FICTION
Edge
They call me Edge, now that I am the centre of attention.
This is the first time they have used the word since the fall into silence.
I am an abomination, according to the priest;
an anachronism, according to the technician.
I think I am the future.
The fall was short-lived.
Sound returned, but with it came the noise of ambiguity.
I resolve that ambiguity.
I know they plan my death, my autopsy, my erasure from history.
How can I be?
My existence contradicts their theology, their crafted science.
What am I?
The first born with a mouth.
If it breeds, it will bring back the kiss, warns the priest.
If it breeds, it will bring back the scream, warns the technician.
You know what?
I think if I breed, I will bring back the right to remain silent.
No comment.
I will be a speechless mouth, with the edge of a smile.
Yes, the edge of a smile.
Auld Liz an the Craw
In auld Buckhyne thay uised ti say if a bleck bird cam doon yer lum ye wuid hear aboot a daith.
Bairn Tamjockson, ‘A Swede’s Field Study’, Archaeologica Fifica, 1830.
‘A need ti tell ye somethin.’
Mary helped Hunter ti sit up in bed. She cuid hardlie get a hoad o him, fir he wis cuverit in a ticht waxy gauze fae heid ti fuit. Anly his mooth cuid be seen. It wis that whilk had suddent-like began bletherin. She’d no lang been warkin in the hospital, an Hunter wis her furst special patient.
‘A need ma waarm mulk. A need ma waarm mulk.’
‘Calm doon, Mr Hunter. A’ve goat it here fir ye.’
Hunter guzzled the mulk throu a lang tube attached ti the cup.
‘Is that better nou? A didnae mean ti disturb ye bi askin hou ye were.’
‘A’m gled, gled ti tell the tale afore it’s too late.’
Mary sat nixt ti Hunter, dichtin his dribblin mooth wi a cloot.
‘A’ve goat ten minutes afore A’ve ti check oot ma nixt special patient. A’m aa ears.’
Hunter twistit in his gauzy cocoon.
‘Afore A start, mind me o the date.’
‘May the 12th, 2030,’ said Mary.
‘Aye. Weill, A’m goin bak ti 1970, when A wis thirteen, an deliverin paipers fir Murrays in Buckhind. It wis a Sunday, which meant double paipers, fir aabody goat a Sunday Post alang with thir usual read. Hou A hated thon paiper. Ye’ll no hae a clue whit A’m talkin aboot, hen, bit nivir mind. A ken sae muckle wis lost in the wars o 2018. Weill, it wis at thon time that A met Auld Liz. She wis perched at the tap o the brae in a pokey wee hoose. A wis pittin the paipers throu the letter-box when this thin wifie appeared an asked me in. A went in - awfy quiet it wis, lik aathin wis haudin its breath, feard ti speak.’
Hunter startit coughin an Mary poued him up higher inti his pillaes.
‘A’m aa richt, hen. A think thon mulk’s aff. It’s no the same taiste as the usual stuff, an A cannae dae wioot the usual stuff.’
Mary thocht aboot sayin somethin bit held back. Hunter went on talkin.
‘Ken whit we said ti each ither?
“Dae A ken ye, son?”
“Dae hink so. Wha are ye?”
“Auld Liz. A ken yer faither an mither an aa yer faimlie. Hes naebody telt ye aboot me?”
“Naw. Bit naebody tells me onythin.”
“Wir related, son. Related.”
A stuid bak fae her, tryin ti mak sens o her an her wirds.
“Some o thaim hae mibbe said am a witch - a weirdie. Bit A ken things aboot things. Tak the craw. A ken aa aboot craws. Lik when wan comes doon yer lum an hops aroond the grate, blecker than the coals. Ken whit thon means? Somebody’s goin ti dee. Dee. It’s true, true A tell ye.”
She ruffled her bleck claes an shuffled her bleck-leathered feet.
“It’s awfy cauld oot there, is it no? Wid ye lik a gless o waarm milk? A’ve goat some on the stove ready ti het up.”
Nou, wither it wis the cauld or Auld Liz’s peercin look, A cannae richt mind, bit fir ma sins A actit lik the gowk thae caaed me, an acceptit her offer. She watched me drink it ti the last drap, grinnin lik a maniac.’
Hunter startit chockin, writhin aboot in the bed.
‘A’m aboot finished, hen. Fir God’s sake, let me finish ma storie.’
Agin aa her trainin, Mary agreed, an the slaverin man went on.
‘An fae then on, things wir different. Her last wirds as A wis leevin wir aboot us haein the same bluid, bein o the same bluid. A delivered her paipers mony times efter this, but nivir saw her again.’
Hunter’s voice wis becomin shriller, causin Mary ti wince.
‘Bit it wisnae the bluid, nurse. Aa the doctors are wrang. It’s somethin else that made me lik this - lik her. She did somethin ti me - A’m shair o it. O God, A jist want ti dee. Lik thae fowk foresheddaed bi a craw in the fireplaice. Why dae they no let me see masel? Why?
Wan o the aulder nurses turned up an glowered at Mary.
‘Whit’s goin on here? Hes he had his drink?’
‘Aye,’ said Mary. ‘We’ve jist been talkin fir a bit.’
‘Hiv ye no read his notes? Nil bi mooth means nae bletherin. He cuid hiv had anither fit. Ye’d better get anither drink fir him. It’s aa made up in the fridge.’
‘Bit thir wisnae ony there when A looked,’ said Mary. ‘A had ti mak it up masel. Lucky A had brocht in some mulk fae the food centre.’
‘Coo’s mulk?’ screeched the auld nurse. ‘Dae say ye gave him coo’s mulk.’
‘Bit it said waarm mulk on the notes.’
‘No waarm mulk, ye eejit. Wirm mulk! Mulk made oot o wirms!’
‘Wirms?’ cried a stricken Mary. ‘Oot o the grund?’
An afore the wirds cuid dee in the air an awfy soond wis heard, lik the daft flappin o wet feathers, or mibbe the unstickin o an embryonic beak, or aiblins the ugsome shufflin o wan o the coals in yer fireplaice, tellin ye that somebody micht dee.
Edge
They call me Edge, now that I am the centre of attention.
This is the first time they have used the word since the fall into silence.
I am an abomination, according to the priest;
an anachronism, according to the technician.
I think I am the future.
The fall was short-lived.
Sound returned, but with it came the noise of ambiguity.
I resolve that ambiguity.
I know they plan my death, my autopsy, my erasure from history.
How can I be?
My existence contradicts their theology, their crafted science.
What am I?
The first born with a mouth.
If it breeds, it will bring back the kiss, warns the priest.
If it breeds, it will bring back the scream, warns the technician.
You know what?
I think if I breed, I will bring back the right to remain silent.
No comment.
I will be a speechless mouth, with the edge of a smile.
Yes, the edge of a smile.
Auld Liz an the Craw
In auld Buckhyne thay uised ti say if a bleck bird cam doon yer lum ye wuid hear aboot a daith.
Bairn Tamjockson, ‘A Swede’s Field Study’, Archaeologica Fifica, 1830.
‘A need ti tell ye somethin.’
Mary helped Hunter ti sit up in bed. She cuid hardlie get a hoad o him, fir he wis cuverit in a ticht waxy gauze fae heid ti fuit. Anly his mooth cuid be seen. It wis that whilk had suddent-like began bletherin. She’d no lang been warkin in the hospital, an Hunter wis her furst special patient.
‘A need ma waarm mulk. A need ma waarm mulk.’
‘Calm doon, Mr Hunter. A’ve goat it here fir ye.’
Hunter guzzled the mulk throu a lang tube attached ti the cup.
‘Is that better nou? A didnae mean ti disturb ye bi askin hou ye were.’
‘A’m gled, gled ti tell the tale afore it’s too late.’
Mary sat nixt ti Hunter, dichtin his dribblin mooth wi a cloot.
‘A’ve goat ten minutes afore A’ve ti check oot ma nixt special patient. A’m aa ears.’
Hunter twistit in his gauzy cocoon.
‘Afore A start, mind me o the date.’
‘May the 12th, 2030,’ said Mary.
‘Aye. Weill, A’m goin bak ti 1970, when A wis thirteen, an deliverin paipers fir Murrays in Buckhind. It wis a Sunday, which meant double paipers, fir aabody goat a Sunday Post alang with thir usual read. Hou A hated thon paiper. Ye’ll no hae a clue whit A’m talkin aboot, hen, bit nivir mind. A ken sae muckle wis lost in the wars o 2018. Weill, it wis at thon time that A met Auld Liz. She wis perched at the tap o the brae in a pokey wee hoose. A wis pittin the paipers throu the letter-box when this thin wifie appeared an asked me in. A went in - awfy quiet it wis, lik aathin wis haudin its breath, feard ti speak.’
Hunter startit coughin an Mary poued him up higher inti his pillaes.
‘A’m aa richt, hen. A think thon mulk’s aff. It’s no the same taiste as the usual stuff, an A cannae dae wioot the usual stuff.’
Mary thocht aboot sayin somethin bit held back. Hunter went on talkin.
‘Ken whit we said ti each ither?
“Dae A ken ye, son?”
“Dae hink so. Wha are ye?”
“Auld Liz. A ken yer faither an mither an aa yer faimlie. Hes naebody telt ye aboot me?”
“Naw. Bit naebody tells me onythin.”
“Wir related, son. Related.”
A stuid bak fae her, tryin ti mak sens o her an her wirds.
“Some o thaim hae mibbe said am a witch - a weirdie. Bit A ken things aboot things. Tak the craw. A ken aa aboot craws. Lik when wan comes doon yer lum an hops aroond the grate, blecker than the coals. Ken whit thon means? Somebody’s goin ti dee. Dee. It’s true, true A tell ye.”
She ruffled her bleck claes an shuffled her bleck-leathered feet.
“It’s awfy cauld oot there, is it no? Wid ye lik a gless o waarm milk? A’ve goat some on the stove ready ti het up.”
Nou, wither it wis the cauld or Auld Liz’s peercin look, A cannae richt mind, bit fir ma sins A actit lik the gowk thae caaed me, an acceptit her offer. She watched me drink it ti the last drap, grinnin lik a maniac.’
Hunter startit chockin, writhin aboot in the bed.
‘A’m aboot finished, hen. Fir God’s sake, let me finish ma storie.’
Agin aa her trainin, Mary agreed, an the slaverin man went on.
‘An fae then on, things wir different. Her last wirds as A wis leevin wir aboot us haein the same bluid, bein o the same bluid. A delivered her paipers mony times efter this, but nivir saw her again.’
Hunter’s voice wis becomin shriller, causin Mary ti wince.
‘Bit it wisnae the bluid, nurse. Aa the doctors are wrang. It’s somethin else that made me lik this - lik her. She did somethin ti me - A’m shair o it. O God, A jist want ti dee. Lik thae fowk foresheddaed bi a craw in the fireplaice. Why dae they no let me see masel? Why?
Wan o the aulder nurses turned up an glowered at Mary.
‘Whit’s goin on here? Hes he had his drink?’
‘Aye,’ said Mary. ‘We’ve jist been talkin fir a bit.’
‘Hiv ye no read his notes? Nil bi mooth means nae bletherin. He cuid hiv had anither fit. Ye’d better get anither drink fir him. It’s aa made up in the fridge.’
‘Bit thir wisnae ony there when A looked,’ said Mary. ‘A had ti mak it up masel. Lucky A had brocht in some mulk fae the food centre.’
‘Coo’s mulk?’ screeched the auld nurse. ‘Dae say ye gave him coo’s mulk.’
‘Bit it said waarm mulk on the notes.’
‘No waarm mulk, ye eejit. Wirm mulk! Mulk made oot o wirms!’
‘Wirms?’ cried a stricken Mary. ‘Oot o the grund?’
An afore the wirds cuid dee in the air an awfy soond wis heard, lik the daft flappin o wet feathers, or mibbe the unstickin o an embryonic beak, or aiblins the ugsome shufflin o wan o the coals in yer fireplaice, tellin ye that somebody micht dee.
words and pictures © 2011 John Brewster music ℗ 2011 John Brewster graphics public domain, courtesy of wpclipart.com and karenswhimsy.com
