My debut novel. Paperback version here and kindle version here
The Sound is On
My complete stories now available here.
Scenes from a Stone
Death’s Brief Autobiography
12 short chapters on mortality
1. I was seven years old.
We lived in a new town called East Kilbride. Our house lay at the top of a hill. The best way to describe the layout of the street is to think of a square dissected by a road which created two triangles of houses.
It was a hot summer’s day in 1968 and our neighbour was dead. His family lived in our triangle. Despite the midday sun all the curtains in the street were drawn. I found myself upstairs. I pulled the curtains a little. There was a black car outside. Usually there weren’t any cars because at that time they were a luxury.
I watched the black car with its long bonnet and deep windows. Surely any moment something would happen?
My mother was standing behind me. ‘Come away from there.’
I did as I was told and went downstairs.
Our neighbour worked in an ice lolly factory on the Industrial estate a short walk away. Sometimes he brought home defective lollies for all the children in the street.
My mother told me it was a mark of respect to draw curtains when someone passed.
2. ’I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm -‘
American poet Emily Dickinson describes the arrival of a fly into the room where an unnamed narrator is about to die. The voice moves between being dead and barely alive. A fly ‘interposes’ and anchors the two states momentarily. Dickinson is exploring transitus, the process in Christian philosophy where we cross over from the corporeal world to eternity. The fly seems to halt or propel proceedings depending on how you look at it.
3. Also on our triangle another neighbour died.
It was 1974. I was fourteen and the sky always felt heavy with cloud which never turned to rain.
I walked home for lunch everyday from school. One day in Spring our front door was open which wasn’t right. My mother came from the next-door neighbour’s. She told me our neighbour had died.
He and his wife also came home for lunch. His wife found him dead on their bed. By that time I knew people died though not in my witness. I ate lunch alone.
My mother phoned a doctor who arrived quickly. She accompanied him because the neighbour wife was distraught.
Later that night my Mother told me two things about the doctor’s visit.
The neighbour made a burping noise.
The doctor closed the dead neighbour’s eyes.
She told me it was a mark of respect to close the eyes. The doctor explained the burping noise was an involuntary action of the dead man’s organs.
4. OM
The Upanishads were written by various poets and wise men hundreds of years before Christ was born. In the west we use BC as this was regarded as a way of dividing up large segments of time and because Christians marked history with what they regarded as a monumental event. Nowadays the term Before the Common Era (BCE) is used.
It is from the Gregorain calendar and seems more neutral but nonetheless hints at a significant period reminiscent of the rise of Christ’s teachings. The philosophy of the Upanishads would find this preoccupation with time irrelevant.
The Upanishads is a mix of anecdotal philosophy and superb insights. OM is the word, the sound of the eternal universe amongst other things. The writings were in Sanskrit which no-one uses anymore. One day we will have to decipher the hieroglyphics of emojis. Perhaps OM will be superseded by a smiley face.
The teachings are as clear and complex as the bible although the people in the Upanishads seem happier and wiser than a lot of the prophets in the Old Testament who are either cross about something or fed up. Although Jesus had a temper he would’ve nonetheless been happy with many of the sentiments and insightful phrases in the Upanishads.
In the Taittiriya Upanishads it says
Oh the wonder of Joy
I am the food of life and I am he who eats the food of life: I am the two in one.
I am the first born of the world of truth, born before the gods born in the centre of immortality.
I have gone beyond the universe and the light of the sun is my light.
For a lot of the Upanishads ideas of life and death are not burdensome as long you understand the spiritual essence of things. Like dropping salt into a pond. You know the water is salty but you can’t point to the salt. This essence is eternal. The soul is eternal.
People like Jesus and his Father sought to put a hierarchy on the soul, like they were bigger, more powerful souls than you or I. They argued that they could judge your soul but they also advocated that the soul was eternal which if you think about it means we are all as equal as any God. Also if a Christian soul is damned to hell we have to ask if the soul is inactive for all that period? Can 30 or 40 years of human actions be compared to an eternity of consequences?
5. I was 19 and another neighbour died
Everyone knew he was gravely ill. He was angry at his condition. Each day cancer surprised him with its determination.
Once I visited the dying neighbour because his son was my friend. He was pale wrapped in a dirty dressing gown.
He asked me what I was studying at college. I said Cinema and the films of Alfred Hitchcock. He laughed bitterly and said that Hitchcock was an unfortunate name for any man to own.
His son, my friend, drove a van with high sides and when he parked it in the triangle their living room was obscured. One day the van wasn’t there and the neighbour was gone.
6. I will approach God
Stefan lived in a peaceful town. His friends and some family left the town over the years because it was quiet and small. They wanted some thing bigger and brighter. Stefan was happy where he lived. One summer’s day he cleared out his garage. It was the usual junk including a bicycle. He bought the bicycle several years earlier with the intention of improving his fitness. After a few rides he never bothered with it. So, he thought as he was clearing out the garage, it’s a fairly decent bike perhaps someone else could benefit from it. He didn’t want any money. If anything it meant he didn’t need to find a way to squeeze the awkward wheels and frame into his car for the recycling centre. He went online and posted a photograph with the epithet – FREE TO A GOOD HOME. Almost immediately a woman messaged him. ‘Was it still available? If so she’d love to take it.’
She came over in the afternoon. Her name was Anna. She had recently moved to the town with her husband and young son. She loved the scented lanes and coastal roads. Stefan gave her some maps of cycle routes that she might find helpful. Anna thanked him and pedalled away. Several days later Stefan sat outside in the deep summer heat. Bhairi his elderly neighbour, spoke to him from the adjoining garden. She told him a woman had been hit on the east coast road by a delivery van. She died instantly. Stefan asked who the woman was but knew it was Anna. He read details about her funeral and decided to attend.
It was a horrible service. Anna’s child cried uncontrollably. Anna’s husband had given up trying to console him. The minister said that in Psalm 46 ‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.’ Anna’s son seemed to resent this statement the most, pulling his hair he punched the back of a pew.
That night Stefan sat on his back doorstep thinking. He wasn’t a religious man nor an atheist but he reckoned a believer and an atheist could at least agree that Anna’s death was utterly unfair. He called over to Bhairi who was pruning a large rose bush. He told her about Anna’s funeral and how he wanted to do something about it.
‘What though?’ She said
Stefan said he remembered Bible lessons at school and how men had spoken to God.
‘Ah like Moses and the other one…Isaac?’
Stefan told Bhairi he was going to speak to God like they had done.
‘’I see.’ Bhairi said. ‘Here or in your house?’
Stefan said that wouldn’t work because he remembered in the stories that the men usually climbed hills and waited near a large tree.
‘There’s Clone Hill. That might be the place.’ Bhairi said.
Stefan thanked her and went inside to prepare. He changed his shirt and grabbed the car keys. Then he thought that it might be more appropriate if he walked to Clone Hill. Since it was summer the light lasted till late evening. He put a water bottle in his satchel and set off. Clone Hill was steep at the bottom then levelled off with lines of gorse and heather. The sun moved across Stefan’s path and rested on the calm sea.
A misshapen tree grew just below the summit. Stefan waited there. A dog walker passed and commented on the lovely evening. Stefan regarded the road which wound between hill and beach. Anna cycled along here, he thought. She would’ve been happy as the gentle breeze pushed her back into town. On the far side of the hill some sheep grazed. He wondered if he should grab one to sacrifice as the Bible stories sometimes mentioned this strategy. But how would he catch it? Stefan finished his water and was putting the empty bottle back into the satchel when the misshapen tree rustled. Perhaps that was normal? It moved again. This must be the place Stefan said to himself.
A shape, shorter than him appeared. To Stefan it seemed human and incomprehensible at the same time. It had a deep voice which Stefan expected would be the case.
‘Are you God because I know sometimes you send an angel or messenger?’
‘I am God. What is your pilgrimage?’ God said
Stefan was going to say it was hardly a pilgrimage since he’d only come from the village but instead got straight to the point.
‘Anna was as you probably know, a lovely woman killed on the coastal road. She moved here with her husband and young son. She was excited about cycling and the future. Now she’s dead. It’s actually outrageous, the whole situation. So I want to do something about that.’
‘What will you do?’
Stefan had thought this question might come up so he was prepared.
