A little too quickly.
The fearless one is away to work. Healthcare. You don’t really have a choice.
I'm sitting here and the wind is howling down the chimney. I hear a crash and a bash. Pulling back the curtain.
Oh, it's just part of the roof.
Part of the roof.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It's 8.15am. Check the app. Worst expected to hit between 11 and 3.
Ah jeezo, it sounds like the chimney is coming down.
Sitting down. Trying to work.
Checking an email: "Can you help me with my bill?"
Hold on big yin, I'm just trying to survive the morning.
Sounds like the house is playing Jenga. Or Tetris.
Start to lose my nerve and take my computer through to the front room. By the window.
What could possibly go wrong?
I take a look out the window.
The bins have blown over. Should I run out and put bin bags back before they get blown over the neighbourhood?
Standing at the door.
Waiting for a lull.
Watching clods of earth, branches, and a couple of unidentified flying objects roar by.
Is this the stupidest thing I've ever done?
"Hey dumbass in the tank."
Ok, fuck it. I’ve had a good life. I’ve seen some things, done some things. I’ve raised a family. Lived, loved, and all that stuff.
I’m having flashbacks to my whole life as the bin bags start to blow around the neighbourhood.
It’s not that bad, I tell myself. Is that a cloud or a low flying sheep going by?
I run out, a bit self-consciously, hoping no one sees me, hoping no one is filming me.
What was that show the kids used to watch?
"Stupid deaths, oh stupid deaths..."
I take a clod of earth to the face as I start picking up the rubbish. The wee man comes to the door for a laugh. I’m scooping a half-eaten packet of Wotsits, bin bags, cans.
I pick up the last bin bag and its contents fall through all over the garden. Brilliant.
Howls of laughter from the front step.
I find myself subconsciously trying to make myself smaller.
We’d been to see Twister a few months before and I find myself wondering if there is a barn with a basement nearby.
Or a flyover... drainage dip? Any shelter will do at this point
I scoop everything up randomly, push the bin down on its side as another gust comes through and I'm nearly knocked off my feet.
I run back over, sliding through the door. Wee man jumping out the way.
He runs over to me as I'm leaning against the wall, catching my breath. He comes over, I’m thinking he's going to give me a high five, but he says:
"You forgot to close the bin."
Aw fuck.
Later I'm pulling the curtains. I'm not going back out there. Out there doesn’t exist for now.
Aftermath
The next day after the storm clears.
I took a walk through the woods.
It looked like a T-Rex had appeared and rumbled through the woods, sending the trees flying and cutting a way through like a Godzilla through downtown Tokyo.
Or at least some Jurassic Park CGI effects from the 90s..
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
I saw my breath in front of me, laying in bed this morning. The temperature barely made it above zero today. The rooftops are frosty, cars are frozen up and the pavement is like an ice rink.
I saw a couple of folk struggling into town. Slipping and sliding like some pro level slapstick comedians
It’s the kind of day to snuggle down under the duvet and watch Netflix or read a good book. But if you’re brave, or foolish and venture out then the air is crisp and clean.
The stars are putting on a show, high above this little town.
Thousands of them.
We can wish on a shooting star.
Or a satellite.
Or space junk.
So grab your thermal socks and a good hat. Put on your gloves and let’s go.
Will you hold me as we watch the universe’s light show? Two souls together under the cosmos.
Whenever I feel sad, or blue, or a little lost, I remember:
We are made of stars.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
** Contains strong language and themes of mortality and violence. **
It started here, on this bridge. A December day with the temperature falling. Away from the crowds, the shoppers, the revellers spilling out of the pub.
The cold waters of the Kelvin running beneath me: timeless, endless.
A police siren sounds as a car rolls by.
How cold is the water?
How fast could that guitar be in the river?
The notebook. Townes through the headphones.
Waiting Around to Die.
I think of the cold room. Time — all this time — so much time. Silence. Not getting that back.
My hands deep in my pockets, guarding against the cold. A cough rattling around my chest. The guitar case beside me, leaning against the bridge. I think back to last night. The drunk, stumbling up the street:
“Give me that guitar or I’ll fucking stab you, you fucking prick.”
His breath stinking of booze, a sneer across his face.
I took a hand from my pocket, checked my raw knuckles — still red.
I sighed and looked down at the river. I thought of my notebook:
“I’ve been running down this old trail,
But where I’m going is hard to tell.
If it’s true what they say,
A little luck is going to come my way.”
Some things you can’t sell. You shouldn’t sell. Much less give away.
“We’ve been living in a house on fire,
Seven miles high and getting higher.
We’ve been living in a house on fire,
Let it burn, let it burn.”
If you want to take this from me, then you better be prepared.
“You say this rain’s got to fall,
You say it don’t matter at all.”
If you want to take this from me, you better be ready to die.
Let it burn, let it burn.
I watch the water. It runs from here, down to the Clyde, out to the Firth, and then out to the sea.
Rivers going to run.
Fighters going to fight.
Singers going to sing.
Writers going to write.
Let it burn, let it burn.
My mind drifts. A siren sounds.
I recognise that smell, antiseptic and hospital food.
I open my eyes. Blurry vision. I hear people moving. I go to lift my head, but my body is so heavy. I can hear a bleep — steady, like a drum. A sound low… was that the hum of a machine, or a keyboard?
A promise: you’re not dead yet.
I feel something in my hand. Looking down, I see a tube connected to water. Everything a blur. The lights go out, and I’m floating through darkness. I can hear something:
Shine a light
Days slipping by,
Faces been and gone,
Familiar Voices.
An old piano, played soft and tender. The world is no place for tender hearts. The world is no place for poetry and stories and hope.
And yet. And yet… Here we are:
Trying to live up to our heroes.
Trying to live up to ourselves. And falling short. Landing somewhere else.
Here.
I hear an acoustic guitar — the E string tuned down to D — playing the chord. Resistance. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain, and sickness rises and pours from me. I hear voices — and out go the lights.
Silence. Emptiness. I opened the dictionary and it was empty. I opened my notebook and the pages were untouched. I felt the cold hand of death.
Death is such a waste. Such an abrupt ending. You hear about things like that — someone battles with depression for years. Doctor finally gives them the all‑clear. Next day, they get hit by a bus.
Do you think Death is real, with the scythe and the black coat? Or do you think he dresses as different characters depending on who it is? Maybe he’s outsourced it. It’s just a tired voice from one of those companies. Maybe he’s got a sense of humour.
I guess it could be: If you’re an arsehole, he’ll give you something horrible. If you’re a good soul, then he’d be a sweetheart.
Who are we fooling? When it’s time, it’s time. And it will be time. For all of us.
You think Death sits about on a coffee break or a smoke break, stressed out his head?
“State of the world these days, by the way — no wonder I’m so fucking busy.”
Or maybe he’s bragging:
“Can’t wait to get this finished and go home and see the wife. It’s date night… she loves my bones.”
Or maybe he’s bitter. Seen too much. Tired. No respite.
I see friends, family. No longer with us. Those fighting today.
Who are we to lay down and die,
Whilst they struggle and fight,
While the world is full of suffering and indifference?
Lift your voice. Lift your heart. You are alive. Now. Here. In this moment.
My eyes open. I’m on the bridge.
“You say this rain’s going to fall.”
Life isn’t about deserve. Never has been. Never will be.
I remember my dad telling me:
Life isn’t fair, son.
That, and:
Get your retaliation in first.
And I know, we aren’t born to walk through this life apologising for who we are. Tender hearts. For believing in love, life, music, words, art.
If you want to take this away from me, you better be ready to die.
Art belongs to everyone. The misfits. The outsiders. Forever.
I see the graffiti on the bridge for the first time.
AP is a fanny.
I laugh. Who the fuck is AP?
This machine kills fascists.
Woody Guthrie fans in this neighbourhood.
Believe.
I ran my hand over the word. Am I dreaming? I picked up my guitar. I felt the weight of it. The strings, the frets, the calluses in my fingers. Walked back to the street. Ready to find somewhere to play a song.
Includes lyrics from the Paul Andrew Sneddon song “Burn”
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon. All Rights Reserved
The city was quiet this time of the morning.
The last of the drinkers and the clubbers had made their way home and the rest of the world hadn’t woken up yet. The occasional taxi roared past, breaking the early morning quiet, its lights reflecting on the wet ground as a slow cold December rain was falling, discouraging anyone else from the street.
I looked over my shoulder and kept moving, stealing glances across the street. My body ached, a broken rib maybe?
Fuck. I can’t believe this is happening. Someone, somewhere talked.
It should have been easy. We had so much money, we could have retired. Someone got greedy.
The wind blew cold, cutting through me as I stuck my hands deeper into my pockets, feeling the mix of sweat and blood on my coat. A night bus pulled up at the lights as I turned away quickly escaping its bright lights spilling across the pavement. You don’t see me. I was never here.
I moved down the alley, it looked deserted except for piles of rubbish stacked high. It smelt like the end of the world. I heard a voice moaning from the shadows but I kept moving. I glanced at my watch and felt a sharp pain in my shoulder, a small groan escaping from my lips as I pushed myself forward.
The other end of the alley broke onto Woodland Street. I looked down the hill and could make out the welcome lights of the train station. It was now or never.
200 metres
200 metres between me and freedom. Between life and death. Between a future and death on the streets of my hometown. 19.19 seconds for Usain Bolt. It would take me a little bit longer.
A shout echoed down the alley, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.
I turned.
Fuck.
They had found me.
“Stay there Miller, we just want to talk” the voice cut through the alley like a knife.
My pulse raced, the street was deserted but for a few parked cars.
I glanced down the street again. The station looked like a mirage.
Suddenly the air went out of my lungs as I fell below an avalanche of fists. My shoulder screamed in pain as heavy boots followed the fists. I felt like I was floating above the scene, watching this happen to someone else.
I felt two huge hands grab me and hold me up, voices talking, quickly, hands in my pockets, searching.
I broke into a gummy, bloody smile.
A gut punch robbed my lungs of air.
I spat out blood.
“Where is it?” he demanded
“You’re too late,” I laughed, blood spilling down my chin.
I drew myself up as tall as I could muster.
“She’s gone. She’s taken the evidence. You’ll never find her. I don’t know where she is going. Anything happens to me and those pictures will find their way to the press” I spat.
Another gut punch.
I was pulled back up. I saw two figures in front of me, kinda blurry. I was swaying, the hands holding me up more than anything else.
Suddenly I felt something cold and metal press against my forehead. A click.
Finality
I smiled a bloody, crooked smile.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 