Nav Logan's Blog, page 7
September 28, 2015
Coffin Ships
For the last few weeks, I like most of us, have watched the lines of desperate refugees heading into Europe, seeking a new life away from the war torn countries they called home, or being crammed into ships in the hope that they will survive the rough seas and find sanctuary. I have been torn for a long time about writing about it, but can't help but feel that history is repeating itself, I cannot help but feel the resonance to the coffin ships that were packed with starving Irish and Scottish peasants, or to the American Indians who were forced off their lands and forced to march half way across America to some desolate wasteland that the US government decided was of so little worth that it was worth giving to the Indians. Anyway, i finally managed to put pen to paper today and write something about it.
Coffin Ships by Nav Logan
The coffin ships sail, packed to the gills with the desperate,
The homeless; the starving masses.
They seek a new life; a better life, fleeing the ravages of war, famine, and persecution.
Dead wash up on foreign shores,
Bloated children, torn from their mothers arms,
Do we greet them with open arms; open hearts or show them the hard face of prejudice,
The might of our guns, and the hatred in our eyes?
Others follow a new Trail of Tears,
Migrating to the reservations we allocate them.
They didn’t create the problem. We must work to find a solution.
Coffin Ships by Nav Logan
The coffin ships sail, packed to the gills with the desperate,
The homeless; the starving masses.
They seek a new life; a better life, fleeing the ravages of war, famine, and persecution.
Dead wash up on foreign shores,
Bloated children, torn from their mothers arms,
Do we greet them with open arms; open hearts or show them the hard face of prejudice,
The might of our guns, and the hatred in our eyes?
Others follow a new Trail of Tears,
Migrating to the reservations we allocate them.
They didn’t create the problem. We must work to find a solution.
Bridgín’s Rescue
The night was silent as a graveyard.
My feet crunched through the snow, as I headed up the hill. The moon shone brightly, eerily lighting the way. My breath clouded as I staggered on, following the trail of blood.
I adjusted the heavy blunderbuss that lay across my back, praying that the old relic still worked. It had hung above our fireplace for so long, I couldn’t be sure.
Stooping, I touched the blood in the snow, rubbing it between my fingertips. It was still fresh. The child’s bare footprints beside the blood looked so tiny that I fought back my tears. She had fallen here, my little Bridgín, before being dragged back to her feet and forced onward.
I studied the footprints of her kidnapper. They were as tiny as my child’s, although closer study revealed certain differences. Each footprint showed long claw-like nails that cut deep into the snow. What manner of creature had stolen my daughter ... and why?
Stamping my feet against the cold, I continued on. It was a bitterly cold night to be out, especially for a child dressed only in her nightgown.
Finally, I reached the crest of the hill and could go no further. Before me was an impenetrable wall of thorns and briars. The footprints had led me to the ancient hill fort.
“Bridgín!” I yelled.
Did I hear mocking laughter on the breeze, or was that my imagination?
“Bridgín, where are you?”
A shadow stirred within the thorns. I strained to see who, or what, it was.
“Bridgín, is that you?”
This time, the raspy cackle was not my imagination. It came from the shadowy figure that lurked before me.
“What have you done with my daughter?” I demanded, pulling the ancient gun from off my shoulder and aiming it at the Daoine Sidhe.
A bony finger pointed down the hill. “You have disturbed my sleep, Fiachra McMorrow. A price will need to be paid!”
Looking down the hill, I saw my snow-covered excavator sitting idly. Nearby was a pile of thorn bushes I had cleared earlier in the week.
My father had always warned me about messing with faerie forts, but work was hard to come by in this current economic recession.
“Give me back my daughter!” I demanded, raising the old gun.
The creature hissed, “You cannot harm me, mortal!”
“We’ll see about that,” I mumbled, pulling the trigger.
The blunderbuss deafened me. My shoulder felt like it had been kicked by a mule.
When the smoke finally cleared, the creature was gone.
“Bridgín!” I called again.
I heard a muffled whimpering from within the undergrowth, and soon I found my daughter, alive and well. “You’re safe now.”
Together, we hurried home, never looking back.
Had I killed the beast, or merely frightened it away?
I hadn’t used lead pellets. I’d used shards of cold iron, and blessed my ammunition with holy water.
Nevertheless, they’d need to find another fool to clear the scrub from off this hill.
My feet crunched through the snow, as I headed up the hill. The moon shone brightly, eerily lighting the way. My breath clouded as I staggered on, following the trail of blood.
I adjusted the heavy blunderbuss that lay across my back, praying that the old relic still worked. It had hung above our fireplace for so long, I couldn’t be sure.
Stooping, I touched the blood in the snow, rubbing it between my fingertips. It was still fresh. The child’s bare footprints beside the blood looked so tiny that I fought back my tears. She had fallen here, my little Bridgín, before being dragged back to her feet and forced onward.
I studied the footprints of her kidnapper. They were as tiny as my child’s, although closer study revealed certain differences. Each footprint showed long claw-like nails that cut deep into the snow. What manner of creature had stolen my daughter ... and why?
Stamping my feet against the cold, I continued on. It was a bitterly cold night to be out, especially for a child dressed only in her nightgown.
Finally, I reached the crest of the hill and could go no further. Before me was an impenetrable wall of thorns and briars. The footprints had led me to the ancient hill fort.
“Bridgín!” I yelled.
Did I hear mocking laughter on the breeze, or was that my imagination?
“Bridgín, where are you?”
A shadow stirred within the thorns. I strained to see who, or what, it was.
“Bridgín, is that you?”
This time, the raspy cackle was not my imagination. It came from the shadowy figure that lurked before me.
“What have you done with my daughter?” I demanded, pulling the ancient gun from off my shoulder and aiming it at the Daoine Sidhe.
A bony finger pointed down the hill. “You have disturbed my sleep, Fiachra McMorrow. A price will need to be paid!”
Looking down the hill, I saw my snow-covered excavator sitting idly. Nearby was a pile of thorn bushes I had cleared earlier in the week.
My father had always warned me about messing with faerie forts, but work was hard to come by in this current economic recession.
“Give me back my daughter!” I demanded, raising the old gun.
The creature hissed, “You cannot harm me, mortal!”
“We’ll see about that,” I mumbled, pulling the trigger.
The blunderbuss deafened me. My shoulder felt like it had been kicked by a mule.
When the smoke finally cleared, the creature was gone.
“Bridgín!” I called again.
I heard a muffled whimpering from within the undergrowth, and soon I found my daughter, alive and well. “You’re safe now.”
Together, we hurried home, never looking back.
Had I killed the beast, or merely frightened it away?
I hadn’t used lead pellets. I’d used shards of cold iron, and blessed my ammunition with holy water.
Nevertheless, they’d need to find another fool to clear the scrub from off this hill.
September 27, 2015
The Fallen
The bodies of the fallen lay all around; gone, but not forgotten.
The sick bays are overflowing.
I look into the eyes of my companions and see the question in their eyes; the same question that haunts my mind.
Who will be next?
Which one of us would suffer the curse and join our fallen comrades?
The dragon’s roar is muted now, as our chances of victory slip farther and farther away.
How many more good men can we lose before we implode?
We’re already scraping the bottom of the barrel for backs to play on the Welsh rugby team.
The sick bays are overflowing.
I look into the eyes of my companions and see the question in their eyes; the same question that haunts my mind.
Who will be next?
Which one of us would suffer the curse and join our fallen comrades?
The dragon’s roar is muted now, as our chances of victory slip farther and farther away.
How many more good men can we lose before we implode?
We’re already scraping the bottom of the barrel for backs to play on the Welsh rugby team.
The Rose Fertilizer
“Hi, Gran,” greeted Johnny.
“Oh, hello, dear. How’ve you been?”
“Where’s Granda?” Johnny asked, noting his absence.
“The old fool’s out back. He’s fertilizing the roses.”
Johnny gazed through the window at the freshly dug raised beds. He could see no sign of his grandfather.
“He was always getting under my feet, making a mess around the place, and I’d had enough, so I thought I might as well get him to do something useful.”
Nervously, Johnny looked again at the garden.
His grandmother had joked occasionally about murdering her husband.
Grandfather appeared from behind the shed, pushing a wheelbarrow.
“Oh, hello, dear. How’ve you been?”
“Where’s Granda?” Johnny asked, noting his absence.
“The old fool’s out back. He’s fertilizing the roses.”
Johnny gazed through the window at the freshly dug raised beds. He could see no sign of his grandfather.
“He was always getting under my feet, making a mess around the place, and I’d had enough, so I thought I might as well get him to do something useful.”
Nervously, Johnny looked again at the garden.
His grandmother had joked occasionally about murdering her husband.
Grandfather appeared from behind the shed, pushing a wheelbarrow.
September 24, 2015
Charlie the Hog
There’s always one, isn’t there? You know: the Hog! The guy who takes your last beer out of the fridge. That guy. That’s Charlie, alright.
Every Friday night , me and the lads get together to watch the game. It’s become a tradition. Whoevers turn it is buys the pizzas and a few cold ones. Charlie always eats more than his fair share, but the worst bit is his hogging of the parmesan cheese. He devours the stuff, and that shit isn’t cheap.
“You got any parmesan?” he demands one evening.
“Oh sorry, Charlie! I think I’ve got a bit left in the fridge,” I reply with a smile. “Hang on, I’ll go get it for you.”
I return moments later with a jam jar, half full of creamy powder flakes. I’ve even punched some holes into the lid to make it easier to shake out.
Charlie the Hog shakes the jar for a few seconds and then grows impatient. His pizza is getting cold, so he unscrews the lid and pours the cheesy flakes onto his plate of pizza. He nearly empties the jar, not offering any of the cheese to the other guys.
Taking a huge bite, he mumbles between a mouthful of pizza, “This stuff tastes a bit strange. Has it gone off?”
“Nah! I only got it today.” I reply, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s a new chicken flavoured variety. I bought it from that new deli that opened up in town. I thought it’d go well with your Hawaiian.”
“Cool!” Charlie takes another big bite of his pizza, slugging it down with one of my beers.
The other lads smile, but say nothing. They’re all in on the joke. We’d been saving dandruff for the last couple of weeks so we can fill up the jar. I’d even gone as far as emptying the callus flakes out my wife’s Pedispin, to add some body to the mixture and additional flavour.
We’d all had enough of Charlie the Hog. It was time for some payback.
Charlie still doesn’t know that he’s a cannibal now.
Every Friday night , me and the lads get together to watch the game. It’s become a tradition. Whoevers turn it is buys the pizzas and a few cold ones. Charlie always eats more than his fair share, but the worst bit is his hogging of the parmesan cheese. He devours the stuff, and that shit isn’t cheap.
“You got any parmesan?” he demands one evening.
“Oh sorry, Charlie! I think I’ve got a bit left in the fridge,” I reply with a smile. “Hang on, I’ll go get it for you.”
I return moments later with a jam jar, half full of creamy powder flakes. I’ve even punched some holes into the lid to make it easier to shake out.
Charlie the Hog shakes the jar for a few seconds and then grows impatient. His pizza is getting cold, so he unscrews the lid and pours the cheesy flakes onto his plate of pizza. He nearly empties the jar, not offering any of the cheese to the other guys.
Taking a huge bite, he mumbles between a mouthful of pizza, “This stuff tastes a bit strange. Has it gone off?”
“Nah! I only got it today.” I reply, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s a new chicken flavoured variety. I bought it from that new deli that opened up in town. I thought it’d go well with your Hawaiian.”
“Cool!” Charlie takes another big bite of his pizza, slugging it down with one of my beers.
The other lads smile, but say nothing. They’re all in on the joke. We’d been saving dandruff for the last couple of weeks so we can fill up the jar. I’d even gone as far as emptying the callus flakes out my wife’s Pedispin, to add some body to the mixture and additional flavour.
We’d all had enough of Charlie the Hog. It was time for some payback.
Charlie still doesn’t know that he’s a cannibal now.
September 23, 2015
Getting Rid of Godzilla
“Dad! He’s at it again!” my son yells, looking out of the window.
Cursing, I race to the back door. The sight I witness is not something you want to see before breakfast. My neighbour’s huge dog has managed to get into the back yard again, and he is squatting in the middle of my garden, tail hovering over my ornamental fish pond, and straining for all he’s worth. I yell, but it is already far too late. His payload has already started to fall.
Looking around the rest of my carefully manicured garden, I see that the dog has been busy. It looks like I’ve been attacked by a plague of moles. There are holes everywhere.
Godzilla, the neighbour’s Great Dane, looks at me with a puzzled expression on his ugly mutt and trots off, leaping the border fence like a gazelle.
The sprinkler system kicks in, which helps to wash away my tears. I am left distraught and alone in the garden in my soggy pyjamas.
I’m at my wits end. I’ve tried everything, well apart from shooting the damned dog, that is. To be fair it’s not Godzilla’s fault. It’s my lazy no good neighbour.
I’ve complained until I’m blue in the face, but the fat pillock next door just ignores me.
I’ve raised the fence, twice in fact, but the dog still manages to get over it. If I raise it any more, my garden will be in perpetual shade, and that won’t help my prize roses one bit.
But I have a plan, and it’s almost ready for fruition. I’ve been working on a way to get the neighbours to move out. I’ve tried all the obvious options, but they proved to be dead ends. Now it was time for something more radical.
It started a couple of months ago. I bought a few fish tanks from eBay and converted them for my purpose. I then started collecting healthy specimens wherever I could find them. Soon, I had an intense breeding program in place. Now, there were literally hundreds of them in there, juicy fat specimens, and tiny wriggly ones that would be a bugger to catch. It was time to put my plan into action.
2a.m. My alarm clock went off. Quietly, I slipped out of bed, so as not to wake the wife. Moments later, I was dressed from head to foot in black, a veritable ninja with a miner’s torch strapped to my forehead. Slipping down to the shed at the bottom of my garden, I collected my arsenal and set off.
Carefully, so as not to wake Godzilla, I prised open the neighbour’s letterbox and propped it up with a stick to keep it from closing. Opening the first of the plastic containers, I looked at my last few weeks work and smiled. They were perfect.
Over the next half hour, I poured hundreds of spiders into my neighbours letterbox. By the end of it, I was sweating like a pig, but I was confident my plan would work. You see, my neighbour suffers from arachnophobia. I felt confident that he’d be gone within the week. Even if he called in the experts to eradicate the spiders, I had plenty more of them lurking in the shed, ready to replace them the following night.
Cursing, I race to the back door. The sight I witness is not something you want to see before breakfast. My neighbour’s huge dog has managed to get into the back yard again, and he is squatting in the middle of my garden, tail hovering over my ornamental fish pond, and straining for all he’s worth. I yell, but it is already far too late. His payload has already started to fall.
Looking around the rest of my carefully manicured garden, I see that the dog has been busy. It looks like I’ve been attacked by a plague of moles. There are holes everywhere.
Godzilla, the neighbour’s Great Dane, looks at me with a puzzled expression on his ugly mutt and trots off, leaping the border fence like a gazelle.
The sprinkler system kicks in, which helps to wash away my tears. I am left distraught and alone in the garden in my soggy pyjamas.
I’m at my wits end. I’ve tried everything, well apart from shooting the damned dog, that is. To be fair it’s not Godzilla’s fault. It’s my lazy no good neighbour.
I’ve complained until I’m blue in the face, but the fat pillock next door just ignores me.
I’ve raised the fence, twice in fact, but the dog still manages to get over it. If I raise it any more, my garden will be in perpetual shade, and that won’t help my prize roses one bit.
But I have a plan, and it’s almost ready for fruition. I’ve been working on a way to get the neighbours to move out. I’ve tried all the obvious options, but they proved to be dead ends. Now it was time for something more radical.
It started a couple of months ago. I bought a few fish tanks from eBay and converted them for my purpose. I then started collecting healthy specimens wherever I could find them. Soon, I had an intense breeding program in place. Now, there were literally hundreds of them in there, juicy fat specimens, and tiny wriggly ones that would be a bugger to catch. It was time to put my plan into action.
2a.m. My alarm clock went off. Quietly, I slipped out of bed, so as not to wake the wife. Moments later, I was dressed from head to foot in black, a veritable ninja with a miner’s torch strapped to my forehead. Slipping down to the shed at the bottom of my garden, I collected my arsenal and set off.
Carefully, so as not to wake Godzilla, I prised open the neighbour’s letterbox and propped it up with a stick to keep it from closing. Opening the first of the plastic containers, I looked at my last few weeks work and smiled. They were perfect.
Over the next half hour, I poured hundreds of spiders into my neighbours letterbox. By the end of it, I was sweating like a pig, but I was confident my plan would work. You see, my neighbour suffers from arachnophobia. I felt confident that he’d be gone within the week. Even if he called in the experts to eradicate the spiders, I had plenty more of them lurking in the shed, ready to replace them the following night.
September 22, 2015
Writers Tears
Peader Ó Flaithbertaigh was renowned throughout Ireland for his poitín. People came from far and wide to sample a drop of his prestigious brew. His was the finest Uisce Beatha. The King of the Faeries had decreed it so, and it was said that he had once bested Fionn Mac Cumhaill in a game of Fidchell.
Peader’s magical brew jokingly referred to his poitín as ‘Writers Tears’.
The secret recipe had been handed down from father to son for twelve generations, and Peader wasn’t going to be the one to let the secret recipe of the Ó Flaithbertaighs fall into the greedy hands of another distiller.
Peader kept his whiskey still hidden away in a cave, high up in the MacGillycuddy's Reeks. He would climb the mountain in the dead of night to avoid prying eyes. Once he was sure that the coast was clear, he would slip through the narrow opening that led into his secret hideaway, and disappear from sight.
On more than one occasion he had been followed by cunning unscrupulous men, but he had vanished so quickly and quietly that they swore he had been whisked away by the faerie folk. Search though they might, they could not find the cleverly hidden entrance to his lair.
Deep within the warren of caves, Peader would light a small peat fire over his copper still and wait patiently for his magic to work.
Often, he would fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that the peat smoke would seep out through the many cracks in the rock and dissipate harmlessly, without detection.
Only one other person knew of the location of his still, and that was his close friend and confident, the Leprechaun King: Oisín MacCreight.
Oisín arrived a few hours later, for it was the night of the full moon and time to brew another batch of poitín. Oisín had the soft feet of his race, but Peader still heard him coming and was awake by the time the leprechaun appeared.
“Ah, MacCreight, a chara! You’re just in time. What have you brought me this time?”
Oisín licked his lips in anticipation. One of the joys of helping Peader with his magical potion was the quality assurance. Each batch had to be vigorously tested before it was released for public consumption, and who better to test it than the king of the leprechauns. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.
“I think you’ll be happy with my contribution this time, Peader. My lads have worked tirelessly over the last moon to capture only the best ingredients for you.”
Rummaging around in his small sack, Oisín produced a number of small vials. “Firstly, I have some of the finest melancholy from Patrick Kavanagh himself. I gather he’s working on a new poem at the moment and it’s not going well. These tears were collected while he slept.”
Peader examined the first vial, which was half full of clear liquid. “Excellent, Oisín! Kavanagh has always produced a fine delicate flavour. What else have you got?”
Oisín smiled. “I have three vials of the best from Behan! The poor devil is tormented at the moment. He hasn’t written a single word in weeks, and drowns his sorrows in the cursed porter. One of my lads collected these from him while he was sleeping it off on a park bench in Stephens Green.”
“Ach, the poor crater! He truly is the last of the great bards. Still, his loss will be our gain. He will give body to this brew.”
“Finally, I have something special for you; a rare potion of despondency from one of Ireland’s finest writers,” declared Oisín, showing his final vial.
“Who is it from, a chara?” asked Peader, feeling a tingle of excitement.
“I captured this sample myself,” boasted Oisín, “While he was writing a new piece he is working on. He didn’t even know I was there, so lost was he in his woes.”
“Tell me more,” coaxed Peader.
“These sacred waterworks are from none other than W. B Yeats himself! He was working on something about a shepherd at the time. I didn’t hang around to hear the completed poem, but it was clearly a mighty powerful piece of prose. I do hope he finishes it.”
Peader smiled. “I think we have enough magic here for something really special; something my father, may he rest in peace, would have been proud off. This might even compare to the batch he brewed while Oscar Wilde was rotting away in that cursed English gaol. By God, let’s get started!”
Eagerly, they set to work.
Peader’s magical brew jokingly referred to his poitín as ‘Writers Tears’.
The secret recipe had been handed down from father to son for twelve generations, and Peader wasn’t going to be the one to let the secret recipe of the Ó Flaithbertaighs fall into the greedy hands of another distiller.
Peader kept his whiskey still hidden away in a cave, high up in the MacGillycuddy's Reeks. He would climb the mountain in the dead of night to avoid prying eyes. Once he was sure that the coast was clear, he would slip through the narrow opening that led into his secret hideaway, and disappear from sight.
On more than one occasion he had been followed by cunning unscrupulous men, but he had vanished so quickly and quietly that they swore he had been whisked away by the faerie folk. Search though they might, they could not find the cleverly hidden entrance to his lair.
Deep within the warren of caves, Peader would light a small peat fire over his copper still and wait patiently for his magic to work.
Often, he would fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that the peat smoke would seep out through the many cracks in the rock and dissipate harmlessly, without detection.
Only one other person knew of the location of his still, and that was his close friend and confident, the Leprechaun King: Oisín MacCreight.
Oisín arrived a few hours later, for it was the night of the full moon and time to brew another batch of poitín. Oisín had the soft feet of his race, but Peader still heard him coming and was awake by the time the leprechaun appeared.
“Ah, MacCreight, a chara! You’re just in time. What have you brought me this time?”
Oisín licked his lips in anticipation. One of the joys of helping Peader with his magical potion was the quality assurance. Each batch had to be vigorously tested before it was released for public consumption, and who better to test it than the king of the leprechauns. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.
“I think you’ll be happy with my contribution this time, Peader. My lads have worked tirelessly over the last moon to capture only the best ingredients for you.”
Rummaging around in his small sack, Oisín produced a number of small vials. “Firstly, I have some of the finest melancholy from Patrick Kavanagh himself. I gather he’s working on a new poem at the moment and it’s not going well. These tears were collected while he slept.”
Peader examined the first vial, which was half full of clear liquid. “Excellent, Oisín! Kavanagh has always produced a fine delicate flavour. What else have you got?”
Oisín smiled. “I have three vials of the best from Behan! The poor devil is tormented at the moment. He hasn’t written a single word in weeks, and drowns his sorrows in the cursed porter. One of my lads collected these from him while he was sleeping it off on a park bench in Stephens Green.”
“Ach, the poor crater! He truly is the last of the great bards. Still, his loss will be our gain. He will give body to this brew.”
“Finally, I have something special for you; a rare potion of despondency from one of Ireland’s finest writers,” declared Oisín, showing his final vial.
“Who is it from, a chara?” asked Peader, feeling a tingle of excitement.
“I captured this sample myself,” boasted Oisín, “While he was writing a new piece he is working on. He didn’t even know I was there, so lost was he in his woes.”
“Tell me more,” coaxed Peader.
“These sacred waterworks are from none other than W. B Yeats himself! He was working on something about a shepherd at the time. I didn’t hang around to hear the completed poem, but it was clearly a mighty powerful piece of prose. I do hope he finishes it.”
Peader smiled. “I think we have enough magic here for something really special; something my father, may he rest in peace, would have been proud off. This might even compare to the batch he brewed while Oscar Wilde was rotting away in that cursed English gaol. By God, let’s get started!”
Eagerly, they set to work.
The Walk Home
This is a short story about bullying, which was swirling through my brain last night while I was sleeping.
Despite his better judgement, Paulie opted to take the shortcut home through the town’s park. It would have taken longer to circumvent the park, and he was tired. It had been a long day at work and he just wanted to get home to his bed.
He could see the lights above the gates at the far end of the park. He was nearly there now. He was in the process of berating the whiny voice in the back of his mind that had insisted he should avoid the park when a shadow stepped out into the pathway. It was quickly followed by others.
“You must be lost!” declared the first shadow, swaggering forward to where Paulie had stopped.
Pushing away his concerns, Paulie started walking again, intending to pass the youths by, “No, I’m fine, thanks. I live just over that hill there, in Sunnydale Street.”
The leader of the group stopped Paulie from going any farther by placing a firm hand on his chest. “No, you’re lost, cos this ‘ere’s our turf! You don’t belong ‘ere.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know that. I meant no disrespect. Look, I’ll go around next time, if you’d like.”
“I’m afraid it ain’t that easy. You see, there’s a toll to pay for trespassing,” informed the thug.
“How much?” Paulie asked nervously.
“How much you got?”
“Hand over ya wallet,” added another of the youths, with a cocky confidence in his voice. By now, Paulie was surrounded. He didn’t know how many of them there were, but there was certainly enough, and they were mainly bigger than he was.
“Listen lads, I don’t want any trouble …”
“Then pay up!” quipped another of the youths, “Or else…”
Paulie didn’t need to ask what the or else was. He could figure that one out for himself.
The whiny voice in his head that had warned him to go around the park was already reaching into his jacket for his wallet. There was most of his week’s wages inside. He’d only been paid yesterday. He’d already given his Ma the week’s housekeeping, and he’d paid for his bus pass to work, so the rest, what little there was, was his to spend. He’d need a few quid for lunches, and he’d planned to take his girlfriend to the cinema on Saturday, but that looked like a lost cause now. Still, it was better to cancel the date than pay the cost of dental treatment after having his teeth kicked in.
There was another part of Paulie’s brain, however; a part that resisted. Paulie wasn’t big, or particularly strong, or athletically orientated, and he had suffered many such bullies during his short life. He’d learned to hate bullies and all that they stood for.
They say that you should not hold on to your hate. You should build a bridge and get over it. Holding on to such emotions was corrosive. Paulie understood this, but it was easier said than done. He didn’t go to bed each night and plot for revenge over the many bullies he had the misfortune to cross over the years, but somewhere, deep inside, he could remember each and every one of them. He knew their faces. He could even recite most of their names, should he need to. Mentally, they were carved into the bark of an oak tree in a small dark area in the back of his brain; a place called Hate.
Being a bright and positive looking lad, he didn’t dwell on this place often, but there was no denying its existence. Looking around at the spotty faces of the youths before him, he mentally added their faces to his list.
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble, lads.” he pleaded. “Just let me go home … please. I’ve had a shitty day.”
“Awww, did ya ‘ere that! He’s had a shitty day,” the group’s jester echoed. He was a smaller youth and he hung back slightly from the others, just in case punches started to swing. He’d wait until the job was nearly over, and then step forward to get a few digs in too. “Let’s do ‘im in!”
“Shut da fuck up, Sparky! No one asked your opinion,” barked the leader of the gang. Turning to Paulie, he said in a softer voice, “Just hand it over. You don’t want to do anything stupid.”
The whiny voice in Paulie’s head agreed wholeheartedly, and was already reaching for the wallet.
It was in Paulie’s hand now, inches away from the leader’s bigger mitt. “Here, this is all I’ve got,” Paulie heard himself mumble.
Their hands met, with Paulie’s tiny leather wallet between them.
It had been a Christmas present from his mum, “You’ll need a proper wallet now,” she had said. “Now that you’ve got yourself a job and are earning your own way in the world. You’ve become a man, and a man needs a proper wallet.”
The other voice in Paulie’s head wasn’t saying anything. It knew that this wasn’t the time for words. There was no point in arguing with the whiny voice, but Paulie burned with righteous indignation.
This wasn’t fair.
Paulie didn’t think about what he did next, he just did it. He was even a little surprised himself when he pulled the leader towards himself and rammed his knee into the other youth’s crotch.
Everyone stopped dead in surprise, even Paulie, but thankfully he was the first to recover. Yanking back his wallet, he pushed past the youths, and started to run for the lights at the end of the park.
Paulie might not have been what you call athletic, but years of being bullied had taught him how to run. He could run like the wind when the need arose, and this was one of those times. Adrenaline pumped through his system, and he ran as if his life depended on it, which it probably did.
“Get dat fucker!” yelled someone behind him, which only added a renewed energy to Paulie’s flight. That Jamaican fella, Insane Bolt, would have been impressed of Paulie’s acceleration. His feet were hardly touching the ground as he passed under the gates and started up the hill, heading for home.
He could hear footsteps behind him and renewed his effort as the incline started to take the toll on his lungs. He was still running when he turned the corner into Sunnydale Street, and didn’t dare look back.
He slowed only slightly as he neared his front door, digging the keys out of his trouser pocket while doing a strange hopping run. Damn these new snug fitting jeans with their deep pockets.
It took him valuable seconds to slot the key into the door and turn the lock, but he needn’t have rushed. His pursuers had already given up the chase. Their lungs weren’t built for hill running.
Bursting into the sanctuary of his home, Paulie locked and bolted the door, while catching his breath.
“Is that you, dear?” asked his mum.
“Yeah, Ma,” he replied.
“Are you okay? You sound out of breath.”
“I’m fine. I just ran up the hill, that’s all.”
“What on earth did you do that for?”
“Ach, no reason,” Paulie lied, finally catching his breath. “I just thought it’d be fun.”
“Ya silly sausage! I’ve ya supper in the oven. I’m off to bed,G'night, dear.”
"Night, Ma,"
Despite his better judgement, Paulie opted to take the shortcut home through the town’s park. It would have taken longer to circumvent the park, and he was tired. It had been a long day at work and he just wanted to get home to his bed.
He could see the lights above the gates at the far end of the park. He was nearly there now. He was in the process of berating the whiny voice in the back of his mind that had insisted he should avoid the park when a shadow stepped out into the pathway. It was quickly followed by others.
“You must be lost!” declared the first shadow, swaggering forward to where Paulie had stopped.
Pushing away his concerns, Paulie started walking again, intending to pass the youths by, “No, I’m fine, thanks. I live just over that hill there, in Sunnydale Street.”
The leader of the group stopped Paulie from going any farther by placing a firm hand on his chest. “No, you’re lost, cos this ‘ere’s our turf! You don’t belong ‘ere.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know that. I meant no disrespect. Look, I’ll go around next time, if you’d like.”
“I’m afraid it ain’t that easy. You see, there’s a toll to pay for trespassing,” informed the thug.
“How much?” Paulie asked nervously.
“How much you got?”
“Hand over ya wallet,” added another of the youths, with a cocky confidence in his voice. By now, Paulie was surrounded. He didn’t know how many of them there were, but there was certainly enough, and they were mainly bigger than he was.
“Listen lads, I don’t want any trouble …”
“Then pay up!” quipped another of the youths, “Or else…”
Paulie didn’t need to ask what the or else was. He could figure that one out for himself.
The whiny voice in his head that had warned him to go around the park was already reaching into his jacket for his wallet. There was most of his week’s wages inside. He’d only been paid yesterday. He’d already given his Ma the week’s housekeeping, and he’d paid for his bus pass to work, so the rest, what little there was, was his to spend. He’d need a few quid for lunches, and he’d planned to take his girlfriend to the cinema on Saturday, but that looked like a lost cause now. Still, it was better to cancel the date than pay the cost of dental treatment after having his teeth kicked in.
There was another part of Paulie’s brain, however; a part that resisted. Paulie wasn’t big, or particularly strong, or athletically orientated, and he had suffered many such bullies during his short life. He’d learned to hate bullies and all that they stood for.
They say that you should not hold on to your hate. You should build a bridge and get over it. Holding on to such emotions was corrosive. Paulie understood this, but it was easier said than done. He didn’t go to bed each night and plot for revenge over the many bullies he had the misfortune to cross over the years, but somewhere, deep inside, he could remember each and every one of them. He knew their faces. He could even recite most of their names, should he need to. Mentally, they were carved into the bark of an oak tree in a small dark area in the back of his brain; a place called Hate.
Being a bright and positive looking lad, he didn’t dwell on this place often, but there was no denying its existence. Looking around at the spotty faces of the youths before him, he mentally added their faces to his list.
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble, lads.” he pleaded. “Just let me go home … please. I’ve had a shitty day.”
“Awww, did ya ‘ere that! He’s had a shitty day,” the group’s jester echoed. He was a smaller youth and he hung back slightly from the others, just in case punches started to swing. He’d wait until the job was nearly over, and then step forward to get a few digs in too. “Let’s do ‘im in!”
“Shut da fuck up, Sparky! No one asked your opinion,” barked the leader of the gang. Turning to Paulie, he said in a softer voice, “Just hand it over. You don’t want to do anything stupid.”
The whiny voice in Paulie’s head agreed wholeheartedly, and was already reaching for the wallet.
It was in Paulie’s hand now, inches away from the leader’s bigger mitt. “Here, this is all I’ve got,” Paulie heard himself mumble.
Their hands met, with Paulie’s tiny leather wallet between them.
It had been a Christmas present from his mum, “You’ll need a proper wallet now,” she had said. “Now that you’ve got yourself a job and are earning your own way in the world. You’ve become a man, and a man needs a proper wallet.”
The other voice in Paulie’s head wasn’t saying anything. It knew that this wasn’t the time for words. There was no point in arguing with the whiny voice, but Paulie burned with righteous indignation.
This wasn’t fair.
Paulie didn’t think about what he did next, he just did it. He was even a little surprised himself when he pulled the leader towards himself and rammed his knee into the other youth’s crotch.
Everyone stopped dead in surprise, even Paulie, but thankfully he was the first to recover. Yanking back his wallet, he pushed past the youths, and started to run for the lights at the end of the park.
Paulie might not have been what you call athletic, but years of being bullied had taught him how to run. He could run like the wind when the need arose, and this was one of those times. Adrenaline pumped through his system, and he ran as if his life depended on it, which it probably did.
“Get dat fucker!” yelled someone behind him, which only added a renewed energy to Paulie’s flight. That Jamaican fella, Insane Bolt, would have been impressed of Paulie’s acceleration. His feet were hardly touching the ground as he passed under the gates and started up the hill, heading for home.
He could hear footsteps behind him and renewed his effort as the incline started to take the toll on his lungs. He was still running when he turned the corner into Sunnydale Street, and didn’t dare look back.
He slowed only slightly as he neared his front door, digging the keys out of his trouser pocket while doing a strange hopping run. Damn these new snug fitting jeans with their deep pockets.
It took him valuable seconds to slot the key into the door and turn the lock, but he needn’t have rushed. His pursuers had already given up the chase. Their lungs weren’t built for hill running.
Bursting into the sanctuary of his home, Paulie locked and bolted the door, while catching his breath.
“Is that you, dear?” asked his mum.
“Yeah, Ma,” he replied.
“Are you okay? You sound out of breath.”
“I’m fine. I just ran up the hill, that’s all.”
“What on earth did you do that for?”
“Ach, no reason,” Paulie lied, finally catching his breath. “I just thought it’d be fun.”
“Ya silly sausage! I’ve ya supper in the oven. I’m off to bed,G'night, dear.”
"Night, Ma,"
September 21, 2015
The Party
I enter the nightclub nervously, and yet tingling with excitement. I’m immediately hit by a wall of noise. The party is in full swing.
I squeeze past a couple who are blocking my passage. They barely notice me. Their tongue piercings are making sweet music together.
Entering the dance floor, I know I’ve come to the right place. This is all that I had expected, and more. It’s full of tight fitting basques and leather outfits; a dominatrix paradise. Strangers gyrate beneath strobe lights, the weird and the bizarre, and I fit right in.
Welcome to the steampunk convention.
I squeeze past a couple who are blocking my passage. They barely notice me. Their tongue piercings are making sweet music together.
Entering the dance floor, I know I’ve come to the right place. This is all that I had expected, and more. It’s full of tight fitting basques and leather outfits; a dominatrix paradise. Strangers gyrate beneath strobe lights, the weird and the bizarre, and I fit right in.
Welcome to the steampunk convention.
September 19, 2015
The Séance
We huddled around the worn out kitchen table, which had been recently covered in an Indian style silk scarf to add mood to the scene. The room was dimly lit by flickering candles. The air was infused with expectation, a little trepidation, and the cloying reek of incense burners.
“Is there anybody therrrrrreeeeee!” intoned Widow McCarty dramatically. She was taking her self-appointed role as the local district’s seer far too seriously for my liking, but still, she had volunteered to host the event and even had splashed out on a large packet of jammy dodgers, so no one was complaining.
“Is there anybody therrrrrreeeeee!” she repeated, her face transforming into a coma victim as she continued, “Knock once for yes.”
Many years of playing the lead role in the local theatre association were coming to the fore as she rolled her eyes theatrically about as if she was possessed.
If she started projectile vomiting I was out of there.
KNOCK … KNOCK!
We all looked a little surprised at the double knock. Was that a no … or two yesses? Even Agnes McCarthy opened her eyes in surprise. Tentatively, she asked, “Are we being blessed by the spirits of those who have passed on to the next life?”
KNOCK … KNOCK
“Is that a yes, or a no?”
“KNOCK!”
“So that’s a yes then?”
KNOCK … KNOCK
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Make up your bloody mind,” grumbles Mrs Cartwright, who was sitting to my left.
“Who’s banging the table?” accused Mr Burns. “Quit bollocking about. This is supposed to be serious! I want to commune with my Fanny.”
“It wasn’t me!” I protested.
“Me neither,” assured Mrs Cartwright.
“Nor me,” said Widow McCarthy.
All eyes turned to Ms Price, who had remained quiet throughout the proceedings. She said nothing.
It was hard to discern her eyes through the tinted glasses she perpetually wore. She had briefly been a rock star during the sixties before drug abuse had gotten the better of her, and she still strutted around as if she was Bono’s mum.
We all leaned closer and Widow McCarthy whispered, “Ms Price? Was that you?”
A soft purring sound slipped out of the spinster’s throat, a whisper of a snore. Looking closer, we could see a glistening on Maggie Price’s chin where she had started to droll in her sleep.
“Bloody space cadet! I told you it was a bad idea to invite her,” grumbled Jack Burns.
“I didn’t invite her … I thought you did!” protested Widow McCarthy.
Further debate was interrupted by a persistent knocking. The spirits of the deceased were becoming impatient.
“I think we’d better use the Ouija board,” declared Agnes.
We all looked at the recently procured contraption that Widow McCarthy had ordered through eBay. It was a ‘Nemesis Now TALKING BOARD OUIJA SPIRIT BOARD Pagan with GLASS & PLANCHETTE’, whatever that meant. We had been assured by Agnes that it was state of the art, and it had cost her a whole fifty quid plus postage and packing. This was another reason why we had agreed to her being the self-appointed seer. No one else was mad enough to splash out so much of their pension on an afternoon’s dalliance.
