Requiem For The Unappreciated

“Did’ya hear blah died?” the barman had imparted, rather than asked, punctuation notwithstanding.

“Names don’t stay with me,” I’d admitted, and lifted my pint – eyes pointedly on the telly.

“Used to be regular – face all scarred.” Hint not taken.

I’d shrugged and adjusted my angle to him.

“You know him.” It was a slow day ­– the other customers had wisely chosen not to sit at the counter.

“Probably,” I’d ceded, thrusting my annoyance deep beneath a façade of affability.

It must have leaked, for the subject was dropped.

Two weeks later I noticed that an acclaimed local poet had died.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Dead Mouse Walking

“What’s that plastic bag poking out of your pocket, Ollie?”

“Nothing to worry about, Jim. Only a dead mouse.”

“I thought there was a pong.”

“Found him in the airing cupboard. Toasting himself, the fecker.”

“Ollie, why are you carrying him around?”

“I’m going to give him a decent burial.”

“You know what I’d have done?”

“What?”

“I’d have served him to Sourpuss. As a delicacy.”

“Isn’t Sourpuss rotund enough?”

“Are you going to part with that mouse, or aren’t you?”

“It’ll cost you, Jim.”

“Pint?”

“G’wan. Done. Here, take him.”

“Barman, two Guinness.”

Plop.

“What the-? My pint!”

“Cheers!”

From Guest Contributor Geraldine McCarthy