I never saw anything like it before. Or since.
It was a visual shock.
Vibrant, immediate and life changing.
But I didn't get my camera phone out in time to take a picture, so it never really happened.

Law of Attraction

It will feel like an electrical charge, he said.
It won't last long, but will be unmistakable. Like a sudden jolt, or momentary weakening of the legs. Perhaps your spine may tingle.
But that's how you will know.
That transference of energy only occurs when you and the other person connect like this.
They call it a 'hug'.
You may then instigate a mutually beneficial personal partnership and allow it run it's course.


Thirty six thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean.
The frozen wastes of Greenland to the north. Newfoundland's choppy shores lying hours to the west.
Air temperature forty nine below zero.
Winds fifty knots plus, veering North-North-Easterly.
54 degrees North, 46 degrees West.
Skies clear.
No place for a seagull.

Old Man

They smile at me, the young people. That same smile you save for a sleeping infant or cuddly pup.
Patient, serene, tranquil.
Their eyes filled with a gentle tolerance.
I smile back, knowing that I could kill them just as I had killed the others.

What's The Story?

The fact that Aesop took so bloody long writing one of his fables became a real source of irritation for his brother Asap.

My Village

My father was considered the most cowardly man in my village.
He was afraid to hunt, was wary of strangers approaching and became extremely agitated when pressed to give an overly opinionated point of view.
How others saw him made him nervous. How he was perceived was a constant source of angst. All in all, the most cowardly man I ever met.
The pressure on me therefore, to be the same as him was immense.
But I was a brave young man who reveled in excitement and danger.
There would be no hope for me in my village.


In the town of Alta, Northern Norway lived a sled dog named Martinus. 
This was of course not his name, for dogs have no use for actual names. Although this canine energy did recognise the sound ‘Mar-Tee-Nus’ and understood on his level that it somehow related to him. 
The human energy forms seemed to need this label for identification purposes. Even though his awareness of the term ‘human’ was negligible.
Martinus lived with eleven other Husky dogs. Each day they pulled a weight attached to their torso across the snow-laden land.
After which, they ate. 
He would like to hunt for the food himself, although he didn't know why. Still, the meat tasted good and the effect was pleasing.
It was a happy life for the dog the humans labelled ‘Martinus’.


"How's the job hunt going"?
"Good, yeah good".
Tired of the hunt.
"It's tough out there".
"Ah yeah, but you have to keep at it".
Under the duvet. Morning envelopes drop onto the cold hall floor below. Contents as stark and anonymous as their sender's identities.
"You all set for Christmas"?
"Nearly there".
Nearly nowhere.
Other faces know. They hold their judgments close for safe keeping. Hanging onto those treasured beliefs with all their might, lest they see themselves and become submerged too.
Better than. I could never do that. He needs to shape up.
Shape has lost form.
Up has a ceiling now.
Never is forever.
A secret world with empty rooms.
Space for all, but invites unsent.

Who's There?

Oh he was very small.
Tiny in fact.
That's the word: Tiny.
No taller than the nail on my little finger.
Perfectly formed and proportioned. Smartly dressed in light blue jeans, t-shirt and waistcoat. Hair neatly combed and parted to the side.
Standing on the white tabletop beside my coffee cup.
Looking up at me, smiling and laughing.
In a full voice he said quite clearly "I'm not really here y'know".
That opened a can of worms.

Times Past

     I perceive with astonishment and regret that Mr. Barnes and his cohorts are to be allowed use of the town hall for their future meetings.
If Mr. Barnes were a conscientious advocate of any form of Christian belief, I should be sorry to raise my voice against him or his actions, but when it is notorious that he is the author of grossly offensive publications and that the avowed object of his so called lectures is to advocate these publications and to libel, vilify and traduce the religion it’s practices and observances, I do think it unfair that a public property should be let for such an entertainment.
Will you permit me therefore to thus publicly record my protest at such a violation of the trust and confidence we place in your hands.
Also, the man is a mother-fucker.

Yours etc.


The train pulls into the station. 
Calmly watching as frantic faces assess the seat availability.
They race beside the slowing carriages, looking in, calculating the odds, spying a vacant space and deciding it is for them. Determination. Eyes of steel. Panic as the target disappears. The seat now prey for a new set
of eyes.
Doors open. The shrill noise announcing the incoming wave of chaotic insecurity.
“Is this seat taken”?

Say What?

We all know the expression "It takes a dog to create a storm".
But where did it come from?
Well, according to history - in the year 1653, King Adolphus of Maglatonia wished for a son and heir. He already had three sons, but just didn't like any of them particularly.
In his desperation he exclaimed "I may as well bequeath my throne to a dog".
As the dominant personality trait among the citizens of the great state was a tendency to process information literally; a small, scruffy terrier did indeed become Heir to the Throne and all that he surveyed etcetera etcetera.
Therefore creating a symbolic storm (ridding the nation of it's literal bent).
And that is how the phrase came to be.

Nice Guy

I open the door for you, not because I am a nice person.
I smile as you walk past, not because I am a nice person.
I say you look nice, not because I am a nice person.
But because I want you to see me as a nice person.
Then I can see that too.

Pfenning for Your Thoughts?

When the honours system was first introduced on the Munich underground system in 1982, the one person to abuse it was nineteen year old student Colm Regan from Roscommon in Ireland.
Thirty years on and Colm felt Ireland's financial bailout, spearheaded by the European Central Bank in Frankfurt, was perhaps a grotesque example of Karma at work.

Anything The Matter?

"I think I might have ADHD, Dad"
"You don't have ADHD son".
"But look at me, look. I keep jumping around. Can't stay still. I'm all over the place".
"We got all the tests done, remember"?
"Maybe it's OCD".
"It's not OCD".
"Could be Tourettes, couldn't it"?
"You were tested for that too and Aspergers and anxiety and Williams syndrome. It's all in your head".
"That's typical that is. You're only saying that because I'm gay". 

Fox In The Hood

Out of nowhere he seemed to appear.
Tail hanging low, head bowed, vigilant eyes darting from left to right.
Thin. Aware.
Young and stupid or old and desperate. One of those combinations had brought him to the point where he skulked between the houses on Jameston Road.
No longer his patch but rich with the history of his ancestors.
Their proud stomping ground, where legends were made.
Now home to the conqueror.
Gaunt, wary and fatigued - back to scavenge in a final tragic quest for scraps or defiantly re-claim what once belonged to his type.
This was ours - and it was great.


Sally Gap, County Wicklow, Ireland.
October, 1883.
Dark. Cold. Windy. Barren. Empty.
Far away, a two room cottage. Half way up a shaved slope. Moonlight accentuating the grey walls and thatched roof.
Smoke trailing from the stump of a rooftop chimney. Towards the stars.
Silence. Routine. Life.
He spat and continued walking.

Can't Believe Your Eyes

“If you look to the left…now to the right. Excellent. I’m going to ask you to look forward now and tell me what letters you see on the bottom line”.
They said S-H-I-T.
I could see the four letters on the bottom line clearly.
I couldn't say that out loud.
No way it could actually say that, could it?
Unless they did it on purpose – as part of the test. To see if people would say it even though they were sure it must be wrong.
“S-N-L-T” I said.
That’s how I ended up with the wrong prescription.

A Raise.

Asking your boss for a raise is never easy. Maybe your work hasn't warranted extra pay or perhaps he literally can’t afford to hand out any more and maybe you should just be content to at least be earning and be grateful for that.
What if he freaks and tells me to get out. Then what?
On the other hand, I know we can’t survive much longer on what I’m earning. Rent has gone up, kids need school books, and winter’s on the way so there’ll be heating bills.
He looks at me – his expression a mixture of pity, sadness and regret with a small but noticeable amount of resentment creeping in.
Time to pull out the secret weapon.
“I drew you a picture”.
On an A4 sheet of unruled white paper, a blue and red crayon drawing of a little boy in a cowboy hat sitting atop a horse.
He looks at it. For quite a while.
A single tear emerges from his left eye - slowly rolling southwards.
“It’s a cowboy on a horse” he whispers.
He always wanted to be a cowboy on a horse.

The extra two fifty an hour will see us through until March.

In Training

Dujom Rimpoche may have been the only Tibetan monk travelling on the Central Line Tube from Holland Park to Oxford Circus that morning.
He was also quite possibly the only person deriving solace and comfort from the recorded announcement to 'Mind The Gap'.

Squint and You'll Miss It

"If you follow the line all the way down to the bottom of the page, it will create an illusion of continuity. Squint your eyes just before the line and page end, then concentrate very hard. The line will go on for as long as you wish.Until you decide when it should stop. If you are able to do this, then fortune will favour you. But if the line stops before the end of the page, the opposite may be true".
It was worth a shot.
I prepared to squint.

Sweet Dreams

In the town of Dunworthy, located North East of Sunderland, sat a small sweet shop called 'Devons'.
The local children had been buying their BullsEyes, Blackjacks and BonBons there for generations. Ever since the original Mister Devon opened for business at the turn of the last century.
Killed in the Great War, he was. Never made it home.
Unlike his friend Maurice.
Both fought in the Second Battle of Ypres.
Maurice shot once.
His survival owed to a German bullet grazing the boiled sweet housed in the upper left jacket pocket.
Saving it for after dinner he was.
These days, 'Devons' opens at the weekends only.
Their big seller is still the 'Bullet Stopper' for 20p.

Past Pain

"Where does it hurt"? he asked.
"Mostly in the space between the back of my head and whatever is behind me".
The look of concern increased.
"Not ON your head"?
"No, the space behind me".
A pain existing in the invisible mass trailing in my wake. In front - no pain. Behind - pain.
The further the distance between me and whatever lies behind me, the greater the pain.
I knew a man once whose pain lived in all that lay before him. That sounds bad.
"Take this prescription and come back in a month".
"Will it work"?
"I don't know".

Oh Too.

Her voice grated.
One-sided conversation.
Half the story.
Louder – as if the distance between her and the recipient required a boost of extra volume.
Did you see, do you know, are you going…hello, hello can you hear me?
I grabbed her phone and threw it away.

'Just Super'

In his eleven years as Superintendent in the police department, right up to his retirement, Denis Dooper remained completely unaware that the men and women under his command giggled each time he signed an internal memo ‘Super D Dooper’.

'Bloody Selfish'

Just because he didn’t care what other people did, said, wore, thought or imagined – did not mean that he was selfish.
The fact that she said it was just “her opinion” was neither here nor there.
Indeed, his thinking about it in the first place only went to prove that he could align himself to others and how they feel.
He just chose not to.
If anyone was selfish in this scenario it was her for forcing her opinion of him onto him in the first place.
Some people!

'Number 62'

The ticket said ‘Number 62’.
Eighteen spaces away. Two windows open meant if each person took two minutes to complete whatever it is they need to complete, that would make for a thirty six minute wait. Average.
Long time standing, waiting.
Should have brought a book.
Number forty-five doesn't show!
Excellent. Little victories.
Rumble of excitement in the waiting room.
We’re closing in now. Might look for a seat and get comfortable.


The sun had left.
Well, probably more accurate to say it had been replaced.
By a deep purple orb.
It sent out heat, just like the sun, but a different type of heat. This heat seemed to lie on the skin for a brief whisper of a moment, as if dipping its toe into water to test the temperature.
Then, gradually and steadily and purposefully burrowing into the bones and fibres and blood cells and membranes.
All consuming and all enveloping.
Calming too. Very calming and soothing. Powerful but gentle. Reassuring and commanding.
The faces of those around took on the role of concern.
There was no need though; for the purple orb had replaced the sun forever and she had now become part of its light and warmth.

Never Forget

Part of Dumbo's lack of self-esteem and crippling sense of inferiority lay in the fact that the rest of the Circus performers purposely ignored the elephant in the room.

Schlechten Tag

The news was stunning at first, but eventually Kevin managed to come to terms with the information.
However Caroline, his wife, found it all the more disturbing as time went by.
In the end she felt she was left with no choice other than to end the relationship and move on with their two young children, Simon and Abigail.
How, she rationalised, could she live with the man responsible for one of the largest genocides in the history of mankind? 

For Kevin’s part, he rued the day the Past Life Regression therapist told him he was the re-incarnated soul of Adolf Hitler.


In row three sat the New York Ballet’s prima ballerina.
Just behind her, leafing through the pages of a worn paper back - the lead singer of the world’s most successful rock band.
Across the other side of the aisle, staring blankly out the window, the twenty five year old medical student who recently made headlines after receiving the Nobel prize honouring her revolutionary work in the field of cancer research.
It’s amazing who you almost meet on the bus.

Not so Mellow Yellow

There was nothing wrong with it necessarily. 
Nothing obviously offensive or challenging. 
Nothing to make you squirm or recoil.
It just looked…wrong.
The same way a dog dressed like a person is wrong.
Or ketchup with scrambled eggs is wrong.
Or thinking that ketchup with scrambled eggs is wrong. 
Maybe you like that.
Who am I to tell you what to eat and in which combination?
He was in his fifties, big bellied and sporting tight trousers.
The ‘wrong’ part? Yellow T-shirt.

Goddam yellow t-shirts.

'The Martins'

Growing up in the sixties, Mr. Martin had always loved The Beatles. John, Paul, George and Ringo. Especially their Sgt. Pepper era.
So much so, that he named his first born son George, after the band's famous producer.
This didn't bother young George Martin, but as he grew older and began to assert his own tastes and move away from those of his parents, an element of resentment grew inside him.
Instead of embracing music, as his father had, George became passionate about classic sports cars.

How this would effect his young son Aston in years to come, was yet to be determined.

Out of Date

- Slightly tough around the edges, but still edible.
- If you eat it before 6pm today, you should be OK.
- You’re taking your chances with this one.
- Cook it through at least three times to be sure.
- If you close your eyes it could taste like chicken.
- I wouldn’t.

 The new ‘Truthful Labelling’ of their nearly out of date produce was proving a little too honest for ‘Crazy Deals’ customers.

O Tofu

Calling all Canadians 'nice' is like labeling all Bulgarians 'shit stirrers'.
No doubt there are many shit stirrers of Bulgarian origin, but that doesn't necessarily mean each one is.
In the same way, there are many 'nice' people in Canada...but not all.
Not too many protective parents would react badly if their beloved daughter arrived home with a beau on her arm and announced "Mum Dad - this is Chet. He's Canadian".
It probably wouldn't register as anything in particular.
She might as well say "This is Chet. He's tofu".
Not often will you hear said "Those Canadian bastards" or "I'm sick to death of those bloody Canadians".
Usually the word Canada provokes a blank stare.
Like tofu, you're quite unlikely to think about it too much.
Unless you actually live in Canada, the same applies.
Canada - the tofu of nations.
That's how Canadians like it. They're not really too bothered about being noticed. Not interested in making a big fuss.

And that was the argument Chet's defence team planned to use in court that day.


All I wanted was to be noticed.
To be appreciated.
I just wanted someone to recognise what I could do. Acknowledge it.
Someone to invest in me.
To say that what I do is amazing.
To pay attention when I say something.
To not be invisible.
Somebody to shout my name loudly.
To be backed up and supported.
To think of me kindly and fondly.
To say "Well done", "Good stuff", "That's great".
To not ignore or overlook me.
To not forget me.
Someone to smile when they hear my name.
To be encouraged and inspired by my presence.
To want to hear my words.

Someone other than me.

Not on the Curriculum

Running at speed in his bare feet through wet fields on a dark October evening.
His breath hot and loud. Lungs bursting, blood deafening in his ears.
It was not how the inhabitants of the small farming village imagined the headteacher of their local Boys Comprehensive school to behave.
The chasing horde of local angry parents gave little thought to the tragedy of the situation.


In November 1941, my grandfather met Bing Crosby.
Yep, the singer and actor Bing Crosby.
As I've heard it told, Mister Crosby walked from the hotel reception across to the bar where my Granddad sat, nursing a scotch and soda.
They spoke for no more than half a minute. Smiling a little and ending with a genuine laugh.
They shook hands and nodded before Bing walked away and out the door into the cold New York night.
That Winter Bing Crosby recorded 'White Christmas' and went from fame to super-stardom.

I never met my Grandfather.


The letter* was received **and immediately*** had an effect****. Please*****come to the window******and look at all the stars*******.

* written  
** in the morning  
*** within seconds   
**** not 'affect'.   
***** it pleaded   
***** it continued

Dr. Adams

Doctor Adams had a certain way with patients. Young or old, it didn't matter.
It wasn't the air of trust he emitted or the sense of calm that followed him as he ambled purposely about his surgery.
It wasn't the decades of experience wrapped inside that aging, silver haired skull of his. Nor was it his mild eyed look of compassion.
No, it was the phrase he employed with every single person, that made him different: 
"We're all going to die".
Simple and pure.
No dates, no times, no manner - just that one fact.
The great leveler.
We're all going to die.
Once heard and accepted, something remarkable happened.
His patients stopped worrying about sickness and began concentrating on well-being.
Being well.

The pharmaceutical companies disliked Doctor Adams.

International Incident.

I could have sworn he said 'Collection'.
Blank stares between us. Awkward moment.
That definitely did sound like 'Collection'. But it couldn't be. Why would he ask that when I'm standing right in front of him?
He stopped cooking and locked his eyes onto mine.
My obvious confusion. Not with understanding of the word itself, but of it's meaning.
I had ordered the food - my favourite, Jalfrezi with Peshwari Naan - and stated over the phone that I would pick it up. And here I am.
Of course it's for collection. Why else would I be standing here?
And hence my confusion and his, now increasing, frustration.
"He said 'collection", the lady seated in the waiting area to my left said.
I know. I know.
It had gone on too long and I really needed to answer.
"Yes, that's right - 'Collection'".
His visual contact with the female translator and subsequent eye rolling, confirmed that he felt the issue lay with my insensitivity to his accent and proud heritage.

I bet he'll forget to include the complimentary mint sauce.

Social Media.

Things were never going to end well for Alan in his new job at 'Yahoo' after he offered to 'Google' a query.


To: All Staff.

It is without one ounce of regret that I need to inform you that John O’Dwyer is no longer employed by this company.
He was let go today because, in my view, he's a dickhead.
His work was shoddy at the best of times. His sense of humour offensive, imposing and totally inappropriate.
Plus the concept of soap, water and deodorant seemed completely alien to him.
This decision has been made by me and me alone because, to be perfectly honest, I couldn’t stand the thought of looking at his face one more day.
I’m sure he will land on his feet somewhere – assholes like that usually do. I don’t care.
On a separate note: please join me in welcoming Jane Taylor to the company.
Let’s hope she’s not a bitch.

James Murphy


Old Age.

"Why does no one ever ask how fast I can run anymore"?
"Hey meeester...will you watch me run"?
"Oh please, someone...look at me. LOOK at me"!!

The onset of old age was beginning to affect Needy Gonzalez.

The Man.

He seemed like a nice kid. Four, maybe five years old? I’m not a child expert so you could say any age and I’d believe you.
It being lunch hour, the bank was busy enough and hadn’t exactly been quiet to start with.
“Stop that James” his mother hissed as he climbed over the leather waiting chairs landing on his back on the floor, probably re-enacting some adventure in his head.
“You’re annoying the people”.
Blank stares, unaffected faces.
I had just withdrawn my last twenty-five quid and made my way towards the door.
“Now look,” she said, “Here comes the man”.
Which apparently was me.
I was ‘the man’.
When did I become ‘the man’?
Did I suddenly look like the sort of person who would be ‘the man’?
If I was he, then I needed to act accordingly.
“Could you make some more noise please? It’s far too quiet in here” I asked the boy.
Oh yes. I am The Man.

Just Pretend.

I met a friend from school today.
Haven't seen him in years.
Nice man. Wife, kids, pension plan.
Opinions, a Barbecue and DVD collection.
A leather wallet in his back pocket.
Strong, responsible, reliable.
It made me sad. Sad at how I appear.
Afraid to ask, afraid to declare, afraid of fear.
Two people living with different energies.
It's all just pretend. I'm not even here anymore.
One foot, then what?
I wish I had a wallet.

Arrivals Hall.

He was definitely American. More small town than big city. The jeans were just a bit too...'roomy', y'know? Probably sold as 'Relaxed Fit'.
There's something forlorn about Mid-West men in their sixties.They look a little lost.
Like they need someone to tell them what to do.
The lower lip trembling on the edge of panic as it did when he was seven and his mother said "Wait here a moment, I won't be long". Pretty sure that everything will be OK...pretty sure.
Wife trots over. He's pleased.
She's smaller than him. Over-active thyroid since her forties. Blonde, permed hair, sparkly alert eyes. Body movements stiff and fast - like a strobe lighted dancer in a nightclub.
She wanted two weeks by the pool in Acapulco.
But here they are - newly arrived in Ireland.

My Kingdom For (excerpt).

Once, young Pam Friendly - caught between laundry duty and elevenses - spent thirty nine minutes on the first floor hallway, one foot on the landing the other gently teasing the top stair.
Caught between two worlds.
Learning the difference between Time Zulu and non.
How those areas of the planet for whom Daylight Savings Time existed were more likely than those for whom it didn't, to utilise their season more proficiently.
And how a simple ability to accurately tell time through the alignment of the planets allowed ancient man possibly gain twelve extra seconds per one hundred years.
This, as a result of passing Sir Arnold and greeting his presence with an innocent "Afternoon".

It was 11:59am.

(Taken from the longer short story 'My Kingdom For').

Are You Sure?

Olé Olé Olé Olé.
And we'll really shake them up
When we win the World Cup
Cos Ireland are the greatest Netball team.

Alternative reality.

Four Yes'es.

The very thought of auditioning before the well known celebrity judges was bound to be a nerve-wrecking experience.
Sean had asked previous competitors for advice on how best to 'ready' himself for the experience.
"Be calm", "Focus", "Think positively" and "Get rid of anything inside you that might hinder your performance".

Most people in the arena agreed that things were moving along quite well until Sean implemented his own exorcism.

Choo Choo.

The train reluctantly pulling away from the station. Or maybe it was me.
It's engine groaning under the psychological weight of the journey ahead. Or maybe that was me.
Wishing in it's heart of hearts that it never had to leave - that it could stay where things were predictable, safe and warm. Yep, that was definitely me.
As soon as it picks up speed, the train will know all about me.
But I will know no more.

Out Loud.

“You have really nice hair”, Catherine yelled at the lady in the newsagent.
“Very well cut and the colour is quite flattering”.

“You really are the type of parent that all others should aspire to be” Catherine bellowed at the mother holding her child.

“Don’t these flowers inspire a sense of optimism that all will be well today” she roared to no one in particular.

It was still years before Catherine would be named the first known case of Reverse-Tourettes Syndrome.

Hot Coffee.

The good-looking lady in the queue in front of me had no trouble using the in-store lingo.
Blonde, trim, nice cheek bones.
If I was younger, better looking, taller, mentally stable and actually possessed a job – I think I might have been in with a chance.
She ordered a grand double thingy with extra whatsit in a ‘to go’ cup with a shot of that syrup in a big bottle.
didn't stand a chance in this world. 
I just wanted them to boil a kettle and hand me a cup of Nescafe.

Good God.

The highlight of the academic year for the children and parents of St. Charles Christian School was always the Religious Talent Show.
The resulting expulsion of eleven year old Freddie Baines seemed slightly over-reactionary, as most agreed his experimental impression of God was impressive and not particularly blasphemous.

Could appen to anyone.

"How do you spell that"?
" 'H'"?
" 'H'".
The inevitable question.
Stepen hated the letter 'H'.
It had become a daily fixture in his life. Someone, somewhere would ask why the missing 'H'? Shouldn't there be a letter 'H'? Did you forget the 'H'?
No, I didn't forget the goddam 'H' because there is no goddam 'H'. It's 'H'-less. The same way your face gives the impression of lacking personality but surely must have one.
No need to be so rude.
No need to be so obvious.
You're not a very nice person y'know.
I didn't ask for your opinion.

They can all go to ell..

Bus Dog.

People stopped to admire Morty, the red setter.
He couldn't blame them - he was a magnificent beast. The coat, the tail, the overall bearing - he felt it and wore it comfortably.
The fact that it was his image displayed on the sides of the Bus Eireann buses that criss-crossed the country daily was a constant source of pride for Morty the red setter. To be chosen as the symbol of the nation's transport system was indeed an honour. For Morty was Irish and proud of it.
Walking through fields with the man who gave him food and a bed at night - stretching his legs and exercising his reputation - Morty was struck and appalled at the habits of others.
An Alsatian, running wild and defecating in the bushes.
"Disgusting" thought Morty "Why don't they go back to where they came from".
For yes, Morty was also a racist.

The Greatest Man.

His name was Hectoro Bandalucci.
The Grand Rigatoni of the Fallecicano family, from the region of Barabomba.
The Capo de Fusili from the west side of Bolognese.
And it was on that very day; his life came to an end. Received into the arms of heaven courtesy of a blow to the back of the head.
The wind in that region being particularly fierce in December.

The Game's Gone Mad.

Jimmy Armtangle was the sharpest, quickest and most feared of all Division one strikers.
He could dribble a ball past a defender before the defender knew what day it was (Saturday usually - games were played on Saturdays. 3pm).
Ninety five thousand supporters Oooh-ed and Aaaah-ed and occasionally Eeeeh-ed, in thrall at his every movement.
So it was no surprise when Dinchester City wanted to sign him. No surprise at all.
What was surprising was the amount of money involved - Fifty five pence and three fruppence - overshadowing the previous transfer record by more than flippance frappenny.
Dinchester's manager Ron Stringer surprised onlooking journalists when he said that this was becoming "the future of the game". According to Stringer, the day will soon arrive when we could witness the world's first Tuppence Haypenny player. Although, he did admit, that was some time away yet.
Possibly as far as the bank holiday weekend.
For his part, Mister Armtangle declined to comment and preferred to let his performance on the pitch do the talking for him.
In his first game, Dinchester drew nil nil.

Frank Knew.

Frank knew.
Frank always knew.
The fact that no one else knew always baffled Frank.
How could he be the only one?
The only living person to know.
Possibly the only person ever to live who knew.
Of all the people who ever walked the Earth, he could be the one and only one to know. Was that even possible?
Were there no others?

Frank knew.
He always knew.
The day and the manner of his death.

April 15th 2013.

Today was April 8th 2013.
The last week of Frank’s life.

My Friend Robin.

Here's the deal on that.
My friend Robin (real name) used to ask me a lot of questions.
Just me.
No one else.
I just figured he figured I had everything figured out.
Go figure.
It would start from the moment we met at the top of the lane separating our two streets, until we reached the gates to the school.
Half the time I felt I actually did know a lot of the stuff.
The rest was from another planet.
"What's the capital of Mongolia"? Ulan Batar. Place names I could do.
"Who were the first fellas to fly a plane and where did they do it"? Wright Brothers, Kitty Hawk North Carolina.
"Do you think a boy could kill his mother and get away with it"?