Author Archives: Alan McCormick Writing

SEAN THE SWAN WRANGLER ‘Sean, you fuck’ was how he was known, and how he thought of himself. He’d lost his way. He needed a new direction. One that was his own; not anyone else’s, especially anyone else who referred … Continue reading →

ERIC LUCASTEES A party was taking place on the deck of a cruise ship in Southampton docks. Fine white linen covered a long trestle table, fairy lights swung in the breeze, and high notes of sweet sickly perfume mixed with … Continue reading →

TAKE AWAY Visiting day, the curtains have been opened, the untouched takeaway removed, and the evil commode wheeled from my room. Mum is talking in the hall: you’ll have to be quieter today. She’s struggling and noise is really bothering … Continue reading →

EARBUDS                                               Seán met us at the airport in an old green Volvo Estate that looked like it had been reclaimed from the scrapyard. Masks? I asked, before getting in. It’s okay, I had it a few months ago and I’ll … Continue reading →

Saint Francis Psychiatric Hospital dominated the town where I grew up. The vast red-brick Victorian asylum stood in parkland, bordered by woods that massed towards the Downs, a long spine of hills separating us from Brighton and the sea beyond. … Continue reading →

Two short pieces about my best friend who also features in the essay Ghosts of Saint Francis, and who died in Pakistan in 1994. A PIER DISAPPEARS Sitting on Swanage pier, my stomach chronically fermenting, ageing muscles tightening then losing … Continue reading →

IN PLAIN SIGHT The last Palestinian left alive in Gaza will be a child lying starving in the rubble. An IDF soldier will be filmed walking slowly over and shooting her in the head. The media will report that he … Continue reading →

A week after I should have been born, I still wasn’t. And then a few days later when everyone had gone home, I arrived. My father presented me a voucher to redeem when I was eighteen. But he withheld his … Continue reading →

STEALING A KISS MUSIC (BARBARA STREISAND SINGING ‘THE WAY WE WERE’) PLAYS IN BACKGROUND; A FEW LINES: ‘MEMORIES LIGHT THE CORNERS OF MY MIND. MISTY COLOURED MEMORIES OF THE WAY WE WERE. SCATTERED PICTURES OF THE SMILE WE LEFT BEHIND. … Continue reading →

if the head had it counting down V If the head had ever had it, now it had gone. Shaping west, making out with anything that comes its way, scrambled Fray Bentos aerial, dog food brain. Made my money in … Continue reading →