Traveling Light

Roger has a tremendous urgency to explore. Everywhere he travels, he moves extremely fast. There are never any stops along the way, and no sightseeing, at least not in the traditional sense.

Of course, part of the enjoyment of a long voyage is observing the scenery as you go. Roger is always more comfortable being the observer rather than being observed. In fact, he'd be fine if no one ever knew when he had passed by, as he feels traveling unnoticed is his natural state.

In the time it's taken you to read this, Roger has traveled 3.35 million miles.

Fifteen Minutes

After a lifetime of deception, a sense of purposelessness persisted. Trapped in darkness, Sarah faced tests, time lost all meaning, hunger gnawed, and survival was vital. Guilt spiraled into self-blame. A presence loomed, with fear gripping her. A hidden cave, a reward, reality slipping, and power and control are beckoning. Uncertainty and choices lead to dark paths. Sarah complied, fearing the unknown. Urgency and the cave's depths awaited. A dangerous allure, dread mounting. Unease, an invisible stalker, the crunch of footsteps. The weight of a gaze, fear, and defiance entwined.

"I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to win!"

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Sunday Morning

Polystyrene-on-glass calls pause. Unknown bird waits. Magpie’s hoarse rattle bobs upon chill breeze, followed by one clipped caw. Wind and distant slumber.

Dog yelp, muffled by intervening streets, punctuates keyboard-click.

Repeated.

Nothing.

Wheeze of diesel engine and hiss of pneumatic tyres upon Tarmac cue pair of voices in garbled conversation, growing as they near.

The dog dips paw into arena of proper barking before relenting, wounded by unanimous indifference.

Then...timeless chorus of seagulls.

All cede to a hesitant wind under sombre sky.

Footfalls.

Children’s voices shatter tableau, announcing subdued urgency of Sunday morning.

Bleakness prevails, yet wind chimes sound.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Spending A Penny Dreadful

The Fleadh Ceoil festival was at its height. Those who hadn’t arrived early were relegated to rural camp-sites.

Still, even on the outskirts of the small Kerry village the women’s toilets were dutifully labelled with the Gaelige ‘MNA.’ It wouldn’t do for traditional/folk festivals to be less than authentic.

The next generation of the attending family carnivals had finished their setting-up chores and, thankful of the break, watched with some amusement as the drunk approached with strained gait and increasing urgency until finally bursting into the ‘Ladies,’ zip down.

Screams.

"Must be a wil’ handling being dyslexic," one mused.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid