Jim Ferguson's Fiction
Ferguson has published two novels Punk Fiddle (2012) and Neither Oil nor Water (2018).
Punk Fiddle:
Is the story of thirty-something Glaswegian, Bobby Fitzpatrick, who gets himself into a highly dubious situation involving gangsters, prostitutes and playing pool for money in clapped out pool halls. The prose is energetic, laced with black humour and occasional elements of disturbing violence. It is a portrait of a marginal life depicted in the language of characters portrayed.
"You’re inside Bobby’s head on one line and soaring out of it a moment later, and depressed as he may be by his situation, Bobby has a real appetite for life, even though life is pretty much trying to shaft him. It’s a fine expression of that optimistic Glaswegian style of being — cynical and yet always entertaining..." This review of Punk Fiddle can by found by clicking here.
Neither Oil nor Water:
Is set in Palestine in 1947. It is the story of Euan Andrews, a young man from Glasgow's Maryhill. After an abortive attempt at bricklaying, he joins the Highland Light Infantry under the mistaken impression that because World War II is only just over, the chances of him ever seeing combat are tantamount to zero. His innocence and naivete do not last long. Life as an infantry man is harsh and dangerous, so Euan is on the lookout for anything that will make it more bearable. He turns out to be a character of surprising intelligence and tenderness.
Neither Oil nor Water is available from
Abbey Books of Paisley
Punk Fiddle is available from AK Press
ON WRITING
In between working on poetry I like to have a prose project on the go. Usually it involves writing short stories, some of the stories morph into longer pieces and sometimes become novels. I've completed five or six novels of which two have been published. I always think you need to respond to an idea or a line formally, in the way that something enters your mind, and you think 'that's a poem,' at other times you think, 'that's a story'. Now and again stories grow and become novels. I have published numerous stories as well as extracts from novels over the years, mostly in literary magazines or web-based mags. I think of digital publishing as a useful addition to books. For me books will always be better than digital, more satisfying. Books are such beautiful objects, mostly, and reading feels altogether more satisfying from a page than from screen. Anyway, I have published stories in Cutting Teeth, West Coast Magazine, The Echo Room, Scottish Child, Gutter, Northwords, Nerve Magazine and elsewhere.
Other than the obvious structural differences, I dont see too much of a distinction between poetry and prose-fiction: I find that the germ of an original idea dictates what form the idea will take. Some things arrive as stories, others as poems. Who knows why? It seems to come down to feeling, intuition. If there are any publishers out there looking for a book of short stories or a novel I have a few in my desk drawer, ready to enter the big wide world.
Call me Alice, is a short short-story written around 2001:
Alice had this wee half smile on her face, almost cheerful but not.
Cheer up hen, he said.
She frowned. Lifted her vodka and lemonade, took a sip. Tam sat across the table. She looked down into her drink. He noticed the parting in her hair, her wee strawberry blonde head.
The pub was dead. Margaret, behind the bar, was having a cup of tea. Tam and Alice were the only customers in and not drinking very fast. It was Monday afternoon after all, and raining hard.
Alice stood up and walked over to the Juke Box. Stuck a coin in. Some auld tune came on.
Canny stand that fuckin song, said Tam.
Alice frowned again. There’s nothin wrong wae it, it’s a good song, she said.
Naw it’s no.
Silence between them. No talking for a while. The song ended and a new track came on. Techno! That’s better, said Tam, a bit more modern, more life aboot it. Know what I mean?
She nodded, sipped her drink. Tam took three big gulps out of his pint.
Actually I don’t, I don’t have a fuckin clue what you mean, she said.
Ach, he said, don’t start honey, eh!
Don’t call me honey.
How no? I always call you honey.
I don’t like it okay! I don’t fuckin like being called honey. I’m a woman.
Just cause I love you, he said.
She looked down at her knees. Studied them as if there was something new and different about them. But there wasn’t. Just the same knees day in day out. Nice enough though. Aye! Alice was satisfied wae her knees. Comfortable wae them. They gave her a certain sense of satisfaction. And her legs too. When she pulled on that wee mini-skirt and her black tights she knew she looked fine. Men spent time looking at her. And sometimes she would want to wrap her legs round a man and rub her cunt on his body till she came. She looked Tam in the eye, crossed her legs over and back over again. Tam looked the same as always, tired. He put his hand on her thigh and squeezed gently. You awright? he asked.
Don’t know.
How d’you no know? Surely things urny that bad?
It’s just eh…
Tam took a deep breath. What petal? tell me what it is.
Don’t call me that either, she said. I’m fed up wae it. I want you to call me Alice, no petal or honey or hen or anything else, just Alice.
How d’you mean?
Is it no obvious? she said.
Naw.
Uchh, she said, twisting her mouth like she was in pain.
Are we fucked? said Tam.
Don’t know. Maybe it’s aw fucked, maybe it’s just me.
His eye were filling wae tears. One dripped into his pint. Aw fuck, he breathed. The music stopped.
Awright, I’ll no call you honey or petal or that if you don’t want me to, he said.
Tears ran down his cheeks now.
Don’t, she said.
I canny help it. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on wae us. I’m no understanding.
He wiped his eyes wae the sleeve of his jersey.
I’ll get a tissue from the Ladies, she said.
Naw I’m awright, he said. Wiped his eyes wae the other sleeve this time. Leaned across the table. Held his face close to hers and breathed in her breath. It was hot and sweet wae lemonade. Alice… he said.
