The Midnight Market

02 October 2026

2023

R. Linda:

Me Mam loves October. Me kiddos love Halloween. We look forward to the month. The excitement of costumes, who's being what, and, for me, the kitchen smells of pumpkin and apple pies, warm glasses of cider, cider doughnuts, and the first hearth fire of the season. We have apple picking all set up, and we are psyched.

But one of the wonderful things about October be Mam's stories. We Irish love to tell stories, as you can tell from me blog. But the stories aren't just something we look forward to; they're also about the bond she has with her grandkids. As you may know, it takes a lot for a teenager to sit still and a twenty-year-old to be interested in old tales; only the wee one (not so wee anymore) would be fascinated. Not so; she gathers us all at the fireplace. We sit with our warm pie and cider, and she tells tales the Irish have told for centuries, that keep our attention rapt and our imaginations soaring with magic and a lesson. 

Here is one of them:

October arrived not with a roar, but with the crisp scent of crushed apple leaves and woodsmoke. In the small village of Glenmorrow, the harvest was already heavy in the barns, but the real magic began when the sun went down.

Maeve pulled her wool cardigan tighter as she walked the perimeter of her pumpkin patch. The moon was a round golden sphere casting long, dancing shadows across the fields. Tomorrow, the village's autumn festival would begin. But tonight belonged to the older traditions.

A sudden, low hum vibrated through the crisp air.

Maeve turned toward the centre of the patch. There, nestled between two of her largest orange gourds, a narrow cobblestone path had appeared out of nowhere. It glowed with a faint, violet luminescence, winding into the misty woods where no path should be.

She smiled. The Midnight Market had opened, where an ancient yearly exchange between the ordinary agricultural world and the magical one came together.

Taking a deep breath, Maeve grabbed her wicker basket, filled with jarred blackberry preserves from the August harvest, and stepped onto the glowing stones.

As she walked into the treeline, the quiet woods transformed. Strings of floating paper lanterns—shaped like grinning jack-o'-lanterns and glowing autumn leaves—bobbed between the branches. The air filled with the rich, intoxicating scent of spiced cider, roasted chestnuts, and something older—like the pages of an ancient book.

Figures wrapped in cloaks of woven moss and star-patterned velvet moved between stalls made of living birch trees. At one stall, a vendor with eyes like polished obsidian was trading silver thimbles for bottles of bottled moonlight. At another, an old woman spun yarn out of literal fog, dyeing it the exact shade of a sunset.

Maeve approached her usual spot next to a cider brewer named Brian, whose beard seemed to spark with tiny, harmless embers.

"Late this season, Maeve," Brian mumbled, handing her a steaming wooden mug. "The harvest moon waits for no one."

"Had to make sure the crows didn't steal the autumn magic early," Maeve laughed, taking a sip. The cider tasted like liquid warmth, cinnamon, and a memory of a perfect childhood afternoon.

She set her blackberry preserves on the wooden counter. Within minutes, a traveller in a coat of iridescent crow feathers stepped up, offering three heavy, shimmering silver coins in exchange for two jars of 'summer preserved in glass'. 

The coins didn't buy bread in Glenmorrow, but Maeve knew their worth. After the first hard frost, she would bury them at the corners of the pumpkin field and leave them there through winter. By spring the silver would be gone, spent into the earth, and the soil beneath the melting frost would wake dark, loose and hungry for seed.

For the crow-capped creature, Maeve's jars held berries from an actual August afternoon.

For hours, Maeve traded, laughed, and drank in the enchanting atmosphere. She exchanged stories with travellers from realms fuelled entirely by autumn winds, and watched children—some with small, velvet fox ears—chase falling leaves that turned into golden moths when caught.

"Ah, the October rule: Nothing is harvested without something being planted, and nothing magical is received without something of yourself being given in return." She said, turning to Brian. "Your bees are still humming unusually late, I hear," she said.

"Aye, so they be. And me brother Liam's wheat grew particularly well. We all made a good bargain last year here; the orchard survived a killing frost." He raised his cup of cider in toast.

But as the first pale blue lines of dawn began to bleed into the eastern sky, the lanterns started to flicker out. The vendors began packing their ethereal wares into trunks woven from roots.

"Until next year, Maeve," Brian said, tipping his hat as his stall slowly dissolved into a thick, morning mist.

Maeve blinked, and suddenly she was standing at the edge of her own pumpkin patch. The cobblestone path was gone. Morning frost was just beginning to lace the grass, and the sun was waking the valley. Her wicker basket was empty of jam, but heavy with silver coins and a small glass vial of starlight a passing weaver had given her.

"One coin for the soil, one for the seed, and one for the season."

She walked back to her farmhouse, woodsmoke still clinging to her hair. The harvest was safe, the magic was awake, and October had officially begun.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved  

October In The Wilds

01 October 2026

2022

R. Linda:

October in New Hampshire doesn't nudge you gently; it hits you over the head with a blazing branch of orange-and-red maple and demands that you buy a flannel shirt.

The kiddos had pulled out photos of Halloweens at our old house when they were quite young, and suddenly we were back there.

As an Irishman who traded the rainy streets of Newry for a news desk in Boston—and eventually, a drafty 1790s farmhouse in the Merrimack Valley—I thought I understood autumn. Back home, Halloween was Samhain, a night of turnips, barmbrack, and telling kiddos the Puca would carry them off if they ate late-crop blackberries.

But New Hampshire? New Hampshire treats October like a competitive sport. It bursts with colour all round, and the wind — oh, the wind! Fierce and perfect for hanging homemade ghosties out to blow ominously. And the smell of cider doughnuts wafting through the crisp air? Just marvellous!

I remember when we lived in that antique cape some 10 years ago, by October 1st, me little house looked less like a home and more like a staging ground for a pagan harvest festival. This is entirely the fault of me housemates: me beautiful wife, our three kiddos (operating as a small, destructive nomadic tribe), and me own Mam and Da (visiting from the old sod for the month).

Mam in particular, possessing a terrifying amount of energy for a woman in her late sixties.

"Gabriel!" me Mam shouted from the back porch, her Irish accent cutting clean through the crisp morning air. "Get out 'ere an' help yer son. He's found a pumpkin the size of a small hatchback, an' he's trying to roll it inta the kitchen?"

