Int. – Local – Early evening

JIM returns with two beers and his friend (TOM) puts his phone down on the table as Jim puts the pints on either side.

Jim: What you up to this weekend, then?

Tom: Me mammar’s still up in hospital after her accident so I’ll probably go nd see her and then Kelly’s been having loadsa jip at work so I think I’ll take her out ta cheer her up a bit. Gotta do yer bit, ant ya. What about you, mate?

Jim: (shakes head) Nowt much, this weekend. Probably just ger a bitta writing done.

Tom: How’s that writing stuff going?

Jim: It’s alright, pal. I just had one accepted by this mag called Open Pen from down shitty London. It’s alright though, they send it to bookshops and that nd they give it our fer free.

Tom: (Trying to sound sincere) Yeah? Nice.

Jim: They emailed me the other week actually asking fer me to write em summat about why and how I write, I can’t remember exactly what they wanted.

Tom: (half interested, half taking the piss) What did you put?

Jim: Just the usual shit really, that I write cos my mind gets all clogged up if I don’t, that I, like, think in stories nd that. I mean, I said it better than that but ya get the gist. Just a loada crap really, I mean, it was all true but it just sounds so shit when you read it back. I think I just write cos I see stories all around me and they’re more interesting than most books, not always nice but more unbelievable, like that man that thinks he’s the best dancer in town, what’s his name?

Tom: Whitey.

Jim: Yeah, that’s him. He’s, what, 58? In the pub every night, thinks he’s the best dancer in town, jumps in everyone’s grill and a coupler hours ago Ben tells me he’s got done fer being a nonce nd flashing a kid. I mean, it’s grim but there’s a story in there. And the way he talks! Man.

Tom: I don’t think he’s really a nonce yer know, I told Ben that cos I heard it in The Social but it turns out it were a loada shit. Big Terry’s always making shit up.

Jim: Well that just shows it then.

Tom: What?

Jim: (eyebrows raised) Stories, man. It’s a world of stories, they just need to be written. Big Terry’s a man of stories he just dunt know how ter write, don’t see the point in it. I just take everything, then open me pen and let the ink flow out.

Tom: (showing the palms of his hands on the table) Open Pen.

Jim: Ha, never thought of that! (Scratches the back of his head) Wish I’d put that in the write up now.

Tom: Do yer think you’ll ever make owt out of it, though? Ya always seem to be in one mag or zine or whatever yer call em nd that.

Jim: Nah, it’s not about all that kinda shit. I just like aller these zines nd mags cos ya can find other people whose writing yer like nd if they like yours ya can talk about it nd that. It’s good to know you’re not alone, ya know? I mean, think about it, I sit writing in me back room whenever I can and, well Soph reads it, but apart from that, it’s quite isolating. It’s just good to have a bit of camaraderie, if ya know what I mean. When I was out skating every night you had your thing ya loved doing but ya had people to talk about it with nd that; it’s not like that with writing. You’ve been to the nights that we’ve put on; I love all the nights mags put on. It’s a real world thing, like, not just a back room thing. Plus, these little places aren’t full of stuck up nob-eds, which is a bonus.

Tom: (Looking around the room) I don’t get it, mate. Seems a bit fucking hipster to me.

Jim: (tuts) Fuck off.

Tom: Look over there, (nodding to one side) ya seen who Petey’s wi?

Jim: I recognise her; who is it?

Tom: Rachael, Damo’s bird.

Jim: They finished then? I fucking hope so the way Petey’s hand’s going.

Tom: He’s in pen. Got pulled in that fucking banger of his. Off his twat on Phet wi a loada baggies. He not get long.

Jim: He’ll be fucking fuming when he’s out.

Tom: Too right.

Jim: Fag?

Tom: Gu on then.

Exit to beer garden.



 Jim Gibson grew-up in the feral plains of an ex-mining village, Newstead. Editor and

co-founder of Hi Vis Press, he tries to encourage the lesser voiced truths of our society.

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