Jamie Graham

Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

George scratched his moustache as he strolled from the office towards the subway station. He’d often thought about shaving it off for the summer months as it got incredibly itchy in the searing city heat. It rather suited him though, giving him a more distinguished look, maybe resembling a slightly overweight Morgan Freeman, or at least that’s what George liked to think.

He had taken the afternoon off, a payback for all the overtime he’d done on the Peeterman Project. George hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, not even his wife. This afternoon was George time, and he had it all planned out.

He was glad to leave the suffocating humidity and chaos of the street and escape to the relative calm and coolness underground. He stopped at the kiosk to buy some mints, it was important to him that he made a good impression after all this time. Stale coffee breath impressed nobody. He took his change, turned and bumped into a young woman who was too engrossed listening to her ipod to even care.

 

Scarlet was new to New York, she bought some gum from the kiosk then headed up into the world of endless possibilities. Nobody knew her, which was so exciting, the fact that she could start with a clean state meant everything. Her blue eye shadow and pink streak in her hair was evidence of this new lease of life.

Scarlet wasn’t even her real name, she was leaving Elizabethbehind, she was so totally lame. She was listening to The White Stripes, the beat put a skip in her step as she squinted into the blinding sunshine and bounced confidently up onto 5^th Avenue. She blew a huge bubble with her gum and popped it with her tongue, she didn’t care if any was left on her face, it was only gum.

She felt so lucky to be here, it was almost overwhelming after all the hassle back home. The only person who was willing to give her a second chance was Uncle Finn, the mad Irish one nobody in the family ever really mentioned much. He co-owned a bar in the Big Apple and was more than a little crazy but Scarlet had always liked him, even more so now that she was staying at his apartment uptown. He was happy to play along and call her by her assumed name. He could probably barely remember her real name anyway, the few times he’d actually seen her in the past seventeen years.

Finn had always been the black sheep of the family, and he could see a lot of himself in Scarlet. She was going to enrol on an art course, people understood culture here, not like back in small townArizona. The only art there was Art Mitchell who ran the local grocery store. As she jogged a little to get across the street while the little white man was still showing, unbeknown to her a quarter leapt up out of her pocket and onto the scorching tarmac below.

 

Walking the other way was Shinji, he was a bit of a geek, Asian American and a computer programmer. He noticed the quarter gleam in the afternoon glare and swooped down on it before it had even fully settled on the grimy road surface. Shinji seemed to attract money wherever he went but he couldn’t attract the one thing he really wanted in life, a nice girlfriend.

He had no problem communicating with machines, however, people and especially women were a completely different matter. He especially liked Mexican chicks but he wasn’t in a position to really be choosy. There was a girl at the company who was pretty cute but Shinji was at a loss over how to even approach her. It was difficult because she worked in Sales and wasn’t even in the office all that much. When she was though, it brightened up his whole day.

He was jolted from his daydream by two big fat guys arguing in the street outside the Deli where he usually bought lunch. Today he just kept on walking and decided to try somewhere new. He’d not had a chilli dog for a while, mainly because he’d been vegetarian for over a year now. As he got to the corner of the next block, the smell from the cart drew him in like a fly to crap. He quickly handed over a couple of bucks and the quarter he’d just found, then sunk his teeth into it with great relish, it was great mustard too. Shinji closed his eyes and savoured the moment.

 

Roman had always been a dreamer and as a kid nothing spoke to him more loudly than the American dream. Growing up in a high rise flat on the outskirts of Moscow had been tough, his Father was permanently depressed, a wheezing mass of bitterness and anger who was glued to the couch like he’d lost all hope when Communism fell. His Mother had been a stranger too, she had four cleaning jobs and would leave around4am, even on the most ridiculously cold winter mornings, and return late at night to feed the pack of hungry wolves, his Father, two brothers and him.

Now it was his turn to feed the wolves, selling hot dogs from a cart in NYC. He usually made enough to survive and send a little home to his parents. His brothers Ivan and Alexei had long flown from the nest and had gone to study inEngland. Roman had always been a good soccer player and believed it was only a matter of time until an MLS scout saw him play and offered him a mega bucks contract. He only had time to play once a week now though since he got this job. Deep down he knew time wasn’t on his side and the dream was beginning to slip away.

His next customer was a guy with bright orange hair and a long straggly beard. Roman couldn’t tell from his accent where he was from but it was clear he’d been in a bar somewhere. The acrid smell of his breath could curdle Ketchup.

 

John was starving after spending the morning in Kitty O’Shea’s filling up on lager. He was a bit pissed off that they never had any Tennent’s. It was all American stuff that tasted like piss as far as he was concerned. It didn’t stop him drinking six pints of it though. John and his long-suffering wife Mary had come toNew Yorkfor their Ruby Wedding Anniversary, the closest Mary had come to a ruby was a chicken korma from The Spice Cottage in Carluke, the night before they’d left.

After only one night they’d had a massive argument over how much to tip people. John didn’t believe in tips because “thatwistheir fuckin’ joab”. Mary had never been so embarrassed. John was stewing in the heat, like a smelly old prune. He sat on a bench and munched his way through a hot dog trying not to pass out in the stifling, clammy conditions. He didn’t trust the Americans, in fact he didn’t trust anyone who “didny like a good bevvy”.

Mary was probably still in the hotel room in the cream puff he thought, so with a mouthful of bread roll, he staggered back in its general direction. All the streets looked much the same to John though so who knows where he’d end up. Trying to jay walk across 5^th Avenue wasn’t one of his better ideas and a car screeched to a halt missing him by a matter of inches.

 

Graciela had panicked when she saw the guy stagger out in front of her and now her heart was racing as she waited for the drunken asshole to get out of her way. She didn’t need this today. She’d only had the car two days and already the A.C. was faulty. Graciela was boiling alive like a hot and bothered lobster, her sweat soaked blouse stuck to the plush leather interior of her new Chrysler.

She watched as the guy she’d almost ran over made it to the pavement on the other side and promptly sunk to his knees and vomited. It was totally gross. The traffic wasn’t moving, sometimes she wished she didn’t have so much equipment to carry around for her job, then she could walk or get the subway like everyone else who had any common sense at all. There was no doubt she was going to be late for her next appointment. She was pretty much never on time and it had cost her thousands of dollars in lost sales. Graciela spent most of the day either on the road or bull-shitting customers then most of the evening catching up with paperwork in the office.

She hadn’t had a date in three years, it made her despair. It was so damn hot she had to undo another button on her blouse and then another one until her brassiere was just out there, but even though the blacked out windows were rolled down, she just didn’t care anymore. Hey, maybe some passer by might take a quick peek and then ask her out. She doubted it though, shit like that only happened in the movies. She yearned to go to the movies with someone special, the Sunday matinee with her pregnant sister just wasn’t the same. When she finally moved forward a few hundred yards, she got stuck at the traffic lights. Her eyes were drawn to an incredibly large, red faced woman who looked like she was struggling to breathe as she crossed the road in front of her.

 

Mary had shouted on John from the corner of West 58^th Street and 5th but he was either ignoring her or didn’t hear her amongst the noise of a typical New York afternoon. As she tried to walk quicker, her asthma was getting worse. This wasn’t how it was meant to be, that bastard had promised her a good time and here she was sweating, wheezing, chasing him through the crowded city streets like a silly wee lassie.

She couldn’t believe he’d made such a scene at the Hotel yesterday, she’d tried to explain to him that he should tip the porter for bringing their bags up from the lobby but he was having none of it. For a brief moment, the sun hid behind a light fluffy cloud in the sky and it was a welcome reprieve for Mary who was overheating badly. She heard someone beside her say “no sweat” and wished it applied to her. Forty years married was a long time, too long she thought. By the time she’d made it across to East 58^th, John had disappeared from sight and Mary didn’t have the energy to carry on.

The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back staring up at the towering skyscrapers that were bearing down on her. A man with a moustache and minty-fresh breath was shouting “Maam, Maam, can you hear me Maam?” She could hear him but she was unable to answer. There was an overbearing tightness in her chest and her vision became blurred and hazy. She thought to herself “well at least you’re going out in style hen” then on her first visit toNew York City, Mary’s eyes closed for the very last time.

Image Credit: fono

This short story was inspired by “Rocks are slow life” by the Super Furry Animals which was another suggestion from my bro.

Neil wasn’t from round here and nobody let him forget it.

He felt like an alien, “a Scotsman living in Newark”. He was used to running home from school every day to avoid the sticks and stones and names that hurt him.

One night he was so fed up he went for a walk, he couldn’t sleep anyway and was past caring why his Dad would only come home a couple of nights a week.

He could hear fireworks going off in the distance and they made his heart skip that little bit faster. He knew whoever was setting those off was probably one of his enemies from St. Cuthbert’s Comp.

Neil felt a sharp pain shoot down his thumb as he scaled the barbed wire fence to get into the quarry site but it was so dark it was hard to see how much it was bleeding.

The ground underneath his feet was becoming more and more unsteady but he just kept walking further into the darkness until he reached a massive pile of rocks.

Neil started to feel dizzy and lay down on one of the huge slabs and cast his eyes up to the stars.

This was the most relaxed he’d felt since he moved here and his breathing began to slow down. As life drained away from Neil with each jet of blood that spurted from his thumb, it felt good to be in the quarry.

Rocks are a slow life form, evolving and changing over hundreds and thousands of years, but Neil’s young life was tragically over before it had really begun.

Today’s short story is based on the following MGMT lyrics suggested by my brother; “but it’s working in your blood, which you know is not the same as love, love is only in your mind and not your heart”.

Lucas wasn’t one for the ladies, though it wasn’t through a lack of trying.

Being called “Lucas the Puke-as” almost every day for 7 years of Primary School and another 4 at Secondary was enough to dent anyone’s confidence.

The Christmas Disco in 2001 had been the peak of his embarrassment. It’s one thing being called “Lucas the Puke-as” but it’s another thing entirely actually living up to the name in front of the other 100 or so people in your year.

Dave’s Dad was a big cider drinker and Lucas had a bit too much scrumpy before they left for the salubrious surroundings of the school assembly hall.

The fermented apples had given Lucas a shot of confidence, so much so that he’d asked Julia Cowie to dance. At that precise moment Lucas put the ‘puke-as’ into his name for real and he’d never been the same since.

Fast forward 8 years and Lucas was working for the local council in a dead end job hoping that there was something better out there for him.

It was “Saggy Sandra’s” leaving do and a few of them had gone on to Whistle Binkie’s. A guy called Sam Barber was playing an accoustic set which was going down really well and although Lucas had only sunk a couple of pints, he was beginning to feel courageous.

Jenny from Accounts had a low-cut top on and looked totally different than she did at work. For a start her hair was down, Lucas had never seen her with her hair down before.

Her bright red lips seemed to be getting bigger and more inviting as the night wore on and Lucas found himself in a bit of a trance.

Lucas snapped out of it when Sandy came back from the bar with a round of shots, he wouldn’t tell anybody what it was, which meant it was probably something stupidly potent.

Scared not to show himself up, Lucas downed his shot along with everyone else and the next thing he knew he was kissing Jenny and his colleagues had all disappeared.

The lively chatter and sound of Sam Barber’s guitar faded into the distance as Lucas and Jenny stumbled out onto the cold wet cobbles on Niddry Street locked arm in arm.

Lucas being the gentleman he was ran ahead to the bottom of the street to see if he could hail a taxi while Jenny huddled from the icy drizzle in a darkened doorway nearby.

After a few nerve-jangling minutes, Lucas got a cab but Jenny didn’t come to join him. He got back out and told the driver to wait a minute.

When he went back up Niddry Street to the doorway where’d he left her he saw an old man doubled over with an outstretched cap. Lucas asked him if he’d seen the girl who’d been standing there but he just pushed his cap out further towards Lucas.

Lucas swore and gave the guy 50p as he heard the taxi drive off behind him.

The old tramp in the alcove in front of him then said “Feel the drink son, it’s great isn’t it? but it’s working in your blood, which you know is not the same as love, love is only in your mind and not your heart.”

When Lucas woke up in his flat later that day, he had no recollection of Jenny and picked up the jobs section of the local paper, being on the dole for the last 4 years was taking its toll.

Just been listening to Evan Dando, one of my all-time favourite artists and my next short story is going to be based on the line “have you ever felt yourself in motion?” from the single Hard Drive.

Sergei had never been to Cyprus before and this trip was no holiday.

The one thing that would dictate whether he lived or died was somewhere on this island, but where?

Although he hadn’t seen them he knew they were watching from somewhere nearby, this was too important not to get back.

As he gazed out onto the Med and watched a jet ski disappear into the distance, his phone rang.

The doorman at a hotel in Limassol he’d spoken to earlier had some information for Sergei, a man with that name had just checked in.

He turned away from the beautiful view and made his way back to the hire car, they had a nerve charging me for this piece of crap he thought to himself but it was good cover.

On arriving at the hotel Sergei was greeted by the doorman who called someone to come and park the car. Sergei got a card for the room in exchange for another brown envelope and his heart started to beat faster as he waited for the elevator to come down to the ground floor.

He put his ear to the door of room 206 but heard nothing. He inserted the card into the slot and took a deep breath as the light turned green and he pushed the handle.

There was no sign of anyone inside, just a robust looking black suitcase on the bed which was locked.

Sergei picked up the case and hoped to God the item he so desparately wanted was inside.

Suddenly he heard a noise on the balcony and a slim man dressed in a light coloured linen suit appeared. He had something in his hand.

He looked Sergei in the eye and said “This is the hard drive” and waved it above his head. He then looked over the balcony and said “this is the ocean” as Sergei heard the waves lapping against the side of the hotel below.

Sergei reached for his gun but was put into a choke hold by someone standing behind him. The man on the balcony looked out to sea as the other man frogmarched Sergei out to join him.

The man said “Have you ever felt yourself travel in slow motion?” and with that Sergei was wrestled over the balcony onto the rocks below.

My short story today was inspired by Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” and is called Half Way There.

We were half way there when Mary Lou needed a comfort break so we pulled up in a primitive  looking little place called Jonesville, population 263.

There was a diner that still looked open, although it was unsettling to see that the letters ‘n’ and ‘r’ had fallen off the sign outside.

The sullen waitress had all the hallmarks of a high school dropout and she barely looked us in the eye as she took our order.

Eight minutes later and we were still without our coffee although Mary Lou was looking more relaxed after using the bathroom.

There was what can only be described as a filthy looking old man hunched over the counter with a toothpick sticking out of his mouth. I could see from his reflection in the mirror that he was wearing a gold medallion but it looked out of place in amongst all his grey chest hairs.

I felt sad for the man briefly as he was obviously living a life of solitude in this ramshackle little town.

I watched as Mary Lou sipped her coffee (which had finally arrived) and wondered how long it would take for the tranquillizer to kick in. I couldn’t bear the rest of the journey listening to her prattle on and on about the same old things; her late husband, the man in the spacesuit she’d had a liaison with at a fancy dress party and how I should be a better driver after all these years.

About 20 miles down the road, Mary Lou finally shut up. I put the car stereo on and sang out of tune to Johnny Cash all night long as I drove the rest of the way there.

I had intended to write some short stories based around my favourite song lyrics but I had an idea when “Don’t Turn Around” by Ace of Base came on the radio this morning so here goes!

“Don’t turn around!” his voice was unfamiliar and full of rage.

I tried hard not to but it’s like telling kid in a sweet shop not to look.

I felt the menace of cold metal against my throat, oh my God, don’t tell me that’s a knife!

He wasn’t in the mood to play around and nor was I. I handed over the £90 I’d just taken from the cash machine along with my purse.

There was no have a go hero to save me and mercifully I felt his grip loosen and listened as the sound of his quickening footsteps disappeared into the cold dark November night.

When the police arrived I had to recap my version of events over and over again. They told me some nutcase had robbed 3 other women that night too, but that didn’t make me feel any better.

I finally got back to my flat at around 2am but couldn’t sleep. Even the soothing sound of  Cafe del Mar Volume 12 playing on my ipod did nothing to calm my nerves.

What had promised to be a fun night had turned into one I’d probably never forget.

I sat and watched the rain drops race each other down the window pane against the backdrop of the shimmering streetlights and felt glad to be alive.

Over the next few weeks I’m going to write some short stories based around lyrics from some of my favourite songs, some well known and some not so.

If any friends, family or friendly strangers would like to suggest a song lyric of their own, please post a comment and I’ll weave it into a story that you’ll hopefully like.