An annoying little man strikes up an unwanted conversation on a bus. He seems to enjoy the attention. His needs are complicated and urgent.

All Change

‘Used to subscribe meself,’ the little man shared conspiratorially as I half-heartedly turn a page, bored with the formulaic plot and unimaginative use of language.

‘Mmm?’ I replied. It was ill-considered for a closed response. He judiciously leaned into an acute bend in the road without grasping either support rail or seat grip.

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Following doctor’s orders a shy guy meets an intriguing woman sitting on a high wall. She has to leave before he can say anything meaningful and he’s left kicking himself. He goes home to take it out on a tree. Chance decides otherwise.

Beeched

“Take some gentle exercise”, the doctor had recommended earnestly, “short walks.” To match his short sentences and sessions no doubt. Martin looked down on the valley and took a deep, refreshing lungful of air.

“Lush,” he sighed, appreciating the sheer virginal energy of new-grown grass.

“I beg your pardon?”

He’d thought himself alone in the country park, and had been merrily chattering to various birds identified, complimenting them on their song, plumage and coquettish antics. He blushed like a robin in autumn at the thought of what the owner of the sensually throaty voice might have overheard.

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Spoof of Alice in Wonderland in Carrol’s style, a young girl is transported into a modern glow party. Her Victorian perspective clashes with modern idiom and a jealous girl. She’s saved by a drug dealer she mistakes for a healer.

Cora in Glowland

‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ thought Cora, as she entered the darkened hall where beams of multicoloured light flashed at her from the shadows and an awful thrumming, throbbing noise assaulted her finely-tuned hearing.

She was too confused to react when a strangely clad fellow with emerald hair and gleaming eyes floated out of the melee which surrounded her, embracing her quite forwardly before once more disappearing into the throng of wildly gyrating savages her adapting sight could now distinguish.

‘Gracious,’ exclaimed Cora, alarmed by the situation in which she now found herself, ‘why, some of these unfortunates are almost without clothing altogether.’

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Two old friends  – a writer and an Irish policeman/farmer are having a quiet weekend to de-stress after a rotten year.  The TV shows that the former’s work has been plagiarised. The shared outrage is such that suddenly all the misery of the last year hits them. Enough is enough. Revenge brews.

Dry Wells

The ‘Arts & Farts’ weekend was a title insisted on by Phil, which stuck because it was invariably held at his farm, a shrinking retreat in the hills of Ballyargus inland of Drung chapel, besieged by 21st century forces of property development.

We’d settle down like proper critics to a selection of films by local and county talent and beers from ‘Special Offers’ shelves, to mull over their quality before exchanging views, compliments, good-humoured slagging, and serious advice on our own exploits. These sporadic meets had been founded on impassioned discussions over Leon Uris’s Trinity during their college years. It was on one of these pleasurable weekends that the fury struck.

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Cornball fantasy about a cat in animal-school and a supposed kidnapping.

Felicia: In a Pig’s Eye

Felicia Katt, who lived in Oxidend, did not believe in daemons, fairies, monsters, or angels – so it was no surprise that her only reaction to the warnings about the dangers of Folly Wood was a superior snort and an exaggerated rolling of the eyes. Being a tidy child, she was always careful to pick these up again in case anyone slipped on them. After that she just popped them in her mouth, sucked them clean and spat any fluff and dirt before swallowing; burping of course at the same time so that her eyes were sure to shoot back up into her sockets again.

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The digging has disturbed the slumber of the fell spirit which charged Jack The Ripper. Jack was only a body which limited it. It has grown stronger in its slumber and the multitude it can now sense excites. To possess so many. It waits for the optimum time to strike.

Leather Apron at the Olympics 2012

The demon which made Jack The Ripper is roused from its enforced dormancy.

Something disturbed the spirit which had burrowed deep into the bedrock beneath the Old Ford Lock after The Vessel had been dumped off Lea Bridge. It knew it had been dormant for a time. It had just forgotten how humans measured that most nebulous of concepts. Separation from the host did that. The ruckus continued.

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The tour guide to Grianan was prattling on about legendary monsters. Some listened, some half-listened and eyed up the opposite sex. One was just ravenously hungry and needed to get home to feed the family.

Preferably Rare

The tour-guide was prattling on about some demon which prowled the area in and around the old fort, milking each coincidental disappearance for all it was worth. Marta had heard all these stories before and did not believe a word of them.

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A modern semi-romantic but cynical take on a Christian parable with loads of dry humour.

The Brat

Steph muttered ill-temperedly as she prepared her Veal Supreme. It was uncomfortable enough being a vegetarian and having to prepare meat without the additional grief of the identity of the guest of honour.

‘Lord,’ she mumbled, ‘what a leech.’   She recalled, before his ‘sabbatical’ how his hands seemed to take on lives of their own each time he visited the estate’s kitchen; as if he had some sort of mauling rights with female employees. A brief smile temporarily erased her scowl.

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‘The Infiltrators’ Nebulous beings seek to influence the world and find themselves frustrated at certain junctures. They need to know how and who.

The Infiltrators

Man was evolved. Gone were the slow-thinking bestial hominids which painted caves with such eloquence, yet lingered still with crude stone tools. Nature had, through some undetectable cross-breeding, produced the forerunner of modern man.

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