I'm not sure what compels people to write short stories. Perhaps it's because they don't take as long as novels. That's not to say they're easier to write, though. A well-crafted short story is a very difficult thing indeed to pull off.
You can be the judge of whether I've managed it ever. A couple of these have been published by the wonderful Spinteingler magazine, so that must count for something.
Because I have a tidy mind, I've arranged these in something of an order. Well, it made sense to me at the time. Get with the clicky for some short-form goodness.
Where did these come from? I'm not really sure. Certainly it was a long time ago, before I was even contemplating writing as a career.
The Bar in question was the Bobbin Mill, in King Street, Aberdeen. The time was the late eighties. You can walk from the Union Street corner of King Street all the way to Bridge of Don and you won't find the Boggin' as it was affectionately known. They closed it not long after I moved from the flat I lived in as a student, just a few drunken lurches up the road. A few months later it reopened as the King Street Mill. It was not the same. Nothing ever is.
These then are two musings on life in the closest I have ever come to having a local. I make no apology for their weirdness. I was like the back then.
Maybe I still am.
What is it about Reps that makes them wear such florid neckware? Is it a vain attempt to liven up their otherwise meaningless lives? A short sad cry of rage against the uniform greyness that is all they have become?
The Juke Box must die
