Walter Winchester took a step behind the yellow line and into the safety booth, donning his safety goggles. The Range Rover had been prepped and it was currently reversing into position via remote control. Ahmadinejad, the crash test dummy, leered out the window at Walter. As the jeep reached the 200m mark of the pristine white hangar, the room was bathed in blood red light as the warning light automatically flicked on. With a roar, the Range Rover took off towards the solid steel-reinforced concrete crash wall at the end of the cavernous room. As the vehicle built up speed, so did Walter’s heart rate. They achieved synchronicity just as the vehicle entered the 20 meter danger zone. This marvel of modern engineering smashed into the wall with an ear-rending screech. As the beam of the sensory lasers was broken by the jeep, the 1,000,000 frame-per-second high speed cameras came to life, documenting the impact in hyper slow-motion. Walt, watching this unfold, felt that same shiver, that release, as the Range Rover submitted to the wall, not flinching when deadly shards of metal spitefully attacked the safety booth. Stepping out of the room, he approached the car with a tablet in his hand, making marks with his stylus as he examined the jeep. He nodded appreciatively as he inspected the interior of the car. The president of Iran peered out the window at him, the dummy mercifully unharmed albeit with the equivalent of broken legs. Not bad for 140 mph. Susan Winchester stood with her back to the open boot of a 2013 Range Rover as she smiled at customers, trying to will them over to her stall. Farmer’s markets were always the toughest to crack, especially in the organic rhubarb business. Her pleading...

            “You’ve got to be kidding me.”           “No, mother, I am not.”           “But why? James-Rainbow Drop, honey-why are you-?” The emaciated woman looked at her son in concern. He looked a lot like she did, she thought with pride: he had the same colour eyes, the same shade of brown in his messy hair, the same slimness in his body and a pointed face but his hair was a lot shorter than hers and his skin was far less sallow-looking. Sunlight shone into the kitchen from the open window. It was reflected in the woman’s drinking goblet, which lay waiting on the countertop. Catherina had been hoping for a quiet and peaceful afternoon but her wish had not come true. James bitterly cut across her, his light voice more akin to his father’s than Cathy’s deep, cut-throat rasping.           “Why?! I’ll tell you why,’ he snapped, standing firmly. A frown emerged on his tanned and handsome face; he could sense the fist of his right hand clenching. “I can no longer live here. I will no longer live here, not with you and your repulsive smell and your … issues.’           “Excuse me?!”           “Yeah, that’s right,” James verified his comment with a snort: “issues. Do you think I like living here in this house, watching it fall apart, watching the family fall apart?”           His voice got weaker as he spoke and his bottom lip shuddered. Cathy listened to the words, which seemed to be forcing themselves out of his throat like water trying to break past a particularly large boulder. Her green eyes fearfully searched his pair as if she were looking afresh at a challenging...

Margarete Adness sipped her tea and let her soft blue eyes wander up and down the street. Little Charlie Green was over at the book store, shouting at his mother to get him the latest “Bruce Bogtrotter” novel while Roxanne Pontalo was admiring a rather expensive looking dress in the window of Elitists…and there was that nameless newspaper guy picking his nose while at the same time, using his other hand, attempting to thrust the latest “Fibbler” into an old woman’s rather shaky hands. Margarete sighed, put her porcelain cup down on the table outside Posh’s Inn, and said: ‘Where is he?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Linda Eyer said empathetically and ran her long slender fingers through her lustrous blonde hair. The brown-haired Frederick Atso grinned at her, squeezed her hand gently and looked at the dark-haired, bog-standard undergraduate currently looking for her boyfriend. ‘He’ll turn up,’ Frederick said dropping some chip onto his bulging red jumper. ‘He always does.’ But he usually doesn’t break promises, Margarete thought before saying with a perfectly practiced smile: ‘You’re right, of course.’ ‘I know I am,’ Frederick said casually and looked towards his girlfriend for a smile; Linda however was too busy looking down Yelshi Street to keep him satisfied so Frederick awkwardly continued. ‘Did any of you watch the match?’ ‘Yes,’ Margarete said with a chill. ‘It was a load of shi…’ ‘Shih-tzu puppies,’ Frederick nodded. ‘I agree. Linda?’ He looked at Linda who, after a while, tuned back in, looked at the father of her unborn child and said: ‘No, I don’t like battleball. How many times do I have to tell you?’ She licked her lips, he licked his and they met each other’s gaze. Then… ‘What the-?!’ Linda cried and looked behind her to find...

“Mom, why are you crying?” “I’m not crying sweetheart. I just have some dust in my eye. Now run along and go play with your sister. You know you can’t leave her alone like that.” “Sorry mom. I saw you out here by yourself and I… I just wanted to know what was wrong.” Sheila O’Leary, widow, broke and soon to be evicted, pulled her eleven year old son, Patrick into a tight hug and whispered, “There’s nothing wrong love. Nothing at all.” Earlier That Morning… “Please Mr. Gleeson, there must be something you can do,” Sheila grovelled. “I’m sorry Ms. O’Leary, but from looking at your recent files, I can see nothing has been paid within the last month and a half. Your insurance premium, electricity bills and credit card withdrawals have been especially neglected.” “I know. And I promise I will pay you every last penny but I need this loan.” “Ms. O’Leary…” “You will get your money!! Isn’t that all you care about? Wheedling every last pound out of my pocket? Taking it all until I have nothing left, until I can’t even afford to live in my own home!!” A fresh wave of tears streamed down Sheila’s face, and she broke into a fit of sobs and moans. Mr. Gleeson rubbed her shoulder reassuringly.        “I promise you Sheila that that is not how we work. I will try to salvage you another week, but that is the limit.” He hesitated for a moment, then continued: “I know it’s been hard for you ever since Greg died, but you will get through this.” “What about my children?” Sheila persisted, ignoring the comment. “They don’t deserve this. This is not how they should have to spend their childhood. You can’t...

“I remember the good ol’ days when you could get many things for incredible prices like computer games, sweets and of course novels! Now however the prices are crazy- games cost €70 and up! I wish I could go back in time,” George Hedge thought one day after coming home after a court case. He flicked on the TV and the very first ad caught his attention. “Do you wish you could travel back in time?” the ad blared before showing an old scientist in front of what looked like a giant clock with a small stage attached to it. “Hello! I am Rupert Smith, a famous scientist. Today I have created the first time machine ever. For a limited time it is free to all adult users and all you have to do is go to Megalopolis’s town hall and ask to use the time machine! I hope to see you last year!” The scientist winked and the ad switched to one for the National Lottery. George packed his stuff and drove to the town hall where he asked to use the time machine. The clock opened up into a small room with a keyboard and several screens showing what was happening in the different times. George typed in 1996 onto the keyboard and the time machine rose into the air, spun around at 1000 km an hour before landing on a large chunk of grass. The keyboard had gotten the date wrong and George was now in prehistoric times! A T-Rex walked past chasing a stegosaurus. George turned to make his way back to the time machine but it had run out of power. On the main screen it read, “WARNING! THIS MACHINE NEEDS TO BE FED WITH A DIAMOND!” “Oh great,...

“BILLY I BET YOU my bottom dollar you ain’t got the guts to nick that ole slingshot from Mr Nickleson’s store, ” exclaimed Otis. “I beg to differ. I could, just my pop’s got business with Mr Nickleson, he owe him 30 Benjamin Franklins so it just wouldn’t be right me stealin’ from Mr Nickleson,” I replied. “Jarvis was right about you Billy, you’re just a chicken…you’re…you’re like a bull in a china shop,” Otis said, as a grin crept across his face. “No I ain’t, I gonna show you I’ll be slicker than snot on a glass doorknob,” I barked. With that I marched up the dirt path towards Mr Nickleson’s store, the only one in our lone village besides the bar of course where my pops spent most of his days gettin’ as drunk as a monkey. My ma and I struggles read bad because pops can’t stay off the sauce, that’s why we owes Mr Nickleson so much money for rent of the land. Mr Nickleson basically owns all of Dayton, our village, located in the sweltering heat of the southern State of Alabama. As I crossed the desolate dirt track composed of signature Alabama red clay and dirt that gave it a dusty auburn look I spots the slingshot with my own two eyes. It was made out of the finest all-American pine wood and carved to perfection as if by a man I heards about called Michelangelo who’s supposed to be real good at carving. It had teh finest elastic string which chould fire stones right across the cotton fields. I stood there looking at it through the dusty window pane for quite some time. I glanced back at Otis who was grinnin’ like a opossum shitting peach seeds....

The phone call came at just after midnight. I answered it on the first ring, sitting in bed reading with the TV on. I heard Walter on the other end but we didn’t have a conversation, not as such. I listened in stunned silence while he berated me for the interview I’d given on Lenny Davis. “I’d just like to disabuse you of this notion you seem to have that I was a coward in the ring. You of all people should know why I lost that fight. You know what it was like for me. Why the hell are you going on TV, and on the Lenny Davis show? I mean of all the lame things you’ve done this one’s earned you first prize.” Walter was on a rant. I didn’t get an opportunity to respond he was talking so fast. Eventually, after what must have been a full five minutes he hung up. I lay there with my book in my lap and the TV on mute. I must have sat like that for the whole night. In the morning I rang Maria. “He said that?” she gasped. “That’s what I’m telling you. He was livid. He said my performance on the TV last night made him seem pusillanimous.” “Look, I didn’t see Davis last night. What exactly did you say? You didn’t mention the Kook did you?” “Of course I didn’t mention the Kook. Do you think I’m crazy?” “Then why is Walt so peeved? You must have said something.” “You know what he’s like, he’s so temperamental. All it takes is the suggestion of a smear. I just happened to say that the welterweight division is for a certain kind of fighter, Walter’s type.” “Well what does that mean, ‘Walter’s...

