david.gaffney

Christine was managing the office relocation, an opportunity to take her
mind off the break-up with Malcolm. Malcolm, however, was health and safety, and everything had to be approved by him.

She indicated with a polished fingernail the position of the new building
but Malcolm moaned, shook his head and did nervy jazz hands.

'You've forgotten something vital. The building's relationship to where
staff live.'

Christine explained about public transport.

'I was thinking more about whether it's east or west. I only ever work west of where I live, so that on the way to and from work the sun is never in my eyes.'

'But you come to work on the tube.'

'I have strong sense of the planet. Even underground I know where I am in relation to the sun.'

She agreed to go with him to a cellar bar so he could demonstrate this
skill.

All this did explain something. The time he'd consulted a compass before
making love, claiming the moon's gravitational pull enhanced his
performance, he'd been lying.

David Gaffney’s latest collection Sawn Off Tales was published in September 2006 by Salt. His next collection, titled Aromabingo is due out on Salt in September 2007, while his novel Skip Trace, a tale of debt counseling and trepanning, is due to be published in 2008 on Tindall Street Press. He has also been published in several magazines including Ambit, Stand, Opium, Transmission, Illustrated Ape and many others. Sawn Off Tales is available now from the usual places or signed from the author at a knock-down price. Email info@davidgaffney.co.uk

Previosuly published at Mannequin Envy Winter 2006

Doctor Logic

It turned out that the lads had an insulting nickname for every manager apart from me and, according to the gurus, this is a sign of enormous affection, so I had to get one too.

I tried everything. An elaborate corkscrewing limp, a breathy ee-aw sound when I spoke, but nothing happened.

'I'm at a crossroads.' I explained to Gary. 'One way I get a nickname, the other way, oblivion. Could you arrange for me to be called a funny name?'

'That's not a crossroads,' Gary said. 'That's a T-Junction.'

After he'd gone I thought about how logical he was. I rang Keith.

'Keith, I've been talking to Doctor Logic.'

'Who the fuck is Doctor Logic?'

'Gary. You know how he's always logical.'

Soon everyone would be saying Doctor Logic and when Gary discovered the favour I'd done him, I was sure he would devise a suitable name for me.

Through the medium of modern dance.

The bin-men laid out the recycling boxes and pressed play. Latin beats spluttered out, and from a wheelie-bin sprang a woman in floaty clothes. She danced as she demonstrated how to recycle. A bin-man battered hell out of a bongo.

Within every bottle are pieces of all the bottles you've ever used, they sang

The dancer had long ochre hair. Freckles. She hated newsnight, and laminate-flooring. She liked celeriac. And ferris wheels.

She was my ex-girlfriend.

My insides churned with recalled desire and when she'd finished I gripped her arm. But she pointed at the label on a tin. DO NOT REHEAT.

When we lived together I dealt with the rubbish; a monstrous heap of unloved packaging and decayed food. We threw away more than we ever had. It was better when everything got burnt. Ash-men came with an ash-cart and grey flecks wheeled in the air, getting in your eyes.
~
The funny way I feel inside

I rested my forehead against the cold chromium rail in front so I could hear what the cute pixie girl was saying.

'I could never go out with a boy who didn't love, love, love the sound of rain.' She told her mate. 'That's a real deal-breaker for me.'

Later that week it was really hammering down so I followed her into a bus-shelter. I threw my head back and closed my eyes. I stretched my fingers like a pianist. I hummed and rolled my head from side to side.

But when I opened my eyes she'd gone.

I stayed there listening to the pulsing of the drops. If there was ever an overrated sound, it's the sound of rain. It's not even actually the sound of rain. Rain itself doesn't make a sound. What you hear is a much more complex phenomenon, more intricate than she could ever imagine.

The heartless chain

Someone sucked the soul out of Paloukis bar. We'd gone back there to rekindle the love in our marriage, but Helen wasn't impressed, believing the place had been gobbled up by some heartless chain. I deduced that old Palouki had passed it on to his son. I knew I was right, as was usually the case, but I didn't push it; the job was to rekindle.

When our food arrived a photographer appeared and asked if he could take some pictures for outside the restaurant. Helen laughed girlishly, threw her arms about me, and waited for the flash.

But the photographer was focussing on our plate of metze.

'The pictures fade fast,' he explained. 'Since the old man retired, his son wants everything so-so.'

I winked at Helen, but she began to cry. 'Just imagine it. Our special dinner, outside for all to see. How many people can say that?'

Bio:

David Gaffney was born in West Cumbria, studied in Birmingham and now lives in Manchester. He has worked as an English teacher, a film studies lecturer, a holiday camp entertainer, a medical records clerk, a pub pianist, a debt counsellor in Moss Side, a legal consultant in Liverpool, and now works for the arts council. His stories have been published in print in Ambit, the Illustrated Ape, Ephemera, Modart, and many other places, and his newnovel, Skip Trace, about a crooked debt counsellor and a conceptual artist with a taste for trepanning is available to publishers now.

Jason Nunes

"That's Entertainment" by Jason Nunes

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