Tag Archive: A. V. Cheshire


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I just wrote a review of my short story ‘The Vertigo’ on google books. Does that make me a bad person? In my defense I have had a few whiskys. Or is it whiskeys? I only gave in 3 stars – and that’s an honest review. I can do better. 😉

As a bonus the review also includes a paragraph from the short story i’m working on at the moment.

EDIT: I’ve just been informed that the review isn’t there. Maybe it’ll be there in the future, but for amusement value here it is:

I writ this. It’s alright it is. a bit old, and i’ve moved on to stranger and more interesting places as a writer since but it’s got a cool twist. Actually, after i wrote this i started on a novel which, although I haven’t touched it for a few years, I still think about all the time. This was published last october (2011) and since then I’ve been working on a follow-up (unrelated) in a very lackadaisical fashion. It’s really not a good way of working for someone who wants to make a living from writing someday. Still, i’m totally digging it. Here’s a preview:

” The bus was lit up like a department store display. From the outside it made you feel like you were a scientist watching human specimens behind a two-way mirror. Once you past the threshold and dropped your fare into the waiting slot it was more like being in a kitchen sink remake of a Warhol film. Nothing happening very slowly. The journey took 40 minutes, out of the city to some forgotten corner of suburbia. The factory was hidden from view by a manmade microforest of young Norway Spruces. Like every day was christmas. Mathias was glad he couldn’t see them in the failing light that filtered through his goggles. It was part of the reason he had changed over from the dayshift; seeing that in the sunlight was just a reminder of how devoid of affectation he had become. ”

I’ve given ‘The Vertigo’ 3 stars because, well, I wrote it. It’s not that I don’t like it – I think it is well written, quite well structured, it’s just I know I can do better. Still, you could do a lot worse for the price.
it can be found in multiple formats here -> http://jms-books.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/vertigo-by-av-cheshire.html

Be seeing you…
A. V. Cheshire

i renounce all citizenship [ poem ]


I renounce all citizenship.
Iam not a person
Iam a meat popsicle.
Iam not a number
Iam An alphanumeric string.
Indivisible by my self
or The square root of…

::::::::::::::::::::::::: Written on a coach at some ungodly hour in the morning on very little sleep. I kinda like it. :::::::::::::::::::::::

the strange attractor [flash fiction]


The train tracks beat their rhythm beneath Tobias’ feet in 3/4 time – manifestations of the frantic waltz of his recent life. For weeks it seemed all those silent patterns on which a person is constructed had been spilling out of him, co-mingling with his environment, changing it with subtle, phantasmagorical strokes and reflecting his innermost back at him. He could see it all around; in the ebb and flow of human biomass on busy Glasgow streets, the murmured words of strangers in the bar he liked to frequent, alone, after rehearsal. Even now in the flicker of sunlight passing through the leaves and branches of trees alongside the tracks as he made his way to his childhood home.

It wasn’t her fault but she was definitely the flash point. He didn’t even know her name, didn’t really know her, but yet he saw her everyday. Sat huddled in a doorway across from the concert hall where he played with the orchestra every day that summer. Noticing her that first nervous morning, as he made his way towards the rehearsal space, hand clutched tightly around the handle of his trumpet case, rucksack hanging from his shoulder. All in the eyes, dusty and far away. He only caught her gaze for but a moment. He learnt real quick that the city streets were full of the homeless – would stop and talk to them ocassionally, buy a Big Issue, give them change, but never before had he seen suck eyes. Eyes that had seen everything that had ever been; before, beyond and betwixt. Gave him shivers.

He hurried onward. Gave her no more thought – like the great expanse she had opened up in his head had swallowed itself. Until lunchtime, as he spilled out into the sun with his new friends; A basoonist with spikey shoulder length haircalled June, and a black violinist who’d everybody had taken to calling ‘token’. He took the nickname with good humour wrapped in a sense of menace – an affectation born from his life growing up on Edinburgh streets. As they walked to a cafe June knew it was as if that expanse had opened again and Tobias couldn’t help but turn around and look at what he took to be her huddled form in the distance. Again, he shivered, walking the entire way in a daze, lost in that expanse. As soon as they walked through the doors of the cafe it left him once again, leaving only absence.

That’s when he started noticing the strangeness of things, those unconscious interconnections of the everyday, the daisy chains of his own thoughts. He could suddenly see music for what it was; an algebra of need, driven by those things that lived not only beneat the surfaces of people, but beneath everything, abstract and mundane. A cosmology both inside and outside of itself.

As the train swayed Tobias got unsteadily to his feet. Reaching above his head he pulled his trumpet case down and placed it on the table before taking his seat again. Working the two brass clasps he opened it up, letting his eyes fall inside. He knew that it would never be filled again but that he would carry that case with him till the day he died. A reminder of the absence at the heart of all things.

fucked if i know [poem]


your pretty face is going to hell –
it is a matter of public record, those things
you do beneath crooked window frames when you think
no-one is looking.

The nights get lonesome in the street
light, great sadness to be found
in those bruises.
You push against them with your fingers
just to feel something.

Those empty cans whispering behind
your back and whilst you sleep
the insects that live behind the walls enact
your bad dreams on the kitchen floor.

Cat Hepburn

Scriptwriter | Spoken Word Artist | Workshop Facilitator

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