Tag Archives: Flash fiction

Rogano’s Reunion

Rogano’s in Glasgow had been loved and frequented by Glaswegians since the 1920s. Most people ate to excess upstairs in their infamous oyster and champagne bar but for those on a budget, like Maggie, the subterranean restaurant reached by labyrinthine stairs offered a bargain basement glimpse of the past.

Crisp white linen tablecloths, highly polished gleaming glasses and silvery Dubarry cutlery welcomed the pre-theatre dinner crowd. Booths accommodating large groups backed onto backlit art deco stained glass windows, an artificial semblance of being somewhere bright despite being underground next to the metro Clockwork Orange. On the walls were photographs and silhouettes of famous diners harking back to when Rogano’s was in its heyday. Dorothy Parker and other witty writer quotes, captioned each picture. Maggie’s absolute favourite was “If you have nothing good to say, come sit by me…” under an image of Hedda Hopper.

The “girls” arrived in dribs and drabs but the chattery excitement level increased every time someone new arrived at the table. The noise level seemed disproportionate to the size of the group. Ten long term girlfriends who had done their teacher training together, knew all the ups and downs of life added like a chef’s kiss of flavours at the annual get-togethers. To an outsider, it might have sounded like euphoria.

God, it was so good to kick back with people who remembered you before you were decrepit! Within the group were one widow, two divorces, two living with serious illnesses and two whose children had grown up and emigrated to Australia with hardly a backward glance.

Maggie stood up knocking over a glass of fizz which smashed onto the tiled floor. A loud cheer went up from the group, “There’s always one!” laughed Jenny as the staff gathered with dustpan, brush and cloths like magic elves restoring order. Maggie’s face was scarlet, mostly from embarrassment but also from the exertion of bending down to pick up her floral collapsible walking stick. Even a trip to the toilet could be such an effort.

When Maggie returned, the group was a bit more subdued, possibly due to the visible reality of infirmity which had crashed in on the reverie.

“Did I tell you that I bumped into our former lecturer Mr Brown the other day?” Maggie began. Nine eager pairs of eyes turned to hear which bright young thing he had on his arm now…

Old friends are the best friends, especially when they share a love of gossip.

Rogano’s

A Prickly Tale

“Ma faither wis cooler than me,” Iain allooed as I FaceTimed him in his hospital bed.

“Wha’ dae ye mean? He wis mair stoic when he wis ill?”

He shook his heid, “Do ye mine tha hedgehog yairn? Are ye sure? Well stop me if ye mine hauf way through. So, ma faither spoke to his pal Mick who telt him aboot a man who had died in weird circumstances in Ulster: tha man had cam hame wi’ a sack oan hïs back an’ drapt doon deid when ‘e closed tha door. When tha man wis examined, it happent that tha sack hud containt a hedgehog an’ tha spines hud entered intae tha man’s back draining him slowly o’ bluid until he drapt doon deid frae shock.

“Ma faither wis a quiet man who hud ne’er gotten tha chance tae gang tae university because he helpt raise his brithers yince his mither wis widowed but he wis no fool.

“He argued wi’ Mick that this haed tae be a myth fur it dïdnae mak sense. Despite tha fact that Mick didnae ken tha man killt by a hedgehog he believed tha man wha telt him did, so stuck tae his storie.

“A few months later a letter arrived on oor doormat tae ma faither wi’ a Queen’s University, Belfast postmark. Ma mither was beside hersel a’ day til ma faither cam hame an’ showed hur tha contents.

“Dear Mr Patterson,

We write regarding your enquiry about a claim of death by hedgehog quills.

We have checked various resources in the library and, although several here in the University have also heard the tale, there are no newspaper articles, medical journals or literature that can verify the claim.

Moreover, the physiology of both human anatomy and hedgehogs makes it impossible that blood draining from multiple wounds would be pain free. We hope this answers your query.”

“My mither sayed, “So will ye phone Mick the noo an’ tell him he wis wrang?”

“Naw Dorothy, it’s eneuch to be richt.”

“So yon’s why ma faither wis cooler than me. Can ye imagine being proven richt aboot it and saying naethin to tha person who wis wrang?”

“A’ the years we’ve known each other Iain we’ve spent our lives trying to best tha ither, so naw.”

“Naw, so. Cooler than me. I wush I hud telt him.”

Published by Yarns (Twa) 2022

Tick Tock

Underneath the Botanics in Glasgow lies a labyrinth of tunnels from an old railway line closed to the public in the late thirties. Only valiant daredevils ever venture through the narrow gap that segues from city life to this abandoned, dark space – that inky blackness that your phone torch will only be able to illuminate a small sliver of relief in your immediate vicinity. Leaks from the city above have calcified over time to create moist, puddled areas of slippery danger which appear suddenly without warning as you venture further into void.

There’s an honour code amongst taggers: unless you’re declaring war you find your own space, you don’t cover up someone else’s art. And it is art – if a handprint in a cave in Indonesia was the first artist at work forty thousand years ago, then “we wiz here” tags under the city were nothing less than art. Listen up Glasgow School of Art!

Jamie was properly prepared this time. First time he had only had his phone to record the event and his cans of spray paint in his rucksack and it had been hard to find a large space without venturing further than he felt was sensible so he had left a mini version of the tag in his head on one of the drier ramparts holding up the vaulted ceiling just beyond the station platform. This time though, he had added in proper full beam torches and a runner’s head torch. He also had a tripod so his hand were free to complete the tag while capturing steady footage of his creation. Jamie didn’t work like Banksy, he didn’t have cardboard pre cut templates to spray through to speed up the process. He created on the spot – not primary seven bubble writing of his name enlarged to fit the space, or teenage dick pics for him.

Jamie’s tag, this time, was a girl’s face resting on her hand. Her scarlet lips pursed into a blown kiss or a look of surprise and her auburn hair blew outwards and upwards, as if caught in the updraft of a ghost train passing through the tunnel. One of the highlighted tresses curled into the word Jamie.

Afterwards, Jamie examined the video footage. Once speeded up it fitted perfectly into a TikTok upload with retro Art For Art’s Sake as the backing track. He always used that.

As usual, he went viral and this month’s income was assured.

He tagged in Glasgow School of Art again once it had over 100k thumbs up. If only they hadn’t turned down his application, they could have had all this creativity to nurture. By the time he finished this campaign, they would be begging him to become a student – Jamie was sure of it.

Published by Free Flash Fiction 2023