Z C Cooper

The blood rushes to my head. "Where the hell am I?" The sentence rings in my ears as I look around. The damp, nicotine air fills my nostrils, making me gag. I try to sit up. A familiar discoloured pine tree dangles from the mirror in which I catch my reflection. "What the hell am I doing in my car?" "How did I get here?" "What the hell happened last night?" The questions are now coming thick and fast, and I can feel the bile rise in me. I just manage to open the door before spraying the watery contents on the gravel below. I gulp for air trying to push the nausea back down as my stomach muscles contract in defiance. Fuck, I feel rough. I lie there with my head hanging out the car door, contemplating my next move.

"Don't ya think it's funny, they're putting in gold inlays and bridges and stuff when they've got some cyanide eggs marked with my initials?" – Barbara Graham

The Man Who Murdered My Friend

A beautifully refurbished little bandstand in the middle of Kelvingrove Park is ready to host one of the most internationally renowned hip-hop acts of the last thirty years. De La Soul. Young and not so young, turning out to celebrate their first Scottish gig in twenty-seven years.