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Lost by Gerry Webber

By Gerry Webber On February 14, 2016 · Add Comment · In Prose, Short Story
Lost The summer of seventy six was hot. It was fearsome. The road that ran past our farm – well, it wasn’t our farm then – had been surfaced inexpertly with tarmac just a few months earlier, a symbol of modernisation. Now it was melting in the heat of the afternoon, sticky beneath my feet [...]
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A Man’s a Man for A’ That by Liz Logie MacIver

On January 27, 2016 By Gerry Webber
A Man’s a Man for A’ That Weel what can I say aboot him? The first time I clapped eyes on him I was stricken. He was wanderin up Anchor Close. A narrow lane, dank and drookit after the rain that morn. A dark smelly place it was. But he brought a licht to it [...]
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Bowhill Yul by Catriona Windle

On November 28, 2015 By Gerry Webber
Bowhill Yul We drive through the bleak council estate on a dull December day in Bowhill. Its nearly Christmas but it doesn’t feel like Christmas here. We pull up outside a dismal looking house and knock on the door. It is answered almost immediately by an incredibly handsome man. He looks like Yul Brynner, with [...]
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Going Back to the Beach by DJMac

On November 14, 2015 By Gerry Webber
Going Back to the Beach 1961 I’m carried down the steep cliff path Cradled in the surf’s whisper, Butter-ball sun over the bay; Dad’s panting is a deep drum beat. The going down seems long; No steps, just sand and dirt and rock Into the belly of the earth Eyes heavy then silence sweeps in [...]
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So long, farewell by Gerry Webber

On August 29, 2015 By Gerry Webber
So long, farewell Throughout the spring and early summer, Friedrich rose early each morning and climbed the crag behind his farmhouse to tend the herd. Today was no exception, apart from one thing. This was the first time he had ever seen a nun running towards him over the brow of the hill. Her arms [...]
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Lament for Jean McConville by Anne Pia

On August 13, 2015 By Gerry Webber
Lament for Jean McConville (b.1934 Belfast d. 1972) Cry, city cry, at the story of your Jean at the orphaning of children; not for Palestine, or the Holcaust not for the mothers of Syria or the children of Iraq but cry for your own generations and your lore cry for each August, for your clockwork [...]
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5 Short Verses by John Lanigan

On July 26, 2015 By Gerry Webber
5 Short Verses The white foc`sl of an enormous liner grandstanding off Largs A bus-shelter roof and matted vegetation accumulating Tractor mud decomposed: two days ago perhaps it was neat chevrons Windless day, and smoke rising sculptural from a factory chimney Dusk, and found by a thin cold sunbeam a single tree glints
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Psychobabble by Spiderboy

On July 14, 2015 By Gerry Webber
Psychobabble – Next question. Would you describe yourself as decisive or indecisive? – It depends on the circumstances. – Ok, indecisive. – No. I wouldn’t say that exactly. It’s just that I’m not impulsive. – Right. Question 30. If you enter a room full of strangers do you feel excited or anxious. – What sort [...]
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Remembering the A68 by Anne Pia

On June 25, 2015 By Gerry Webber
Remembering the A68 How well I remember this way and this road we chose for our night escapes, our journeys south the promise of Scotch Corner the smooth, easy tarmac finally of the M1 its warming lights adding glitz to your glamour to your legs and your lipstick, to my fine cropped style, my trophy [...]
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The Big Bar – L (Glasgow 1973) by Catriona Windle

On June 14, 2015 By Gerry Webber
The Big Bar – L (Glasgow 1973) Sometimes we would go and stay at my Granny and Grandpa’s house, just me and my little brother. Grandpa was a prison officer at Barlinnie Prison and they lived in a prison house right next to the wall. The wall was as wide as a pavement and the [...]
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Clean forgotten by Gerry Webber

On June 8, 2015 By Gerry Webber
  Clean forgotten   – Where are your glasses, mum? – I lent them to one of the prison warders. – Which one? – The fat one with the dirty hair. Susan. – Are you sure that’s her name? – I think so. Why? – Well that’s my name, mum. – Oh yes. Of course. [...]
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  • An anthology of modern short fiction recounting the quirkiness of the everyday, featuring DJ Mac and others.
  • DJ Mac is a writer based in Edinburgh, Scotland who fouters (dithers) with an itchy, scratchy pen in the moments when the bewilderment provoked by life settles. He is easily distracted by the bright pictures in his gallery.
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