‘I will do good works in the town and spread your word, like love and peace. But you must make sure that Anna is not dead.’
‘Will you pray?’
‘You mean like Our Father etc? Yes of course I’ll pray every morning and evening.’
The misshapen tree rustled once more and Stefan realised that the human incomprehensible shape was gone. He waited a while then walked between the sheep back down Clone Hill. Near the outskirts he heard the whirring of a bicycle chain. He turned as a cyclist approached. It was Anna.
‘Oh hello again.’ She said. ‘The bike is great by the way.’
Anna pedalled fast into the streets where she lived.
The next morning Bhairi met Stefan in the local shop. She was buying some bread.
‘How did it go. Last night?’
‘Pretty good.’ Stefan said.
‘Oh I’m glad it worked out.’
Stefan asked if she wanted to go for a coffee at the Church Hall. Bhairi was delighted and said they should share a cake.
7. Week Beginning May 31st 2021
After Dominic Cummings made several electrifying admissions in a Parliamentary committee QA, Anas Sarwar, Labour’s Scottish leader questions Nicola Sturgeon about her government’s role in Care Home deaths during the covid pandemic. She talked about ‘learning lessons’ and being frank about government failings in hindsight. Isn’t it amazing how many experienced politicians need to learn lessons years into a post with such responsibility?
The SNP government have presented their Covid strategy as ‘better’ managed than the Westminster government implicitly reinforcing an argument for Independence. They don’t use the word ‘better’ instead replacing it with ‘cautious.’ Sarwar and Labour’s strategy is to position SNP care home mistakes with the Tories similar mistakes thereby chipping at the ‘cautious’ approach and subtly negating an Independence strategy.
Nicola Sturgeon’s political persona cultivates core narrative ideas such as frankness and caution. Her brand is ‘honest politician’ although there is no real evidence for this branding which distinguished her from most politicians. These concepts of caution and honesty etc. might be regarded as ‘Scottish’ traits.
However her popularity is matched only by her avowed enemy, the posh, English southerner Boris Johnson.
This may well be because they are very similar in their crude use of Nationalistic flag waving and ‘taking back control’ from unpopular Unions as a vote winning strategy. Both have also deployed a similar covid deflection strategy.
On the one hand they speak knowledgeably about the virus as a foe. Once personified in this way, the covid-foe absorbs much of the blame for inconsistent political decisions. If there is a surge in cases it is being ‘driven’ by some variant or other and not by their management of the pandemic.
Secondly they use simplistic reasoning when blamed for mistakes. Namely Hindsight. This means you can’t judge someone because you have more facts or evidence regarding their decisions now than they had at the time they made them. Once again Hindsight like the covid monster deflects blame because blame and hindsight are inherently incompatible. Of course Foresight is never mentioned as that would undermine both their positions as conscientious and thoughtful leaders.
It is not irrelevant to add that both leaders share infantilising nicknames such as wee Nicky and Bojo. They also share a fanatical core support.
All this being said, political strategies may make for interesting discussion unless you are dead because you were sent back to a Care Home on government directives as Covid surged through poorly resourced social services.
Elderly people who had pre-exisitng health issues be it through COPD, hypertension, diabetes or cardiovascular conditions must have suffered excruciating asphyxiation and unrelenting pain far from the tenderness of loved ones.
8. He was 16
…when he was struck by a car on a rainy Saturday night. 1974. He wore a raincoat and clumsy platform shoes one of which was left at the point of impact whilst he was thrown fifty yards further down the road.
James had been given a curfew and had missed it. I was sent to bed before my parents knew he was dead. The rain had stopped. Our house felt like the way Dickinson described it, ‘stillness…between heaves of storm…’
There is death and there is death’s aftermath. I looked out the same window where years before I had watched the hearse of the neighbour parked up. But it was night and the pavements were drying after a torrential shower.
There was a knock at the door. I heard the police speak to my Father. Although their words were quiet and restrained, my father let out a sigh. He had to identify a body.
A police woman sat with my mother and I. She was cold and unfriendly. Perhaps she was thinking about her own family and that at least it wasn’t them. My mother tried to make conversation. I knew James was dead because of the sigh but she never heard the sigh and my father had disappeared quickly with the other officer.
I was upstairs when my father arrived back with a policeman and our Doctor. I heard my mother scream ‘No not my son, he’s not dead.’
The doctor said ‘Now don’t be silly.’ He injected her with a powerful sedative.
And reader, do you see how a woman whose head had been ravaged by psychosis and her heart torn asunder with the loss of her child can be ‘silly?’ I never could.
9. When did we begin and ?
Most early Christian ideas about the beginning of earth were based on the creationist approach, that is the appearance of Adam and his ill fated union with Eve. But even Creationists were still intrigued about when life on earth actually began.
In 1654 James Ussher, Primate of Ireland argued earth began on Sunday 23 October 4004 BCE. This presumably allowed enough time for all the incidents in the Old testament to take place.
The Scottish Enlightenment thinker James Hutton viewed the development of earth less as a chronology and more of an endless cycle. Earth’s deathly erosion and defiant re-growth has happened many times argued Hutton in his Deep Time theory. In fact he described our planet as having ‘no vestige of a beginning – no prospect of an end.’
10. March 2021
Lana Del Ray released Chemtrails over the Country Club. The album contains the song White Dress where Del Ray remembers a time when she was 19 and waitressing at a convention. She wore a white dress. Like Dickinson’s fly the dress interposes between two states of a transitus – in this case, worldly concerns and their transcendence.
Her tight white dress acts as a trope for what she calls ‘a simpler time…’ where she would be ‘better off.’ The simpler time consists of listening to music, sitting on the lawn talking about life.
Curiously this time made Del Ray feel like a God. One wonders what the Gods of Antiquity would’ve made of such a low bar.
Nonetheless the power of White Dress lies not its cod philosophy but in its determination to be accurate about personal history.
As well as her age Del Ray specifically notes the name of the convention at which she was working – Men in Music Business Conference – She also locates the conference in Orlando in south east America. She was listening to American rock music; White Stripes and Kings of Leon and the cosmic enlightenment of jazz musician, Sun Ra.
The density of details crammed breathlessly into a metrical line might be more suited to a witness statement for the Police.
Surely personal experience of this nature would exclude the listener. In fact the opposite is true as the unique details exhort us to consider memory’s potential to resist the relentless advance of time.
11. In John’s Gospel
We read how Jesus raises his friend Lazarus from the dead. By the time Jesus returns to Bethany where Lazarus is buried, he has become famous amongst Jews and infamous to the authorities.
Before he performs the sign or miracle of raising Lazarus, Jesus cries. There could be two explanations for this.
First explanation – Martha and Mary and Lazarus have been huge supporters of Jesus and his ‘human’ nature is genuinely shaken by the death of his dear friend. In fact Martha says to him ‘if you’d been around Lazarus would not have died…’ those words would weigh heavy on any friend.
Second explanation – Pressure on Jesus is mounting and the Lazarus moment may well be a foreshadowing of the Crucifixion whereby Jesus and his dad graphically enact the process of earthly death and resurrection to eternal life.
The second explanation is by far the most troublesome because really it suggests that the raising of Lazarus was more about the situation Jesus was in rather than his dead friend. In modern times we might describe it as the weaponising of Lazarus so that Caiaphas and his allies will start plotting the Crucifixion.
Worse than that, it leaves Lazarus in a terrible position. Having been dead he now has to die again presumably before he ascends to eternal life. Also when he is resurrected it’s at the same time as when he died so he was no doubt still old and frail. Nobody consulted Lazarus. He must’ve been very confused having to rise up with his shroud falling off him. Not much later Jesus himself would be gone so Lazarus might well have had some depressing moments in his 2nd life before heaven.
The dumbest character however in all of this is Caiaphas. He hears about Jesus raising dead people and decides to start plotting his execution. Surely it would be nigh on impossible to kill someone who is capable of resurrection? Based on the incident with Lazarus, Caiaphas would have been better developing a strategy which entailed keeping Jesus alive for a very long time or giving him a position in Local Government.
12. Larkin’s Aubade
‘The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
—The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.’
I think the English poet Phillip Larkin was a very popular man and also a very lonely one. Wrestling with our finite nature is the hardest thing a poet can do, especially if there’s no happy conclusion to it all. Even the Gods understand. I mean look at Poseidon.
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Sommarøy Part 3
When I got back Harsvold was by the window, typing. It was best not to disturb him. Between my bags at the hydrangeas someone had left a plumped sack of petals, meant as a pillow. It could only have been Espen I thought.
I lay amidst the scents and watched the motionless sun. Was it still today or tomorrow or some other day after tomorrow? It seemed so long now since my arrival. I did not close my eyes.
Harsvold shook me. When I finally looked around, he handed me a bowl of coffee with serinakaker. The sequoias had been sourced. There was much to be done: finding a suitable location on the strand, soil tests, preparation of ground, building support gantries etc. He had made a list of coordinates for planting sites. I was to get ‘the local idiot’ Espen to take me to them and make notes.
Harsvold wanted to say something else. To help him I said. ‘Matis asked me to walk with her after the meeting. I met Athene.’
Harsvold nodded and clasped his hands.
‘Okay. Good.’ He said. ‘She’s a crackpot. Not Athene, the mother I mean.’
Espen was waiting by the side of the grand barn. I thanked him for the pillow. He told me he was certainly no expert but the head sorely needed comfort after all the thinking it had to do, except that is for empty heads for which there was no pillow suitable.
He guided me over rocks and dunes onto a long grassy strand above the beach. Since where we stood was slightly elevated, I told him it was a perfect spot for the sequoias. We dug out soil samples along the strand and found several areas with fertile soil. Wiping down our shovels, Espen shook his blonde curly hair.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I know little about sequoias. Mightn’t they be happier amongst their fellow trees in a forest?’
Harsvold liked the site I’d selected. He felt the soil samples and placed them in ziplock bags. I wrote emails to suppliers and organised diggers and timber support frames for the gantries.
On my pillow beneath the hydrangeas, things came to mind not as a dream.
Penelope was standing at graduation. She seemed to approve of what I was doing on Sommarøy. Athene sang to my parents on their wedding day. Calderwood was the minister. Harsvold gave me wedding rings and a bouquet. Mother didn’t smoke. Espen carried them away on white horses.
I sat up with the smell of coffee. Harsvold had brought over freshly made serinakaker. I ate them all quickly.
‘I don’t know if I am sleeping or awake or in-between or something else.’ I said.
‘Soon you won’t fret about that.’ Harsvold said flicking through his notebook. ‘Do you remember I spoke about Kavli at the meeting?’
‘Yes. Radio bursts from the sun.’
‘FRBs’ He said. ‘I would like you to accompany me. There’s much to learn there. Also we can visit the deep lake, Hornindalsvatnet. And-‘ Harvold looked beyond the line of hydrangeas. ‘Why don’t you ask Athene if she would like to join us?’
I went to the cottage where Matis and Athene were picking herbs. I ate some. They were moist and dry. When I spoke about Kavli, Matis said.
‘If Athene goes you must be by her side. She will feel uncomfortable amongst the demon-scientists. She will need a friend.’
‘Of course.’ I said. ‘Would you like to go to the strand where the sequoias will be?’
Matis led the way on her buggy. Athene and I walked side by side. When she spoke her voice was no louder than breath.
‘I have never left Sommarøy.’
‘Really?’
‘What will be there in Kavli?’
‘I think there’s a radar station and an Institute for Neuro-Science.’ I said.
‘What does neuro do?’
‘I think they study the inside of our heads.’ I tried to say that in a light hearted way but Athene did not smile.
‘What if they don’t find anything?’
‘What? Inside our heads?’
‘I don’t want anyone looking.’ She said.
‘Don’t worry.’ I said. ‘We can enjoy swimming in lake Hornindalsvatnet afterwards.’
When we reached the location for the sequoias Matis nodded.
‘From great wooden limbs we shall climb inside the sun.’
‘Climb inside the sun?’ I said.
‘In everything there is an inside.’ She said. ‘Even for that ring you wear around your neck.’
She waited to see if I would respond then sped along the strand.
‘Goodbye until Kavli.’ Athene said before following her.
Harsvold told Athene and I the Institute in Trondheim was many, many miles away. We began our journey by ferry then drove alongside pitted wetlands on narrow tracks.
Kavli was warm but not as sunny as Sommarøy.
Men with beards like Harsvold demonstrated the radio telescope. Whilst Harsvold was breathing excitedly at the FRBs, I could hear only crackling like old ethernet. We were escorted to a windowless research building where a scientist explained the supra chiasmatic nucleus and other developments in neuroscience. Athene stared at her shoes.
When the meetings at the Institute finished we made our way to Hornindalsvatnet. The water was dark and still. A sign read –
Dypeste innsjø i Europa.
Harsvold laughed at my pronunciation. ‘The deepest.’ He said.
I linked arms with Athene to jump from the jetty then we swam backstroke making the water splash with our feet. We dried ourselves on the mossy bank. Harsvold brought out strawberries and bread. Black-headed gulls were roosting along the shoreline. At dusk we longed for the sun of Sommarøy. Harsvold drove fast, his face white with thought. Athene slept across my chest. I kissed her head every village we passed through.
Weeks must surely must have passed without the sun coming up or going down. I worked on the sequoias project managing the men as they dug trenches and built gantries for the heavy saplings. Athene brought me cloudy lemonade then sat watching us. Espen would often sit beside her. And I felt content as I lay upon my perfumed pillow.
When the sequoias arrived the town prepared a ceremony. To keep peace it was agreed Harsvold should speak followed by Matis. A fiddle band was assembled to play during the moment of planting. Harsvold climbed onto the gantry.
‘I have recently returned from Kavli Institute where I saw many great advances. Our circadian rhythms, the proteins in our brains can help understand life without what we call time. These trees will mark our journey to knowledge.’
Light applause followed. A fiddler nearby said ‘Claptrap as usual.’ Espen smiled over at me making his eyes go cross till I started laughing.
Matis manoeuvred to the side of the trees raising her hand above her head.
‘You have heard the wickedness of science enough on Sommarøy. We shall ascend the unknowable glory of our sun on the limbs of these sequoias. That is all.’
Everyone was given the chance to shovel soil over the root base.
While the band played I walked with Athene along the beach below. She was staring at the men as they bound the muscular trunks to wooden cross beams. Her hazel eyes were red along the edges.
‘Don’t you feel tiny when you look at them?’ She said.
‘They are big.’
‘When they reach the sun we and those who follow will be gone.’
‘But.’ I said. ‘There is here and now, and there is us.’
She started to cry. ‘Shadows of trees over us.’
We kissed, her lips pressed hard on mine.
I took father’s ring from around my neck and placed it on her finger. It was loose so I gave her the chain with the ring threaded back through.
‘I love you.’ I said.
Matis called from the path by their cottage. Athene scratched her tangled hair before taking my face in her hands.
‘We are too small. Too small in everything.’ Then she ran after her mother’s buggy.
The strand was empty except for the sequoias creaking in the warm breeze. Already they seemed taller. When I returned to Harsvold’s, he was writing on his equation wall. I settled amongst the hydrangeas.
The sun filled the sky’s ceiling
…like morning
…like afternoon
…like evening
There was a scream.
I was up running and heard Harsvold grunting behind me. Others from the village were chasing the cry along the strand. Espen came alongside and passed me.
Before I could see for certain, I knew it was Athene swinging from the gantry. I heard my voice call her name like a stranger. I pushed others aside and tried to lift her down. Her limp neck wouldn’t straighten. I yanked at the rope where the twisted chain and ring were marring her beautiful skin.
Espen shook his head and stopped me. He carried the body to Matis who lay by her overturned buggy. Harsvold was kneeling beside her.
‘Beautiful daughter. Beautiful child.’
The light was golden everywhere.
After Athene’s internment I stayed on in Sommarøy to help Espen and others chop up the sequoias, then dismantle the gantries. Harsvold rid his house of computers, gradually washing down the equation wall.
The day I told him I was leaving we sat on the porch with serinakaker and coffee.
‘Okay.’ He said and nodded as though I’d said something he’d heard before.
’What about your research?’ I said.
He looked to my neck for the ring and tried to smile.
‘I’m going to shave my beard.’ He said then added. ‘Matis is coming to live with me.’
