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Snag is a nasty wee story that includes violence and discussion of sexual assault. It’s flippant, provocative, and probably downright brutal. But that’s up to each individual to decide. So if you think you’re better off skipping this story — then you should. I’ve supplied a text for it below, and the audio recording is up above. You can read it, or read along with the the recording, or just listen. You can, as I said above, just skip it all entirely. Your choice. Despite the fact that the Best Man said one word far too many times in his speech, it had been a good wedding. ‘Notwithstanding.’ You were glad to have been there. However, it really did bug you all the same. This word. It wasn’t even quite being used correctly. And Christine in her black dress staring a dagger right at you while you winced through that speech was an obvious sign there was more to come. At the end of the night, drunk, she would not be standing. That was partly her own fault, and maybe you had something to do with it too. She tried some sort of ornery lap dance, some sort of ‘getting even’ shtick for some imagined slight. She slid across your knee, the dress like wetted wax paper, and then this grotesque lick of your face, from the bottom of your chin up to the corner of your left eye in a cartoon exaggeration of slow crawl. Well, you just took the two hands you had and pushed her onto the floor where she sat like a bag of spuds. And your wife Olivia, appalled, would later describe the situation as barbaric for all — those watching, those in it, and even those that would go on to hear about it. But your wife also thought Black Dress was almost asking for it, said the whole look of her was like a sausage trying to slip its casing, or was it a sausage unaware it was slipping its casing? At any rate, you said “snarler” and laughed your way into a snort. “You probably didn’t need to push her quite so hard, Jimmy,” your wife said, in the taxi, heading home to your rented accommodation. “I mean, it was quite a thud. Did you really have to use both hands?”“Olivia, I’d have used more hands if I could,” you said. Another snort. And with that, as if suddenly triggered, the realisation that Archie would be up in three or four hours, and will want the full degustation: Bluey, PAW Patrol, and Peppa Fucking Pig. Olivia was a saint, they all said it. Behind your back. As well as right to your face. How on earth did she put up with you and all your antics? But you knew that Olivia knew that the real Jimmy wasn’t for anyone else. The real Jimmy was just for her. And for Archie now of course too. This other Jimmy smeared peanut butter all down the cupboards while making two thick sandwiches before bed, kicked one shoe out the window of the Airbnb. Woops! And ripped his tie off so quickly that the top button went with it. Also, only one cufflink on final count. You would sway through the new day, wasps in your throat, and a need to constantly scratch at your head. You would watch the cartoons with Archie, and then when he went back down, if he went back down, you would get a second wave of sleep too. You weren’t a bad guy. You just could not say no to the open bar. How, you wondered, could anyone say no to the open bar? “Who was that woman in the black dress?” Olivia stood at the top of the stairs. “I mean, she was awful, but she really set you off?” “Just someone from uni.” “Just someone?” “No. Not like that. Literally just someone. Part of the wider gang, obviously, I mean she was there at the wedding. But that’s the first time I’d seen her in 20 years I’d guess.” “Well, she had her eye on you all night, and most of the afternoon. Was she there alone? It seemed like it at least. She acted like it at least.” “What does that mean?” “I think you know what it means. Know many other married women that just go and lick the face of a married man in front of his wife?” “Beside you honey, no I don’t.”“You’re fucking funny Jimmy. And you’re f*****g lucky, you know that? You’re f*****g lucky that you’re f*****g funny, but seriously, I am not sure how we face up later today at the Aftermatch.”“Aftermatch?”“You know, the next day BBQ. The thing. The wedding gloat.”“Ah, the post-mortem?”“Don’t call it that! But yes…”“Well, we just won’t go. Text and say Archie’s sick if you have to, I’ll do it. But also what’s the problem? Hair of the dog. Might be good…”“The problem, Jimmy, is a bunch of people saw you shove a drunk single woman to the ground, rather violently. The problem, Jimmy, is neither of us checked to see if she was okay, and no one has been in touch with us since, and it is going to be incredibly awkward turning up there as if nothing happened. When, Jimmy, something clearly happened.”You knew what happened. You could never say. There was an electrical current between you and Christine. You had this weird history, admittedly 20 years of radio silence, complete inactivity, seemingly the whole thing had shut itself down, gone away. But you had a history of both getting drunk and ending up in combative, hostile situations. You were dragons for the piss, both of you. And though you never exactly hooked up, there was baggage. You were in each other’s lives, at some point, and in the weirdest way. You went to her house one night and watched her sleep, used the spare key because all student flats had one and everyone knew where they were, and you had stumbled home from the pub and sat in a chair in her room while she snored and you watched. Just watched. She would do the same to you, a couple of weeks later, except you woke up with her on top of you. Straddling you, she had grabbed your hands and put them on her boobs, her hands behind your hands prompting you to squeeze. You’d pushed her to the side of the bed, gone straight to the fridge and necked a beer. “Jimmy, you’ve gone somewhere,” Olivia said. “Where are you? What are you thinking about?” “Nah. Nothing. Just hungover, zoning out love,” you said. “Well, I’m not lying about today. We are showering. We are going. Archie is not sick. And I do want Liz and Graham to meet him. And I do want you on best behaviour.”“When am I not though?” you said. Hoping for a laugh, and in the end supplying it yourself. At the vineyard they were all sitting on long wooden benches, a lot of chambray shirts. Too many cricket hats, bunch of unlikely outfielders you thought. And one or two dads throwing one or two Pétanque balls gently for their kids to marvel over, the clack-clattering of the children collecting these round trophies, disrupting games, burrowing them like a reverse Easter Egg hunt. You breezed past a few of last night’s dead soldiers with a dismissive wave, safe under sunglasses, you took a mimosa and asked if there was anything harder on offer. “Not for you,” came the curt reply from the matron of honour. “Ah well,” you said, “best make the ma-most of this one then, eh!” She probably groaned. But f**k it all. Olivia a vision, parading around wee Arch, the star of the day as far as you were concerned. I mean, Graham, Liz, sure. Their day obviously, but also, how long does this shit go on, right? It was their day yesterday. Liz instructed Graham where to sit, and they unwrapped a bunch of junk from the guests, and you flopped about in a beanbag talking to a kid about why Monsieur Donkey was the best character in Peppa Pig, especially when he just hammers Daddy Pig with how shit English food is, saying he brought all of this stuff over from France with him, because he knows the Poms need it, he lists bread and cheese, and even water. The kid looked at you, and shouted “Mummy!” A woman appeared behind bangs and whisked her child away. You slumped further. You must have nodded off for a bit, but talk about rude awakenings, no one around you at all, just a shadow of some legs and sticky wine all on you, Christine standing over, her legs spread widely, her skirt hitched right up. A close talker, lost for words. Just staring. You writhe about and wriggle free of the beanbag’s clutches, stand as if at attention. Christine pokes you hard in the chest. “We are going over there,” she says, and points to the tractor shed on the corner of the plot, just behind a couple of huge oak trees. Of course you worry Olivia will see this, of course you realise you haven’t talked to anyone else, apart from the Peppa Pig bit with the kid, which was rudely cut short by an uptight mum. In the tractor shed, Christine asks you how you’ve been. You say, “better.” She says, “I don’t doubt that.” You say, “Look, fuck, what even is all this anyway? We were fucking stupid drunk kids. Now we’ve grown up, let’s just…”“You still look like you’re stupid and drunk, just not a kid,” she cuts you off. “Jimmy, you look bad mate.”“Don’t call me mate.”“Alright then, non-fuck buddy. I mean, what even are we?”“We are two people who used to get messed up and didn’t know how to talk to one another sober and then got so drunk we couldn’t speak at all. We are two people from another lifetime.”“And yet, here we are.”“Yeah, but I didn’t even want to come today.”“I seem to recall that’s always been your problem, Jim. That time you basically lured me to your place, and I was there on top of you, and you push me aside for a f*****g drink?!”“Look, just leave me alone, I didn’t think you had kept up with Liz, I didn’t expect to see you, I don’t know what to say to you, but um, look, we don’t need closure, we don’t need anything.”“Oh but the thing is, Jimmy, I saw the way you were looking at me. All f*****g night. I know what you were thinking.”“Look Christine, you stupid f*****g bitch, you are nothing. You’re just this f*****g idea of a woman squeezed tight into a dress. You’re no

