Data Dada

I walked for eight months, following a man who was carrying books on a donkey. I thought of it as my way of creating memories and putting them in my diary, except I don’t have a diary. So, yes, it’s ironic. Now as I go around the city, I see cigarette butts and chewing gum on the pavement, and people clipping their fingernails in the subway. I mean, who would do that, leave their DNA all over the place for others to collect and store? It’s like the secret to keeping a secret is the only secret still being kept.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Tool

“This is my weekend,” Hugh told the windscreen, almost colliding with the car in front. “Hold on.” He tuned out until he could give the Bluetooth his full attention. The car skidded to a stop on the gravelly lay-by.

“You can’t spare the time to drop him off? No problem, I’ll collect him.”

Glaring at traffic, he struggled to keep his response relatively civil.

“Your lover-boy gardener is intimidated by me?

He’s wattnow?

Right … gardener just long enough to plough you, eh?

Too bad, Cathal’s my son–

Bronagh?”

Hugh stared into space, eventually noticing an ironic sign.

WRONG WAY.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid