Three times we met in the space of a single month. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. That’s not a coincidence. Things don’t happen that commonly, I thought, without a reason, a purpose. Yet, even as I thought this, I began to doubt it. A man can be in two minds, as the saying…Read more The Last Hurrah of a Hungry Poet
It was around noon of a sultry, overcast day. Martin Mint wasn’t sure what he’d do with the rest of it. Pausing, he wondered what he did with it so far. He got up too early, he knew, but even with one thin sheet and his bedroom windows open, sleep was impossible. It wasn’t always…Read more Silver Mint
If at first You don’t succeed, try, try, try again
“Are you a superhero?” the snotty boy with a thin film of dayglo popsicle on his face, asks.
He was asking the man in the dandyish Edwardian suit of shades of blue plaid with skinny pants and mirror polished, brown leather shoes.
“It all depends,” the dandy answers.
“On what?” the boy asks, one finger exploring the inner depths of his right nostril.
“On whether people value style over substance.”
Examining the treasure gathered from his nasal probe in myopic detail, the boy misses this last retort. He looks at the dandy with the same scrutiny he’s just given his mucilage.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Irony Man, “ says the dandy.
An old short story from Postcard from a Pigeon and Other Stories
I knew none of my companions before that evening. Yet here we were, all five of us, striding with intent, to our common destination.
A full moon swung in the air like a bare bulb in a dingy pub toilet. The path was wet and slimy from that evening’s summer downpour, slippy from the sodden daily grime of a country town’s streets, chip grease, spilt beer, puke and chewing gum. We trudged along purposefully and, it must be said, tipsily.
We were seeking arbitration and judgement on something that on a summer’s evening in a small town in north west Kerry raised issues as fundamental as birth and birthright.There was close to 750 Euro in side bets involved too.
It’s amazing what a night of carousing can be had from a summer’s night in a country pub with a town festival and carnival in full swing. The posters we…
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For the past month I've been raking through my past and, I must say this, overwhelmed by what it took out of me to write my last poem, resting. So, I've written a short story, THE GATEKEEPER , but it will only be on this blog for five days. THE GATEKEEPER It was close to…Read more THE GATEKEEPER
Phone rings. I'm busy. Such a nuisance. Two eggs mixed, coffee's on, butter melting in the pan. The grill's warming, two slices of bread, ready to go. A crucial moment. Why does this happen? Waking drowsy is painful. Torn between the desire to flake or rise, you figure , get up now, gain that time…Read more Short Story