Gurrier's Tales

Her name was Candy, of course it was Candy, what else could it be?

I met her early one grey London morning, the drizzle blanketing the morning commuters as we headed for the warm, underground warren of the Tube.

I was late, threading my way through the throng of umbrellas and latte wielding office types, two months in and still unsure of myself. Dublin just a memory now, a collection of places strung together by long associations. London Irish, that's what I am now, here to bu… Continue

The doorbell rang at nine, pulling me out of a dream about her. The dream was familiar. I knew how it ended, badly, like all my dreams. As sleep faded, anger rose incoherently in me, anger at being drawn away from her, even the imperfect memory of her.

The caller leaned on the doorbell again, playing a staccato pattern with the single drilling bell. Cursing them I pulled on my discarded clothes, the least repugnant I could lay hand to and stalked downstairs. The old house was cold and d… Continue

Otsï returned after my father died.

He left in the Summer of my ninth year. The Summer of the big wind, when all the houses on Bergen street lost their roofs. Stripped of their slate clad coverings and sturdy, red brick chimneys they resembled nothing more than a row of glum, naked pated gentlemen, their finery forfeited to the elements. Down below, amongst the denizens, gardens were strewn with smashed slates and broken brick. Mrs. Endercrine's dog, Millie, was crushed by a falling ch… Continue

I met Robert in the pub one Saturday night. It was late, the bar was almost empty, islands of untenanted seats punctured that delicate atmosphere of communion; dry throats and brown ale and a hungry thirst. Pub goers cloistered themselves in isolated groups, talking and drinking, an occasional shout of laughter stirring the susurrus of conversation.

I sat with the regulars, at the bar, slumped on flimsy stools that shifted uneasily beneath you as if weighing your worth. The regulars sa… Continue

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