priorites

[wildmountainthyme]

PRIORITIES


I was born in 1964, in Edinburgh, the second youngest

in a family of six, Ma, Maria, Dad, William. We used

to live in St James Square, flattened now and re-born as

St James Centre. We left when I was one and we moved into

a housing scheme called Broomhouse, Broomie as we bairns called

it.

I can remember going upstairs to a neighbours house to watch

Scotland play in the Home Internationals in glorious colour, we

only had Black and White, and it was a treat to see green grass

and the Blue jerseys, but then, as it is now, even glorious

colour could not brighten Scotlands performances on the

glorious green, green grass. It was funny listening to my

auld man doing his fitba' pundit bit, as more cans of Export

were drunk, a bad pass, a missed tackle and you’d think that

it was the end of the world. So I guess this is when I

became aware of the curse of being a Scottish

football fan. Now whenever Scotland take to the park I can hear

the voice of that auld Scottish actor , the one in Dads Army

whisper, ‘WE’RE DOOMED, WE’RE AW DOOMED!’ Sadly the team

usually oblige this sentiment.

In those days the Chopper was king, the coolest bike on the

street, exciting people had one, I didn’t.

We played fitba' all the time, soon as you got home from school

it was into the jeans and out into the car-park in front of

St Joe's Chapel, take-ons, three and you’re in, seven by's,

it depended on how many bodies you could get, we'd sometimes

play Hidy Go-Go, or Co-CoO 21, games were you ran away and hid

and some poor sod would spend ages hunting the back greens

looking for someone who had probably gone in for their tea hours

ago, 'course this was long before Lara Croft bounced onto computer

screens in bairns bedrooms all over the world, all good fun,

the days of the half penny, when you could buy Texan bars, Spanish

Gold, fancy coconut that looked like tobacco and came in a little

pouch, seeds sown in young minds that would germinate later

at parties, when at the age of fifteen you’d begin your own

drinking career and reach for the real tobacco to impress

the girls.

A bairn could go berserk with 10p in those days. Schemes have a

tradition of vans, ice-cream vans, bread vans, mobile shops

bringing everything to the front door, spuds and fags and bags

of broken shortbread! And 10p could buy a great big bag of

broken biscuits, guaranteed to make a greedy wee runny nosed

bairn boak for Scotland, in glorious multi- colour.

We had a van that would come 'round our streets, if you were

lucky enough to have any money you'd listen for his horn and

then you'd attack.

Sometimes we'd hang around the van and then when it drove

away we'd jump onto the back and sit on the little step

that took you up into the Alladins cave inside, this was quite

dangerous and the driver was forever telling us off.

One day the van pulled up, as usual we were skint and so we

waited to see who would be the first to jump onto the step and

get a hurl along the road, the last customer came down the

steps and we looked at each other, the back doors were pulled

shut and it was action stations. Being slightly bigger than

John I managed to push him off the step as there was only

room for one to sit, I smiled at John and gave him a V-sign,

feeling very smug, then something caught my eye, under a hedge

by the pavement it glinted in the sun, 10p! shining, brand

new. I leapt off the step and scrambled for the prize. Scored,

Ya Wee Beauty! I could already taste the broken shortbread.

Wee John couldn’t see why I had left the seat, but he

quickly jumped on and filled my place, laughing he reached

under the step and wrapped a small chain around his wrist

to get a better grip, we never knew why that chain hung there,

but when the van drove off it was something to hold onto.

I turned and looked at John, his dirty wee face was beaming,

Now it was his turn to give me a V-sign, I shrugged and looked down at

my shiny new 10p, I felt like the richest boy in the world, even richer

than Andrew Carnegie, a name I heard whenever I asked my auld

man for something.

The van pulled away, it was only a short drive to its next

stop. John waved with his right hand, his left held firmly

by the chain, suddenly the van sped up, I could see Johns face

turn from joy to fear, I watched as his feet bounced off the

road, I could see him struggle with the chain, he was slipping

from the step and then he was off. He tried to untie the chain

but somehow it had wrapped itself around his wrist,

I heard him scream, he was dragged along the street like one

of those indians shot and pulled by their horse through the

dirt, in an old John Wayne film.

People in the street were shouting for the driver to stop, I

ran up to where John lay, he was quiet, his eyes were open wide,

I could see where his jumper had torn, his right arm was

bleeding and the skin on his belly had been scraped off. The driver must have

heard the shouts and the van stopped.

The driver came ‘round to the back of the van, when he saw Wee John lying

there he collapsed and fell to the pavement, someone said to

call an ambulance, someone said it was bound to happen sooner

or later, a crowd had formed and I watched as a man gently

freed Johns hand from the chain, a woman was crying as she

covered him with a yellow blanket, the driver lit a cigarette,

his face had turned pure white, I took the shining 10p from my pocket and

looked at it, and then I looked down at Wee John lying quietly

under the blanket and I thought,

" I wonder if he has any broken biscuits today ? "

THE END.
________________________________________

[L M Pistola]

hey WMT,
no in-depth insights or crits here but it does remind me of certain similar events of my childhood.
I thought it was a particularly callous ending, despite the obvious humour. I wasn't quite sure if Wee John had bought the farm or if he was just sore.
Apart from that I think it needs a little more drive, a bit of a hook to pull us in a bit more...

[wildmountainthyme]

hi LM
thanks for the reply. true it was quite an abrupt ending, happily though the wee man made a full recovery and has since gone on to commit various criminal offences, mainly against vans.
this was my first attempt at a story? I'm glad you see a bit of your youth in it.
it's good of you to comment, there isn't an awful lot of feedback on this page?
thanks again L.M
dan

[L M Pistola]

Yeah, i've been thinking the exact same thing- there's nothing going on here at all. I think I can hear the tumbleweeds blowing past.
The poetry forums obviously get a bit more attention but its very quiet in here.

[Danté]

Dan

I really enjoyed this. I liked the accents, and could relate to the chopper bike, having owned at least two during my childhood. The imagery used here, especially for the dragging of your mate along the tarmac works well. I found when I reached the end it would have been nice to carry the read on and see if your mate got into any more scrapes. I don't usually come by here, but as I have had an interest in writing short stories I will have to come by more often and read more.

Many thanks

Danté

[arunansu]

I liked this, episodes of childhood do remain with us for our entire life. Sadly, being new to writing short stories, I cannot provide you any in-depth review, but I thought the ending was abrupt. However, that doesn't I didn't enjoy it.
Smiles.