Within hours of Greg’s first announcement, news spread throughout microblogging website, Twitter, and story submissions began arriving. By the submission deadline a week later, the project had received over 400 submissions — whittled down to one hundred during the following week, and the full 80,000 word manuscript was published and made available through retailers within six weeks of Greg’s initial blog.
Best-selling author Nick Harkaway contributed a story and penned the book’s introduction. Tania Hershman, author of The White Road and Other Stories, and prize-winning author, Vanessa Gebbie, are also featured in the book, along with other published authors and first-timers, never published before.
100 Stories for Haiti, published by Bridge House Publishing, is available as an ebook from Smashwords.com and as a paperback costing £11.99 through bookshops and online retailers.
The following extract is from a story by Danny Gillan entitled, Going, Going … Still Going. Danny’s award-winning novel, Will You Love Me Tomorrow, was described by newspaper The Daily Record as, “One of the best debut novels of 2008.”
Going, Going … Still Going
By Danny Gillan
The day before you’re planning to do something monumentally stupid is always a bit odd. The plan is made, the time is set – in twenty hours his life would be irrevocably changed, in the most final of ways. Should he just go for a pint, in the meantime? Maybe catch a film?
Carson Campbell decided to visit his aunty.
‘Come on away in out the cold, son. Your arse cheeks must be freezing.’
‘Cheers, Aunty Jean. It is a bit nippy.’
Carson shuffled through Jean’s tiny hall into the living room. He took off his jacket and sat in one of the two ancient armchairs that faced the electric bar fire.
‘Tea? ’ Jean asked, going into the scullery and filling the kettle.
‘Ta. ’ Carson didn’t want tea but he loved Jean’s kettle. She was the only person he knew who still had one that whistled.
‘So, ’ Jean said, handing Carson a mug with a picture of Mao Tse-Tung on the side. ‘What’s wrong this time?’
Carson smiled. ‘Do I really only come here when I’m in trouble?’
Jean’s lips pursed. ‘Yes you do, son. Don’t worry, I know all I’m good for is digging you out of the holes you keep jumping into. It’s fine, makes me feel needed. Besides, I told your dad I would. What’s happened?’
Carson drank some tea, burning his tongue on the super-heated brew.
‘I’ve made a decision.’
Jean nodded. ‘Thought as much. You’ve thought it through?’
‘I think so …’
‘Seriously, Carson, ’ Jean said. ‘I know things have been … difficult, recently, but this is drastic, even for you. ’
‘I know that. Christ. Of course I know that.’
‘Yes, you do know that. But has it occurred to you that doing … this thing … might make it … easier for you, but it’s going to hurt a lot of other people. People who care about you.’
Carson bowed his head, unable to meet his aunt’s eye. ‘What the hell else can I do? I’ve got nothing left, Jean. Nothing. ’
‘Sorry, son, but that’s a pile of bollocks and you know it. There’s always something can be done; there’s always hope. Even in the darkest darkness, there’s the chance that someone will come looking, that someone will find you and lift you out of the pit. Do you really want to give up on that?’
Carson laughed. ‘I’ve been waiting for a fair while, Jean. No one’s come to rescue me yet.’
‘Aye, cheers for that, son. I’m just your daft aunty with the funny kettle, then?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Jean stood up as quickly as her hips would allow and snatched the mug from Carson. She looked directly at him, daring him to meet her gaze, not speaking till he did.
‘No, son. I don’t, anymore. I used to think I could help you, but if you do this, you’ll really be alone. Far more alone than you seem to think you are now. Do you even understand how final this is going to be?’
‘I might be mental but I’m not stupid, Jean. Of course I know.’
‘Aye, well. I wonder about that, sometimes.’
The kettle whistled. Carson sat in the threadbare chair. Jean made more tea. Carson wished the wee telly on top of the sideboard was on. David Dickinson would have been a friendly presence, just at the minute.
‘Here. ’ Jean thrust Chairman Mao back into Carson’s wilting hand.
‘So, ’ Carson said, without much hope.
‘Is this life actually so bad, son? ’ Jean’s mug sported the famous Che Guevara photo.
‘You tell me, ’ Carson said. ‘How much fun have you had recently?’
‘Maybe not as much as I used to, ’ Jean admitted. ‘But a shit of a lot more than you, apparently. I’m not for giving up, just yet. ’
‘Aye, fair enough. But you know what I’m facing, Aunty Jean. No offence, but you’ve already had your future, and you enjoyed yours.’
‘You know how to endear yourself to people, don’t you?’
‘Sorry, but you know what I mean. What’s the point of me going on, the way things are? You can talk all you want about hope, but sometimes you have to accept there isn’t any left. I’ve tried; I’ve tried everything I can thing of. ’
Jean placed her tea on the mahogany-effect laminate mantelpiece and leaned towards her nephew. ‘You told me. You told me they said you could last a couple of years at least. How do you know what’s going to come up? How can you say there’s no hope? Things could change, Carson. They could change.’
‘Hah! Nothing changes, Jean, nothing. You know that better than anyone. ’ Carson looked round the damp-ridden room. ‘What’s changed for you, eh? You’ve been in this shithole for twelve years, what’s changed for you?’
Jean took a breath, smiled, and slapped Carson sharply across the cheek.
Carson sat back in his chair, shocked.
‘You’re my nephew and I love you dearly, son. Do us both a favour and don’t bring me into this particular argument, eh? I’m an old, feeble woman and I know exactly what my future holds, as you so kindly pointed out. I’d imagine, though, that you getting your arse kicked by an OAP would be an added humiliation you’re not really after, given your plans. Wouldn’t be the image you’re hoping to leave behind for posterity, so behave yourself.’
Carson nodded. ‘Sorry.’
‘Fair enough. ’ Jean lifted her tea from the mantelpiece and sat back, taking a swallow. ‘Don’t mistake caring for weakness, son. That’s dangerous.’
Carson took a breath and sent his eyes to his thighs. He’d hoped not to cry today, but he knew how unreliable hope was.
‘I can’t think what else to do, Aunty Jean,’ he said.
‘I know, son. I know.’
‘I’ve been living with the news, living alone with this news for six weeks.’
‘I know, son.’
‘Two years, tops? That’s it, that’s all I’ve got. Two fucking years? Getting progressively more miserable; the pain getting progressively worse. Can you imagine me at the end of those two years? Cos I can, I can, and it’s horrible.’
100 Stories for Haiti is the brainchild of Greg McQueen, an author from the UK living in Aarhus, Denmark with his wife and three year old daughter. He’s written for children’s television in the UK and is currently working on his debut novel for teens, Roadkill. He described 100 Stories for Haiti recently in an article on Publishing Perspectives: “It is no wonder that the Internet is nominated for a 2010 Nobel Peace Prize. Projects like 100 Stories for Haiti wouldn’t exist without it. Without the endless web of people passionate about digital culture, people who “get” the Internet, people part of a global conversation. People who saw images from a disaster-stricken country and answered an online appeal to make a book.”
For more information about 100 Stories for Haiti visit the project’s website: http://www.100storiesforhaiti.org