Reading the directions, Agnes instructed, “We all need to each place a fingertip on the glass.”
In for a penny, in for fifty quid, as the old saying goes.
Hesitantly, we did as instructed. After all, the widow still hadn’t opened up her jammy dodgers.
The glass immediately started to move.
HI~THERE~LOVIES~ITS~PATRICE~HERE~I~THINK~I~LEFT~THE~GAS~ON~CAN~SOMEONE~POP~ROUND~TO~MY~GAFF~AND~CHECK~
We were too stunned to respond. The message started again …
HI~THERE~LOVIES~ITS~PATRICE~FALLON~HERE~I~THINK~I~LEFT …
Finally, Widow McCarthy pulled herself together and replied, “Errr … Hi Patrice. I’m sorry, but you did indeed leave the gas on! When you came home from bingo last Wednesday night… well … the explosion destroyed the bottom half of the street.”
OH~DEAR~~~WHAT~ABOUT~OUR~TIDDLES~
“She survived the blast, though she was a little scorched during the blast. However, I’m sorry to say, she was run over by the milk float this morning … we’re err … sorry for your loss!”
KNOCK …KNOCK
SIGH~IVE~GOTTA~GO~THERES~A~LOT~OF~OTHER~PEOPLE~HERE~WAITING~TO~SPEAK~TO~YOU~ILL~PUT~YOU~ONTO~MR~CARMICHAEL~I~THINK~HES~LOOKING~FOR~HIS~FALSE~TEETH~~~AGAIN~SEE~YOU~ALL~SOON~~
“Is there anybody therrrrrreeeeee!” intoned Widow McCarty dramatically. She was taking her self-appointed role as the local district’s seer far too seriously for my liking, but still, she had volunteered to host the event and even had splashed out on a large packet of jammy dodgers, so no one was complaining.
“Is there anybody therrrrrreeeeee!” she repeated, her face transforming into a coma victim as she continued, “Knock once for yes.”
Many years of playing the lead role in the local theatre association were coming to the fore as she rolled her eyes theatrically about as if she was possessed.
If she started projectile vomiting I was out of there.
KNOCK … KNOCK!
We all looked a little surprised at the double knock. Was that a no … or two yesses? Even Agnes McCarthy opened her eyes in surprise. Tentatively, she asked, “Are we being blessed by the spirits of those who have passed on to the next life?”
KNOCK … KNOCK
“Is that a yes, or a no?”
“KNOCK!”
“So that’s a yes then?”
KNOCK … KNOCK
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Make up your bloody mind,” grumbles Mrs Cartwright, who was sitting to my left.
“Who’s banging the table?” accused Mr Burns. “Quit bollocking about. This is supposed to be serious! I want to commune with my Fanny.”
“It wasn’t me!” I protested.
“Me neither,” assured Mrs Cartwright.
“Nor me,” said Widow McCarthy.
All eyes turned to Ms Price, who had remained quiet throughout the proceedings. She said nothing.
It was hard to discern her eyes through the tinted glasses she perpetually wore. She had briefly been a rock star during the sixties before drug abuse had gotten the better of her, and she still strutted around as if she was Bono’s mum.
We all leaned closer and Widow McCarthy whispered, “Ms Price? Was that you?”
A soft purring sound slipped out of the spinster’s throat, a whisper of a snore. Looking closer, we could see a glistening on Maggie Price’s chin where she had started to droll in her sleep.
“Bloody space cadet! I told you it was a bad idea to invite her,” grumbled Jack Burns.
“I didn’t invite her … I thought you did!” protested Widow McCarthy.
Further debate was interrupted by a persistent knocking. The spirits of the deceased were becoming impatient.
“I think we’d better use the Ouija board,” declared Agnes.
We all looked at the recently procured contraption that Widow McCarthy had ordered through eBay. It was a ‘Nemesis Now TALKING BOARD OUIJA SPIRIT BOARD Pagan with GLASS & PLANCHETTE’, whatever that meant. We had been assured by Agnes that it was state of the art, and it had cost her a whole fifty quid plus postage and packing. This was another reason why we had agreed to her being the self-appointed seer. No one else was mad enough to splash out so much of their pension on an afternoon’s dalliance.
Reading the directions, Agnes instructed, “We all need to each place a fingertip on the glass.”
In for a penny, in for fifty quid, as the old saying goes.
Hesitantly, we did as instructed. After all, the widow still hadn’t opened up her jammy dodgers.
The glass immediately started to move.
HI~THERE~LOVIES~ITS~PATRICE~HERE~I~THINK~I~LEFT~THE~GAS~ON~CAN~SOMEONE~POP~ROUND~TO~MY~GAFF~AND~CHECK~
We were too stunned to respond. The message started again …
HI~THERE~LOVIES~ITS~PATRICE~FALLON~HERE~I~THINK~I~LEFT …
Finally, Widow McCarthy pulled herself together and replied, “Errr … Hi Patrice. I’m sorry, but you did indeed leave the gas on! When you came home from bingo last Wednesday night… well … the explosion destroyed the bottom half of the street.”
OH~DEAR~~~WHAT~ABOUT~OUR~TIDDLES~
“She survived the blast, though she was a little scorched during the blast. However, I’m sorry to say, she was run over by the milk float this morning … we’re err … sorry for your loss!”
KNOCK …KNOCK
SIGH~IVE~GOTTA~GO~THERES~A~LOT~OF~OTHER~PEOPLE~HERE~WAITING~TO~SPEAK~TO~YOU~ILL~PUT~YOU~ONTO~MR~CARMICHAEL~I~THINK~HES~LOOKING~FOR~HIS~FALSE~TEETH~~~AGAIN~SEE~YOU~ALL~SOON~~
