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

Paddy

The man who brought hope amongst the riots: whom bitter losers rushed to associate with terrorism; rather than defence of very frightened people who were let down by establishment they had long trusted. Scum associated him with terrorism, when all he strove to protect family and neighbours.

He adored Martin Luther King. Poisonous painted him with the hate they retained because he shamed them.

All the family were burying was a father who wanted peace and took steps to achieve and promote that.

I was there at the burial of a man who loved people, no matter who they hated.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

A Viking Burial

"Who does this anymore?" Joshua asked. "A viking burial -- is it even legal?"

I looked out at the lake, its opposite shoreline no longer visible under the moonless night sky. The family lake house was well secluded, shrouded in forest nearly twenty miles thick.

"It's what he would have wanted," I answered, glancing down at the lifeless figure in the wooden canoe, hands gracefully folded, with a wreath of crumpled newspaper haloing his head.

With a heavy sigh, Joshua waded the canoe out to water as I lit several matches. He smirked.

"Feels like cheating, without the bow and arrow."

From Guest Contributor Amanda S.