It was a fine day in late October and in Coláiste Ghobnatan serious business was underway. A dare contest was unfolding between two very different lads. One, Liam “Booter” Lynch, so called because of his GAA exploits, was the cockiest fella this side of the Lee, but was probably the finest corner forward that Naomh Ábán had ever produced. He was playing Junior B at only 15 years of age! The other was a timid wee boyeen called Johnjoe Murphy. Booter, ever the gentleman, let Johnjoe go first. He dared Booter to yell “I’m stupid” at the top of his voice. As you may well imagine Johnjoe didn’t get out much. He was a bit of a nerd. In fact he owned the first ever computer in Ballyvourney. Anyways, after Booter unceremoniously complied with his demand, he laid down an equally idiotic dare. He dared Johnjoe to declare that technology was nothing but a load of bullshit, which Johnjoe didn’t particularly fancy for previously explained reasons, but to preserve his dignity he made the declaration. This type of headbanging was continued by this pair of dodgers, escalating until Booter made the ultimate dare (in Ballyvourney at least). This was to break into Coláiste Íosagáin on Halloween, and spend the night there. Coláiste Íosagáin was a derelict former boarding school that had been defunct for over twenty years and was now dilapidated. The source  its infamous reputation was a rumour that a pupil was beaten to death by one of the brothers in the fifties, and that the boy’s ghost haunted the school. Many others had attempted to spend Halloween night in there, but every time it ended the same way, with a group of terrified teens fleeing the building in the wee hours of...

I stared at the cold grey floor. It was dull and made me feel depressed. I had been staring at it for the best part of an hour when I heard a key rattle in the lock of the cell door. It was the guard, with the chef, who put a plate on the table in the corner.     ‘Lunch time, you bloody asshole,’ the guard said, spitting at me. It landed on my hair. I ignored him.     The guard continued. ‘I said it was lunch time, you bloody, ignorant asshole,’ the guard shouted.     I looked up at him. ‘As if I give a shit.’     The guard took his baton and stuck it in my stomach, causing me to double over. Then he hit me a few times just below the back of my neck. I hollered.     The guard grunted. ‘Now you’ll eat your food,’ he said. ‘Come on Clifford.’ They left the cell. As he locked the door he looked at me. ‘I hope you burn in hell,’ he hissed.     The sound of their footsteps dimmed as they receded along the corridor. I stood up and ate the meal. My legs were aching so badly. What a bastard!     The food – dinner – consisted of the usual: cold, mashed potatoes with a mushy carrot and a miserable piece of boiled beef. If you behaved you would receive an extra helping of meat and possibly some mayonnaise.     The average day was boring. In fact, the most exciting part of my life in prison to date was when I was called to court to give evidence, or more recently to appeal the court’s decision.     My lawyer abandoned my case following one witness’ evidence. It all went downhill...

  Tineland is a country covered in grass. There are no roads or footpaths, the whole country is one giant field. The shops, schools and everything else are all located on this fiery mass and people get around by foot, land rovers, tractors and even on horseback. I could of course tell you how this country came to be and point out that it’s in Europe but this is no history lesson, nor is it a geography class; this is a story, a true story involving a guy named Rhys. ‘Must you really cancel the holidays?’ the beautiful blonde Glenda Eshen asked, sitting upright in bed. ‘Yes,’ her husband, who had long dark locks, replied. He pulled back the quilt and got out of bed. ‘But Rhys please,’ Glenda urged ‘can’t you do something? You are, after all, the manager; can’t you get someone else to do the work for you?’ Rhys looked at her and shook his head. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘There really is nothing I can do.’ He looked into his wife’s pale blue eyes, picked up on the suspicion and grinned – divorce was inevitable. ‘Bye,’ he said after changing into his pinstripe suit. ‘Goodbye,’ Glenda gave a mock smile and Rhys left the room. On his way to work in his new Range Rover, Rhys stopped by the local newsagents. Drumming his bare fingers along the newspaper stand, Rhys picked out “The Tineland Times” and brought it to the cash desk where a tall, fit young woman with sallow skin and long chestnut-coloured hair was giving a dazzling, professional smile. ‘Hello,’ she beamed at him. She took a look at the newspaper and nodded. ‘That will be one Aurum twenty five.’ ‘A pack of fags too please,’ Rhys said and...

It’s raining again. No, it’s not raining, it’s more of a mist. It’s more subtle than rain. The people inside their houses probably can’t see it, wrapped up in their blankets with their cups of hot chocolate. Who knows what they’re doing or thinking. Maybe they’re fully aware of the mist, the way it soaks your clothes and leaves you with that unbearable, damp chill. “How did you get that wet?” mum always asks, “It’s hardly even drizzling.” Yet there I stand, dripping off the day’s moisture. It forms a puddle, a reflection of all that I have absorbed, the only clue of the day’s onslaught. I hear voices in the distance. The usual sorts of voices, those that belong to thugs who litter their speech with coarse colloquialisms and profanities like a baker scatters raisins into a cake mixture. The verbose dialogue spreads into every corner of my mind, creating a constant buzzing sound at the back of each thought. I can’t bear to concentrate on it yet I can’t ignore it either, like a tap that starts to drip when you are trying to go to sleep. You worry and worry about it, hoping that the house won’t be flooded by the time you wake up. Or maybe that’s just me. Fwit, fwit, fwit. I look down. It is the sound of my bike wheel turning, madly trying to spin away from the damp ground. No matter how hard it tries, it cannot get away from the wet tarmac. In a strange way, I feel sorry for it. It is panicking, trying desperately to get away. Yet it is all in vain. I half expecty the rusty old wheel to collapse in a heap and start weeping, appalled by its sodden surroundings....

Fate Leah Brown stormed onto Oliver Plunkett Street and glared at a skinhead whose earrings glistened rather threateningly in the Irish evening sun.     “You cow!” Leah screamed, her hair flailing behind her reddened face as she charged towards the man known simply as ‘Spike’. “You piece of doo!”     She advanced closer towards him and, as Leah shouted out: “YOU MURDERER!”, Spike feigned oblivion.     “What the tuck are you smokin’?” he asked and Leah yelled at him; now everyone was staring, watching aghast as this woman claimed Spike had killed her little brother.     “Are you for real?” Spike laughed, revealing his rotten yellow teeth as Leah chased him into the neighbouring pub.     “I WILL KILL YOU!” Leah screeched, attracting the attention of the customers and the rather agitated landlord.     “Now, now,” he said reasonably.     “SHUT IT!!” Leah screamed. “And you,” she looked at Spike. “Tell them what you did. Tell them what you did to an innocent twelve-year-old boy. YOU MURDERER!!”     She picked up a wine bottle, stealing it from a rather shocked banker and stared at Spike. Tightening her grasp over the glass she realised how fun it would be to just throw it at him – exactly what he deserved.     This is not good God thought, pacing around Heaven’s lobby. He scratched his white beard, frowned and grabbed his pencil. Sitting back down, he closed his eyes and added a new paragraph to the book labelled ‘Leah Isabelle Brown’.     “To hell with it,” Leah spat and uncorked the bottle.     To the astonishment of the customers, Leah drained the bottle in one gulp and Spike, overwhelmed by the whole thing, ordered vodka.     Within an hour Leah found herself sitting in Spike’s dampened...

Harry Cotter rang me at 7 p.m. I was dragging a bag of coal from the shed. I had got it to the threshold and was about to lug it down the steps. I might have hauled it over my shoulder but I hadn’t changed after getting back from the party and still had on a pretty good shirt that Shirley had bought for my birthday. My phone vibrated maybe five times before I decided to release the bag and answer it. “Alright?” “Watch you up ta?” Harry’s West London accent always made me think of a joke I liked to tell him about “Eastenders,” that all they ever say in it is “Yor jowking incha?” “Just putting down a fire. It’s the first really cold night so far and I decided to stay in in front of the fire with a beer and the TV.” “Sounds good.” “You gone yet?” Harry hesitated and I waited. “Naw moyt.” “How come?” “Lissun, moyt…you wan’ sam comp’ny then?” I didn’t, but I liked Harry and he never invited himself to anything. “Sure, get a few beers for yourself, I’ve only got a few bottles of Heineken here.” And he was gone. I returned to the bag of coal and started toward the house. Shirley was somewhere on the road now on her way back from the conference in the city. I thought all at once of her and Harry sharing our living space for a night and wondered how they’d ever gotten along. Maybe for my sake. Maybe for their own. Once inside the house I laid the bag of coal at the inner door of the utility room and went inside to get the coal shuttle. Shirley’s magazines were strewn on the sofa and the...