A deadly unstoppable tide is approaching and the only way to avoid it is to run. But as I prepare to fly out from Kildare to the Azores in the Twin Otter I’m haunted by thoughts of Della. I can think of nothing else as I worry for her safety. I think about Ralph Patterson, her idiot husband and I wonder, as death closes rapidly in on us all; does he have a survival plan and will it prevent me from ever seeing her again?

Ralph is my sometimes business associate. He’s a money making genius on the Trading floor but outside of that he can be a gobshite of biblical proportions. He has a brain of course, and I hoped to god he was using it instead of performing some sort of headless chicken routine. This was the possibility that planted misgivings in my head. (more…)

The following handwritten account – found in a farmhouse in Lisdoonvarna, Co. Clare – was initially accredited to flamboyant Z War hero John Fletcher as it had been signed with his name.

At the time it was widely discredited as a forgery as its manner and tone did not reflect Fletchers famous idiosyncratic style, nor did his apparent timidity in the text match the warriors’ well known ferocity. However, new anecdotal evidence has recently come to light that hints at this documents possible authenticity.

The following abridged version, appearing here in print for the first time, was originally intended for inclusion in the biography: “John Fletcher: Corpse Killer!” but was excised by the publishers who feared that this unverifiable adventure would leave them open to litigation should it prove false. Also, Fletcher’s controversial actions during the War might subsequently have become open to serious revisionism. (more…)

Miriam’s Journal

They flock- no, they don’t flock, that would signify some sort of protective group instinct – they gather, they congregate, they brood. They stand crushed by their rearmost fellows against the reinforced ornamental gates and stare silently into the grounds of the Light Station. Whether their eyesight allows them to see as far as the Lighthouse or not, I just don’t know, but their very existence gives me the heebie jeebies. Their distant faces are absorbed in contemplating me. It’s like I’m their magnetic north. I’m a nervous wreck. They never leave. They never wander off. They just stand there quietly, almost politely; patiently. (more…)

Ray Wilkins finally became a human wreck within weeks of the world ending.

“My Raymond is going to end up in the gutter if he doesn’t pull his socks up.” His mother once prophetically stated, never dreaming of the circumstances in which her words would come true. At the time of her pronouncement the rest of Ray’s large family sat round the dinner table and nodded their heads respectfully in agreement. (more…)

Once upon a time – and not so long ago, either – when I was properly, certifiably mad, I almost traipsed, in my lunacy, right past this unlikely sanctuary.

How could I describe this refuge? If you can imagine a powerful subterranean deity angrily punching the earth from below and forcing one hundred acres of passable farmland three metres straight up, then you have an idea of it. How more people haven’t stumbled upon this place baffles me. Perhaps there’s no one left alive to find it. (more…)

“Mr. Whelan, Mr. O’Keeffe, why do you persist with this ludicrous idea of returning to Dublin? Even on some amoebic intellectual level you pinheads must understand that Dublin is shut to us forever. It is home only to the teeming dead. Teeming! Pressed tightly together in the parks and thoroughfares. Moaning beneath the statues of our baffled Patriots. Staring myopically at nothing. Bereft of stimulus. Swaying in the wind from the Dublin Mountains. Sodden and mildewed by the rain off the sea. There is nothing for you there anymore my little ex-junkie friends. I’m afraid you can never go home. Don’t ask me again.” (more…)