‘That’s good.’ I said. ‘Being together will keep Athene with you.’
He stopped sipping his coffee.
’That’s true.’ He said. ‘But what will you do?’
On the way to the Airfield, Espen joked about his encounter with the horses.
‘In animal matters simple creatures are wise beyond what we credit them.’
He thanked me for coming to Sommarøy and called me his dearest friend.
‘As for the sorrow of goodbyes your flight may be gentler if you don’t look back after take-off.’
I dropped my bags and hugged him tightly.
‘Thank you for my pillow, Espen.’
I stared ahead as the Cessna rose across and away from the sun of Sommarøy.
The commercial flight from Oslo to Glasgow was heavy with turbulence but it landed on schedule. I sat alone in Arrivals then took a cab to the city centre and drifted around for an hour. Fine rain hung in the wind like static. I threw my bags in a skip and found a cafe. The floor was muddy with footprints. My coffee went cold.
In the street a group of women assembled, took leaflets from a hold-all and began handing them to shoppers. The women with the hold-all turned fully round. It was Penelope.
When I walked over she seemed puzzled at first then said hello.
‘I went to a place called Sommarøy.’
‘I had a miscarriage.’ She said.
‘I’m sorry.’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry. Perhaps you and your partner -‘
‘He’s as dead as my child.’ She gave me a leaflet dampened by smir. ‘We run a Centre to support people. It’s on the outskirts of the City.’
‘Penelope at our Graduation when you -‘
‘Your friend Woodie isn’t far from here.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘I never kept in touch.’
She pointed over my shoulder towards an electronic billboard above the entrance to the shopping mall. Flickering on and off was an advert for DeFacto Finance. Dark eyed Woodie stood over a young couple. They were smiling as he passed them a credit card. Perhaps for a car or a house or a sunny villa. The ticker below ran.
We Make Your Money Work Harder Than You’ll Ever Need To
‘I have to visit my mother.’ I said. ‘Would you come with me?’
I didn’t expect Penelope to say yes but she handed the hold-all to another woman and we ran for the 3 o’ clock bus.
‘So she did have a son after all.’ The old neighbour laughed before telling us Mother was dead and buried in a nearby cemetery. The key to the house was under a plant pot.
‘You and your wife will need to clear the place. There’s bills to pay.’
Penelope found the key and shoved open the door.
Father’s shoes sat in the hall beneath his coat. Mother’s chair was in front of the darkening bay window. On the table lay unopened cartons of cigarettes and a disposable lighter.
‘It’s hard to know where to begin.’ I went to straighten a painting which wasn’t uneven. ‘I don’t think she ever wanted me. I mean I don’t think my mother ever wanted children.’
‘And do you?’ Penelope said.
I let the painting swing back to its original position.
‘I don’t want to be alone.’ I said.
Penelope nodded. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
I sat in mother’s chair. It was cold and comfortable. I turned the ring on my finger and looked out to see, to see.
Part 2 – Sommarøy
Sommarøy Pt.2
I flew from Glasgow to Oslo before transferring onto a cramped Cessna. After thirty minutes, I could see Sommarøy below in bleached sunlight. The pilot didn’t speak much English. He walked with me along the tarmac to a small outbuilding. Above the doorway a sign read-
Sommarøy Flypassen.
He took off his hat then put on another before scanning my bag and passport. His English seemed to improve when he made enquiries regarding the purpose of my journey.
Outside a polished car was plugged into a charge point. I was expecting Harsvold but there was no one aside from chirping birds and the Cessna taking off. After the plane was gone, a small, round man with a wide grin appeared from nearby bushes.
‘Hello. I am named Espen. Harsvold said I should meet you.’ He hugged me tightly and took my bags. I walked towards the car.
‘No it is a slow taxi I’m afraid.’ Espen said. ‘Also in fact, the road is long and diverges many times. Come with me through the meadows.’
We walked for two or three miles amongst powdery cornflowers. The sun was high and the sky airless. Espen was sweating but did not complain about my luggage and refused to let me share the load. He was singing a song called The Lad Who Went to the North Wind.
‘This is an antique song. Not specific to you. No not specific.’
‘Okay.’ I said. ‘Is it a happy song. I mean the words?’
Espen swung the bags over a gate.
‘A poet once said if music be the food of love play on. Now I’m no poet but I think if we made music more about the love of food, we would be merrier by far.’
Following a weathered wall we came alongside a team of dappled horses grazing.
‘Ah. Perhaps they can be the taxi you desired.’ Espen had lowered his voice.
‘It’s alright. I’ve never ridden a horse.’ I said.
Espen left me by the bags and tip-toed across the meadow. Moving sideways he crouched near the horses who half watched whilst munching scented grass. When Espen leapt forward the horses reversed a pace or two and he fell heavily.
‘They must have seen me.’ He whispered.
‘Pretty much.’ I said.
‘More stealth. More guile yes?’
‘I don’t know. They seem pretty alert.’
He pounced again this time catching the rump of a smaller horse who bucked him. Espen flew into the air, legs extending above his head before crashing to earth again. His forehead grazed he began chasing the whole team.
‘Come here you brutes.’
They trotted forward then halted. As Espen ran panting they trotted on a little. This continued for at least a mile until we reached the road which led into town. Espen slumped in a lay-by. An electric car passed silently.
‘Welcome to Sommarøy.’ He said.
Below us bright coloured cottages wedded themselves to a glittering sea.
‘I see you’ve met our village idiot.’ Harsvold said as we watched Espen disappear between two barns. Looking at my bags he rubbed his thick, blonde beard.
‘On Sommarøy we don’t require many clothes because of the sun.’
‘Okay.’ I said even though I didn’t understand what he meant.
His timber house had no furniture. Instead the floors were filled with computers and science equipment. Lines of an equation were written back and forth across a large wall. On the bottom right hand side an equal sign was followed by 03 to 03
‘Is that thesolution?’ I said.
‘A solution to what?’ Harsvold laughed. He was converting the house into a Research Centre for Sommarøy.
‘The effects of continual daylight must be studied. Time becomes timeless. So we need to ask ourselves, what reality is. Yes. What is reality without time?’
He stared as if waiting for an answer. I couldn’t think of anything.
‘You will make a good intern. You know little, you learn much.’
‘Thank you.’ I said. ‘Where will I sleep?’
Harsvold led me to the back of the house and pointed to a line of hydrangeas.
‘You can sleep over there by the hydrangeas. That is if you can sleep. If sleep is what you need or want.’
‘Okay.’ I said.
He unrolled a tea cloth and offered me serinakaker. Harsvold found my pronunciation amusing. He demonstrated how to dip the biscuits in coffee. They tasted salty and sweet.
‘There is a public meeting.’ He said. ‘You can introduce yourself to the community and begin your contribution.’
‘What time?’ I said. ‘Sorry that probably was a stupid question.’
Harsvold nodded and offered me the last biscuit.
I wandered to the shadowless hydrangeas and lay beneath a vast sun. I sensed sounds of the town and sea, faraway and close. It was impossible to gauge how long I lay. Nothing moved, nothing changed. At some point I saw Harsvold with a leather briefcase so I rose and followed him.
In the garden of a grass roofed cottage, we met Espen planting flowers. I asked if he was okay after his encounter with the horses. He thanked me for my concern. When I said where we where going he wished us well adding..
‘I’m no expert in human behaviour but public meetings make me feel we should spend more time apart.’
Harsvold grabbed my arm to walk on. Once out of earshot he said.
‘That man is considerably stupid.’
At a grand barn some people sat on hay bales others at benches or the floor. Harsvold opened his laptop and worked through the agenda. He updated the meeting on the Research centre. Furthermore he hoped to travel to Kavli Institute to study FRBs emitting from the sun.
A woman with no legs and only one arm shouted from atop her electric buggy.
‘And FRBs are?’
Harsvold sighed. ‘Fast Radio Bursts. That is to say, patterns of sounds which may come from the sun or indeed the outer galaxy.’
‘Demonry.’ The woman replied.
Harsvold was looking at his screen as though no one had spoken.
‘Next item. A Celebration of Sommarøy. I would be pleased to hear ideas which may underscore the uniqueness of our timeless town.’
People raised hands with suggestions which others talked down. A man at the back thought a statue would be appropriate but Harsvold said no.
‘Statues are cold stone. Frozen. We need something organic, evolving like our knowledge.’
The woman with no legs demanded a sun festival. Harsvold shook his head and muttered.
‘Druid nonsense.’
I glanced at the woman to see if she had heard and it was then I saw a girl by her side with tangled hair and large hazel eyes.
Eventually a man seated near Harsvold and I pointed in my direction.
‘What about ideas from the young Intern?’
The meeting turned, waiting.
‘Trees.’ I surprised myself in suggesting it. Now not only the meeting but Harsvold too, concentrated on me. ‘Trees. I mean the tallest of trees can grow for hundreds-.’
‘Ah you mean like Sequoias?’ Harsvold said.
‘Yes. Something that is the tallest, the longest. That could outlast everything.’
‘Except the eternal sun.’ The legless woman added. The girl wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was bent over, studying her pale hands.
‘Actually I like this idea.’ Harsvold said.
‘A ladder to the sun. A symbol.’ The legless woman said. ‘We should have a planting ceremony.’
‘Yes. Good.’ People shouted.
‘Oh very well. If you must.’ Harsvold said.
A table with bread and cloudy lemonade was brought forward when the meeting concluded. An old couple shook my hand and said. ‘Well done.’ Others came over and introduced themselves as I stuffed soft bread in my mouth. My body had forgotten the different times to eat.
The girl was next to me. The legless woman was her mother who spoke first.
‘I am Matis. This is Athene my daughter. You made a divine suggestion with the sequoia trees.’
‘Thank you.’ I said.
‘Walk with us to our cottage.’
I didn’t know what time it was and I didn’t think it was right to ask. Shouldn’t I be back for Harsvold in case he had work for me? But I wanted to speak to the girl.
I followed the two women along a coastal path. Below us in a pretty dune a couple sunbathed. The sun lit the sand around their bodies. Two men were painting a beach house near a family in pyjamas who ate breakfast or lunch or supper.
When we reached a grassy hillock, Matis told me not to push her buggy as it was solar powered. Her garden was hung with shells and driftwood arranged in patternless patterns. She rolled inside. Athene and I sat on the grass either side of a conch.
‘Why do you have ideas? Like tall trees?’ Athene said and touched my hand as though she wasn’t sure what it was made of.
‘Everyone has ideas.’
‘How do you know what everyone has?’ She said. ‘I don’t have ideas.’
Matis came back out. No one spoke until I said.
‘It is so sunny here.’
‘Yes but often there is no light. Do you see my meaning?’ Matis said.
‘No I don’t.’
‘So you are working for the Scientist?’ She said.
‘Harsvold? Yes. We met at a Graduate Fair.’
‘I have no legs and one arm. It was a disease. Perhaps Harsvold told you this?’
‘No. What happened?’ I said.
‘We were married.’
‘Married? Do you mean that was the disease?’
I looked at Athene who was rolling her palms around the conch.
‘Yes.’ Matis said. ‘She is his daughter. But Harsvold made science his wicked mistress. When I became ill and lost my limbs I told him the sun would re-grow them. He threw me out and Athene also.’
As Matis spoke, Athene listened as though she’d heard it all before but understood it for the first time.
‘Harsvold thinks science will provide answers about Sommarøy. He will fail.’
‘Why?’ I said.
‘The sun star is unknowable.’ Matis nodded towards Athene who rose and stood beside her mother. ‘You and Athene should become friends.’
‘Yes.’ I said. ‘I would like that.’
Matis rolled back indoors. Athene walked with me to the garden gate.
‘Are we friends?’
‘Yes’ I said. ‘We are friends.’
Athene considered for a moment. ‘Okay.’
Part 1 of Sommarøy
Sommarøy Part 1
It was on my Graduation day that I discovered Sommarøy.
Calderwood told me there was a Careers Fair after our Conferment. I said I would go with him. We met in the University Cloisters 10 minutes or so after the ceremony. We were the only graduates without family guests.
‘This is all really boring. The whole thing and that includes the last 4 years.’ Woodie said.
No one liked Calderwood. Shadows seemed to orbit his eyes even when he laughed which wasn’t often. He’d sat beside me a few times in lectures and insisted I shorten his name to Woodie. One day he called me buddy. It was the closest he came to warmth and University was a lonely place so we became buddies.
We stood on the freshly cut lawn looking but not at each other. Despite the grey skies the Cloisters were noisy with excitement and colourful hoods. At last I saw Penelope. I knew she wouldn’t come over because of Calderwood. I suggested we join her.
‘You go.’ Woodie said.
She stepped away from her family and met me halfway. I congratulated her on graduating top of the year.
‘Thanks. Congrats to you.’ She said.
Penelope took the same degree. In first year she came for lunch one day and Calderwood showed up. She never joined us for lunch again. She always sat beside me in the Library when I was there alone and gave me books with post-its where I should read. Her lecture notes were perfect. When we were working on assignments I sensed her staring at me. If I looked up she would blink and smile.
I explained about the Careers Fair and asked if she wanted to come. She nodded towards Woodie.
‘Perhaps I’ll visit later.’
‘You helped so much.’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have got here without you.’
She shook her head then looked at me the way she used to in the library. ‘I loved you for four years. Enjoy the Fair. I’m sure you’ll find a great job here or maybe abroad.’
She walked back to her family.
Calderwood came over.
‘Gloating about being top of the class no doubt?’
I didn’t say anything. My mouth was dry.
’Look at the time. We should head to the Fair.’ He said
The clouds had swollen into fattened bin bags as we walked towards an office block directly opposite Central Station. Before going in we bought burgers from a street vendor. Calderwood crammed it in his mouth and asked about Penelope again.
‘Her family seemed nice.’ I said.
‘When are families ever nice?’
A busker stopped singing and held out a cap. Calderwood flung the remainder of his bun into it.
‘God I need a job that pays well.’ He said.
The Fair was busy. Most of the Graduates were jostling for attention at Hedge Fund and Finance stands.
On the edge of the queues near the toilets, two tables had been taped together and a makeshift banner hung from the lights.
Sommarøy – Escape Time
‘Pathetic.’ Calderwood said. His eyes grew darker indoors ‘Didn’t they have enough coloured crayons? I’m going for a Hedge Fund job. See you later in hospitality for beers.’
He shoved other grads aside till he got to the front.
The man at the Sommarøy table was typing on his tablet. He had a long beard and tanned arms.
‘We have no free pens and little money, I’m afraid.’ He said without looking up.
‘What is it? Sommarøy I mean.’
He stopped typing. His name was Harsvold and he told me that Sommarøy was on the tip of Troms og Finnmark county, Norway.
‘Do you know where Norway is?’ He said without impatience. ‘Or Scandinavia even?’
I shook my head. ‘I only know what I’ve been taught.’
He described the beautiful beaches on Sommarøy. 300 people lived there. Then he talked about the sun.
‘From May till August, 67 days, the sun does not set on Sommarøy.’
‘So I suppose there’s no night?’ I said.
‘Correct. But it also means time ceases to matter in the same way it does for you. We are in fact, a time free zone.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Come to Sommarøy.’ Harsvold said. ‘You will understand, clearly, the impossible is possible.’
We talked about a research job then Harsvold shook my hand. He wrote down travel arrangements and other details on a large sheet of paper.
‘Are you excited?’
‘I am. I am excited.’ I said
Harsvold returned his tablet to its sleeve. Sommarøy village only had sufficient funds for one researcher. He rolled up the banner and left.
Calderwood had drunk three beers by the time I arrived in Hospitality. Empty tumblers rolled on the floor at his feet.
‘I’m now an Hedge Fund Trainee. A horrible job with horrible people. Uncomplicated I’d say.’
I told him about Sommarøy and my job as a researcher.
‘Researching what?’
‘Time. I think.’
‘Time?’ He gulped another two tumblers of beer one after the other. ‘Time I left.’
The rain pounded the Central Station canopy. Calderwood vomited into some planters. He wiped his mouth and began texting.
‘Well enjoy Subaru. My train’s due.’
‘It’s Sommarøy.’ I said and watched him disappear onto the concourse.
Dirty water coursed down uneven lines of sandstone tenements and flooded the drains. I thought about Penelope and what she said at the Cloisters. I wanted to tell her about Sommarøy but she wouldn’t be there now. I used my Graduation hood as an umbrella and ran for the 3 o’clock bus to my parents’ house.
I shouted Hello at the door placing my wet shoes beside father’s. Covered with a skin of dust they lay neatly below his coat.
Mother sat at the rear of the house by the bay window. She was taking a cigarette from a large carton. After blowing out waves of smoke she nodded.
‘Well then. You’re the finished article.’
I pushed aside her cigarette packs to make space for coffee. She kept her gaze on the window while I sat nearby with my mug listening to the rhythm of singeing tobacco.
‘I haven’t seen Dad in a long time.’ I said.
Mother exhaled. Smoke channeled between curls of yellowy hair.
‘You’re wondering where he is, when will he return? Perhaps he won’t return? Has he gone and by gone has he left to live elsewhere or has he died?’
‘Yes. That’s what I’m wondering.’
‘So. Which is most likely?’
‘I think he is dead.’
‘Very well.’ She said. ‘That is how we shall proceed.’
I sipped my coffee. ‘Why are his coat and shoes still in the hallway?’
Mother tilted her head slightly as though seeing something through the window but then leaned back a little to tip her ash.
‘I thought that might be what you wanted.’
‘I don’t understand.’ I said.
She lit another cigarette.
‘What will you do now that you have graduated?’
I told her about the Fair, about Harsvold and Sommarøy.
‘It’s a Gap year, an adventure for me after years of studying I suppose.’
‘Oh my.’ She said. ‘A once in a lifetime experience to discover your limits and later when the time is right, call it wisdom.’
‘Is that you giving me your blessing?’ I finished my coffee.
She laughed coughing hard into a stained handkerchief. From amongst the cigarette cartons she held something up for me to take. It was father’s wedding ring.
‘No doubt you’ll invest it with all sorts of emotional value.’ She said.
The ring felt a little too tight so I laced it through my neck chain then left to prepare for Sommarøy.
Sommarøy
It has been several months since I blogged and podcasted. I have recently moved house and finally recovered my equipment from a pyramid of cardboard boxes. For the last year I have been working on and off on a new short story about the coastal village of Sommarøy in Norway. The village was in the news last year when it petitioned to be removed from a time zone. They have something like 70 days of endless light as the sun never sets.
In the end I wrote a fairly long short story so I have recorded an introduction and broken the storytelling into 3 subsequent podcasts. A young man graduates from the University of Glasgow and takes an internship in the village. What impact will the endless sunlight have on him?
Sunday is a day of Less
I decided to challenge myself to write a short story each day for a week on the theme of infection. Each story is no longer than 500 words and 4 minutes in length. Some are serious others less so. Find the text of the seventh and final story below but you can also listen on my podcast. Enjoy and let me know what you think.
Seven Fevers
Sunday is a day of Less
Sunday was the first hot day of Spring. My wife took the kids to visit their grandmother. It was an hour’s drive.
‘Be careful.’ I said. ‘That nasty virus is going about.’
‘Well we’re not going out to lick surfaces and cough on each other.’ My wife said. She liked her occasional sarcastic jibe.
I stayed at home to write. I worked in Construction for years but left to do something different. My wife encouraged me to go to evening classes. I felt I had novel in me if I could find the right subject.
Once they left, I sat in the garden and tried to note down some ideas.
After lunch I watched the news. Virus infections had exploded. There was to be a lockdown strategy. They used phrases like STAY HOME and THE R NUMBER
My wife phoned. She would stay at Grandmother’s with the kids. The Lockdown wouldn’t last long. ‘More time for your epic.’ She said. I don’t think she was being sarcastic.
Anyway she was wrong.
The lockdown lasted nearly three months. At first I behaved as normal except I didn’t go out. Gradually I felt as though my old routine wasn’t right for me. So I started trying new things like baking and online tutorials.
By week four I dreaded going to bed and waking up in the morning. Game shows gave way to Government Briefings with huge infection and mortality numbers. On video calls the kids looked at me as though I were near and far away.
Once a week my buddies from Construction ran an online quiz. When I walked for exercise it was the same path clockwise or anti-clockwise.
I never opened my journal.
Although I didn’t have the virus it controlled everything I did. The absence of freedom was like a broken thumb. I realised how much it was needed when I couldn’t use it.
12 weeks later Lockdown arrangements were eased. My wife and kids came home. We agreed not to hug. It was great to see them.
‘Can I read your novel?’ My wife said with a smile.
‘Not yet.’ I said ‘But I made a raspberry sponge you’ll love.’ She wasn’t the only one who could do sarcasm.
We had a big family dinner and then on Sunday morning I went to a nearby cafe with my journal for a coffee.
Instead of writing I stared through the window. People met and sat on outside benches. They laughed a lot but looked sad. Above them the sky was blue but paler, the sun warm with less heat.
We were all back where we began set free to live in our world like strangers.
I called my Construction buddies and told them I was coming to work on Monday.
Stay Away Saturday
I decided to challenge myself to write a short story each day for a week on the theme of infection. Each story is no longer than 500 words and 4 minutes in length. Some are serious others less so. Find the text of the sixth story below but you can also listen on my podcast. Enjoy and let me know what you think. Hopefully I will see you tomorrow for the final story of the challenge.
Seven Fevers
Stay Away Saturday
William was the very definition of a sociopath.
It wasn’t just his opinion. His scores were high on test questions such as-
Do you consider yourself superior to others?
If you hurt someone else’s feelings, do you lack remorse or guilt?
Do you find yourself unable to empathise with others dealing with difficult situations?
His Analyst told him he had an anti-social personality and William was delighted.
When people he knew approached he would cross the street and shake his head with the right amount of passive aggression. In Cafes he would demand a seat away from other customers. When commuters struck up stale-breathed conversations on crowded trains, he would reply with expletives.
William had reached the stage in life when socio-pathology was like a second skin.
Then the pandemic arrived.
It was a highly infectious virus strain. Borders were sealed. People instructed to stay at home. They could exercise once a day and must remain 2 metres apart. They must isolate with close family members only.
William felt gleeful. ‘That will teach these low brows and knuckle draggers.’ He thought.
He liked a long walk on a Saturday. It allowed him to clear his mind of human annoyances. He stepped out into bright, Spring sunshine.
His neighbour saw him and quickly hid behind a parked car.
‘How rude.’ William muttered and continued on his walk.
The sun had brought many people out for exercise. Without any subtlety they moved away as he approached.
‘Are you being serious?’ William said aloud but no-one listened.
His route finished at the local corner shop where he intended to buy a paper and some biscuits. A long, thin line of shoppers were spaced before the entrance. The Owner was giving everyone a mask and spraying hands with sanitiser.
Seeing William he groaned.
‘Listen you miserable man. Keep your mouth shut. Wear this mask. Refuse and I will not be responsible for what happens next.’
Spontaneous applause rang out from the line of shoppers.
William held his hands up meekly to be sprayed.
He made his way home. Trembling he picked up the phone and called his Analyst.
‘Ask me the test questions again.’ He said. ‘Your diagnosis is wrong.’
Friday is for Dreamers
I decided to challenge myself to write a short story each day for a week on the theme of infection. Each story is no longer than 500 words and 4 minutes in length. Some are serious others less so. Find the text of the fifth story below but you can also listen on my podcast. Enjoy and let me know what you think. Hopefully I will see you tomorrow for story 6
Seven Fevers
Friday is for Dreamers
Every week in my office is grim. Emails, phone calls, deadlines. That’s why my co-workers and I love Friday evening. We sit in bars from 5pm till late. They’re always packed. That’s where I caught the virus.
My supervisor thought it was a hangover when I called in sick on Monday. He wanted to send work assignments over.
‘No.’ I said. ‘I’ve got a fever and this persistent cough.’
I went to bed early with a temperature of 102.2°F. Sweat soaked the sheets but something strange also happened. I had an amazing dream.
Hidden amongst succulent trees was a mansion of glassless windows. I lay on scented pillows. Beautiful men and women fanned me with cooling fronds. My hands were cupped with delicious mango.
Although I felt terrible the next day I kept thinking about the dream. That night I swam deep underwater without the need to breathe and could feel dark sea beds.
The night after that, I floated high above undiscovered lochs and heathered glens.
By the following weekend my temperature was back to 97°F. The doctor said it was normal to feel only mild symptoms and I could return to work.
My supervisor pointed to my desk when I returned. I couldn’t see the computer for paperwork. It took till Friday to clear the backlog.
No one wanted to go drinking at 5pm.
‘They’re announcing Lockdown measures this weekend.’ My co-worker said. ‘Better stay home.’
But I didn’t stay home. I found the busiest bar near my office and drank and hoped for re-infection.
Shake Hands It’s Thursday
I decided to challenge myself to write a short story each day for a week on the theme of infection. Each story is no longer than 500 words and 4 minutes in length. Some are serious others less so. Find the text of the fourth story below but you can also listen on my podcast. Enjoy and let me know what you think. Hopefully I will see you tomorrow for story 5
Seven Fevers
Shake hands it’s Thursday
Edward loved gardening. His friend Tom enjoyed Lawn Bowls.
During the summer months they would see each other most days. One day they would play at the local Bowls club. The next Tom would come round and help in Edward’s garden.
Despite seeing each other so much they always began and ended with a handshake. Their wives thought it was funny how they kept this arrangement.
On Sunday evening Edward and Tom walked back from a Bowls tournament. At the corner of the street they shook hands and said.
‘See you tomorrow.’
Edward and his wife ate supper and watched their favourite Soap Opera. Ten minutes into the show an announcement was made by the Country’s leader accompanied by a top Medical expert.
A powerful unknown virus had been discovered. Many measures were to be introduced to slow its spread. The term used was ‘Social Distancing.’
Edward’s wife looked at him and smiled. ‘No more shaking hands for you and your buddy.’
‘He can work at the other end of the garden though.’ Edward said.
It was sunny and warm the next day when Tom appeared. He came through the gate and extended his hand.
Edward shook his head. ‘You saw the announcement last night about Social Distancing?’
Tom nodded. ‘It’s silly. You and I see one another everyday. I mean what’s changed since last night? I’m not unwell.’
‘Even so.’ Edward said keeping his hands in his pockets and stepping back several paces. ‘We should stick to the guidelines.’
Tom was cross. He worked on planting a magnolia in a far corner of the garden. With each spadeful of soil his face grew redder.
‘How are you getting on with that magnolia Tom?’ Edward called from across a line of shrubs.
‘Fine.’ Tom said.
He was not fine and left earlier than normal.
He did not show for Bowls the next day or for gardening the day after. He would not come to the phone when Edward asked to speak to him.
Several months later the virus infection subsided noticeably and Social Distancing restrictions were gradually lifted.
Edward met Tom by chance outside the local supermarket.
‘Tom.’ He said. ‘I’ve missed you buddy. I know it’s been tough with these strict rules but we survived.’
‘We did survive.’ Tom said. ‘But our friendship is dead.’
With this he walked to his car and drove off.
On Wednesday a Cure was found
I decided to challenge myself to write a short story each day for a week on the theme of infection. Each story is no longer than 500 words and 4 minutes in length. Some are serious others less so. Find the text of the third story below but you can also listen on my podcast. Enjoy and let me know what you think. Hopefully I will see you tomorrow for story 4.
Seven Fevers
On Wednesday a Cure was found
I found a cure for the virus. This is what happened. After my shift at the factory I walked by the river. It was a longer route to walk but more pleasant.
I sat for a while to watch the sunset. It was good to dream and to think. Sometimes I wished that my job was to dream and think. When I told my wife I loved dreaming, she left me.
This virus made people very sick and could be fatal. Some of my neighbours had been infected. I tried to think about helping them.
Near where I sat, nettles grew and beside them was a dock leaf plant. Every child knows a nettle sting can be cured by rubbing its underside on the affected skin.
Couldn’t a simple remedy cure this terrible infection? I pulled up some dock plants and took them home.
With a pestle I ground them into moist pulp and added jam because people would like that. I’d heard that the virus was to do with respiration so I put it on my toothbrush and brushed anti-clockwise.
Mrs Sueños lived on the ground floor with her daughter.
‘You can’t come in.’ She shouted through the letter box. ‘You know Mama has the virus. She can hardly breathe.’
‘I have a cure.’ I said.
‘How can you have a cure? You always say crazy things.’
‘I know.’ I said. ‘Just give it to your mama. Please.’
I pushed a ziplock with the paste and instructions through the door.
I was early shift the next day. As I passed the Sueños door was thrown open. The daughter kissed my cheeks. In the hallway Mrs Sueños was crying with joy.
‘Beautiful, crazy man I am cured.’
The door across from them opened. A dark eyed woman appeared.
‘I heard what you said last night to Mama Sueños. You know my husband is very sick. Help me please.’
I brought down some of the paste for her. That evening neighbours in the street were waiting for me.
I made more paste. The dark eyed woman and her husband tried to give me money. I refused it.
‘You must tell the scientists.’ They said.
‘Tell them your cure.’ Mama Sueños shouted from her window.
On my day off I went into the city. The Centre For Disease Control was near the subway stop. I told an official in Reception I had a cure for the virus. He asked me which Scientific group I worked for.
‘I’m not a scientist.’ I said. ‘I just used dock leaves.’
He spoke quietly into a small radio on his lapel. Two burly men appeared, grabbed my arms and launched me onto the street. I got the subway back home.
At my apartment there were bundles of food wrapped in foil at my door. I ate and watched TV. The newsman announced the virus had been declared a global pandemic.
Tuesday’s Sermon
I decided to challenge myself to write a short story each day for a week on the theme of infection. Each story is no longer than 500 words and 4 minutes in length. Some are serious others less so. Find the text of the second story below but you can also listen on my podcast. Enjoy and let me know what you think. Hopefully I will see you tomorrow for story 3.
7 Fevers
Story 2 – Tuesday’s Sermon
On the day the virus had begun to spread David rose early. There were over 100 new cases of infection in the city but he felt fit and healthy.
He had his bible and box to stand on. His Uncle told him that was all he needed. Getting into position before 9am was also important. He could claim a prime spot on Buchanan Street.
David enjoyed preaching. Even though most shoppers ignored him he still felt part of something. One or two people would come up to him after the sermon. Often they argued but then put some money in his hand. He had grown a goatee and left his hair uncut. It made him feel he had an identity.
It was better than being stuck in an office.
People seemed to be moving quicker this morning. He opened his bible at a random page and began.
‘For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be.’
As he continued his sermon he noticed that unlike other days, many shoppers had stopped and were listening.
‘Behold the pale horse and his name that sat upon him was Death…’
David sensed crowds forming on the Concert hall steps and he saw numbers deepen along shop fronts. There was no sound except the sound of his reedy voice.
‘…and Hell followed him and power was given unto them over the fourth part of the world to kill with the sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the Earth.’
He didn’t have more to sermonise about and his favourite quotes were used up. The mass of shoppers stared at him. Some were crying.
‘Amen.’ He said.
‘Amen.’ The crowd responded.
David felt his knees trembling. He got down off his box. Beads of cold sweat ran from his forehead. He started to push through the silent throng saying ‘excuse me excuse me thank you…’
‘What should we do?’ Someone asked.
Others heard and repeated ‘What should we do? What should we do?’
Two cars had blocked an alleyway. David dropped his box and leapt over the bonnets. He ran down the alleyway and threw his bible in a wheelie bin. The crowds were calling but he kept running till he found quieter streets and a bus which took him out of the city.
Seven Fevers
I decided to challenge myself to write a short story each day for a week on the theme of infection. Each story is no longer than 500 words and 4 minutes in length. Some are serious others less so. Find the text of the first story below but also you can listen on my podcast. Enjoy and let me know what you think. Hopefully I will see you tomorrow for story 2.
7 Fevers
Story 1 – I fell in love on a Monday
We met on a flight from Edinburgh. There was a mix up with seat allocation and a steward moved me beside her. She found it all pretty funny and we started talking. She had curled light brown hair which danced about her pale neck. I didn’t even feel the wheels on touchdown.
After the flight she came to my apartment and I gave her my mother’s necklace. She cried and hugged me. Then we sat and watched TV holding hands. Our programme was interrupted by a special announcement.
A powerful virus was spreading quickly. People were urged to return home and lockdown until infection levels reduced. They showed pictures of doctors in masks and patients paralysed on hospital beds.
‘I’ll go home and get some things and come back here tomorrow.’ She said. ‘We can lockdown together.’
I thought it was a great idea.
The next day came and went but she didn’t appear. The following evening she called. She was coughing and had a fever.
‘It’s only mild symptoms.’ She said. ‘It will pass.’
She texted some photographs of us she’d taken. I missed her.
The next day her brother called.
‘I know we’ve never met.’ He said. ‘Don’t be alarmed but my sister has been taken into ICU.’
‘I want to see her.’ I said.
‘You can’t. Nobody can.’
After that he phoned a couple more times to tell me about the need for a ventilator. Weeks passed. All I had were the photographs she’d sent.
It was a Monday, weeks later when she phoned. She was hoarse but recovering well.
‘Thinking about us got me through.’ She said.
A TV announcement had recommended the easing of lockdown so we arranged to meet in the park near her home.
Wearing dungarees with a soft hat she was sitting on a bench with two coffees when I arrived. She flicked back her hair to show me my mother’s necklace and I saw a tender scar along her throat.
‘That’s from the tracheotomy.’ She said
I listened to her talk about the ICU and her recovery. All the time she had a photograph of us for comfort. I couldn’t stop looking at the scar which was misaligned when she spoke and how the necklace would catch the clumsy stitching. The coffee went cold in my mouth.
‘How have you been?’ She said. ‘We have so much to look forward to.’
‘Actually work has been terrible.’ I said. ‘I’m late for my flight. I have a conference to attend. The next few weeks are hectic.’
She didn’t say anything and I never looked back when I left the park. I stayed at the apartment for a few days then deleted the photographs she’d sent.
Lilian of the Estates
Part 1 of a spoken word and music memoir for my mother, a woman I loved and eventually understood. Thanks to all the great musicians I worked with. Some I knew and others I contacted. They all gave their time and talents to what what must’ve sounded an odd project.
Music for the project can be found on my soundcloud page. Enjoy and let me know what you think.
There is nothing straightforward in a dream
This episode features a story about the power of the dreams we have each night. Thanks to Stefan, Alana, Sham, Eva and Ruth for their great reading of the story.
I am also joined by Sarah and Tina (pictured) who are collaborating with me on a big musical project – more of that for future podcasts.
The story along with my other writing can be found here. More music can be found here.
Someone will Remember Us I say, Even in Another Time
Do you believe in coincidence? Perhaps you shouldn’t. I am helped in this episode by Allan, Marie, Stefan and Alana. The story they read has caused a lot of discussion amongst readers. I hope you enjoy it! Paperback and Kindle editions of the story and others can be found here.
Music used in this episode can be heard with other songs on my Soundcloud page.
The title of the story is from Anne Carson’s translation of Sappho.
Check out Stefan’s photography here
A Merry Christmas to everyone!
Untitled
Lots of music and discussion in this episode. The centrepiece is a very powerful reading of the story, Untitled. A mother lies dead in her room. Each of her three sons respond differently to her passing.
Thanks to Eva for her moving narration with the assistance of David and Stefan. The poetry quoted in the story is from Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy.
The challenges of hill walking and long distance cycling are discussed by Shaun and John as well as some thoughts on the forthcoming Election in the UK.
My collected short stories, Hits, can be found here.
The songs from this podcast and many others can be heard on my Soundcloud page.
Application
What do we want from a career? Is there such a thing as the perfect applicant? As well as lots of music, this week’s episode features discussion from Steven and Zahra who helped with the reading of my story, Application. A headteacher is seeking a new depute. Will she choose the right applicant?
Songs – Do I love the Sun? and Liv2nite can also be found on my Soundcloud page.
Copies of collected short stories are available in paperback and kindle from Amazon.
Fez
This week’s episode features David and Keith playing some skiffle and talking about music. They also contribute to the reading of my story Fez which is about the selfishness which sometimes spoils a friendship.
Fez along with my other short stories can be found on Amazon here.
Listen to more of my music on Soundcloud.
Thanks to Stefan for the artwork. Thanks also to Zahra, Stephen and Ruth.
Ino
If you can’t feel pain, can you feel love?
Today’s episode features Alana and Stefan reading my short story, Ino. They also discuss their recent elopement wedding day. Featured song for this podcast is The World is a Wedding. I pinched the song title from Delmore Schwartz, the great American short story writer.
Check out my short story collection, Hits here. My Soundcloud with more music can be found by clicking here.
Additional guitar on World is a Wedding demo by Stefan McGinley. Follow Stefan’s photography here
At a Corner
This episode contains some Electronica, Kafka, Brueghel and reflections on my childhood and the terrors of society.
I am joined by the very talented Arran Fitzpatrick who reads my story, At A Corner and plays trumpet on Hunters in the Snow and additional keyboard on Are You Talking to Me?
My collected short stories can be found here. Hunters in the Snow, the original version, can be found here
Thanks to Stefan McGinley for cover artwork. Check his work out.
Heliades
The strange, impossible ways a hospital heals even in death.
This week’s episode features a dramatised reading of my story Heliades. It is narrated by Marie Weir, assisted by Eva, Sham and Ruth.
Discussion, History and Us, is provided by Marie and Eva.
Tina Roscoe sings No Kind Words Violin, Keys and Drums by Adam Nash. Alternate version of No Kind Words played by SMcG on synth and vocoder.
Heliades and other short stories can be found on Hits – Collected Short Stories by Stephen McGivern (paperback and kindle versions).
Cover art by Stefan. His photography can be found on Instagram.
Enjoy my podcast series on Spotify and iTunes
And you have the Bride for whom you prayed
This week’s episode is more music than story featuring a duet with a difference. Songs and chat with musician Calum Slaven ex-Howson. Also included is a very short, dark story set in Kollwitzplatz and read by Caitlin Wallace.
The story along with other readings can be found on Amazon here. The title of the story is from Anne Carson’s edition of Sappho.
The song, Hurricane, used by kind permission. Listen to Howson here.
Nothing A.P.A. written by S.McGivern
Cover art by sjmcgphotography
Rabbit Catcher
If loneliness is a trap, so is freedom.
In this episode I am joined by Arran and Kara for a reading of my short story, Rabbit Catcher.
A young man named Cuno lives in the hills. One day he meets a girl who has run away from the city.
Thanks to Arran and Kara for the reading and discussion which followed.
The song Travel Far features Bex Reid on vocals. Check out her wonderful tattoos on Instagram – bexblazedup.art
Cover photography by Stefan. Instagram – sjmcgphotography
Rabbit Catcher is from my collected short stories, Hits. Available on Amazon in paperback and kindle versions.
Twitter handle here
Know this, from every care you could release me.
Welcome to the 3rd episode of my podcast. This story was inspired by events I witnessed on Unter Den Linden, Berlin during the late summer of 2018.
Have you helped the needy or walked past them in the street? But what is your need? Doesn’t it make us cry out for someone or something?
Thanks to Caitlin Wallace for appearing in this episode.
The title story is from Sappho, translated by Anne Carson.
Cover art by Stefan McGinley follow him on Instagram @sjmcgphotography
Bones was written and performed by S.McGivern
Finally
Finally is the opening story in Hits – Collected Short Stories available on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle.
Imagine arriving in Heaven but where is God?
Thanks to Ruth McGivern for voice and discussion.
The podcast also includes a song I wrote a while ago.
Sleepwalking
Vocals – Sarah Binns Cowan
Other instruments – Adam Nash, Martin McQuillan and myself. Can’t remember who’s playing the xylophone/keyboard.
Fathom
Are great adventures for everyone? A podcast featuring my short story, Fathom. Thanks to Stefan and Ruth.
Song – The Devil
Vocals – Steve Cotter, Fran Mulhall and Gabriel. Sample from public domain. No copyright infringement intended.
Hits – Collected Short Stories by Stephen McGivern https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1099367492
About
Welcome to StephenMcGivern StoriesMusicPeople. You can find my podcasts on Spotify and iTunes. I will be reading from my story collection, playing music I have made with many others over the last two decades. Each episode will feature a guest. I hope you enjoy listening as much as I enjoy writing and recording.
Stephen McGivern StoriesSongsPeople 