I stepped outside, coffee mug in hand, inhaling the glorious scent of woodsmoke and damp pine needles. The yard was a battlefield of autumn magic. Me eldest was attempting to stack hay bales into a fortress. Me middle kiddo, Guido, was aggressively glueing plastic spiders to the dog. And me youngest was, indeed, wedged behind a massive, ninety-pound gourd. His face was pure red with determination.

"Leave it there," I called out. "If that comes inside, your mother will make me sleep in it."

"It's for the perimeter, Da!" he yelled back. "To keep the ghosts out!"

"The only ghost you need to worry about is your grandmother if you track that mud onto her clean floor," I muttered, taking a sip of coffee. Yes, me Mam was a cleaning fanatic, which gave me wife a month off from any housework and even the cooking!

Living out here in the granite wilds, you quickly realise that the veil between the real world and the magical world doesn't just thin in October—it completely tears open. An ancient, intoxicating energy lives in these woods. When the sun dips below the mountains, and the mist rolls off the stone walls, you can almost believe the old stories. You half expect to see a witch trading cider with a Bigfoot. 

Later that evening, once the chaos of dinner had settled and the kiddos were bribed into bed with promises of cider doughnuts, the house went quiet. I stepped out onto the porch with a glass of Jameson. The moon was a sharp silver hook.

Me Mam joined me, wrapping her wool shawl tight around her shoulders. We looked out at the dark silhouette of the woods, where the autumn wind was making the thinning branches dance. 

"'Tis a grand country, Gabriel," she said softly, watching the fog creep across the fields, swallowing the kiddos' half-built hay fortress.

"It be so," I agreed. "A bit mad. But grand."

"Do ye tink the Puca coomes out in New Hampshire?" she asked, a familiar, wicked glint in her eye.

I looked down at the massive pumpkin sitting on the edge of the field, glowing faintly in the moonlight. "If he does, Mam, he'll have to fight the kids for it."

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved  

All Talk And No Trousers

29 September 2026

2021

R. Linda:

Last night we were sitting around the kitchen table talking about ancestry. Tonya had come upon some piece of O'Sullivan history claiming we were originally farm folk. Well, that be true enough in me family. And the farming ended fairly recently—for good reason.

One of the first homes me parents lived in was a run-down farm in County Tyrone. They weren't there long because me father wasn't very good at it.

Farming, that is.

Here be the story me Mam told Tonya last night. I'm leaving some of her Irish in because I wouldn't dare rob you of the full experience.

"Me hoosband always had more pride than sense; he did. He wus all talk an' no trousers! In the autumn of '74, he set off fer da Pomeroy market in County Tyrone, determined ta restore the "noble O'Sullivan farming legacy" by buying a prize breeding sow. He came back wit a four-hundred-pound beastie named Dolores, and a plan to walk her three miles home on a flimsy piece o' twine to save a few pence. The man wus always tight as a ghost's scream.

Naturally, he made it as far as The Rusty Keg on Main Street before he claimed he was foundered and the thirst took him.

He tied Dolores to a bench outside an' popped in fer "just da one" pint of stout. Two hours later, Dolores got bored. She broke her rope, pushed through the pub's swingin' doors, an' caused absolute ruction. She bolted straight behind da counter, smashin' a dozen pints o' porter an' sending da bartender leaping into a whiskey barrel. 

Me Sully had to wrestle a muddy, screaming pig in a crowded taproom right in front o' the parish priest, who was tryin' to enjoy a quiet Sunday "medicinal" drink an' was thoroughly scunnered by the whole display. Dolores eventually wedged herself under the priest's table an' wouldn't budge until she was bribed with a bowl of tavern peanuts. Sully spent his entire livestock budget buyin' the pub a round to apologise, an' had to haul that smug pig home in the back of a neighbour's turf cart, looking completely foundered and black-affronted. 

When he finally rolled inta da yard, covered in mud, porter, an' absolute shame, I was waitin' on the porch wit me arms crossed, givin' him a doleful eye. He tried to look grand; he did, gesturin' to da cart and sayin', "Look 'ere, woman, I've brought home the future o' the O'Sullivan dynasty!"

I took one look at that pig, one look at his empty pockets, and locked da front door, I did. Sully spent the night sleepin' in da barn, learning da hard way that the pig had better manners, better leverage, and by da end of the evening, a much better spot inside the straw than he did.

Ta dis day, we don't speak o' the O'Sullivan grand farming legacy. We just say that in our family, the pigs have all the financial sense, and the men are just pure melted wellie, or to you, a total soft eejit, who be completely useless in a crisis."

And there you have it. The reason me family eventually left the farming legacy to the O'Leathlabhair family.

As Mam tells it, Dolores was the last successful farmer in the O'Sullivan line.

And she was a pig.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved  

Storm Never Materialises, But The Doughnut/Coffee Expedition Does

28 September 2026

2020

R. Linda:

Day 3 or 4, no matter how you want to look at it, the day dawned rainy! The wind was light, but nothing spectacular (it never amounted to much), and Gabe went to work in rainy Boston, where it was supposed to be remarkably rainier and windier. 

But it wasn't.

It was just about dawn, though you'd not know it by the look of it

I had me cup of Dunks and ambled into me office half awake. I looked at me messages and put them aside. Nothing pressing. I sat back, sipped me cup of joe, and watched as the rest of the staff wandered in the same way I did. No one wanted to be there. I sat until the morning actually did dawn.

An hour later

Reluctantly, I answered me ringing phone for an assignment I didn't feel like covering. It required me and me news partner in crime, Ms Jaio, to suit up and go out in the elements to cover the great snoozer storm of the century.

"Oh, where shall we go?" I mused, me heart not in an answer. "Roxbury? Woman's VW squashed by a tree? Out to the shore to see the erosion and surf fanatics from Maine? Or, shall we just go stand outside with a brolly and assess that the storm isn't much of a storm? What do you think, Ms Jaio?"

"Don't much want to stand outside, but you know what? We wouldn't be out there long." 

I nodded, and she nodded, and both of us, sighing, we heaved our lazy selves up out of our chairs and got our coats, scarves (well, she had a scarf; you know, Ms Jaio must look fashionable on the worst of days to cheer me up (so she says)), and brolly. I have one big brolly that will shield the two of us from any wetness falling from the heavens. 

A few staffers looked our way and smiled to themselves; they were lucky they weren't the ones going outside. But we two knew it wouldn't take long.

Once outside, I put a finger up to find the direction of the wind. There wasn't any. 

Ms Jaio was mumbling; the rain was spitting in her face. She hurried me along to get the brolly up and over us.

It was that light misting stuff that can soak you faster than a downpour. We moved down the sidewalk huddled together like two conspirators plotting a heist. 

Frankly, we were both bored. Both trying to write an honest story without any sensationalism about a monster storm that wasn't even newsworthy anymore. 

"Since when did we become the weather department?" Ms Jaio stopped and looked at me like I should know the answer to that.

"I dunno. We have one." 

"I don't know about you, but I could use a hot cup of coffee. Let's walk to Dunks down the street and warm up and mull over why we are suddenly the weather reporters."

"Capital idea!" I expounded.

She can be such a smarty sometimes.

We walked down in the mist to the local Dunkin's, and in we went. There weren't many people in there; the morning rush had cleared out. We looked over the doughnuts after ordering our hot joes. Not many left. The woman behind the counter was brewing a new pot, and Ms Jaio elbowed me to look. 

"We are getting the fresh stuff." She mused happily.

She spoke too soon. We were getting the rest of what was left in the morning pot. Yes, indeed, we watched in horror as the woman poured us two old coffees. We sighed in unison; yes, we did. We are pretty in tune when it comes to coffee. 

"I'd like a dozen doughnuts," I said.

"What kind?"

 "Uh…make them tasty, no dunkers." She looked at me like, what?

We both like filled doughnuts; the messier, the better. In the past, we both ordered 'gushy' and 'filled'. We got anything but. We get French cruellers, blueberry dunkers, old-fashions, etc. Nothing that comes close to a cream-filled doughnut! So tasty was the new word. And that didn't work. 

What is it about people who work at doughnut shops? They have no clue what they are selling? I hate to tell you how many times I've been at the drive-thru, asked for a specific doughnut, and got: "Let me check and see if we have any of those?"

It's like, DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE SELLING???

When the discussion became tense, Ms Jaio said, "Choose, like, the doughnuts on your back." 

'Huh?"

"Your T-shirt, you have doughnuts on your back." Ms Jaio said with some exasperation. "Turn your shirt around and give us those with the icing on them." 

I took this from the outside 

When that didn't work, Ms Jaio said, "Just choose anything you like; we don't care." And that's what we got.

We ate the two that were filled 

Oh, and we ordered pumpkin spice lattes and were told the steamer was down, so we ended up with pumpkin spice hot coffees. That's the other thing: every time I order a latte, the machine is either being cleaned or the steamer isn't working. I tell ya! They have a racket going, they do. 

We sat down to munch on doughnuts and sip coffee. It then dawned on us that we needed to write some kind of story about the less-than-terrifying storm. 

"Any ideas?" I asked.

"Nah, none. You?"

"Same."

We sat staring out the window. The rain continued doing what it had been doing all morning—which wasn't much. A few drops wandered down the glass. A plastic bag blew halfheartedly across the street and apparently gave up.

I looked at Ms Jaio. She looked at me.

"There's our story," she said.

"What?"

"The bag."

I watched it flop over onto its side.

"I think it's dead."

"Tragic."

I took another sip of me pumpkin spice coffee, which was supposed to be a latte, and bit into a doughnut that wasn't filled with anything remotely interesting.

"So, let's see what we've got," I said. "Rain."

"Yep."

"No wind."

"Correct."

"No flooding."

"Not here."

"No trees coming down."

"Not unless you count the one already down in Roxbury."

"No angry ocean."

"Probably angry. Just not angry enough."

I nodded thoughtfully.

"We could go find an angry ocean."

"We could."

Neither of us moved.

"Or," Ms Jaio said, "we could finish our coffee."

"Now you're thinking like a journalist."

She rolled her eyes.

I pulled out me phone and started tapping.

BOSTON — A much-heralded nor'easter arrived in the city this morning, bringing light rain, little wind and considerable disappointment to two reporters assigned to cover it.

Ms Jaio leaned over to read it.

"You can't write that."

"Why not? It's accurate."

"Keep going."

I did.

The storm, described in advance as potentially powerful, failed to live up to expectations during the morning hours. Conditions were wet but otherwise uneventful, leaving residents to go about their business and at least two members of the press wondering why they had bothered putting on rain gear.

"Better," she said.

"Needs something."

"Weather Service?"

"Nah."

"Wind speeds?"

"Boring."

"Rainfall totals?"

"More boring."

She picked up half a doughnut and held it in front of me.

"Local businesses remain open."

"Brilliant."

And there it was.

We had our story.

We finished the coffees, packed up what remained of our dozen mystery doughnuts and headed back into the great Boston nor'easter.

Outside, I opened the brolly.

Ms Jaio stepped beneath it. We waited. Nothing. Not even enough wind to turn the bloody thing inside out. 

"Monster storm," she said.

"Terrifying."

And off we went, two intrepid journalists braving nearly three blocks of mist to bring Boston the news that absolutely nothing had happened.

By the time we got back to the office, the doughnuts were the bigger story.

And unlike the nor'easter, at least two of them had been filled.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved  

Great Apocalypse Nor'easter Has So Far Amounted To Wet Grass

27 September 2026

2019

R. Linda:

Ah, yes! Yesterday's headlines were THIS: Torrential Rain Inches Closer! More Rain Expected Later Today! - Monster Nor'easter Slams Coast; See Timeline! - How Much Rain Will We See? - Wind Gusts Topping 40 mph Batter The NH Coastline! - Possible Power Outages! 

I awoke to a spring, or what is also called a farmer's rain. Light, misty stuff. The wind was calm, but would gust gently and disappear. I sighed. All was right with Gabe's world. I had no clue if the headlines were honest or just sensational. I purposely didn't turn on the local news. I was quite content not to know whether anything was going on. Because in my world, everything was fine.

I was enjoying me coffee and croissant when, in the back of me mind, the image of Freddie, the squirrel, clinging to the kitchen window screen came back. I got up and looked out. All was quiet, no birds, no chipmunk, no Freddie. Hum. Well, that doesn't bode well, I told meself. But the weather wasn't threatening; it wasn't something that would keep one indoors, surely. 

About lunchtime, Mam was complaining of headache and arthritis flaring up. The arthritis usually does that on humid days, but the headache - now there's a barometer if ever there was one. Headache usually means bad weather. I looked out; no wind to speak of, but it was raining, not a heavy one, no pouring or pounding. 

"Where's this big storm we were supposed to get?" Tonya asked.

We were having afternoon tea, and there was no rain, no wind, just overcast weather.

"Probably not happening. It reminds me of a soft day in Ireland. We have lots of this," and I pointed out the window at nothing happening outside. I even heard a bird calling when I let the dog out. 

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you," Mam said. "Me head be better, but dat can mean some Scottish wetter coomin' in."

"What? Scottish what?" Tonya was confused.

"In Donegal, dey git da Scottish gales frum across da sea. Dey are pounden' rain, an' the wind can howl like a wolf around da hoose. Dat's why I call it sooch."

"Okay. I thought you were from Newry; that's on the other coast." Tonya was still confused.

"I've lived all o'er Ireland, I haf. Donegal the longest. Dose gales were ferocious, let me tell you."

All went quiet over the teacups. No one said a word for a long time. Each of us was deep in our thoughts.

The only ominous thing is the way the dog, cat, and Mam are acting. She is very quiet, and she stops what she's doing to listen. I don't know what she's listening for. The dog is sticking to her like glue. Everywhere she goes, he goes. Even her cat is acting strangely. It doesn't like the dog, but it's sticking with them both. 

This was at 10:54 a.m. today. Dark!

Some of us slept all day; that would be the kiddos. Mam decided to make jelly, and Tonya was catching up on the TV programme The Traitors. I did some work I had left from the office, and nothing much was happening outside. 

Sam rang; he asked to come over. He said he got his chainsaw repaired and since we were all trapped indoors by the "monster storm", he might as well come over and get that branch.

I have a dead tree limb that's about to fall into the driveway, and I need the chainsaw for that. But really? Today we were going to take out a tree limb? I thought he was joking, just looking for an excuse to be with company, so I quipped that he was welcome, but to watch out for falling trees and floods on the way. Sam reminded me that this storm is the usual for us, and he too wonders why the news and weather stations are making it a big deal when it isn't. 

Sam arrived with his chainsaw at the ready. I was gobsmacked. The man saw no problem with going out in the wind and rain to cut down a dead tree limb. 

"Wot are ye doin' wit dat?" Mam pointed at the chainsaw as he dropped it in the mudroom.

"Thought I'd take that dead limb down for you."

We stared at him. He was serious.

"During a nor'easter?" I said.

Sam looked over his shoulder at the rain.

"Gabe, I've showered in worse than this."

Ma'am spoke up, absolutely forbidding us from doing anything with a chainsaw outside in "da wetter."

Sam thought that was ridiculous. I sided with him because the storm was a joke. As this "discussion" went on, Tonya came in and overheard us all arguing.

"Are your mother and I the only two who have the sense to realise that two grown men standing under a tree with a chainsaw, in wet weather, is precisely how local-news stories begin?"

"Neider one of ye be toocing dat tree," Mam announced.

Sam looked at me, and I looked at Sam.

"Why not?" I asked.

Mam stood looking at me with her jelly spoon clutched in her white-knuckled hand like a weapon she wasn't afraid to use on either of us.

"Because dere's wetter coomin'."

Sam glanced through the kitchen window.

"There is weather, Mrs O'Sullivan. It's called drizzle."

"Mock me if ye like."

"I'm not mocking you."

"Ye are!"

"I'm mocking the weather people."

"Same ting. Poot dat machine away." She pointed at the chainsaw sitting in the middle of the mudroom. 

Sam leaned towards me. "Is she always like this?"

"Today? She's actually fairly relaxed."

Mam pointed the wooden spoon at both of us.

"I heard dat. I be standin' roight 'ere."

Mam went into her Scottish weather prediction and headache, coupled with arthritis, and then the animals' reactions being off from their normal ways. Those arguments did nothing to allay any trepidation Sam may have harboured. He picked up the chainsaw and started for the door. He called the dog, but the dog refused to go outside. The cat bolted out of the kitchen like we'd ask it next. 

"Come on, boyo," I called.

The dog backed farther into the kitchen. 

Sam stopped and didn't open the door. He looked at the dog and said, "Huh."

"What?" I said to him.

"Nothing."

"No, no. You don't get to 'huh' after spending ten minutes telling me there's no storm."

"I didn't say there was a storm."

"You just huh'd."

"Dogs are weird."

"You huh'd, Sam."

I walked past him, opened the door and signalled him to follow. 

While we were looking at the limb, the wind stopped. Completely. Sam observed that the trees weren't moving. The rain was falling straight down. No birds, no sounds, nothing. For the first time, Sam wasn't joking around; he was deep in thought. 

"Gabriel and Samuel," Mam called from inside the screen door, and I think I heard her mutter to herself, "Dat rhymes it does."

"Yes?" I shouted.

"Get in a hoose, ye two eejits."

Sam looked at the sky, then at me.

"Maybe we'll do the branch another day."

I grinned. Mam got to him.

"What happened to 'I've showered in worse than this'?"

He gave me a rueful smile.

We went inside; Mam had returned to her jelly. Tonya was in the lounge watching The Traitors. I  poured cups of coffee for Sam and me. We both glanced at the chainsaw resting in the mudroom. It hadn't been more than ten minutes when a tremendous CRACK sounded outside. We all froze. Sam and I ran to the window. 

The dead limb Sam was about to stand beneath was lying across the driveway.

Mam's voice came from behind us.

"Aye."

Neither of us turned around; we looked at each other knowingly.

"Not one bloody word, Mam." I threw behind me.

"I dint say nuttin'".

Sam looked at me and whispered, "She knows something. She's saying it with her face."

"She does that."

We looked around at her. There she was, calm as can be, stirring the jelly.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved 

The Calm Before The Storm - The Approaching Apocalypse

25 September 2026

2018

R. Linda:

As per usual, the weather people are predicting a storm that sounds like the end of the world is coming. Usually, panic-buying groceries and necessities in case the power goes out starts instantly at the word 'storm'. And usually, the storm of the century doesn't materialise or turns out to be a sun shower. 

A big storm is coming tomorrow; right now it is sunny, lovely, and the only hint of trouble is that the wind has picked up. I be so unimpressed. 

However, me neighbours are acting like civilisation has about eighteen hours left. I went down to the Genny early this morning. We had run out of bread for toast, and well, the place was hopping with villagers buying everything, including the last loaf off the shelves. I was stunned and a little bit ticked that they took all the bread. I stood in one aisle, and the milk, eggs, bottled water, batteries, and enough toilet paper to survive until Easter were GONE. 

I heard the words, "Significant, rapidly deteriorating conditions, widespread outages." 

I looked at them all talking at once, taking their storm stash to the counter and then I looked outside at the sunny, beautiful weather, the chirping birds, and wondered if I had entered an asylum. The TV was on, and there was a group holding their stashes huddled in front of it. I could see the colours on the weather map (actually several weather maps, because the weather people couldn't decide whether the "American model or the European model" was accurate). 

I had no bread; I was annoyed more than I let on. The nerve, there they were with two or more loaves each, and I had none. They left me NONE! That meant no toast for Gabe. The villagers had it all, so I left them gabbing about the storm and went on me way. I was tempted to drive the 45 minutes to the grocery store, but I knew that place would be packed, so I went home…breadless. 

"Where's the bread? Oh, did you get milk? We are all out." Tonya said. 

"No, no, I did not. The bread-and-milk phenomenon was taking place at the Genny, and there was nothing left. So I left."

I looked out the window; the wind had picked up, really picked up. I watched leaves skittering across the deck and yard. The trash bin was rolling around the driveway, and I thought I should grab it before it disappeared into the woods, never to be seen again. A lawn chair by the garden started migrating toward the garden shed like it wanted to be inside for safety. But what got me cold was the squirrel. Our resident 'Freddie the Squirrel' sat on the deck railing, looking at me side-eyed. His fur blew in the wind, and his nose crinkled as if he could smell something wicked coming.

"Nah," I said to meself. I've lived through so many of these false alarms that I don't believe the weather people…however, I do trust that squirrel. I looked past Fred, and the birds were not at the feeders; even the chipmunk was gone to ground. 

"Huh!" I said, looking out the window, watching Freddie watch me out of the corner of his eye. His little hands were tucked into the fur on his chest; his tail had been curved at the end, but now it stood straight up like a scary-cat, or a barometer. "What are you telling me, Freds me, man?" I asked quietly, more to meself than Freddie. 

Tonya had come back into the kitchen. 

"I sent O'Hare to the grocery store. Maybe there's bread left, I dunno, but he's willing to go, so…"

She looked out the window and mused that we should rescue the lawn furniture; it looked like the wind was redecorating the garden sitting area. 

 

Tonya was taking this more seriously than I was. I looked one last time outside at the blue bell sky and noticed Mr Freddie was no longer in residence on the railing. He was gone, outta there! Uh oh. 

Tonya and I got the furniture into the shed; I rescued the trash bin and put it in the garage. 

Meanwhile, Mam was busy charging phones, filling the bathtub with water (an old habit) and putting out flashlights and candles, all stuff we didn't need because we have a full house generator. Her reaction to me telling her none of that was needed: "Well, just in case."

Mam had the telly on. It was blaring about the coming disastrous storm. I looked outside, and there was Fred; yes, he had reappeared in the kitchen garden window eating spilt birdseed. The rate of eating made me think that if he ate all that seed, he'd explode. I walked over to the window and said to him, though he couldn't hear or understand me, "YOU are either very scared about this storm or you are in competition with Mr Chips."

He ignored me, gathering leftover birdseed from the tray where the birds usually alight. 

"I tell ya there, Fred, your cheeks will burst if ya keep that up," I said, laughing at him, thinking to meself, Oh, for God's sake, he isn't predicting Armageddon. He's just a greedy squirrel. That's when he stopped and turned full face toward me on the other side of the window. Uh-oh, I thought. It was like a flash; he launched himself at the screen, making me step back from the window and chattered at me the best he could with all that food stuffed in his mouth. Then, as quick as that, he jumped off the tray and disappeared. 

The family secured the house while I stood at the window, looking for that damn squirrel. Was he trying to tell me something? I went outside; the wind caught the screen door and practically took it off its hinges. There was that distinct groan the trees make at their tops, while everything at ground level feels deserted.

No squirrel in sight; actually, nothing in sight, just the wind.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved 

Fast Food, Slow Revenge

23 September 2026

2017

R. Linda: 

I tell ya! Ms Jaio is becoming a real pain in the arse. Because I introduced her to Sam, she considers me the enemy. How was I to know things would go horribly wrong at her and Sam's dinner? How is it I be the one that threw her life into turmoil?

First and foremost, I thought I was doing her a favour by introducing her to a very nice (if not eccentric) guy, whom she approved of at first meeting. Second, I wasn't at the dinner to see a misguided proposal go south (See Story #2001 Hammocks, Matchmaking, and a Misplaced Diamond, 16 August, 2026), so how am I responsible? Third, self-turmoil is of her own creating, not mine. Ok, I asked to talk it out with her and help bolster Sam's side of the story, but she won't even let me utter the first syllable of his name. 

As a result, she's been morose for weeks now. 

Today, we were on the road for an assignment, and on the way back we decided to stop at a fast-food chain for lunch. We didn't have time to go in, so we would eat when we got back to the office. 

So we pulled up. A car was by the checkout, and we were at the menu station. We decided what we wanted and pulled forward to order.

Meanwhile, a packed car of children, with a woman whose hair stuck out from her head like she'd been pulling it out, drove up at the menu station. We'd just finished ordering when the packed car pulled up behind and bumped us. Not enough to think there was damage, but we both turned around and looked.

 The driver had an irritated what? look on her face and waved us on so she could place her massive order. 

Ms Jaio pulled up behind the guy getting his order and told me that the woman behind us was clearly losing it. I heard her pull up behind us, yelling at the kiddos.

"STOP IT, JUST STOP IT!" 

The takeout window was taking their time. Maybe the guy in front of us had a big order. Neither of us was paying attention until the woman with the carload of kiddos started honking her horn and shouting at us to move on.

Now, I have had a carload of kiddos and know it can be stressful because they say and do things to each other that start a lot of havoc. I also know that when you double that with hungry kiddos, it isn't an easy job to cart them anywhere, and you feel certifiable by the time you drop them all off. 

But this moronic behaviour from the driver was way over the top. 

"No wonder kiddies act crazee." Ms Jaio commented, watching the woman in the rearview mirror. "Driver iz nutso!"

I looked around. The woman was yelling at the kiddos while they laughed.

Yes, laughed at her.

I had a little sympathy for her until she leaned on the horn and yelled out the window at us. Watching her made us miss the fact that the other driver had pulled off with his order. 

Some of what she yelled, and the names she called us, made me angry. But Ms Jaio wanted her coffee and sanny and was telling me to ignore the woman. 

So we pulled up to the window.

Ms Jaio was smiling like a Cheshire Cat.

I thought either she's finally lost it, OR she had a devious idea swimming around in her head.

She smiled apologetically at the worker.

"Gee, I sorry I have second order to pay for. The big one. This first is his." 

She smiled at me and handed the man her card, then handed me mine.

"Oh, no problem, Miss."

And of course, it took a little longer.

I knew the woman behind us' patience had left the building long ago. She started shouting at not only us, but the worker.

At first, I was mystified by what Ms Jaio was doing. Then the worker handed over MY order. 

The other order came a moment later.

Ten bags of hamburgers.

Ten drinks.

One coffee.

And a coffee roll.

I caught on.

Suddenly, I was buried under food. I had drinks between me knees and bags everywhere, which made it hard for me to move. Me main concern was how I was going to get out of the car when we got back. 

When we saw the coffee roll, Ms Jaio commented that it was obviously the woman's, and we were doing her a favour by not giving her a sugar high. She'd probably yell louder at the laughing kiddos. 

"Yup, we did good deed for day," She said, all happy with herself. 

We slowly pulled over to watch what happened.

The woman pulled up to find she had no order. 

She had to place it all over again. 

BUT because there was a line of cars behind hers, the worker made her pull to the back of what had become a very long lunch line. 

Yup.

She had to wait with 10 hungry and rambunctious kiddos in a vehicle where she couldn't get out and leave them. She had to listen to them complaining. 

We pulled out and started back to the office. 

"What are we going to do with all this food?" I asked.

"Give it to co-workers."

She smiled at me.

A vengeful smile, one filled with happy self-satisfaction, of a caper well done.

After that, she was back to her old self. 

Let's hope it lasts.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved 

Of Bananas Wearing Condoms & Not Getting What You Paid For

21 September 2026

2016

R. Linda:

Well, well, well. Now the family believes me. I have told them for months that Mrs Dragon was losing it. They said I was imagining things. Everyone knows I have a healthy imagination, so…

BUT here is the proof, such as it is. 

Yesterday, Tonya went food shopping. The kiddos are banana freaks, and Tonya always buys a large bunch. We have a banana holder she hangs them on in the kitchen, in sight of everyone. Shipped in bunches, they have a soft plastic at the top to keep them from separating and blue tape around the middle to keep them from bumping into other bananas and damaging themselves or the others during transport. All very well and good.

Yes, indeed, the Dragon lady got carried away, far, far away with what she thought she was looking at: Bananas wearing condoms, is what she said. Let's look at this soft plastic holder, shall we?

YUP

Ever onward with this dreadful mix-up. 

The Dragon does not eat bananas for whatever reason, but she did notice when they were gone. Not in the usual way you'd notice, like nothing hanging from the banana holder; no, it was what was in the trash bin. 

What was in the bin was the soft plastic top, but she didn't associate that with bananas, but with something far more embarrassing, like a human banana, if you get me drift. Let me show you what she saw in the trash, and I'll leave the rest to YOUR imagination.

She took this as being a condom

She went wild. She told Tonya the males in the house (I be assuming this includes yours truly) were being "nasty in their habits." Well, for the males in the house old enough to know what a condom is, we felt like we were being singled out as "nasties" as well as very stupid to put one on top of the trash, but we did smile at the fact that the thing was on top of a banana.

On hearing this, I said, "Who would be putting condoms on bananas?" Then I said, "Actually, I find that funny."

Well, she did not and said so in many, many words. 

Tonya went and took a look, took the picture, and, giggling, showed it to me.

"Yes, Mother, I see it. But it's not a condom; it's the soft plastic they put over the top of the bananas on shipping to hold them together.

"Well, it looks like a condom to me!" She was all put out.

I'd like to say her day got better, but it did not. While the male population of the house was off laughing our arses off, she had got a package. She knows O'Hare loves the legend of Sleepy Hollow and the Headless Horseman, so she saw a resin statue that lights up with a pumpkin light and sent for it. 

This is what she ordered on FB, or thought she did. It's about 10" x 10". 

Very nice if it really exists

She ordered the first one a while back and got what you are about to see. This one arrived from China (which made me wonder about their knowledge of the Headless Horseman), and it came in a rather small box. When she opened it, it was barely 6" x 6".

Close but no cigar

Well, the reins were missing, so she used some rawhide she uses for bracelets and fixed that. The plastic pumpkin was broken off and didn't work, and while it resembles the original, it's not the original and is cheaply made. Never daunted, she went to the Walmart website to order another one, thinking surely Walmart would have the right one. Well, she received the shipping notice from CHINA; she began to worry, and she should, because what came next was twice as bad as what she got the first time.

Measuring almost 7" x 7" 

Not only was the arm off the rider, but it was also chipped on the other side, and the PLASTIC pumpkin

was rolling around in the box. And the light inside Mr Pumpkin doesn't work. It looks cartoonish. 

She is quitting while she is ahead. I told her, one more, and it's three strikes and you're out, but she says no; the two monstrosities are enough. She's learned her lesson. O'Hare has the first one and is happy, and she's taking the second home with her; that is, I assume she is leaving soon. One can hope.

Now if only we could convince her about bananas and condoms, we'd be all set.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved 

The Athlone Ambush

19 September 2026

2015

R. Linda:

Did I ever tell you about me unexpected train ride to Galway? 

We all know the "Ah, sure, 'tis yourself" acquaintance. You know the one you barely know but who will trap you in a 45-minute conversation about people you might mutually know, but really don't.

Well, the one I sort of know spotted me from across a train platform and was using exaggerated, silent hand gestures and facial contortions to signal he'd like to meet up. To everyone waiting to buy a train ticket, I'm sure he looked like he was making threatening gang signs or having a medical emergency. 

I tried me best not to get cornered by this guy, but as he had his ticket, he finally caught me. "What in God's name are you doing behind that wheelie bin?" I thought fast and said I was looking for a dropped Euro. 

I knew I was in a spot of bother the exact second I spotted Mick "The Bore" Murphy hovering by the Dublin ticket barriers. Mick was the kind of man who could talk on any subject without saying much, and I would rather walk barefoot over broken glass than spend the next forty minutes hearing about Mick's cousin's cousin who had a bad turn after eating a dodgy sausage roll.

I panicked, yes I did! I pulled me flat cap down over me eyes, executed a sharp about-turn, and sprinted blindly onto the nearest train.

Clack-clack. The automated doors chimed and shut. 

A robotic voice echoed through the carriage: "Welcome aboard the Irish Rail Express service to Galway. Next stop, Athlone."

"Aw, you're codding me," I muttered to me stunned self. Me stomach was doing a somersault; I had no fecking ticket! Me Leap Card was un-scanned, and I was currently hurling toward the opposite side of the country.

"Tickets, please. All tickets and valid passes," a booming voice rang out.

Down the aisle strode a fiercely strict Irish Rail inspector. I squirmed. I dove into the nearest seat, grabbed a leftover newspaper from the table, and held it wide open in front of me face.

The inspector stopped right at me row. He stared at the paper as I looked over it at him. "Right, pal. I know times be tough, but are ye reading that Irish Independent upside down for a wager, or are ye just taking the absolute mick?"

I dropped the paper, sweating profusely. "Lo sent, señor," I blurted out, attempting a wildly unconvincing Spanish accent. "No habla…the trains."

"Cut the act, sunshine," the inspector sighed, pulling out an electronic machine. "You've boarded an intercity express with no ticket. That's a hundred-euro fixed penalty notice, plus the fare. Name and address?

My brain short-circuited. "Me name is…Paddy…Paddy."

"Paddy Paddy," the inspector repeated, deadpan. "Right. Stand up, please, Paddy Paddy. Let's see some ID, or I'm calling the Gardai to meet us at the next platform."

I stood up, a nervous wreck, patting me pockets, and noticed a teddy bear I'd had under my arm drop to the floor. I had to think for a moment about where it came from as I picked it up. Then I remembered that when I ran for the train, I had picked it up before I slipped on it and mindlessly had tucked it under me arm, where it had been since I got on the train. 

The entire carriage went dead silent. An elderly woman two rows back clutched her rosary beads. The inspector took a cautious step backwards, eyeing the teddy bear suspiciously. "Right. What's the toy, Paddy Paddy?"

Before I could explain, the carriage door hissed open at the front. A booming voice shattered the tension. 

"GABRIEL! Is that yourself?! What in Saint Brigid's name are you doing on the way to Galway? And why do you have a teddy bear?"

It was Mick. He was on his way to Galway in the carriage ahead of me and now had tracked me down. He must have seen me stand up and all this with the ticket inspector...

"Jayus, Mary, an' Joseph," I whispered.

The train screeched to a halt. Athlone Station.

The moment the doors clicked unlocked, I didn't think—I just ran. I dove under the inspector's arm and sprinted onto the Athlone platform. 

"Hey! Stop right there!" The inspector shouted, bursting out of the carriage, signalling to two station guards.

I looked for cover. Seeing an Irish Rail hi-vis vest draped over a luggage trolley, I threw it on, grabbed a stray mop from a bucket, and began aggressively mopping the dry concrete platform to blend in.

In me blind panic, I accidentally mopped right over the polished boots of a local Garda who was peacefully drinking a coffee on the platform.

The Garda slowly looked down at his boots, then at me, wearing a stolen vest, holding a mop, and still fiercely clutching the teddy bear under me arm.

"Right, sir," the Garda said, setting his coffee down. "Step away from the mop. We're going to have a little chat in the station master's office."

Ten minutes later, I was sweating under the fluorescent lights of the back office. The teddy bear sat on the desk between me and the law.

"So," the Garda said, folding his arms. "You hijacked an express, gave a fake name, assaulted me footwear, and you're carrying a stuffed animal like a hostage. Care to tell me what you're playing at?"

Before I could confess to the utter horror of Mick's small talk, the door flew open. The Station Master ran in, holding a phone.

"Hold on, Officer!" The Station Master panted, looking at me with a sudden reverence. "We just got a call from Heuston Station in Dublin. They've been looking for that exact bear all morning!" 

I blinked. They have? I thought to meself. Uh-oh.

"It belongs to the Government Minister's daughter!"

I thought to meself: Could this get any worse? 

"She dropped it on the platform, and the child was having absolute conniptions. The CCTV shows this man heroically rescuing it from the tracks right before the Galway train pulled out!"

The Garda's suspicion instantly melted into pure Irish admiration. "Well…Holy Mother. A civic duty! Forgive me. I should have known a decent skin wouldn't be mopping dry concrete without a noble cause." 

Then he looked perplexed, and I was sure he was wondering why I was mopping the floor.

Before he could voice his concern, the ticket inspector, terrified of a political headache, tore up the fine on the spot. "Tell you what, Paddy Paddy, as a thank you from Irish Rail, we're putting you in the First Class carriage all the way back to Dublin. Free tea and a full Irish breakfast on the house."

The Garda was perplexed as to why I was being addressed as Paddy Paddy and was about to say something, but I opened me cakehole before he did.

"Ah, sure look," I said, playing the modest hero while me heart rate finally slowed down. "It was nothing, just me doing me bit." And I smiled wide.

They escorted me back out to the platform like a visiting dignitary. But just as I stepped onto the return train, a familiar, terrifying roar echoed from the station exit.

"GABRIEL! THERE YA ARE! THE COPPERS TOLD ME YA WERE A HERO!"

Mick Murphy bounded down the platform, a grin stretching from ear to ear. "Sure, since Irish Rail be paying, I'll hop into First Class with ya! We can talk all about me cousin Tommy's knee replacement on the way back. They had to use three different types of stitches! It'll take me at least two hours to explain the kneecap!"

I looked at the train. I looked at Mick.

Without a single word, I dropped the teddy bear into Mick's arms, turned on me heel, and sprinted out of the station entrance into the pouring Athlone rain—happily choosing a seventy-mile walk home in total, beautiful silence.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved 

The Return of "The Contraption"

17 September 2026

2014

R. Linda:

I now know what Ms Jaio must have felt, minus the panic, when I came up behind a work crew of five large trucks (amber lights flashing) and one pickup moving at 5 miles per hour on a double-line country road. We crept along, and I wondered when they'd turn off or if. Yes, a road crew that moved like a funeral procession down the long, winding road. I was taking the scenic route but didn't know that until then. Yes, I could count the leaves on the trees; we were THAT slow!

If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn't have sat in me Saturn cursing the road crew for keeping me from me dinner. Because when I got home, guess who met me at the door — take a guess. I bet you can't figure it out, so let me help you.

Her mode of transportation is a broom; her favourite hat is black and pointed (see below):

One of these, but scarier

She cackles when she laughs, and she reads headlines like this: Fertilised eggs reveal new secrets about the world's biggest dinosaurs. She then gets in a panic: science has fertilised dino eggs to produce some gigantic monstrosity that will eat us. She gets in a huff when I try to correct the misreading to fossilised, and says, "Not everyone is blessed with a big brain like you." To wit, I wanted so badly to tell her it wasn't me big BRAIN that saved us from Jurassic Park. It was me EYESIGHT.

Yes, that person, the Dragon lady in all her Halloween glory, is a month early!

There she was standing at the door, looking every inch the owner of the house. She has one in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey, but because HER daughter lives in my house, SHE somehow is its master.

I sighed. I got out of me car, trying to contain the unwelcome surprise and not slam the Saturn door so the inertia switch would go off (leaving me no escape), and with my briefcase in hand, came reluctantly to me door, where the dark shadow of the Dragon dominated the entrance.

"Mrs A, how are we?" I croaked at her.

"WE are just fine," said she, not asking after me, I noticed.

Reluctantly, she stepped aside and LET me enter me own home. I looked behind me, and she stayed by the door, as if waiting for someone. Then it hit me: she's probably waiting for WEASIL! Oh no, not these two AGAIN. I just got home; this wasn't how I wanted to end me day!

I didn't have long to wait; I had just set my briefcase down when I saw the red speed wagon come roaring to a stop, shy of hitting me own vehicle. And there he was, getting out of the Mustang, all smiles, struggling to pull something from the backseat. 

I craned me neck to see, and oh no! It was this AGAIN:

Oh boy. Here we go once more!

You don't know the joy of seeing this and HIM again.

SHE turned towards me and said, "You should help your friend. That looks heavy."

OH, my friend is it? I sighed and went down to help him, but he had it, and all I did was gently shut the car door. No sense tripping the inertia switch that would prevent him from leaving. I followed him into the kitchen with that thing, while SHE led the way. Of course, she would; it's her house while she's in "residence".

Dinner was cooking. I had lost me appetite. Tonya looked surprised to see Weasil, just like I did when I saw her mother! Mam 'tsked' and went back to stirring something on the stove. The boys all got up and ran to Weasil like mana was falling from heaven. 

"Get another plate, will you please, Gabe?" Tonya asked, trying hard to keep her displeasure from becoming front and centre.

"Well," I said with a big smile, after we were all seated for dinner. "Isn't this nice, everybody's here."

"And the contraption is here too!" Tonya said brightly, as if she were thrilled. She even gestured towards where it sat on the countertop like she was Vanna White. 

The three kiddos were enthralled. Exclamations rang out, but mostly "What is THAT?" more times than I can count.

"Yes, I see that," I said. "SO why is it back, Weasil?"

"OH! Cause da missus from New Jersey wanted to see it; iz why," he said, smiling and digging in.

I turned me attention to Lady Dragon.

"And why is that?"

"Because I wanted to see it, and I can probably tell our boy here what it is," she said smugly, like she could see things and know what they were telepathically. 

"Well, okay then." 

'Our boy'? Since when? I was wondering when that happened. I've heard Weasil called many things, usually not complimentary, but 'our boy'? Nah.

"I think as soon as dinner is over, Mother, you and he should get right to that, so your guest can get home before it's too dark," Tonya suggested sweetly.

Oh, Tonya, me darlin' girl. You be so clever, I sniggered and thought to meself.

"Oh, no, no, no," The Dragon clucked, "just looking at that thing, it's going to take some time. We have all week."

"We do?" I blurted out, and Tonya kicked me under the table to shut me gobhole. "I thought WE established it was nothing, just some Steampunk contraption." (See Story #2011 "Itz Worth Thousands" 6 September, 2026)

"YOU may have, but I haven't…yet," said the mightily insightful Dragon.

Well, let me make a long, sorry, story short: why don't I? It took no more than four hours—FOUR HOURS!—for the great scientific mind from the Pine Barrens to reach her conclusion.

"Hum, I may need a few days to hash out what that is." The Dragon surmised, much to my and Tonya's horror. 

Four hours to arrive at "I don't know." Brilliant!

And then, maybe a few more days? Over me dead body!

But brilliant is as brilliant does, me own eldest kiddo said this: "Have Coraline take a look; she's the scientist. If anyone can figure out what that thing is, she can."

I wanted to pick his big self up, spin him around and plant a big kiss on his red-bearded face! I was that thrilled that that was the answer all along. It would send Weasil roaring home and the Dragon flying home-- like that night! I was ever optimistic and filled to the brim with hope; I was.

And guess what? The Weasil left, yes, he did! He grabbed the contraption with him and couldn't get out of here quick enough. I helped him carry it to the Mustang, just to make certain there were no delays. 

That's one down. 

I turned around. 

The Dragon was still sitting there.

She was at her ease, shaking her head at O'Hare like he'd just deprived science of one of its greatest discoveries.

"You know," she said, "I could have figured that out if I had a few more days." 

I looked at Tonya. Tonya looked at me. Neither of us said a word. We didn't have to. That's when I thought about those five big trucks I'd been stuck behind on the way home. The flashing amber lights. Five miles an hour. Me sitting there in the Saturn, cursing every one of them because they were keeping me from me dinner. And I realised what a bloody fool I'd been.

They weren't keeping me from dinner. They were keeping me from HER. If I see that road crew tomorrow, I'm buying every man on it lunch. And, if they'll let me, I'm parking the Saturn behind them and following them all the way to…to…anywhere but New Jersey!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved