Nav Logan's Blog, page 11
August 1, 2015
The Madness
Another crazy day. I swear some drivers are trying to get themselves killed. What’s got into them? I finally arrive home and take a few moments to compose myself.
I still feel a little off-centre, even in the safety of my own home.
Something isn’t right, but I can’t put my finger on it. In an effort to shake off the feeling, I take the dog for a walk. By now it’s dark, and a little nippy.
The clouds creep by on the sullen breeze as we head away from the streetlights, out into the fields beyond. The moon slips from behind the clouds, ripe and as red as a watermelon.
Ah! That explains it; the autumnal full moon.
I can feel the hairs on my arms growing longer, and my teeth extending, as I quickly shed my clothes. Naked as the day I was born, I look up to the sky and howl.
My dog; a pathetic mongrel of unknown breeding that I took pity on a few year ago, tries to howl in response, but he can’t quite pull it off.
Still, what he lacks in breeding, he makes up for with enthusiasm. No stick chasing for him this evening.
It’s time to hunt.
I still feel a little off-centre, even in the safety of my own home.
Something isn’t right, but I can’t put my finger on it. In an effort to shake off the feeling, I take the dog for a walk. By now it’s dark, and a little nippy.
The clouds creep by on the sullen breeze as we head away from the streetlights, out into the fields beyond. The moon slips from behind the clouds, ripe and as red as a watermelon.
Ah! That explains it; the autumnal full moon.
I can feel the hairs on my arms growing longer, and my teeth extending, as I quickly shed my clothes. Naked as the day I was born, I look up to the sky and howl.
My dog; a pathetic mongrel of unknown breeding that I took pity on a few year ago, tries to howl in response, but he can’t quite pull it off.
Still, what he lacks in breeding, he makes up for with enthusiasm. No stick chasing for him this evening.
It’s time to hunt.
July 31, 2015
Moses’s Last Thoughts
I always hated commuter traffic.
There was always one fool, up ahead of you, holding everyone else up; some pillock who couldn't find fourth gear, or some old granny who was convinced her Fiat Uno would fall apart if she went over forty.
I was in a foul mood this evening anyway. I'd had a shitty day, and whoever they were, they were going to get a mouthful when I finally got to the cause of this evening's particular traffic jam.
The wall of water rose on either side of the car, but I was too busy ranting to notice.
There was always one fool, up ahead of you, holding everyone else up; some pillock who couldn't find fourth gear, or some old granny who was convinced her Fiat Uno would fall apart if she went over forty.
I was in a foul mood this evening anyway. I'd had a shitty day, and whoever they were, they were going to get a mouthful when I finally got to the cause of this evening's particular traffic jam.
The wall of water rose on either side of the car, but I was too busy ranting to notice.
July 30, 2015
Searching For Clues
Kneeling in the dirt, I dug in my pocket and pulled out my magnifying glass. A moment was all I needed to confirm my earlier suspicions. This death was not an accident, but neither was it time to call in the local police. Those guys couldn’t tie their shoe laces without clear instructions, let alone catch this particular psychopath.
It was lucky that I’d been nearby and heard the woman’s scream. Sadly though, by the time I’d arrived at the murder scene it was too late.
Nevertheless, I could follow the trail of glittery tinsel back to the vampire’s lair.
It was lucky that I’d been nearby and heard the woman’s scream. Sadly though, by the time I’d arrived at the murder scene it was too late.
Nevertheless, I could follow the trail of glittery tinsel back to the vampire’s lair.
The Anniversary Gift
My wedding anniversary was coming up, and I thought I’d treat my wife by buying us a new bed so I popped into the local furniture store and had a look around.
The manager walked over, introduced himself and asked, “Can I help you, sir?”.
I explained what I was looking for, and he told me he had just the thing for me. “We have a Super-deluxe Emperor size bed on special offer, and there is only one left in stock. It comes with a special memory foam mattress straight out of the N.AS.A. warehouse. It was designed for astronauts sleeping in space. They say it’s a wonderful experience. Your wife will never know a better night’s sleep.”
Looking at the bed, it certainly looked impressive. I even tested it out, and was immediately sold. I signed the necessary paperwork, handed over my credit card, and organised delivery for the following day.
Arriving home, I was itching to tell my wife, but I didn’t want to spoil her surprise.
The next morning started well. I’d taken the day off work and we had a lie-in together.
“Happy Anniversary, Love,” she said, handing over my present during breakfast.
I unwrapped it and found that she’d bought me a swanky Swiss watch. “It’s platinum,” she pointed out, “For our twentieth wedding anniversary.”
I looked confused. “I thought that twenty years was supposed to be china?”
She rolled her eyes good naturedly at me and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Don’t tell me you’ve bought me a teapot,” she joked.
“No, it’s much better than that,” I advised, “but you’ll have to wait and see. Your present is due to arrive at 10:30. I’ve just enough time to get a quick shower in first.”
I was getting dressed when the lorry came up the road and parked in the driveway.
“What’s this?” my wife asked.
“I told you, it’s your anniversary present. You’ve been complaining about a bad back, and you don’t sleep very well, so I’ve bought us a new bed.”
“You bought me a bed for our anniversary?” she asked. “That’s hardly what I’d call romantic.”
He tone was a little acidic, and for a moment I considered the wisdom of my decision “Wait until you see it,” I countered.
Taking her hand, I led her outside, where the delivery guys were opening the back doors of the lorry.
“Mr. Bonningham, is it?” the foreman asked.
I nodded, and he showed me where to sign for delivery.
“Where do you want it then?” he enquired.
“Right this way,” I replied, leading him upstairs to the master bedroom.
His muttered to himself occasionally as he followed me. Taking out a tape measure, he started measuring up the hallway, the stairs, the bedroom door and finally the room itself.
“This is going to be a big job, Mr. Bonningham!” he finally confided. “We’re going to need to remove the bannister, the bedroom door, and also … that walk in wardrobe is going to have to go!”
“What .... But!” I spluttered.
“You did measure up the bed before you bought it, didn’t you?” my wife asked.
“Of course I did!” I lied.
The bed hadn’t looked that big in the showroom, but obviously, it was. Still, at least we would have plenty of room to thrash about at night without getting an elbow in the eye.
Turning to the foreman I asked, “What can I do to help?”
“To be honest, it’d be better if you stayed out of the way. Too many cooks and all that. Go and have a game of golf, or something, and leave it to the experts.”
I didn’t play golf, so I decided to take my wife out for an anniversary lunch, and perhaps a bit of shopping to mollify her, leaving the foreman the spare key and my phone number. He would call me as soon as the job was completed.
Five hours later we returned home. Even with the walk-in wardrobe removed, the bed barely fitted in the bedroom. There was just enough space to shuffle around the edges of the bed to get to the nightstands. They’d even had to refit the door so that it opened outward, rather than in. An additional invoice for carpentry fees was sitting on the plastic covering the new mattress.
Trying to remain positive, I asked my wife, “Well, what do you think?”
“My god, Bob! It’s huge. You haven’t planned any wife-swapping orgies, have you? You could fit a boat load of refugees on that, and still have room for the pair of us!”
“Why don’t you lie back and try it out. I’ll pop downstairs and make us a cup of tea.”
With some reticence, she shuffled over to her side of the bed and lay down.
Taking the invoice, I headed downstairs to stick the kettle on. Grabbing my phone, I squeezed into the downstairs closet to make a call without being overheard.
“Hello, is that Smythe’s Furniture? Hi, yes, can I speak to the manager, please?”
I waited a few moments, listening to insipid elevator music, and then the manager came on the line, “Hello?”
“Oh, hi! This is Bobby Bonningham, I was in yesterday, buying a bed.”
“Ah, yes. How are things Mr. Bonningham? Did your wife like the surprise?”
“Ermm, that’s why I’m calling. The bed’s a lot bigger than I’d imagined. I think it’s too big for us …”
I waited for a response, but the manager was not forthcoming. Eventually, I had to add, “I was wondering whether it would be possible to return it and get a slightly smaller one?”
“Mmmmmm,” he replied. “That could be difficult! I’m sorry, Mr. Bonningham, but as you know, the bed was on sale, plus, there would be the costs of collection. I gather that the lads had to get a carpenter in to do some alterations?”
“Some alterations! They nearly dismantled my house! I’ve a bill here for over a grand! The bed only cost me £1100 in the first place.”
“Exactly, Mr. Bonningham. Obviously, you are within your rights to ask for a refund or exchange, but that guarantee wouldn’t include the cost of fitting, or for that matter, the collection costs. I’m sorry, Mr. Bonningham, but should have said something before they unloaded the bed. There wouldn’t have been a problem then. Now that it’s in, you’d be better off to let sleeping dogs lie.”
I couldn’t believe my ears, but to be fair he did have a point. I really should have measured up the bed first. With a sigh of resignation, I thanked him for taking my call and hung up the phone.
Carrying the tea upstairs, I was glad to see that my wife was fast asleep.
The manager walked over, introduced himself and asked, “Can I help you, sir?”.
I explained what I was looking for, and he told me he had just the thing for me. “We have a Super-deluxe Emperor size bed on special offer, and there is only one left in stock. It comes with a special memory foam mattress straight out of the N.AS.A. warehouse. It was designed for astronauts sleeping in space. They say it’s a wonderful experience. Your wife will never know a better night’s sleep.”
Looking at the bed, it certainly looked impressive. I even tested it out, and was immediately sold. I signed the necessary paperwork, handed over my credit card, and organised delivery for the following day.
Arriving home, I was itching to tell my wife, but I didn’t want to spoil her surprise.
The next morning started well. I’d taken the day off work and we had a lie-in together.
“Happy Anniversary, Love,” she said, handing over my present during breakfast.
I unwrapped it and found that she’d bought me a swanky Swiss watch. “It’s platinum,” she pointed out, “For our twentieth wedding anniversary.”
I looked confused. “I thought that twenty years was supposed to be china?”
She rolled her eyes good naturedly at me and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Don’t tell me you’ve bought me a teapot,” she joked.
“No, it’s much better than that,” I advised, “but you’ll have to wait and see. Your present is due to arrive at 10:30. I’ve just enough time to get a quick shower in first.”
I was getting dressed when the lorry came up the road and parked in the driveway.
“What’s this?” my wife asked.
“I told you, it’s your anniversary present. You’ve been complaining about a bad back, and you don’t sleep very well, so I’ve bought us a new bed.”
“You bought me a bed for our anniversary?” she asked. “That’s hardly what I’d call romantic.”
He tone was a little acidic, and for a moment I considered the wisdom of my decision “Wait until you see it,” I countered.
Taking her hand, I led her outside, where the delivery guys were opening the back doors of the lorry.
“Mr. Bonningham, is it?” the foreman asked.
I nodded, and he showed me where to sign for delivery.
“Where do you want it then?” he enquired.
“Right this way,” I replied, leading him upstairs to the master bedroom.
His muttered to himself occasionally as he followed me. Taking out a tape measure, he started measuring up the hallway, the stairs, the bedroom door and finally the room itself.
“This is going to be a big job, Mr. Bonningham!” he finally confided. “We’re going to need to remove the bannister, the bedroom door, and also … that walk in wardrobe is going to have to go!”
“What .... But!” I spluttered.
“You did measure up the bed before you bought it, didn’t you?” my wife asked.
“Of course I did!” I lied.
The bed hadn’t looked that big in the showroom, but obviously, it was. Still, at least we would have plenty of room to thrash about at night without getting an elbow in the eye.
Turning to the foreman I asked, “What can I do to help?”
“To be honest, it’d be better if you stayed out of the way. Too many cooks and all that. Go and have a game of golf, or something, and leave it to the experts.”
I didn’t play golf, so I decided to take my wife out for an anniversary lunch, and perhaps a bit of shopping to mollify her, leaving the foreman the spare key and my phone number. He would call me as soon as the job was completed.
Five hours later we returned home. Even with the walk-in wardrobe removed, the bed barely fitted in the bedroom. There was just enough space to shuffle around the edges of the bed to get to the nightstands. They’d even had to refit the door so that it opened outward, rather than in. An additional invoice for carpentry fees was sitting on the plastic covering the new mattress.
Trying to remain positive, I asked my wife, “Well, what do you think?”
“My god, Bob! It’s huge. You haven’t planned any wife-swapping orgies, have you? You could fit a boat load of refugees on that, and still have room for the pair of us!”
“Why don’t you lie back and try it out. I’ll pop downstairs and make us a cup of tea.”
With some reticence, she shuffled over to her side of the bed and lay down.
Taking the invoice, I headed downstairs to stick the kettle on. Grabbing my phone, I squeezed into the downstairs closet to make a call without being overheard.
“Hello, is that Smythe’s Furniture? Hi, yes, can I speak to the manager, please?”
I waited a few moments, listening to insipid elevator music, and then the manager came on the line, “Hello?”
“Oh, hi! This is Bobby Bonningham, I was in yesterday, buying a bed.”
“Ah, yes. How are things Mr. Bonningham? Did your wife like the surprise?”
“Ermm, that’s why I’m calling. The bed’s a lot bigger than I’d imagined. I think it’s too big for us …”
I waited for a response, but the manager was not forthcoming. Eventually, I had to add, “I was wondering whether it would be possible to return it and get a slightly smaller one?”
“Mmmmmm,” he replied. “That could be difficult! I’m sorry, Mr. Bonningham, but as you know, the bed was on sale, plus, there would be the costs of collection. I gather that the lads had to get a carpenter in to do some alterations?”
“Some alterations! They nearly dismantled my house! I’ve a bill here for over a grand! The bed only cost me £1100 in the first place.”
“Exactly, Mr. Bonningham. Obviously, you are within your rights to ask for a refund or exchange, but that guarantee wouldn’t include the cost of fitting, or for that matter, the collection costs. I’m sorry, Mr. Bonningham, but should have said something before they unloaded the bed. There wouldn’t have been a problem then. Now that it’s in, you’d be better off to let sleeping dogs lie.”
I couldn’t believe my ears, but to be fair he did have a point. I really should have measured up the bed first. With a sigh of resignation, I thanked him for taking my call and hung up the phone.
Carrying the tea upstairs, I was glad to see that my wife was fast asleep.
July 29, 2015
Lunar Man
I knelt and kissed the ground. It was such a relief to be back on terra firma after almost three years in space. One stupid night’s prank had left me with a ten year prison sentence to serve. Then the offer had come. I could reduce my sentence for hard labour, working on the new lunar mining station. They were shipping convicts out like it was a new Australia. Naturally, I agreed. Only later did I realise the living hell I had signed up for.
Looking up at the moon, I felt saddened that his smile had now become eroded.
Looking up at the moon, I felt saddened that his smile had now become eroded.
July 26, 2015
The Soul-stealer Virus
A Window appeared on my laptop screen:
LETHAL VIRUS DETECTED
S0u15te@1er.666
PLEASE TAKE IMMIDIATE ACTION
Click HERE
It was accompanied by the usual warning sound.
I ignored it, figuring my antivirus software would deal with it, but it returned moments later. After the third such interruption, I clicked on the hyperlink.
It took me to a webpage, which explained in great and boring detail how malicious the Trojan S0u15te@1er.666 if left on my system. Rogue hackers had found a back door into my Windows system, and had access to all of my personal details. However, a simple patch was available, which would fix the problem and prevent any further contamination.
Naturally, I clicked and allowed the software to download.
Another window appeared with the usual terms and conditions. I scrolled down to the bottom without reading it, and clicked yes I was over 18, and yes, I had read and agreed with the terms and conditions … and then clicked the download button, followed shortly after by the Run button.
My laptop went back to normal, and I thought no more about it.
The following morning I woke in a semi -catatonic state. Vaguely, I heard something on the news while eating my cornflakes. It spoke about an unprecedented wave of violent crimes, shootings, mass murders etc. but I didn’t pay it any attention. Nothing new there. I just waited for the second cup of coffee to kick in before heading to work.
It was only when I heard the policeman shout “Drop your weapon!” that I finally awoke from the lethargy that had gripped me all morning.
In a daze, I looked around. I was standing on my desk, holding a submachine gun, though I didn’t own one. The barrel was hot and the air was thick with the smell of cordite. My finger was still tightly squeezing the trigger, but only an annoying clicking sound came from the gun.
Apparently, it had jammed.
My work colleagues lay around me, friends and co-workers that I had known for years. Blood pooled under some of their bodies, while others hid beneath their desks and whimpered in terror.
“Drop your weapon!” the SWAT team leader yelled again.
Confused, I did as he commanded. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it!” I mumbled, but he wasn’t interested.
“On the ground, NOW!”
Staggering, I made my way down from my desk and stumbled onto the acrylic carpeting, where I was soon trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
They read me my rights and dragged me away, blubbering like a baby.
Similar scenes were being re-played throughout the city; the country, all over the world, in fact.
It took the police forces several days to finally find the common denominator: S0u15te@1er.666, or rather the software patch that was supposed to fix the fictitious virus.
By clicking to sign the terms and conditions, I had signed away my soul.
The end of the world was at hand, and the Devil was playing to win.
LETHAL VIRUS DETECTED
S0u15te@1er.666
PLEASE TAKE IMMIDIATE ACTION
Click HERE
It was accompanied by the usual warning sound.
I ignored it, figuring my antivirus software would deal with it, but it returned moments later. After the third such interruption, I clicked on the hyperlink.
It took me to a webpage, which explained in great and boring detail how malicious the Trojan S0u15te@1er.666 if left on my system. Rogue hackers had found a back door into my Windows system, and had access to all of my personal details. However, a simple patch was available, which would fix the problem and prevent any further contamination.
Naturally, I clicked and allowed the software to download.
Another window appeared with the usual terms and conditions. I scrolled down to the bottom without reading it, and clicked yes I was over 18, and yes, I had read and agreed with the terms and conditions … and then clicked the download button, followed shortly after by the Run button.
My laptop went back to normal, and I thought no more about it.
The following morning I woke in a semi -catatonic state. Vaguely, I heard something on the news while eating my cornflakes. It spoke about an unprecedented wave of violent crimes, shootings, mass murders etc. but I didn’t pay it any attention. Nothing new there. I just waited for the second cup of coffee to kick in before heading to work.
It was only when I heard the policeman shout “Drop your weapon!” that I finally awoke from the lethargy that had gripped me all morning.
In a daze, I looked around. I was standing on my desk, holding a submachine gun, though I didn’t own one. The barrel was hot and the air was thick with the smell of cordite. My finger was still tightly squeezing the trigger, but only an annoying clicking sound came from the gun.
Apparently, it had jammed.
My work colleagues lay around me, friends and co-workers that I had known for years. Blood pooled under some of their bodies, while others hid beneath their desks and whimpered in terror.
“Drop your weapon!” the SWAT team leader yelled again.
Confused, I did as he commanded. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it!” I mumbled, but he wasn’t interested.
“On the ground, NOW!”
Staggering, I made my way down from my desk and stumbled onto the acrylic carpeting, where I was soon trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
They read me my rights and dragged me away, blubbering like a baby.
Similar scenes were being re-played throughout the city; the country, all over the world, in fact.
It took the police forces several days to finally find the common denominator: S0u15te@1er.666, or rather the software patch that was supposed to fix the fictitious virus.
By clicking to sign the terms and conditions, I had signed away my soul.
The end of the world was at hand, and the Devil was playing to win.
July 23, 2015
The Ork Raid
The Ork Mek, Double-Dekker, gripped the steering wheel of the ramshackle trukk as it screeched around a hairpin on two wheels.
“Faster!” roared the War Boss, Supersize-Me. He was eager to get to the warzone.
With a grunt, Double-Dekker hit the big red button on his dashboard, and the turbo kicked in, shooting the vehicle forward.
The Ork Boyz held on for dear life.
Buffalo-Wings, the Ammo Runt, was not so lucky. He tumbled out of the back of the trukk and ended up in the dirt.
He’d be lucky if the KFC was still standing when he got there.
“Faster!” roared the War Boss, Supersize-Me. He was eager to get to the warzone.
With a grunt, Double-Dekker hit the big red button on his dashboard, and the turbo kicked in, shooting the vehicle forward.
The Ork Boyz held on for dear life.
Buffalo-Wings, the Ammo Runt, was not so lucky. He tumbled out of the back of the trukk and ended up in the dirt.
He’d be lucky if the KFC was still standing when he got there.
July 21, 2015
Mr Wentworth’s Zombie Attack
The zombies battered against the shutters of the greengrocers, where Samuel Wentworth, and his wife Celia, hid amidst the crates of fruit and vegetables.
The shutters creaked, groaned, and gave way under the combined weight of the horde. Slowly, almost hesitantly, the undead stumbled into the store.
Grunting and sniffing loudly, they sought out their prey.
Soon, one of the undead raised his club and brought it down with a hollow thud.
His fellows gathered around and soon they were all feasting.
Grimy hands dipped into the shattered husk and gobbled up the red sticky goo. Apparently, zombies love watermelons.
The shutters creaked, groaned, and gave way under the combined weight of the horde. Slowly, almost hesitantly, the undead stumbled into the store.
Grunting and sniffing loudly, they sought out their prey.
Soon, one of the undead raised his club and brought it down with a hollow thud.
His fellows gathered around and soon they were all feasting.
Grimy hands dipped into the shattered husk and gobbled up the red sticky goo. Apparently, zombies love watermelons.
July 18, 2015
Aodhan’s Last Breath
Aodhan was the last Irish crannóg dweller. He lived on a manmade island on Lough-Na-Cranagh on the northern coast of Ireland. His family had lived there for countless generations, protected by its stone walls and the waters of the lough.
They were all gone now, and his island home was slipping into ruin.
The White Plague had massacred his extended family, taking them one by one. Within a matter of months, he was alone on the island. For some reason, the Old Gods had overlooked him. Aodhan was wise enough not to question the whims of the Old Gods. They had their reasons.
Life was good, however. The lough was rich with fish, and the nearby shores provided Aodhan with everything he could ask for; apart from human companionship.
He had become an outcast from society.
It hadn’t taken long for the nearby settlements to hear about the death of the Crannóg dwellers, and since then, Aodhan had become shunned. They believed him to be cursed. Some of the local fishermen had even gone as far as to throw stones at him while he was gathering reeds along the shore.
One dawn, while he was fishing in the early morning, Aodhan heard the sound of singing. A female voice slipped through the mist. So sweet was the sound that Aodhan knew that it must be the goddess, Boann, singing to the nearby family of swans.
Crouching low in his coracle, he paddled silently closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the goddess for she was fabled to be beautiful beyond words.
The sound of his paddle in the water sounded loud to his ears in the silence of the morning; even the birds had stopped their morning chorus to listen to the goddess’s song.
The goddess was singing in the native tongue of the people of Ireland, but the crannóg dwellers, like most of Ireland’s island clans, had never converted to the new tongue of the invaders, and they still spoke fluent Gaelic. The goddess’s song, however, was an ancient song. Even Aodhan struggled with some of the words. He understood enough, however, to know that her song was one of love.
Between one verse and the next, the song ended. For a moment all was silent on the water, and Aodhan strained to peer through the mist, hoping to still catch a glimpse of the deity.
“Who hides there amongst the reeds?” a female voice demanded. Her voice was as soft as doeskin, and yet it held a hint of anger within it that was not to be ignored.
In a panic, Aodhan crouched even lower in the boat. He knew enough about the fickleness of the Old Gods to know that his life was now in great peril.
“Come out!” she demanded, her tone sharper now. “I can sense your presence!”
“Forgive me, Goddess! I meant no wrong. I was only casting my nets in search of eels …” he pleaded. Lifting his paddle, he pushed the coracle forward, keeping his eyes averted. It was said that a man could go blind if he looked directly into the eyes of one of the Old Gods.
In moments he could see her naked feet and the hem of her dress. She was floating on the waters of the lough, perched on nothing more than some water lilies.
His eyes, with a will of their own, hungered to see more of her. Despite his best efforts, his head tilted and he found himself entranced by her beauty.
“What’s your name, mortal?”
“Aodhan Ó Corraidhín,” Aodhan replied.
“Do you know the penalty for looking upon my visage, mortal?” she demanded.
Aodhan was too enthralled to respond at first, but the flash of anger in her eyes was enough to force the word from his lips, “D-death!”
“Aye, death, and yet you risk it all?”
“I do,” he answered, feeling a little bolder. “I have nothing else to lose. My clan have all perished, and I’m the last of the Crannóg dwellers. Sometime soon, the White Plague must surely claim me, too.”
Her face softened. “You were not destined for the Otherworld, Aodhan. However, a price must be paid.”
Aodhan nodded and rose to his feet. He would go willingly to his death. “So be it, but might I be so bold as to ask for a farewell kiss?”
The goddess raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You’re a bold one, indeed!”
Aodhan shrugged. He was a dead man anyway. What did he have to lose?
To his surprise, the goddess broke into a smile and motioned his craft forward. Barely able to breath, he could only watch as the small boat slid through the lilies and stopped before the floating goddess.
“Such a waste,” she murmured. Raising her hands to his face, she leaned forward and kissed him.
It was not a chaste kiss, like the one Deirdre Ó Daimhín had given him a few years ago This kiss was hot and filled with passion, a kiss that sent fire into his loins and made his head swoon.
Then, the lips vanished, and so did Aodhan’s coracle.
He plunged into the bitterly cold water as if his feet were encumbered with a mill stone.
The water wasn’t deep here, but it was deep enough. Aodhan thrashed about in surprise. His limbs became entangled by water plants, and soon, he was struggling to hold his last breath.
Despite being a good swimmer, Aodhan found himself drowning. When he could hold his breath no longer, he finally accepted his fate and released the air from his lungs.
Lying at the bottom of the lough, he watched the bubbles of his life rising towards the surface, and in those final moments of life, he smiled.
He had kissed a goddess.
Not many people could claim that.
For a time, maybe seconds, maybe years, his mind drifted, and then, as if in a dream, he felt a hand reached down and drag him to the surface.
They were all gone now, and his island home was slipping into ruin.
The White Plague had massacred his extended family, taking them one by one. Within a matter of months, he was alone on the island. For some reason, the Old Gods had overlooked him. Aodhan was wise enough not to question the whims of the Old Gods. They had their reasons.
Life was good, however. The lough was rich with fish, and the nearby shores provided Aodhan with everything he could ask for; apart from human companionship.
He had become an outcast from society.
It hadn’t taken long for the nearby settlements to hear about the death of the Crannóg dwellers, and since then, Aodhan had become shunned. They believed him to be cursed. Some of the local fishermen had even gone as far as to throw stones at him while he was gathering reeds along the shore.
One dawn, while he was fishing in the early morning, Aodhan heard the sound of singing. A female voice slipped through the mist. So sweet was the sound that Aodhan knew that it must be the goddess, Boann, singing to the nearby family of swans.
Crouching low in his coracle, he paddled silently closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the goddess for she was fabled to be beautiful beyond words.
The sound of his paddle in the water sounded loud to his ears in the silence of the morning; even the birds had stopped their morning chorus to listen to the goddess’s song.
The goddess was singing in the native tongue of the people of Ireland, but the crannóg dwellers, like most of Ireland’s island clans, had never converted to the new tongue of the invaders, and they still spoke fluent Gaelic. The goddess’s song, however, was an ancient song. Even Aodhan struggled with some of the words. He understood enough, however, to know that her song was one of love.
Between one verse and the next, the song ended. For a moment all was silent on the water, and Aodhan strained to peer through the mist, hoping to still catch a glimpse of the deity.
“Who hides there amongst the reeds?” a female voice demanded. Her voice was as soft as doeskin, and yet it held a hint of anger within it that was not to be ignored.
In a panic, Aodhan crouched even lower in the boat. He knew enough about the fickleness of the Old Gods to know that his life was now in great peril.
“Come out!” she demanded, her tone sharper now. “I can sense your presence!”
“Forgive me, Goddess! I meant no wrong. I was only casting my nets in search of eels …” he pleaded. Lifting his paddle, he pushed the coracle forward, keeping his eyes averted. It was said that a man could go blind if he looked directly into the eyes of one of the Old Gods.
In moments he could see her naked feet and the hem of her dress. She was floating on the waters of the lough, perched on nothing more than some water lilies.
His eyes, with a will of their own, hungered to see more of her. Despite his best efforts, his head tilted and he found himself entranced by her beauty.
“What’s your name, mortal?”
“Aodhan Ó Corraidhín,” Aodhan replied.
“Do you know the penalty for looking upon my visage, mortal?” she demanded.
Aodhan was too enthralled to respond at first, but the flash of anger in her eyes was enough to force the word from his lips, “D-death!”
“Aye, death, and yet you risk it all?”
“I do,” he answered, feeling a little bolder. “I have nothing else to lose. My clan have all perished, and I’m the last of the Crannóg dwellers. Sometime soon, the White Plague must surely claim me, too.”
Her face softened. “You were not destined for the Otherworld, Aodhan. However, a price must be paid.”
Aodhan nodded and rose to his feet. He would go willingly to his death. “So be it, but might I be so bold as to ask for a farewell kiss?”
The goddess raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You’re a bold one, indeed!”
Aodhan shrugged. He was a dead man anyway. What did he have to lose?
To his surprise, the goddess broke into a smile and motioned his craft forward. Barely able to breath, he could only watch as the small boat slid through the lilies and stopped before the floating goddess.
“Such a waste,” she murmured. Raising her hands to his face, she leaned forward and kissed him.
It was not a chaste kiss, like the one Deirdre Ó Daimhín had given him a few years ago This kiss was hot and filled with passion, a kiss that sent fire into his loins and made his head swoon.
Then, the lips vanished, and so did Aodhan’s coracle.
He plunged into the bitterly cold water as if his feet were encumbered with a mill stone.
The water wasn’t deep here, but it was deep enough. Aodhan thrashed about in surprise. His limbs became entangled by water plants, and soon, he was struggling to hold his last breath.
Despite being a good swimmer, Aodhan found himself drowning. When he could hold his breath no longer, he finally accepted his fate and released the air from his lungs.
Lying at the bottom of the lough, he watched the bubbles of his life rising towards the surface, and in those final moments of life, he smiled.
He had kissed a goddess.
Not many people could claim that.
For a time, maybe seconds, maybe years, his mind drifted, and then, as if in a dream, he felt a hand reached down and drag him to the surface.
July 15, 2015
The Hanged Man
The body swung freely on the wind, dangling from the sturdy limb of the oak tree. Crows protested shrilly to my invasion, before flapping off to higher branches.
I stepped cautiously closer, ignoring the stench and the annoying buzzing of the flies. I wanted to see who it was that hung from the tree.
No, that wasn’t really true. I desperately needed to see. I needed closure. After days of torment, I needed to know who hung from the stout branch.
My feet rustled in the crisp frost covered leaves as I approached. Finally, I could look upon the mottled face, hanging upside down from my trap. The face meant nothing to me. I had never seen this man before.
Why then had he been prowling around in my back garden, night after night?
His hair was long, greasy, and knotted in places. His tangled beard was equally unkempt. His clothes were as unwashed as the rest of him, ragged and ill-fitting. He also smelled rather badly, and probably had done so before his untimely death. There was a cloying stench of cheap whiskey, tobacco, and stale sweat about him. It made me gag and waft my hand before my nose.
I was tempted to go no closer, but I had to know. Why was he here? Was he spying on me for some reason? Was he a pervert? Had he been watching me undress each night? Had he broken into my home and stolen anything? Had he stood over me while I slept?
What had brought him here in the middle of winter? How long had he been visiting the garden while I slept, unknowing?
It had been the snow that had finally given my trespasser away. A few days ago I had woken to see a blanket of snow covering my back garden. I’d squealed in delight and hurried to get dressed, eager to be outside and play in the snow. I had plans of making a snowman as I had done as a child, when my father was still alive.
My joy had quickly turned sour, however, when I saw the stranger’s footprints in the snow.
It snowed again the following night, and again, there was fresh prints in the snow come morning.
At first I considered calling the police, but after some thought, I decided against it.
No. This was something personal. My inner sanctuary had been violated. I felt betrayed. I was angry. I wanted revenge.
I never meant to kill anyone.
Once I knew who it was, I was going to call the police and let them arrest the perpetrator … Once I’d made it quite clear that my garden was out of bounds.
In the darkest depths of my mind, I might have briefly considered some mild torture, but nothing serious. Nothing permanent.
It hadn’t taken me long to learn what I needed to know. It’s surprising the things you can learn these days, thanks to the internet.
To my surprise, the trap had worked perfectly; well apart from the fact that I now had a dead hobo in my back yard. How was I going to explain that to the local constabulary?
I analysed my dilemma, weighing up the chances of me getting caught if I said nothing and just buried the stinking tramp in my raised bed, along with the dahlias. He smelled like he’d make good fertiliser. He was already half composted as it was.
First things first. I’d have to cut him down. I hoped rigor mortis hadn’t set in, but it was hard to tell. It was colder than a nun’s heart out her.
Moving to the garden shed, I selected some gardening gloves, a garden fork, shovel, and finally, my trusty pruning shears. They were state of the art, or so I’d been told, and they had cost me a small fortune. I only ever used them once a year to prune the apple trees.
Placing my equipment in the wheelbarrow, I trundled back down the garden to where the tramp still hung from the tree like a side of bacon.
Heading for the base of the oak, I picked up the shears and started to cut through the narrow rope I’d used to make my mantrap. One by one, the threads gave way, and then with an almighty twang, the last of the rope snapped apart and the dead body crashed into the dirt.
“Oomph!”
The sound came from the dead body, and at first I thought it was just air being forced out of the lungs as the dead man fell, but then the dead man muttered, “Bugger! That hurt!”
I squealed with fright and brandished the shears menacingly as the tramp staggered shakily to his feet. He seemed disorientated.
I’m sure I’d be disorientated too, if I’d just spent half the night hanging upside down, and then landed head first in the dirt.”
Turning around, he noticed me for the first time. “Easy, Missy,” he placated. “There’s no need to get all het up now!”
Discarding the shears, I grabbed the garden fork instead and stood my ground. “No need to get all het up!” I mimicked. “I thought you were dead, for fuck sake!”
He hobbled a few feet closer, limping on the leg which was still attached to the rope of the snare. His hands were held out in front of him and spoke softly. It was like he was trying to calm a rabid dog. “It’s okay, Missy. I don’t mean you no harm!”
“What’re you doing in my garden then!” I demanded, waving the fork at him menacingly. “You scared the crap out of me!”
He stopped, taking time to finally assess the situation. With a look of bewilderment, he studied the rope, still attached to his ankle. “Is this you’re doin’?” he asked mildly.
I nodded my head, unable to answer. Adrenaline coursed through my body and I wasn’t sure if I was angry or terrified. It was one of those fight or flight moments.
“Well … no real harm done, I guess. Look, I’m sorry, I’d best be on me way …”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. To make matters worse, I still didn’t know what he was doing in my garden. Grasping hold of my courage before it fled me all together, I hissed, “What were you doing in my garden?”
“It’s been a bit cold recently, Missy, that’s all. I didn’t steal nuffin’, honest. I was just sleeping in yonder shed. A man could freeze to death out ‘ere on nights like these. I’ve seen it with me own eyes!”
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to allow him to continue sleeping in my shed. “I’ve already called the police,” I lied. “They’ll be here any minute. You’d best be gone before they get here, or there’ll be all hell to pay.”
He nodded, smiled softly in thanks, and backed slowly away. When he reached the far end of the garden, he turned and clambered over the wooden fence. In seconds, he was gone.
“And don’t come back,” I shouted after him, before me waning courage finally left me.
It was then that the nerves kicked in, shaking me to the core. I barely made it back to the house, I was shaking so badly. Locking the patio doors behind me, I staggered into the kitchen to make myself a strong pot of tea.
I looked long and hard at the phone. I even reached for it a couple of times, but I didn’t have the heart to call the police. I felt sure that my midnight intruder had learned his lesson.
I stepped cautiously closer, ignoring the stench and the annoying buzzing of the flies. I wanted to see who it was that hung from the tree.
No, that wasn’t really true. I desperately needed to see. I needed closure. After days of torment, I needed to know who hung from the stout branch.
My feet rustled in the crisp frost covered leaves as I approached. Finally, I could look upon the mottled face, hanging upside down from my trap. The face meant nothing to me. I had never seen this man before.
Why then had he been prowling around in my back garden, night after night?
His hair was long, greasy, and knotted in places. His tangled beard was equally unkempt. His clothes were as unwashed as the rest of him, ragged and ill-fitting. He also smelled rather badly, and probably had done so before his untimely death. There was a cloying stench of cheap whiskey, tobacco, and stale sweat about him. It made me gag and waft my hand before my nose.
I was tempted to go no closer, but I had to know. Why was he here? Was he spying on me for some reason? Was he a pervert? Had he been watching me undress each night? Had he broken into my home and stolen anything? Had he stood over me while I slept?
What had brought him here in the middle of winter? How long had he been visiting the garden while I slept, unknowing?
It had been the snow that had finally given my trespasser away. A few days ago I had woken to see a blanket of snow covering my back garden. I’d squealed in delight and hurried to get dressed, eager to be outside and play in the snow. I had plans of making a snowman as I had done as a child, when my father was still alive.
My joy had quickly turned sour, however, when I saw the stranger’s footprints in the snow.
It snowed again the following night, and again, there was fresh prints in the snow come morning.
At first I considered calling the police, but after some thought, I decided against it.
No. This was something personal. My inner sanctuary had been violated. I felt betrayed. I was angry. I wanted revenge.
I never meant to kill anyone.
Once I knew who it was, I was going to call the police and let them arrest the perpetrator … Once I’d made it quite clear that my garden was out of bounds.
In the darkest depths of my mind, I might have briefly considered some mild torture, but nothing serious. Nothing permanent.
It hadn’t taken me long to learn what I needed to know. It’s surprising the things you can learn these days, thanks to the internet.
To my surprise, the trap had worked perfectly; well apart from the fact that I now had a dead hobo in my back yard. How was I going to explain that to the local constabulary?
I analysed my dilemma, weighing up the chances of me getting caught if I said nothing and just buried the stinking tramp in my raised bed, along with the dahlias. He smelled like he’d make good fertiliser. He was already half composted as it was.
First things first. I’d have to cut him down. I hoped rigor mortis hadn’t set in, but it was hard to tell. It was colder than a nun’s heart out her.
Moving to the garden shed, I selected some gardening gloves, a garden fork, shovel, and finally, my trusty pruning shears. They were state of the art, or so I’d been told, and they had cost me a small fortune. I only ever used them once a year to prune the apple trees.
Placing my equipment in the wheelbarrow, I trundled back down the garden to where the tramp still hung from the tree like a side of bacon.
Heading for the base of the oak, I picked up the shears and started to cut through the narrow rope I’d used to make my mantrap. One by one, the threads gave way, and then with an almighty twang, the last of the rope snapped apart and the dead body crashed into the dirt.
“Oomph!”
The sound came from the dead body, and at first I thought it was just air being forced out of the lungs as the dead man fell, but then the dead man muttered, “Bugger! That hurt!”
I squealed with fright and brandished the shears menacingly as the tramp staggered shakily to his feet. He seemed disorientated.
I’m sure I’d be disorientated too, if I’d just spent half the night hanging upside down, and then landed head first in the dirt.”
Turning around, he noticed me for the first time. “Easy, Missy,” he placated. “There’s no need to get all het up now!”
Discarding the shears, I grabbed the garden fork instead and stood my ground. “No need to get all het up!” I mimicked. “I thought you were dead, for fuck sake!”
He hobbled a few feet closer, limping on the leg which was still attached to the rope of the snare. His hands were held out in front of him and spoke softly. It was like he was trying to calm a rabid dog. “It’s okay, Missy. I don’t mean you no harm!”
“What’re you doing in my garden then!” I demanded, waving the fork at him menacingly. “You scared the crap out of me!”
He stopped, taking time to finally assess the situation. With a look of bewilderment, he studied the rope, still attached to his ankle. “Is this you’re doin’?” he asked mildly.
I nodded my head, unable to answer. Adrenaline coursed through my body and I wasn’t sure if I was angry or terrified. It was one of those fight or flight moments.
“Well … no real harm done, I guess. Look, I’m sorry, I’d best be on me way …”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. To make matters worse, I still didn’t know what he was doing in my garden. Grasping hold of my courage before it fled me all together, I hissed, “What were you doing in my garden?”
“It’s been a bit cold recently, Missy, that’s all. I didn’t steal nuffin’, honest. I was just sleeping in yonder shed. A man could freeze to death out ‘ere on nights like these. I’ve seen it with me own eyes!”
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to allow him to continue sleeping in my shed. “I’ve already called the police,” I lied. “They’ll be here any minute. You’d best be gone before they get here, or there’ll be all hell to pay.”
He nodded, smiled softly in thanks, and backed slowly away. When he reached the far end of the garden, he turned and clambered over the wooden fence. In seconds, he was gone.
“And don’t come back,” I shouted after him, before me waning courage finally left me.
It was then that the nerves kicked in, shaking me to the core. I barely made it back to the house, I was shaking so badly. Locking the patio doors behind me, I staggered into the kitchen to make myself a strong pot of tea.
I looked long and hard at the phone. I even reached for it a couple of times, but I didn’t have the heart to call the police. I felt sure that my midnight intruder had learned his lesson.
