The Book of Write-On: Day Nine

After an unbelievably enjoyable weekend of reservoir swimming, of parkrunning, of central Edinburgh drink-fuelled tourism, of dog, walking, fish and chip-eating, film-watching and gin drinking, we found ourselves waking up to a new week. Me and my cousin Paul joined my brother James in his morning commute to work. We had a coffee near Edinburgh College of Art until James left for work. Paul left at around ten to board a bus for the airport where he was Stansted-bound.

I spent the morning reading and writing in the College of Art’s cafe, observing the artistic youth of the day. I read an extraordinary short story by A.L. Kennedy called AM SONTAG. It’s quite unlike anything I’ve read before. It really gets into the head of a mentally-ill/psychiatric patient in an open ward. Or at least that’s what I think it’s about. After a quick lunch with James, I caught a bus to the hotel. Having checked in, I had an incredible run around Murrayfield Stadium and down the Water of Leith, around Lauriston Park and its walled garden and back again. An easy five-miler.

And now it’s 8:21 pm and I’m at a pub called the Hampton, writing shiz out of shiz, having written the bones of the story between 2:40 and 4:23 on Saturday morning. When The Muse wakes, you wake with it. I’m hopeful for the week ahead. Inspiration for stories will come just as long as I read and write as much as possible.

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Samsa & Shabeezi

Samsa was now a human. He’d recently become a human after his architect decided to put a human heart in him and give him feelings. The five litres of blood that now pumped around his body warmed him up. It made for incredible nose bleeds, spasms, cramps and bruising, to name o nly a small fraction of the symptoms, but his architect assured him that it would all be worth it and that he'd feel normal very soon. He didn't know what normal was, but he knew it wasn't puking and shitting and bleeding all over the place for the first two months and then just feeling terrible for several weeks after that. Human life is agony, he thought, but he trusted the process. One day, a little over twelve weeks after the operation, he woke up from his first good night's sleep and was able to open the curtains without the light splitting his skull in two. Samsa had known Shabeezi before she became a human woman. All they had done was fight. Samsa especially liked doing flying

When I Needed a Winter Project, I Turned to Dylan Thomas - a Tommy & Moon Story

Before the snow came the smell of cinnamon. I wanted to track it all the way back to its source, to see who gave it flight. I imagine a woman, seventy-five, making herself a cappuccino next to an open window. The air is cold and sharp but she needs a quick blast of late autumn’s best before she gets out with the whippet. Wisp is looking at her from her basket, scanning for indications from mum that her walk is coming. Don’t worry, Wisp: walkies is imminent - but then a song comes on the radio that she hasn’t heard in fifty years. The Serge Gainsbourg ballad throws her into a deep dream-state, a reverie that takes her all the way back to Paris. She walks to the cupboard to find the cinnamon shaker, brushing shoulders with actors and actresses who’d worked with Godard and Truffaut and Antonioni. She remembers the time she once saw Jane Birkin at a party and witnessed first-hand the effect her beauty had on all the men in the room. I was two miles away from home, running at an easy, stead

The Angel of Death - a Tommy & Moon Story

I cannot - for reasons that will soon become clear - tell you exactly where we were working. What I can say is that it was an Arts & Crafts church somewhere in the south of England. Given the number of non-Arts & Crafts churches across the country, this detail narrows it down tremendously. I will also say that it’s one of the finest examples of a church built in response to that movement that exists today. I would like to say I shed a small tear of joy when I first saw it, but I didn’t. I probably said to Moon ‘Blimey O’Reilly, that’s a bit nice, ennit?’, or words to that effect as we walked through the lychgate. I also wouldn’t like to tell you the poem we were carving in the churchyard for fear of narrowing down the possible churches even further. Suffice it to say, it was a lovely poem, and more than worthy of being carved beside one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen in my life. The poem and the experience of carving it with Moon left such an impressio

Tom Wiggins, Letter Carver & Writer

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