Nav Logan's Blog, page 19
March 19, 2015
Trouble
I guess you could say that I came from the wrong side of the tracks. I grew up in a little flea-bitten dive down by the railroad, and had never had any breaks in life.
My Da?, Shit, I never met him. He was some mean ugly mother who had wandered into town and took a fancy to my Ma. It was a short affair and he was gone with the dawn, never to be seen again.
My Ma, well, she was alright, I guess, though she had little time for me once I was big enough to fend for myself. She couldn’t wait to see the back of me. She called me Trouble, and the name stuck.
I grew up in a street gang, and quickly learned how to survive. We got by on intimidation and petty larceny. I was a big gangly youth, all elbows, so I quickly rose in the ranks and became the enforcer. If fate had been kind, one day I could have been top dog, but I was never that lucky.
One day, we were on the prowl, looking for soft touches to make ends meet. We were passing a local deli when the smell of food drove me to rashness. Slipping inside, I grabbed the first thing I could see and started wolfing it down. The pie was delicious, though I nearly choked to death when the owner shouted, "Hey, grab that little theif!”
Snarling, I jumped away and crashed through the door. Soon, I was out in the street, but my homeys had scarpered and I was on my own. I legged it. I could hear the sounds of pursuit, big feet on tarmac, and then I heard a whistle shrieking shrilly as the local police took up the call.
I ran into an alley hoping to hide, but they were hot on my heels. Dashing through the trash cans I made it into the street beyond, hoping to lose them in the traffic.
That was when the delivery truck slammed into me, and that was the end of my freedom.
Battered and bruised, I was lucky to be alive, or maybe not so lucky after all. I found myself in a six by six with bars all around. I called out, demanding release and pleading my innocence, but they ignored me. Eventually, hoarse from shouting, I gave up and settled down on the hard bunk.
Depression set in and it hit me hard. I whined and pleaded whenever they came to bring me food, but was denied my freedom. Soon, I just wanted to lay down and die.
People came occasionally to visit. They were all strangers and looked at me with judgemental eyes, before turning away and dismissing me. I begged them, told them I was sorry and I wouldn’t do it again, but it all fell on deaf ears.
Finally, my wardens came and led me away, to a quiet room away from the other inmates. So this was it, I thought. They are going to execute me now, for the crimes I had committed.
They sedated me with a small injection and laid me down on a cold steel table. Strapping me down, they put a drip into my leg and soon I was slipping into unconsciousness. The bright light overhead pulled me towards heaven and I was gone.
I awoke some time later, with a halo strapped around me head. If this was heaven, I’d been robbed. I was back in a cell, and staggered painfully to my feet. My throat was dry so I drank a little water, before slipping back off to sleep.
I awoke again, and the halo was still there. Time passed and my wardens brought me food and fresh water, but I was passed caring.
Then one day something strange happened. It was the day that they took away my halo. That was the day my life changed.
A family arrived to visit. They were very friendly and kept pointing at me and laughing, but not in a mocking way. Finally, the wardens came and opened the doors of my cell.
I thought about doing a runner, but I was still a little tender and unsure of myself, so I waited to see what was happening. The children squealed and burst into my cell, rushing up and stroking me, petting me, and hugging me like a long lost friend.
It was a strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one. I quickly learned to like it, and my tail wagged joyfully, wanting more. Before I knew it, I was on the end of a lead, and walking away from the prison with my new family. I had indeed gone to heaven.
All it had cost me was a set of balls.
My Da?, Shit, I never met him. He was some mean ugly mother who had wandered into town and took a fancy to my Ma. It was a short affair and he was gone with the dawn, never to be seen again.
My Ma, well, she was alright, I guess, though she had little time for me once I was big enough to fend for myself. She couldn’t wait to see the back of me. She called me Trouble, and the name stuck.
I grew up in a street gang, and quickly learned how to survive. We got by on intimidation and petty larceny. I was a big gangly youth, all elbows, so I quickly rose in the ranks and became the enforcer. If fate had been kind, one day I could have been top dog, but I was never that lucky.
One day, we were on the prowl, looking for soft touches to make ends meet. We were passing a local deli when the smell of food drove me to rashness. Slipping inside, I grabbed the first thing I could see and started wolfing it down. The pie was delicious, though I nearly choked to death when the owner shouted, "Hey, grab that little theif!”
Snarling, I jumped away and crashed through the door. Soon, I was out in the street, but my homeys had scarpered and I was on my own. I legged it. I could hear the sounds of pursuit, big feet on tarmac, and then I heard a whistle shrieking shrilly as the local police took up the call.
I ran into an alley hoping to hide, but they were hot on my heels. Dashing through the trash cans I made it into the street beyond, hoping to lose them in the traffic.
That was when the delivery truck slammed into me, and that was the end of my freedom.
Battered and bruised, I was lucky to be alive, or maybe not so lucky after all. I found myself in a six by six with bars all around. I called out, demanding release and pleading my innocence, but they ignored me. Eventually, hoarse from shouting, I gave up and settled down on the hard bunk.
Depression set in and it hit me hard. I whined and pleaded whenever they came to bring me food, but was denied my freedom. Soon, I just wanted to lay down and die.
People came occasionally to visit. They were all strangers and looked at me with judgemental eyes, before turning away and dismissing me. I begged them, told them I was sorry and I wouldn’t do it again, but it all fell on deaf ears.
Finally, my wardens came and led me away, to a quiet room away from the other inmates. So this was it, I thought. They are going to execute me now, for the crimes I had committed.
They sedated me with a small injection and laid me down on a cold steel table. Strapping me down, they put a drip into my leg and soon I was slipping into unconsciousness. The bright light overhead pulled me towards heaven and I was gone.
I awoke some time later, with a halo strapped around me head. If this was heaven, I’d been robbed. I was back in a cell, and staggered painfully to my feet. My throat was dry so I drank a little water, before slipping back off to sleep.
I awoke again, and the halo was still there. Time passed and my wardens brought me food and fresh water, but I was passed caring.
Then one day something strange happened. It was the day that they took away my halo. That was the day my life changed.
A family arrived to visit. They were very friendly and kept pointing at me and laughing, but not in a mocking way. Finally, the wardens came and opened the doors of my cell.
I thought about doing a runner, but I was still a little tender and unsure of myself, so I waited to see what was happening. The children squealed and burst into my cell, rushing up and stroking me, petting me, and hugging me like a long lost friend.
It was a strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one. I quickly learned to like it, and my tail wagged joyfully, wanting more. Before I knew it, I was on the end of a lead, and walking away from the prison with my new family. I had indeed gone to heaven.
All it had cost me was a set of balls.
March 18, 2015
The Lost Ones
The best form of defence is offence, isn’t that what they say?
Feeling like I’m drowning in a mire of banality and mediocrity, I grasp at any lifeline; any way to maintain my sanity.
Walking through the crowded streets, I am alone in my own thoughts. I cannot connect to the world around me. My social synapsis have been severed, that’s if they were ever there to begin with. I’ve resigned myself to being an outcast.
Some seek to self-harm, uncomfortable with their place in society, but me, I embrace it. I dye my hair and fly the freak flag.
Feeling like I’m drowning in a mire of banality and mediocrity, I grasp at any lifeline; any way to maintain my sanity.
Walking through the crowded streets, I am alone in my own thoughts. I cannot connect to the world around me. My social synapsis have been severed, that’s if they were ever there to begin with. I’ve resigned myself to being an outcast.
Some seek to self-harm, uncomfortable with their place in society, but me, I embrace it. I dye my hair and fly the freak flag.
The Faerie Whisperer
Many people hear the sounds of the faery folk, but remain oblivious. Most hear but do not listen. Some are attuned to the whispers on the breeze and wake up buzzing with ideas. These are the artists, the poets, and the dreamers.
You can sometimes spot them in a crowd by the twinkle in their eyes. They possess the secret knowledge.
One man stands apart. His grin is broad and his gaze vacant. Occasionally, an unnoticed drool slips free from his smiling lips.
They declared him mad many years ago, and care for him now.
He is the Faerie Whisperer.
You can sometimes spot them in a crowd by the twinkle in their eyes. They possess the secret knowledge.
One man stands apart. His grin is broad and his gaze vacant. Occasionally, an unnoticed drool slips free from his smiling lips.
They declared him mad many years ago, and care for him now.
He is the Faerie Whisperer.
March 17, 2015
The Whispered Visions
Sleep comes sporadically. I’m barely asleep when the dreams come; visions that haunt me when I wake. Eventually, I always give up and rise with the dawn.
Desperate to purge the visions from my brain, I start to type.
The dreams always seem so real, like a window into Ireland’s past. I have to wonder where they all come from. Sometimes they are so lifelike that I startle awake, sweat dripping from every pore and struggling to catch my breath.
I wish the faerie folk would let me sleep, for just one night, but their tales need to be told.
Desperate to purge the visions from my brain, I start to type.
The dreams always seem so real, like a window into Ireland’s past. I have to wonder where they all come from. Sometimes they are so lifelike that I startle awake, sweat dripping from every pore and struggling to catch my breath.
I wish the faerie folk would let me sleep, for just one night, but their tales need to be told.