This time last year we launched my second book of poetry, The Richard Poems. The launch was at the clothing and barber store, That Was Then This Is Now, not only a magical place to get a great haircut or some snazzy threads, but also to launch a book: Emily Writes delivered an amazing speech: And I had a ramble too of course: There’s even a playlist attached to the book — scan the QR code on the back of the book for your own listening copy: It was a great afternoon for a special wee book. And now, a year on, I wanted to share the reading above. Of course later this week, I’ll be performing a cycle from the work as part of a show at BATS Theatre: And there are several readings available you can check out here, both video and audio: There are even other ‘Richard’ poems that did not make the cut for the book. Here’s a “Deleted Scene” right here: Thanks for checking this out in celebration of the book’s first birthday. Last month I celebrated five years since the launch of The Death of Music Journalism: Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Most people think the “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” thing is just a rhyme — a cute little bounce off the name. And maybe there’s that thing in there too where it’s giving a quick character assessment of the child, the idea that the wee girl making a tiny, temporary flower arrangement in a sandpit is stubborn or flashes moods or just isn’t always listening. But hang on. She’s asked a reasonable question. She’s addressed by name. To be certain, her name’s repeated, there’s no confusion this could be for anyone else. Mary is asked how her garden grows. She does and does not answer this all at once. She lists what’s in the garden, and repeats the favourite bit, the focus, those lined-up pretty maids. Is that a dig (oops, sorry!) at the fact that the curious person uses her name twice? Is it? Does she, out of petty spite, sass back with her favourite bit of the garden twice, mocking the fact that her name was repeated? We can’t be sure about that. But what’s clear is she never mentions the number of trips to the garden centre, or the fact that some weekends it’s at the expense of other things. She does not talk about what goes into the making of the growing, preferring to just list it out as if that is enough of the news. This person, taking an interest, might now be none the wiser — because there was no clarity. Just a girl messing with the mind of a soul kind enough to inquire. Mary has autism. She thinks she is answering the question correctly. She is supplying the information that matters to her and ignoring the social cue to engage in pleasantries. Instead, she lists the results, what was seen, what was on display. No Sedum, no Hostas. The silver bells are good and fine, but they are not her Special Interest. She really loves the pretty maids. She particularly loves them all there in a row. “Mary” was there to catch a predator, and as she became unsafe, she had to holler, “And pretty maids all in a row” twice, so that the back-up would arrive. (They did not catch it the first time). “Mary” could pass for eight years old when dressed in a smock, with a bonnet and bells, but she was actually much older and had perfected a ‘little girl’ voice which she used on the Take Your Daughter To Work Day once, and the Senior Officer then told her dad that they could use this. They could absolutely use this. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

It’s been five years since we launched my first book of poetry, The Death of Music Journalism. I did a little audio podcast at the time sharing some of the story behind the writing of the poems, the making of the book, and reading some of the work. I thought for its fifth birthday, I’d share a reading of five poems that I don’t think I’ve ever read out from the book before. A range of the content — from toxic masculinity, to family and friendships and memory, all framed by music. And of course the book was reimagining the way you can write about music; or a way I could write about music. We launched at Meow in Wellington. Here’s the fabulous Cuba Press team of the time that helped with this book: Mary on the left, publisher and editor supreme. Sarah (not with the company now) was the designer of the fabulous cover (from an amazing painting by Matthew Couper). And Paul was the selector of a lot of the poems, editor, typesetter, and really the champion for this work to happen. I think it was his first book where he stepped up into more of an editing role — and if I’m remembering that right, it was my great luck to have him in that role, as he showed all care, all responsibility, and wise choices. The launch was to be a party — and so Mike Blue opened with music (and a poem): The phenomenal Freya Daly Sadrove read poems from her amazing book, Head Girl, which we sold at the launch too: And the amazing Rachel McAlpine read poems too. She had