Life in another Dimension

Hayes “ ‘Story?, Anto.” Anto shuddered, hearing his name called. He didn’t suffer from the nerves. He just liked to know what was coming, the better he’d be able to handle it. “Ah, Jem,” he said, spotting his greeter, “what’s the crack with yerself?” They were standing on the corner of Bolton St and Capel…Read more Life in another Dimension

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Hamish takes a Train

Hayes Hamish dashed to catch the eight am express train to the city. He caught it just in time, the loud swishhh of the electric doors behind him and the cold draft of winter air reminded him just how close. The train was packed, with many people standing, briefcases tucked between their ankles, handbags clutched…Read more Hamish takes a Train

The Last Hurrah of a Hungry Poet

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

Modest Super Hero

If at first You don’t succeed, try, try, try again

Postcard from a Pigeon

“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.

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Donkey Race in Lixnaw

An old short story from Postcard from a Pigeon and Other Stories

Postcard from a Pigeon

https://new2writing.wordpress.com/2016/05/02/maydays-prompt-odds-are-on/

moon

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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