I'll be lying in a hospital bed looking at my toes at the far end.
My wife, the kids around me.
Maybe old Jim from next door.
Looks like he's going to win the dead pool after all.
A nurse I don't know.
Or no one at all.
Who wants to die in a hospital bed.
I always thought I'd be gone.
In the moment.
In the work.
But here we are.
The machine beeping.
The ceiling doing nothing.
A crow at the window.
I'm glad you came, brother.
Only takes two to make a murder.
Old bones.
Ready for my epiphany now.
The screenwriters in California assured me it would be along any minute.
The machine stops.
The last breath.
Fuck it.
The crow flies.
Tag: scottish writing
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Sometimes you just start writing a sentence and follow it to where it goes, and more often than not it goes someplace you didn’t expect or weren’t ready for, and sometimes it just kills a few minutes of dead air, like on the radio where the guest hasn’t turned up, or they’re a bit nervous and they’re sweating everywhere before you even start to ask them about any of the things they came to talk about, and half of you wants to put your arm round their shoulder and say it’s alright, and the other half wants to give them a kick up the arse and say come on tae fuck, let’s go, commit or fuck off, and then the person promptly stands up and fucks off and you’re all alone in the air, and the producer is looking at you with wild eyes and their mouth dropped open, just, say something, anything, please, come on, and suddenly you start sweating and you say, sometimes the commit or fuck off ends in a fuck off, but that’s okay here’s a song I love by Stevie Blues.
And then you
Breathe© Paul Andrew Sneddon
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Rugby Park, May 2026
Drinking a pint of Pepsi max.
Changed days now.Plate of ham and chips,
A fried egg and HP sauce.
Cup of tea,
I’m done.Pull on my hat and scarf.
Two pairs of socks,
big coat.
Going to the football in May.Hugill got the double,
Lowery hit a rocket.
We are staying up
We are staying up.(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
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A Christmas crime caper. Santa’s had a rough shift.
This story contains violence and strong language.
“Hey Mum, what the hell is Santa doing in Kirkentoun?” shouted Jimmy to his mum.
She was standing across the floor at the counter for the fish and chip shop. “Oh, what have I told you about that swearing, wee man? Keep the noise down, for fuck’s sake. I’m talking to Davey here.”
She looked back to him and smiled, just a little. “Sorry about him, he just gets a bit enthusiastic.”
“Nae problem, doll,” he said as she wrote down her number.
Jimmy sighed and looked back out the window. It looked like Santa, but as if he had been at one of those parties with Uncle Ian where he disappears for a few days. The suit didn’t look crisp and clean like he saw on the TV, or when Santa had come to visit at the school. It looked dirty and muddy, just like his beard. He didn’t look right, like he was struggling to breathe. His face was a deep red and he was bent over with his hands on his hips, desperately trying to breathe.
Come on, Santa, thought Jimmy.
Suddenly, Santa jumped up and looked back over his shoulder. Jimmy wondered where the reindeer were and why Santa had a dirty-looking sports bag that he pulled back over his shoulder. As he did so, a few notes of paper seemed to waft out onto the street.
Santa legged it as two burly looking men in suits ran down the street. Were they after Santa?
“Jimmy, come away from that window!” called his mum.
He looked round and she was looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Just sit at peace, eh son?”
She looked back to Davey and wrote something down on a bit of paper. She slid it across to him and he smiled. She then said in a loud voice, “That’s a bag of chips, and chicken nuggets and chips for the wee guy.”
“Thanks, Doll.”
She paid and shouted over to Jimmy. “I’m going to the ladies. You behave, wee fella, alright?”
Davey took a knife and fork over to Jimmy and rubbed his hair as he gave him a lollipop. “There you are, wee man. I’ll cook you up a right feast, alright?”
He looked out the window. “Christ, Santa’s had a rough shift, eh? Don’t worry wee man, he’ll be alright by Christmas.”
He laughed as he walked away.Jimmy looked back out the window. He could just about see down the alley, just in time to see Santa taking a right hand to the jaw from one of the big guys. Down he went and they were stomping him.
Jimmy gasped, “Oh, Santa.”
A short man appeared down the alley, wearing an elf suit with the little hat. He climbed on top of one of the bins and smacked one of the men over the back of the head with something shiny. The man slumped to the ground.
Then he jumped off the top of the bin and landed on top of the other man. They both went down. Jimmy stood and watched as the Elf man pulled Santa back to his feet. Santa grabbed the shiny object. It looked like a bat, and he slammed it down.
Jimmy couldn’t see what he was hitting, but the bat seemed red when he brought it back up. It looked like Santa was shouting at the elf. The elf disappeared and came back with the sports bag.
A car pulled up and as they went to get in, Santa looked across the street at Jimmy. Right at Jimmy. Through the window to the chip shop and right into his eyes. He threw a dirty hand up, blood-red, and gave a big thumbs up.
Jimmy broke into a smile and gave the thumbs up back.
And Santa was gone.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 