her book about How To Be Old (now the title of her most excellent podcast). So we sold her book too, after she read some of the funny, lovely, and wise poems from it: I was so lucky to have Pip Adam launch the book. And Mary McCallum (publisher) also spoke about it and introduced me to do a reading: If you bought the book you could scan a QR on the back (2020 called, it wants its tech back!) and you could access a huge playlist of every song reference from the book. You still can have access to that by the way: I wrote about the launch — including sharing my speech from the day: And the aforementioned podcast reading: I was even interviewed by RNZ — and got to read a poem out live on air! And then, or what felt like shortly after, it was over. But it lives on in Facebook and OneDrive memories and reminders. Which is why I offer this reading today. Hope you enjoy it. The book is out of print, but in second hand stores — including some of the last of the new copies. If you wanted a copy I could find you one. Give me a holler. For real. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a reading of a short story (which might also be a poem, depending on how you hear it) called Bumper Boats. You can read below an earlier version of this — there are some slight changes in the reading vs. this text version linked here: Anyway, I’m enjoying exploring this — it’s meant to be a single sentence, which obviously presents challenging when reading, so here’s an earnest first attempt. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

We are back with the 11th episode of We All Float Down Here — A Stephen King podcast. Our third of 2025 is our first “Richard Bachman” episode. King famously wrote a bunch of books as Richard Bachman, later publishing them under his own name as “The Bachman Books”, including the standalone volume of ‘Thinner’. So we’re talking about that in the publishing chronology (1984) and also the 1996 film adaptation. The podcast goes out on YouTube first and foremost — so we’d love you to like and subscribe over there. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

Here is a podcast recording of my short story ‘Reverie Gone Astray’, from the third ‘Say The Thing’ spoken word evening, recorded, July 23, 2025. You can listen to it here on Substack, or wherever you get podcasts — Amazon, Spotify, Apple, etc. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

We are back with the eleventh episode of We All Float Down Here — A Stephen King podcast. Our third of 2025 is King’s first collaboration, The Talisman, written with fellow horror scribe, Peter Straub. There would be a sequel close to 20 years on, and King is working alone on a second sequel right now (R.I.P. Peter Straub). The podcast goes out on YouTube first and foremost — so we’d love you to like and subscribe over there. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

You can read the text below — and/or click on the arrow above to listen to the podcast of the story (also available on Sweetman Podcast on Spotify, Amazon, Apple and wherever you get your podcasts) Michaela remembers when things were different. She is thinking this while winding the spool of tape from her cassette back into itself with a trusty pencil. Who even uses pencils these days she thinks as she slots the tape into the stereo’s open deck and though the sound crumbles into place at first, soon she is listening to Tori Amos singing her birthday-cake cabaret about chasing nuns in the yard, running naked, unmasked, while it’s raining. At least the music takes her places — lets her live thirty years ago, transports her in some sense. What good is now? Where is the magic in this exact world? Ben takes the book from the shelf, sees the inscription to himself — he really met the author, they had a beer, they had a chat. And after that, he took the book home, to live with the words some more. A while from then, a baby needed nappies, a downsizing took place as well, so he sold the book for scraps of change. He missed it more than any of the others. But then — what chance — he found it again at one of those charity sales with the cardboard boxes that heave and all the airport novels no longer going anywhere. He paid the ten bucks to fill a bag; donated back everything else he bought — all he wanted was that one. It sits with the small handfuls of other books he never sold and never will. It gives him something to hold on to still. It’s good to have something to hold. And to hold onto the story around the book as well as the one within it. Ben met the author. Did you know that? Ron reckons records are always making a comeback, because every time a new streaming platform opens, several old albums disappear down the back of the metaphorical couch — deep into the metaphysical void. It’s nice to be the keeper of the same old memories that re-enter the consciousness when the revolutions reach thirty-three and one third every minute. Ron knows he can never undo the damage he’s done, the needle strikes down into the groove, and to reverse the record would only make more of a mess. He knows that. But tears deserve a soundtrack. And so, there is still — and always — some happiness this way. Stella lifts the photo album out from the box from under the bed. She blows the dust from the cover, and studies the inside of the folder: A piece of paper with only remnants of its original sellotape but the years have pushed the paper to the plastic, a tighter bond than many of the people in the pictures have with each other now. But you have to honour the dead. And the passing of time is just another casualty in this war we are all fighting regardless of sign-up. Stella sees her parents making nice, and their parents all standing proud. She sees herself, though can barely recognise the place or why she’s dressed that way. She has a box of letters from her brother Evan. But she could never read his writing. Nina doesn’t think that Netflix is the enemy as such, but everything’s made to look the same. It’s all designed to be viewed as if a shop window, but no one has thought much further than lining up the product. She has bought back DVDs from the garage sales and second-hand stores. She has exact copies of films she once owned; she has movies she’s never seen and may never get to either, but she has them as a finite collection, a way of making some sense in the world. A way of cutting through the infinite. Some days feel just like a knife. It’s good to be able to stab into the finite. Wirimu holds the feathers from the skirt his mother wore for school performances. Only a few remain. He put them in his hair before they made him take them out, before they made him answer to William, before he knew the rest of the skirt was rushed out in a box with anything else that suddenly felt leftover. Wiremu strokes the feathers. He says his mum meant more than feathers but now this is all he has. He says don’t ever call him William. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s three brand new poems from me at the regular Poetry in Motion open mic at the Fringe Bar in Wellington. My first time reading there in a couple of months. I debuted three new poems which you can click on below for text versions if you’d like to read them first, or after, or read along with the recording: .They are called The Centre-Right is Ick, Strange Hours, and Rip Me Apart Like A Shark in the Shallows: So make of that what you will — just trying to keep my hand in reading poems, as I’m more concentrating on stories, and even story reading this year. But good to be back at the Poetry in Motion event, always like it there. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

Just mucking around with stories — so these are two different readings of the same story. The audio and video are separate recordings, so you can listen to the audio above on its own, or with reading the story below. Or you can watch the video. Or any combo… Click: They’d met at a café. First impressions were awful. But by coffee number three, things had reset. She’d spilled a drink on his lap. He laughed it off. She blushed and grinned. It was already a story. The click was instant. Like a fridge magnet finding its place. A done deal. One month later, they were living together — one main room and one bedroom, a third flatmate named Mike. A quiet mechanic who mostly kept to himself. Cheap rent, just for the couch, but every little bit helped them. Tama didn’t have much of a job — calling himself a musician was generous. A keyboard player in a band that scored bar gigs twice a month if lucky. Miri was at polytech, studying photography. She worked harder than him, that was clear. Mike often loaned Tama money. One night, Mike brought his workmates around for drinks. Miri wandered through, taking photos, ignoring a few crude shouts. Tama came home when the drinking games were mid-chant, whisked her away for coffee and cake. It was over a slice of pecan pie that she told him. “I’m pregnant.” Tama choked. Coughed. Wiped his mouth. “Come again?” “You won’t actually need to”, she said, with a laugh. “Two months,” she said more calmly. “What the fuck are we gonna do?” His voice cracked. “Become parents.” He stared at the table. His chest fluttered with something between panic and awe. “Seriously, Miri…” “I’ll finish my course. You’ll get a job. We’ll figure it out.” And somehow, that calmed him. They hugged in the middle of the café. Someone clapped. They left grinning. Back home, Mike and the other mechanics were stoned in the lounge, listening to Genesis. Tama muted Phil mid-scream. The word “mama” left hanging in the air that night. “I’m gonna be a dad!? Mike blinked. “Huh?” “We’re pregnant!” Miri confirmed. “Fuckin’ A. Wanna toke?” “No thanks,” Tama said. “Big