Emigration
NO PETS - NO COLOUREDS - NO IRISH
I read the sign again, thinking that I must be imagining it, but no.
With a sigh, I turned away from the dosshouse.
Taking out my pen, I crossed the advert off in my newspaper and walked away. That had been my last possibility, and the night was drawing in. It’d been a long and painful journey and I had nothing to show for it.
I’d be sleeping under a bush, again.
London was a strange place, so different from my home town. The people here talked funny and no one seemed to smile.
I read the sign again, thinking that I must be imagining it, but no.
With a sigh, I turned away from the dosshouse.
Taking out my pen, I crossed the advert off in my newspaper and walked away. That had been my last possibility, and the night was drawing in. It’d been a long and painful journey and I had nothing to show for it.
I’d be sleeping under a bush, again.
London was a strange place, so different from my home town. The people here talked funny and no one seemed to smile.
March 16, 2015
Country Logic
The farmer leaned against the gate chuckling to his own private joke.
Cars hurtled passed frantically on the road outside, commuters struggling to cope with the annual theft. They would arrive at work dishevelled and lost. It would take them days to recover from the shock of the ordeal.
Mothers would drag their children to school, bleary-eyed, and with a bad case of bed-head. Their brains would be working on remote control.
He could barely contain his amusement.
Summer or winter, he’d rise to the sound of his cock crowing, and work until dusk. Daylight saving! Who were they kidding?
Cars hurtled passed frantically on the road outside, commuters struggling to cope with the annual theft. They would arrive at work dishevelled and lost. It would take them days to recover from the shock of the ordeal.
Mothers would drag their children to school, bleary-eyed, and with a bad case of bed-head. Their brains would be working on remote control.
He could barely contain his amusement.
Summer or winter, he’d rise to the sound of his cock crowing, and work until dusk. Daylight saving! Who were they kidding?
March 12, 2015
Leaving
He watched me in silence as I packed and prepared to leave. I filled a small suitcase with my essentials; clothes, toothbrush, mouthwash, make-up.
His eyes raised when I lifted up his favourite flask. “You can’t take that! I’m going fishing later.”
“Oh, fine. Keep it then!” I hissed, pulling the quilt off the bed and leaving him lying there naked. For a brief moment, I was tempted to stay.
“Not the quilt!” he protested.
“I might get cold,” I explained.
I left before more bitter words were spoken. I needed to get to the store before the sale began.
His eyes raised when I lifted up his favourite flask. “You can’t take that! I’m going fishing later.”
“Oh, fine. Keep it then!” I hissed, pulling the quilt off the bed and leaving him lying there naked. For a brief moment, I was tempted to stay.
“Not the quilt!” he protested.
“I might get cold,” I explained.
I left before more bitter words were spoken. I needed to get to the store before the sale began.
March 11, 2015
The Haunted Ones
The daemon haunts my dreams. I’m barely asleep when I hear him roaring.
I’m becoming an insomniac.
I walk around the house like a zombie, catching a few winks here and there whenever I can, but as soon as I slip into slumber, he senses it and he erupts, demanding my attention.
I barely eat anymore, and my nerves are so frayed that I burst into tears without any reason.
My husband has the same hollow-eyed look as I. He suffers the wrath of the daemon, too.
We love our baby, honest we do, but we just need some sleep.
I’m becoming an insomniac.
I walk around the house like a zombie, catching a few winks here and there whenever I can, but as soon as I slip into slumber, he senses it and he erupts, demanding my attention.
I barely eat anymore, and my nerves are so frayed that I burst into tears without any reason.
My husband has the same hollow-eyed look as I. He suffers the wrath of the daemon, too.
We love our baby, honest we do, but we just need some sleep.
Four Drunks
They had been celebrating Padraig’s name day since early morning, and by now, they were all well into their cups. Padraig had insisted that they watch the GAA Club Finals, though none of them understood the rules.
Still, it could be worse.
Last year on Drew’s name day, Drew had insisted on playing a game of Shinty.
Georgey-boy had ended up with concussion after a very dodgy clip around the back of the head, while he wasn’t looking. No one had admitted to the deed afterward, but they all knew the culprit.
“... I still don’t get it,” complained George. “You’re not even Irish.”
“Ach! He’s at it again!” chimed in Drew. “That’s just typical of a wee Sassenach!”
George ignored the big Scot and continued his tirade. “It doesn’t seem fair, that’s all. All you did was evict a few snakes, and they gave you a bloody sainthood!”
“It’s a metaphor, Georgey-boy. I broke the stranglehold of druidism and brought Christ’s name to the heathens ...”
“Yes, but that was a piece of cake. I had to kill a bleedin’ dragon to get my sainthood, and he was a mean bugger too! Then, they decide that killing an evil dragon isn’t saintly enough! What do they bleedin’ want?”
“While we’re on the subject of dragon slaying ... we’re still not happy about that,” chimed in David, who they thought had passed out in the corner. “It’s not right, so it isn’t!”
“Listen, Taffy. It wasn’t your villages that the brute was burning to the ground ...” growled George with his usual belligerence. “Or you’re maidens he was gobbling up by the dozen. No dragon in his right mind would eat welsh peasants.”
“He was the last of our noble Welsh Dragons! Their majestic race is now extinct, and all because you thought it would be fun to go dragon hunting.”
Padraig drained his pint and decided to change the subject. “It’s your round, Drew. Get them in before the second half starts, will ya?”
“What! It can’t be my round already!” protested Drew.
“It is!” assured Padraic, with a smirk. “Georgey-boy bought the last round. Don’t you remember?”
In truth, they’d long lost count of whose round it was, but by an unwritten law, whenever they were in doubt, it was Drew’s round. Naturally, they never revealed this philosophy to the inebriated Scot. That would ruin the joke.
With a heavy sigh, Drew stood up and adjusted his sporran, before barging through the busy pub to the bar.
“He falls for it every time,” Davey commented with a soft grin.
“It’s still not fair,” exclaimed George, who hadn’t given up on the argument, even though no one was interested.
“Build a bridge, Georgey-boy! Build a feckin’ bridge!” advised Padraig, knowing that the Englishman was still seething over last weekend’s Six Nations loss.
Still, it could be worse.
Last year on Drew’s name day, Drew had insisted on playing a game of Shinty.
Georgey-boy had ended up with concussion after a very dodgy clip around the back of the head, while he wasn’t looking. No one had admitted to the deed afterward, but they all knew the culprit.
“... I still don’t get it,” complained George. “You’re not even Irish.”
“Ach! He’s at it again!” chimed in Drew. “That’s just typical of a wee Sassenach!”
George ignored the big Scot and continued his tirade. “It doesn’t seem fair, that’s all. All you did was evict a few snakes, and they gave you a bloody sainthood!”
“It’s a metaphor, Georgey-boy. I broke the stranglehold of druidism and brought Christ’s name to the heathens ...”
“Yes, but that was a piece of cake. I had to kill a bleedin’ dragon to get my sainthood, and he was a mean bugger too! Then, they decide that killing an evil dragon isn’t saintly enough! What do they bleedin’ want?”
“While we’re on the subject of dragon slaying ... we’re still not happy about that,” chimed in David, who they thought had passed out in the corner. “It’s not right, so it isn’t!”
“Listen, Taffy. It wasn’t your villages that the brute was burning to the ground ...” growled George with his usual belligerence. “Or you’re maidens he was gobbling up by the dozen. No dragon in his right mind would eat welsh peasants.”
“He was the last of our noble Welsh Dragons! Their majestic race is now extinct, and all because you thought it would be fun to go dragon hunting.”
Padraig drained his pint and decided to change the subject. “It’s your round, Drew. Get them in before the second half starts, will ya?”
“What! It can’t be my round already!” protested Drew.
“It is!” assured Padraic, with a smirk. “Georgey-boy bought the last round. Don’t you remember?”
In truth, they’d long lost count of whose round it was, but by an unwritten law, whenever they were in doubt, it was Drew’s round. Naturally, they never revealed this philosophy to the inebriated Scot. That would ruin the joke.
With a heavy sigh, Drew stood up and adjusted his sporran, before barging through the busy pub to the bar.
“He falls for it every time,” Davey commented with a soft grin.
“It’s still not fair,” exclaimed George, who hadn’t given up on the argument, even though no one was interested.
“Build a bridge, Georgey-boy! Build a feckin’ bridge!” advised Padraig, knowing that the Englishman was still seething over last weekend’s Six Nations loss.
March 10, 2015
A Chance Meeting
Standing in the crowded lift, daydreaming to the ambient music, I didn’t notice her at first. I was only when the other passengers departed, the doors shut and we were alone, that I noticed the soft sweet fragrance of her perfume. It brought me back to reality, and I looked over at her.
She was wearing a tight, black, figure-hugging dress, stockings and high heels. I spent some happy moments admiring her buttocks and fantasising about making love to her in the lift.
PING
The doors opened and she stepped out. Looking back, the transvestite smiled at me and winked.
She was wearing a tight, black, figure-hugging dress, stockings and high heels. I spent some happy moments admiring her buttocks and fantasising about making love to her in the lift.
PING
The doors opened and she stepped out. Looking back, the transvestite smiled at me and winked.
