Flash Fiction

McIntire—the one with the skullcap and the chewed-up knuckles—brought his rifle to his shoulder and swept it side-to-side across the gulley below. The spot he’d chosen was called the Jut, because there was a natural tongue of land rolled out … Continue reading →

“Jesus Christ. I think the fucker’s dead.” It was 10 am, the first morning of the three-day Puck Festival in Killorglin. The exclamation came from Con O’Flaherty, my partner in Con and Ann’s Pub. Con was a big man, in … Continue reading →