night. Early to bed for me.” He looked at Miri. “Coming?” “In a sec,” she said. “I wanna finish this roll.” He left. Mike turned to her. “You wanna toke?” “No thanks,” she said. “Weren’t you listening? I’m pregnant.” “So?” “I’m having a kid, Mike. I can’t smoke pot.” He shrugged. Then she walked over. Took his arm. She whispered, “it’s yours”. “What?” “The baby. Mike.” He stared at her. “It was one time.” “I know!” “I was wasted. That never even… I didn’t even…” He trailed off. “Fuck.” “I couldn’t tell him.” “You should’ve. It was just once!” “I can’t lose him. He’s the one. He’ll be an amazing dad. You know it.” He slumped into the couch. Ready now for bed also. “What are you asking me?” “Nothing. Just your silence.” He nodded. “Okay.” “And you’ll move out. Before the baby’s born.” Another nod. “I’ll never ask for money. This is my life. His life. We’ll make it work. He doesn’t need to know.” “What about a paternity test?” She slapped him. He didn’t flinch. Just looked at the floor. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll move out.” Four months later, he did. Tama had paid him back. Gigs were steadier. He’d started giving piano lessons too. Miri finished her course, took a job at a front desk. They turned half of their bedroom into a nursery. It was working. But the baby monitor wasn’t. Tama could not work out how to set that up. Trina arrived, no troubles. Seven pounds, four ounces. The couple wept. Mike visited once. Brought flowers. Held the baby longer than Miri expected. “She’s got her father’s eyes,” Miri said. And her father smiled.Tama had to get ready for rehearsal. But first, one more check on the baby. Mike whispered, “You think he’ll ever know?” “No”, Miri hissed. Mike nodded. “He’s a good dad.” Miri smiled. “He is her father.” Tama was holding Trina close, just listening. Mostly awe, not much panic. The heartbeat a tiny miracle. The baby monitor buzzed softly. Voices. Words fading in and out, but one part he heard clearly. He is her father. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

I haven’t made a bit of music for a while. Some would say I never have — including after hearing any of the pieces. Fair enough. With that in mind, here’s my most recent. A wee piece I call New Coat. I guess I tried to address the question no one was asking — what would happen if Moby and Robert Miles collaborated after they’d both been hit in the head a bit? My (“musical”) answer is above. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

I always knew when my grandfather had come home too boozed, or sometimes it was even on a night when he’d just drift in his chair. The whiskey had done a number on him again. There’d be some noise and then my grandmother would shout out, “Boil the combs!” Grandad was a good sort otherwise. He made me a go-kart out of old boxes, but when the other kids could go much faster, he took the engine from his leaf-blower and hid it under the hood. He said, “put your foot on this button and just ease off if you’re going around a corner because there are no breaks”. He also said, “the other kids are stupid anyway”. And we laughed together for a long time after he said things like that. Grandma and Granddad liked to say that they ‘took me in’ and I never knew what that meant, at least not for ages. My dad wasn’t really into being a dad, they said. My mum could not cope alone. She moved up north to ‘better herself’, and that hurt the first few times I heard it, because I always wondered what was better than having a son. But it turned out she was going to go back to school to get some qualifications. She started writing letters, and as I got a bit older, I reckon the letters improved a bit too, so school was obviously working pretty good for her the second time around. Granny and Grandpa were good sorts, but I know she didn’t like it much when he went out drinking, or just had too much in his chair at home. But he seemed to have his reasons, reckoned sometimes she went out late alone without him when I was asleep, but also that I really didn’t need to know much more about that. We were quite a funny wee gang. I got teased a bit in school sometimes by people saying who is that old man or that old lady, or just who are those stupid old people that pick you up. But I just ignored that. Like a lot of what I am saying here, and a lot more I’m choosing not to say, it hurt a bit at the time. And then it didn’t. But I had good times with them both, and it felt like I was just living in a different world. Helping to pickle beetroot and lemons in the kitchen with Grandma. Helping to grow vegetables in the hydroponic greenhouse out back in the yard with Granddad. All of it completely normal to me, at least until we talked about what we did in the weekends first period Monday. I certainly never mentioned the combs. I knew that would take some explaining. One time, Granddad stumbled into my room and I thought he was lost, but he said to just shove over, and he pushed me close to the wall and he just fell asleep in the bed behind me. But pressed right up against me. It was fine, I guess. I felt safe. I just thought it was weird. And his breath smelled a bit like if someone had been sick in a cup of tea. So I hugged the wall instead of him. And another time, Grandma came in, but she was not going to let me sleep in the bed with her and told me to get on the floor. I tried to say that I was comfortable, but I was also pretty sleepy, so must have just crawled into place on the floor. I woke up and I was curled into a ball like a cat, under a huge rug, and also on top of a fluffy rug too. So it was actually really comfortable, and a little bit funny. I didn’t remember being there, like how I got there at all, until Granny said. And it was actually really weird because she was already up and making breakfast, so I thought at first I’d done some silly sleepwalking or something. But Granny believed in telling the truth. Most of the time anyway. And definitely whenever I asked. Which is why I had to find out why she would yell, “boil the combs”, and what did that even mean? She said it was a throwback to when she’d be woken up by her mum yelling the same thing whenever her dad came home drunk. Her mum would shout “boil the combs”, and the kids in the house would get up, put a pot of water on, and with the cast iron pot cooling off the fire, they’d then place two hair combs in, so as to be sure no lice were trapped, and the combs were nice and clean. They would then help their mum tie their dad into bed, so he didn’t fall out. He’d come home drunk and want to do one of two things that started with ‘F’ apparently. I didn’t really understand that part. But that’s what Granny said. She reckoned the plan her mum had worked out was that if they tied him into bed he couldn’t move, nor be a danger to anyone, and also he wouldn’t fall out and end up on his face on the cold wooden floor too. But the genius part of the plan was that once tied into bed, they would all have a go at doing his hair, combing it back and tidying it while he snored. The two combs were so that it was a game, Granny reckoned. And her and her two sisters and brother would take turns. They thought it was so much fun. And got a real giggle she said. The idea was that when her father woke, he had no idea what had happened but could tell by his hair that it must have been a trouble-free night. That all made so much sense, and sounded funny, and a little bit sweet, but also a little bit weird, and even quite scary, but Granny said that they all knew what they were doing and had fun, and it wasn’t until quite long after her father had died that her mother explained a bit more about how serious it was sometimes, and how the “boil the combs” scream wasn’t quite a code, or a password, but then again it also almost was. Her mum couldn’t always get out of bed straight away, and sometimes the kids had to do all of the boiling and even get some rope to bring in to their mum in the bedroom. Sometimes she was standing up in her nightgown, and was in the corner of the room and their father was yelling a bit about how he was angry at the world for so many things. “Kids can be clever”, I said to my Granny after all that. And she agreed that they can, and reckoned that’s why I didn’t need to know too much more about anything else related to why she still yelled out “boil the combs”. She just said it was some sort of throwback to her childhood, and definitely nothing to with Granddad at all. She also said it was smart of me to not come in when I heard it. To just do my best to get back to sleep. Things were different these days, she said. And she hadn’t married her father. She definitely hadn’t, no matter what Mrs. Waters across the road said. Things were fine most of the time she also said. And I wondered why she had said those last two things. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

We are back with the tenth episode of We All Float Down Here — A Stephen King podcast. Our second of 2025 is the King’s first YA title, The Eyes of The Dragon, and since there’s no film version, as yet (and unlikely to ever be), and because it’s related — age-wise, we also dip into his graphic novelette, The Cycle of the Werewolf, and its ropey film adaptation, Silver Bullet. The podcast goes out on YouTube first and foremost — so we’d love you to like and subscribe over there. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe

I haven’t made a bit of music for a while. Some would say I never have — including after hearing any of the pieces. Fair enough. With that in mind, here’s my most recent. A wee piece I call Dark Winds. Might use it for some spoken word at some point, but for now, here it is. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe