The Linda Letters by Gabriel O'Sullivan

There's A Bad Moon Rising

2026-10-26T13:09:45.909-04:00

26 October 2026

2031

R. Linda:

Tonya went out on Saturday and bought a hiking pack she'd wanted for a long time. It somehow distributes weight so it feels light on the back. She was all anxious to try it out.

Last night was the full moon, and Tonya and 6 of her buddies hiked to the top of a mountain to see it. They planned a peaceful gathering of friends to enjoy the event and each other. But it turned out to be anything but peaceful.

On their way up, as the sun set, they saw glimpses of a shady person off the trail, skirting around them and disappearing into the woodline. They were in numbers and had two dogs, so they kept going, not giving it another thought.

They reached the top of the mountain, settled in for moonrise, and, of course, the food fest to go with it. They even made offerings of seeds, which they burnt for Luna and good luck. Well, someone should have shouted up to old Luna in the sky that LUCK was needed.

Think Three Dog Night, Bad Moon Rising

As the moon rose, set, and finally went down, they packed up and started down the trail to the car park. Not far from the mountain top, they met a uniformed policewoman with a torch (flashlight, to you Americans) who stopped them and asked if they'd seen anyone alone on the trail. Well, yes, yes they had, but it was dusk, and they didn't get a good look at him or her.

Questions abounded, and the policewoman told them she was looking for a teenager. And she gave them a description: "That person is wearing a green hoodie, has an orange backpack, brown hair and brown eyes."

Well, guess who had all that? Yup, Tonya. But the policewoman didn't seem to notice because she was looking for a lost 15-year-old and seemed knackered from the uphill hike.

Prior, the shady person saw the seven women and didn't approach them. Tonya's crew thought they weren't the missing teen, just some shady person hiking after dark (they do do that up here). So the ladies kept hiking down while the policewoman continued up the trail.

Less than 50 yards down, they heard a rumbling sound and felt hurricane-force wind. They looked up and saw a helicopter overhead, its spotlight cutting through the air. It was shining a huge light on them as they traversed the rocky, root-strewn trail. As if that wasn't bad enough, a second helicopter picked them up with another big, bright light. The two finally veered off, and they continued the descent in relative darkness after the bright light invasion.

I told Tonya this morning that, apparently, one helicopter wasn't enough to investigate seven women and two dogs. They sent the second, just in case Tonya and her new backpack tried to make a break for it.

It wasn't long before they were midway down when, all of a sudden, they walked into a large group of police personnel with guns drawn, telling them to approach slowly. And who were they focused on? Yup, me wife. She was dressed as the missing teen; did she do something rash to that person and steal the clothing and backpack?

Well, Tonya and group managed to talk their way out of that assumption and were allowed to continue their descent. Another quarter mile later, the group came across four-wheelers parked on the trail where the vehicles couldn't go any further. The keys were in the ignitions! They, the missing teen, or the shady person could have stolen one or both, and, well, I'll let you imagine the rest.

After beating the urge to fly down the trail on four-wheelers, the ladies reached the parking lot, which looked like Christmas, flashing red, blue, and white lights all over. Police, fire, and rescue had loaded up the lot with their large vehicles. Radios blasted intel, and after a peaceful evening on top of the mountain, you got met with blasting sound and flashing lights--well, you know, that killed the mood.

I am happy to report they found the missing teen two mountains over. He did nothing wrong. He got lost, turned around a few times, and somehow hiked over two mountains, through three towns, and into another state. That's quite a walk for someone who didn't know where he was going

Today, Fish and Game issued advice about hiking alone and what to do if you get lost. Good advice, I'm sure, although perhaps a little late for the lad in question.

Meanwhile, the internet sleuths had been busy. All sorts of comments circulated about a suspicious woman in a green hoodie, carrying an orange backpack, with brown hair. Nobody got close enough to see her eye colour, but apparently that didn't matter. They'd already solved the case.

According to some of these brilliant minds, Tonya had somehow disposed of the missing teenager, stolen his clothes and backpack, and attached herself to a group of innocent hikers to make her escape. Never mind that the teenager was alive and well, two mountains away. Why let a little thing like that interfere with a perfectly good murder mystery?

Missy Tonya isn't happy about any of this. She went up a mountain to admire the full moon and came down a suspected criminal, complete with helicopter surveillance, armed police, and an enthusiastic collection of internet detectives.

But she and the gals are planning another hike. Probably somewhere else.

Personally, I think she should let the police know where they're going beforehand. It'll give them time to organise the helicopters, call in the armed response teams, and make sure the four-wheelers are fuelled up.

After all, you can't be too careful with seven women, two dogs, and a brand-new backpack.

Gabe

Domestic Absurdity Followed By An Ugly Confrontation That Takes An Unexpected Turn

2026-10-25T15:42:39.033-04:00

25 October 2026

2030

R. Linda:

I wasn't looking for trouble that morning. Trouble, however, seemed to be looking for me.

It started with me mother-in-law, the Dragon lady, Dragon for short. She came up for the weekend (so she says--she is still here). We were talking Christmas gifts, and she stated she doesn't want Betty Boop ornaments anymore. She doesn't feel like Betty Boop anymore. She's too depressed. About what? God only knows.

Every year we have gotten her a Betty Boop Christmas ornament because, for some reason that I don't see, she associates herself with the cartoon character. And every year she's been thrilled with the ornaments. But this year, she's decided she's too "depressed" and doesn't "feel like The Boop anymore".

Depressed about what I asked, somewhat bemused. She didn't know; she just has a general feeling of depression. Tonya suggested she go for counselling, but no, no, that would be admitting to a mental illness. You think? I've thought she was a mental case from the day I met her. I know, I know, I'm being unkind, but when you think of the relationship she and I have had, is it any wonder I'd think that?

So we had shopped early and got the Dragon a lovely Betty Boop ornament that we don't dare give her. Of course, this has led to a back-and-forth argy between Tonya and me. I want to give it to her as the last Boop she will ever get, per her request of no more. But Tonya says no, because she doesn't want any more Bettys; she's depressed, so NO.

Well, I shall wrap it up in secret and give it to her anyway. Especially after listening to this over me morning coffee, when I wasn't exactly fully awake—her reading of the morning headlines.

"'Latin America's conseratives shit faces its biggest test yet in Brazilian election.'" I looked over her shoulder; it really said, 'shift'. I sighed.

Then she read: "'British fire threatens million dollar homes in Southern California as high winds fan the flames.' Did Prince Harry start a fire?" Oh me God! I read it over her shoulder, confused: "'brush', not British." I tell ya she's getting that ornament!

By this time, I'd had about all the Dragon Lady I could take for one morning. When Tonya suggested we go and gas up the Saturn, I was only too happy to oblige. A little fresh air, a change of scenery, and a few minutes away from Betty Boop's identity crisis sounded just the ticket.

But apparently there was no escaping the lunacy. It followed me right out of the house and down to the petrol station.

At the pump, a man pulled in ahead of an older gent who had been patiently waiting his turn. The old fellow wasn't having it. He got out of his car and marched over.

"Hey you! I was next!"

"Too bad! I'm here now," the younger man said, and proceeded to pump his petrol as though that settled the matter.

"You stinkah you!"

The younger man turned on his heel and stepped right into the older fellow's face.

"Say that again, and I'll pop you one!"

Now, there are times when a man might consider the wisdom of keeping his mouth shut. This was one of them. But the old gent wasn't about to back down.

"You're a stinkah."

And with that, he stepped even closer, until there was scarcely room for a postage stamp between them.

I could see trouble coming. The old fellow was giving as good as he got, and neither of them seemed inclined to behave like a sensible human being.

Then it happened.

The younger man put an open hand against the old fellow's chest and shoved him back, following it with a closed fist straight to his face.

Down went the old gent.

Now, as luck would have it, paramedics were at the next pump, filling up their vehicle. They saw the whole business and came hurrying over. The old fellow was still on the ground, squirming about, and didn't seem in any hurry to get up.

One of the paramedics bent down and asked him what had happened.

And do you know what the old gent said?

"I tripped, is all."

I nearly swallowed me tongue.

Tripped?

I'd just watched a man plant his fist in the old fellow's face, and there he was, lying on the ground, telling the paramedics he'd tripped!

I don't know whether it was pride, embarrassment, or simply not wanting the bother of explaining himself. But I couldn't get over it.

He'd been cheated out of his turn at the pump, called the fellow a stinkah, stood his ground, got knocked flat, and then took the blame for the whole business himself.

And the younger man? Well, he'd got his petrol.

I tell ya, between the Dragon Lady losing her Betty Boop and a man who mistakes a punch in the face for a trip, I'm beginning to wonder if I'm the only sane person left.

And Tonya would probably argue with that.

Gabe

So They Say

2026-10-21T12:18:43.261-04:00

21 October 2026

2029

R. Linda:

Oh, this is pure heaven! Jamie and Padraig have finally been caught by their own ridiculous dare, and I have every right to enjoy their discomfort! What I particularly love is the notion of two fellows who were so confident I couldn't write a romance that they wagered two actual donkeys—and then discovered that literary talent can have four legs, long ears, and a very loud voice.

I can imagine their mounting panic about what to do. And how they managed to acquire the donkeys without admitting defeat to me.

Here's the story I heard from an unnamed, suspiciously well-informed witness.

A Tale of Two Donkeys — Or How a Romantic Story Made Two Asses of Its Critics

The rather expensive consequences of a literary dare

You may well be wondering—as indeed I have been—whatever became of the two eejits who challenged me to write a romantic short story, confidently declaring that if I managed it, they would each buy a donkey.

Not a chocolate donkey. Not a stuffed donkey. Not even one of those little ceramic fellows you find in tourist shops.

A real, breathing, braying, grass-munching DONKEY. EACH.

Now, these two gentlemen—Jamie and Padraig, who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty, although I've just named them—were absolutely convinced that romance was beyond me literary capabilities.

They were, as it turned out, spectacularly mistaken.

I duly produced The Frost of Ballycree Beg—or, in Other Words, CHALLENGE MET! (Story #2026, 6th October 2026), a romantic tale of such astonishing tenderness that I suspect even Cupid himself put down his bow, wiped a tear from his eye, and muttered, "Begob, I couldn't have done better meself."

But what of the donkeys?

Ah, THERE was the difficulty.

I asked. I enquired. I reminded. I badgered. I asked again. I asked so often I was beginning to sound like a donkey meself.

Nothing.

Not a whisper. Not a hoofbeat. Not so much as a distant "hee-haw."

Finally, I issued an ultimatum. Unless these two scoundrels honoured their wager, I would NEVER entertain another of their ridiculous challenges.

That did it.

Back came the astonishing announcement that they had JUST BOUGHT TWO DONKEYS!

Naturally, I demanded details.

Where? When? How? And, perhaps most importantly, WHY had they been so suspiciously quiet about it?

They refused to elaborate.

Fortunately, someone else knew the whole extraordinary story.

And THIS, R. Linda, is what I was told.

The Day the Donkeys Came Home to Roost

It began with two men, one laptop, and the unmistakable smell of impending financial ruin.

Jamie and Padraig sat staring at the final paragraph of my romantic masterpiece.

Neither spoke.

Jamie blinked.

Padraig swallowed.

Jamie read the ending again, apparently hoping that a second reading might reveal a fatal literary flaw.

It didn't.

"Well?" Padraig finally ventured.

Jamie shut the laptop with the solemnity of a judge pronouncing sentence.

"We're ruined."

"Ah, don't be daft. It's only a story."

"Aye. A ROMANTIC story. And a good one."

Padraig groaned.

"We should never have dared him."

"We should never have mentioned donkeys."

"We should never have opened our big mouths."

There followed a silence of the sort usually reserved for funerals, tax inspections, and men who have just realised they've promised to purchase livestock.

Then Padraig asked the question that would change their lives forever.

"Where the devil does a fellow BUY a donkey in Belfast?"

Jamie considered this.

"Amazon?"

"Well, they've everything else."

Padraig reached for his phone.

"Do you suppose there's an Amazon Prime for donkeys? Free next-day delivery? Perhaps a discount if we buy two?"

"Try looking up livestock auctions."

"Livestock auctions? Jamie, I don't know the first thing about livestock!"

"Neither do I. But how difficult can it be?"

Those, R. Linda, are words which should never be spoken aloud.

Especially by two men who have never purchased anything more agricultural than a bag of frozen peas.

Going, Going, GONE!

Twenty minutes later, the pair were hurtling through the Irish countryside in Jamie's Mini Cooper.

Neither had thought to bring a trailer.

Neither had considered where the animals would live.

Neither had the slightest idea what a donkey actually cost.

And both were wearing immaculate designer trainers.

The auction yard was a glorious confusion of tractors, trailers, muddy Wellies, barking dogs, and farmers who looked as though they'd been born knowing the price of a heifer.

Jamie and Padraig looked as though they'd taken a wrong turn on their way to a fashionable Belfast café.

A large farmer surveyed them from beneath his cap.

"Ye boys lost?"

"No," Jamie replied with immense dignity. "We're here to purchase donkeys."

The farmer looked at their trainers, then at the Mini Cooper parked outside.

"Are ye now?"

He considered this for a moment.

"Well, this ought to be worth watching."

And watch he did.

The auctioneer was a wiry little fellow whose voice travelled faster than the speed of sound and whose tongue apparently operated independently of his brain.

"Rightso, ladies and gentlemen, what'll ye give me for this fine little pair? Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, do I hear seventy?"

Jamie leaned towards Padraig.

"What did he say?"

"I think he said sixty."

"Sixty WHAT?"

"How should I know?"

Jamie scratched his nose.

"SEVENTY! Thank you, sir!"

Jamie froze.

"Did he just bid for me?"

"Don't move," whispered Padraig.

The auctioneer continued.

"Eighty, ninety, one hundred—"

Padraig shook his head vigorously.

"ONE HUNDRED AND TEN! The gentleman says one hundred and ten!"

"I DID NOT!"

"ONE TWENTY! Thank you!"

Jamie seized Padraig's arm.

"Stop talking!"

"I'm not talking!"

"You're waving!"

"I'm trying to tell him NO!"

"ONE FIFTY! Lovely bid from the gentlemen in the clean shoes!"

By now half the auction yard was watching, and several farmers were openly weeping with laughter.

The auctioneer smiled the smile of a man who had discovered two exceptionally generous idiots.

"Any advance on one fifty? Going once! Going twice!"

Jamie raised a hand in desperation.

"WAIT!"

"ONE SIXTY! SOLD!"

BANG!

The hammer fell.

A cheer went up.

Jamie and Padraig stood rooted to the spot.

They had bought two donkeys.

Possibly for a bargain.

Possibly for the price of a small motorcar.

Neither was entirely certain.

Enter Paperback and Cliffhanger

The auctioneer directed them to a holding pen at the far end of the yard.

There, gazing back at their new owners with expressions of profound indifference, stood two miniature donkeys.

One was a fuzzy grey jack with enormous ears and the thoughtful expression of a retired philosophy professor.

The other was a spotted jenny with bright eyes, a mischievous face, and the unmistakable air of a creature who intended to be in charge.

Jamie approached cautiously.

The grey donkey sniffed his sleeve.

"He's rather sweet," Jamie admitted.

The donkey promptly sneezed all over his designer jacket.

Padraig laughed so hard he nearly fell against the fence.

"Serves ye right!"

At which point the spotted jenny seized the dangling end of Padraig's expensive scarf and began chewing it.

"HEY! That's Italian cashmere!"

The donkey chewed harder.

Jamie grinned.

"She obviously prefers Irish wool."

For a moment, the two men simply stared at their purchases.

Then Padraig sighed.

"Well, if a romantic story got us into this mess, I suppose we ought to give them literary names."

He patted the spotted jenny.

"I'm calling this one Paperback."

Jamie scratched the grey jack behind his ears.

"And this fellow shall be Cliffhanger."

"Why Cliffhanger?"

"Because I haven't the faintest idea how we're getting him home."

A Slight Problem With Transportation

Only then did the full horror of their predicament dawn.

Two donkeys.

One Mini Cooper.

No trailer.

No rope.

No plan.

Jamie opened the Mini's rear hatch and looked inside.

Padraig looked at the donkeys.

The donkeys looked at the Mini.

Paperback brayed.

"She's laughing at us," Jamie muttered.

"Can ye blame her?"

They briefly considered removing the back seats.

Then they considered borrowing a van.

Then Padraig wondered whether donkeys could be persuaded to walk twenty miles behind a Mini Cooper.

"With hazard lights on," he added helpfully.

"Padraig, we're not leading a livestock procession down the motorway!"

Fortunately, salvation arrived in the shape of Owen, a retired farmer with a weather-beaten face, twinkling eyes, and the sort of patience usually found only in saints and men who have raised teenage sons.

He had been watching the entire performance.

"Ye lads wouldn't be needing a lift for those two wee beasties, would ye?"

Jamie nearly embraced him.

"Would you have a trailer?"

"I would."

"Would you deliver them?"

"I might."

"What would it cost?"

Owen scratched his chin.

"A decent lunch and a bottle of good whiskey ought to settle it."

"Done!" both men cried.

Owen nodded towards the donkeys.

"And where are they going?"

Jamie and Padraig exchanged a look.

There was, after all, one final problem.

They had promised to BUY two donkeys.

They had not, strictly speaking, promised to keep them.

And the last thing either man wanted was to explain to his family why two miniature donkeys had suddenly taken up residence in the back garden.

Padraig's expression brightened.

"I know EXACTLY where they're going."

A Most Unwelcome Delivery

An hour later, Owen's trailer rattled into the designated yard, Wolfie's stable in County Antrim's Antrim Hills. A place full of horses, who would notice a couple of donkeys, right? Even the Wolf himself?

Jamie and Padraig climbed out, looking considerably less elegant than they had that morning.

Padraig's scarf was shorter.

Jamie's jacket was damp.

Both pairs of designer trainers were now a deeply agricultural shade of brown.

And from inside the trailer came a tremendous:

HEEEEE-HAWWWW!

Followed by an even louder:

HEEEEEEE-HAWWWWWW!

"Good heavens," Jamie muttered. "Do they ever stop?"

"Only when they're eating," Owen replied.

"And when are they eating?"

"Most of the time."

Jamie brightened.

"Excellent!"

"Except," Owen continued, "when they're braying."

Paperback and Cliffhanger emerged from the trailer like a pair of distinguished guests arriving at a royal garden party.

Paperback immediately investigated the nearest flower bed.

Cliffhanger discovered a bucket and overturned it.

One last request was that Owen take a picture and a video of the two new donkey owners for me satisfaction; proof that they actually purchased the animals. Jamie and Padraig stepped forward and bowed with extravagant ceremony.

"Your donkeys, sir!" they said to me, who couldn't hear them and knew nothing about this until now.

"Two of the finest literary asses in Ireland!" Padraig announced.

"Fully paid for!" Jamie added.

"And absolutely non-refundable!"

Proof of Purchase, ah yes

Owen, who had been told the sad, sorry story, had been filming, enjoying the spectacle and shook his head.

"I've been farming all me life," he said, "and I've seen men lose money on horses, cattle, sheep, and pigs. But this is the first time I've ever seen two grown men lose their shirts over a love story."

The Final Word

And so, R. Linda, the wager was settled.

The romantic story had triumphed.

Jamie and Padraig had learned a valuable lesson about challenging a writer whose imagination was considerably larger than their common sense.

And two miniature donkeys, Paperback and Cliffhanger, had acquired a new home, a new purpose, and an excellent story to tell their descendants (cough, cough).

As for me, I am delighted that me literary efforts have finally been rewarded with something more substantial than applause.

And an unsuspecting Wolfie, quite literally, thanks to his son and his cousin, is now in the livestock business.

But there is one small matter I feel compelled to mention.

I have now been informed that Jamie and Padraig are considering challenging me to write a story about a thoroughbred racehorse.

I am, naturally, giving the matter me most serious consideration.

After all, I have always fancied Wolfie owning a racehorse.

And if the two eejits haven't learned their lesson by now, who am I to interfere with their education?

The bet is settled, the romantic story has won, and Wolfie has two new, incredibly loud lawnmowers.

THE END

Gabe

The Day The Public Thought O'Hare Was Someone Important

2026-10-17T08:59:29.042-04:00

17 October 2026

2028

R. Linda:

I tell ya! It's O'Hare's time to get noticed. If it isn't by a pint-sized, self-styled basketball commentator, it's by the general public.

I told you about the pumpkin festival that I was assigned to cover as a New England fluff piece for the Fall season, but I didn't tell you that O'Hare's club was covering it too. Unfortunately, we didn't cross paths, but we both had stories to tell. Mine being entered on the blog; see Story #2026, Giant-Pumpkin Growing Is Apparently A Blood Sport of 11 October 2026.

O'Hare's assignment was to video some of the festivities and what was happening at the club on opening night. Now, O'Hare has a professional camera like the one you see professional news camera personnel using to cover as-it-happens stories. Therefore, he looks very professional. He works for his boss, whose initials are ABC, and well, I think you can guess where this is going.

The night of the Pumpkin Festival opening was on the cool side. O'Hare wore a sweatshirt, and his boss told him to take his The North Face jacket in case it got cold. Well, it did get cold, and on the jacket went, and off O'Hare went down the street to the festival to film the opening events.

If you've ever seen ABC Nightly News, you've seen David Muir in a blue-and-black light jacket with the ABC logo when he is reporting from the field. The jackets were The North Face brand, but I noticed the other night they have new ones, entirely blue and made by another company. Well, we've all seen The North Face jackets enough to recognise them as ABC News jackets.

So there O'Hare was in a very crowded town, wearing THE jacket which had his boss's initials on it, and with the camera, many assumed he was part of an ABC News crew, even though there was no "News" after the ABC. Even the police thought that. They saw him coming and said, "Oh s—t! ABC News is here."

I don't think they cursed the news company; I think they thought they were about to be interviewed and weren't ready, or even aware, that the national news was interested in a small-town event.

Well, O'Hare was talking with them and told them that the ABC on his jacket didn't stand for THE NEWS service, but for his boss's initials, and that he was covering the event for the club. So all was well, and honestly, they wouldn't have cared either way; there was a lot going on, and he wasn't impersonating a news camera person.

But it was amazing how many people thought he was. And how strange they act when a camera is around, especially if they think they are about to be on the national news.

He said that while he was filming the opening parade, people would get in the frame and wave, like they were waving at people back home watching on the telly. He said he had to laugh. Others would try to get interviewed or ask him questions like, "Do you work with David Muir?" "Are you going to put us on TV and when so we can watch?" Questions like that.

I assume (I told him), it made it hard to work with all that going on. He said he didn't mind it, and well, it was fun.

Well, I suppose O'Hare got his fifteen minutes of fame, even if nobody knew who the hell he was. All it took was a professional camera, a jacket with three little letters on it, and a crowd convinced they'd be on national television.

Even the police thought the big boys from ABC News had come to town. And O'Hare, bless him, was just trying to film a pumpkin festival.

I do wonder what David Muir would think of all this. Here's a fellow who spends his career reporting on world events, and O'Hare nearly upstaged him with a jacket and a bunch of pumpkins.

Come to think of it, maybe ABC should hire O'Hare. He's already got the jacket, the camera, and an audience.

Gabe

A Slam Dunk, More Or Less

2026-10-16T12:54:06.009-04:00

16 October 2026

2027

R. Linda:

I've always thought basketball was a fairly straightforward game. Two teams, two baskets, and a reasonable expectation that both sides might occasionally score. Or, so I thought, yes indeed.

Apparently, I've been misinformed.

Last evening, Tonya, Mam, and I were invited to watch O'Hare play basketball at his club. Now, O'Hare regularly plays pickup basketball there on Thursday evenings, and judging by the condition in which he sometimes returns home, I've long suspected these games involve considerably more physical contact than the rules permit. He'll come limping through the door at some ungodly hour, nursing an injury and looking as though he's spent the evening settling a dispute in a back alley.

Naturally, I was curious to see what went on.

As it turned out, last night's game was a fundraiser, with the club staff taking on the local police department. A worthy cause, certainly, although by the end of the evening I wasn't entirely convinced the police hadn't been lured there under false pretences.

The first indication that this wasn't going to be an ordinary basketball game came when I noticed the uniforms.

The club staff had been given jerseys bearing their names and numbers, apparently assembled in a hurry. Whoever applied the lettering had overlooked one small but important detail: you're supposed to remove the lint from the fabric before pressing anything onto it (so says me Mam).

As the players began to perspire, their numbers started coming loose.

Police had lost their numbers entirely by the end of the first play

At first, it was just a corner here and there. Then entire digits began peeling away, flapping behind the players like the tails of overexcited dogs. Before long, identifying anyone by his number became an exercise in creative interpretation. A fourteen might have been a seven, a four might have been half a nine, and one chap appeared to have lost his identity altogether.

The police, meanwhile, hadn't bothered with jerseys. They wore black T-shirts with numbers fashioned from tape stuck to their backs. One officer sported what I assumed was meant to be a three, although it looked suspiciously like a backwards capital E. Another had a collection of symbols resembling the Greek lettering outside an American fraternity house.

Between the peeling numbers and the adhesive hieroglyphics, it was less a basketball game than a moving puzzle.

I should explain that the club staff were, for the most part, young men who clearly spent a great deal of time playing basketball. The police officers were, shall we say, somewhat more mature gentlemen whose principal exercise appeared to involve getting in and out of patrol cars.

The difference was immediately apparent.

The staff raced up and down the court, passing, shooting, and generally behaving like men who knew precisely what they were doing. The police did their best to keep up, but there were moments when I wondered whether they might be better served by directing traffic rather than participating in it.

At one point, I leaned towards Tonya and whispered that the club's number fourteen was bloody awful.

It was an unfortunate observation.

No sooner had I said it than the fellow began sinking baskets as though his life depended on it. Every time he got hold of the ball, it seemed to find its way through the hoop. Within minutes, the three of us had abandoned all pretence of impartiality and were shouting ourselves hoarse.

"SOP! COME ON, SOP!"

I don't know whether 'Sop' had suddenly discovered a hidden talent or whether my criticism had somehow travelled across the court and offended him into greatness. Either way, I was forced to reconsider me assessment.

Providing commentary over the loudspeaker was a thirteen-year-old boy who looked about ten and possessed the confidence of a man who'd been broadcasting professional sports for thirty years.

He was magnificent. Mam wanted to run over and pinch his little cheeks, but refrained when I told her he'd probably announce he was being assaulted and the police were there after all.

Precocious doesn't begin to describe him. He knew the players, followed the action, and delivered his running commentary with remarkable assurance. But what made him especially entertaining was his apparent determination to make O'Hare's evening as uncomfortable as possible.

For reasons known only to the two of them, the lad and O'Hare have developed a relationship built almost entirely on mutual mockery.

And the boy had a microphone.

Every time O'Hare missed a basket, his young tormentor seized the opportunity.

"UGH! O'HARE O'SULLIVAN MISSES THE SWISH! UGH! LET'S HOPE HE IS SUCCESSFUL NEXT TIME! UGH!"

The announcement echoed around the gymnasium.

I nearly fell out of me seat.

Nobody else received this treatment. Other players could miss spectacularly and escape without comment, but let O'Hare fail to put the ball through the hoop and the entire building was informed of his shortcomings.

To his credit, O'Hare scored nine baskets that evening, though I suspect the young commentator would have preferred nine chances to ridicule him.

Meanwhile, the score had become rather embarrassing.

At one point, the club staff were leading seventy to two.

Yes. Seventy. To two.

I began to feel sorry for the police. These were men who presumably dealt with all manner of unpleasant situations in the course of their duties. Yet here they were, being publicly dismantled by a group of youngsters whose uniform numbers were falling off.

And then came the chanting.

Whenever the police gained possession of the ball, the staff members sitting on the bench began shouting:

"DEFENCE! DEFENCE! DEFENCE!"

I looked at the scoreboard.

Seventy to two.

Really?

Was there some genuine concern that the police might stage a miraculous comeback? Were the staff terrified that the officers would suddenly score sixty-nine unanswered points?

I thought it a bit unsporting, frankly. At seventy to two, the kindest thing anyone could have done was let the poor fellows have a go at the basket without being treated like an invading army.

The referees, for their part, appeared to have adopted a philosophy of peaceful non-interference.

Travelling? Never heard of it.

Fouls? Only if someone required an ambulance.

Players wandered about with the ball, took liberties with the rules, and occasionally pulled off manoeuvres that would have made a professional referee swallow his whistle.

But nobody seemed terribly concerned. It was a fundraiser, after all, and with the police trailing so spectacularly, I suppose enforcing every rule would have been rather like issuing parking tickets at a funeral.

Still, I couldn't help wondering what sort of basketball I was watching. It certainly wasn't the game I'd seen played in high school gyms or on television.

Perhaps this was a special variation where the objective was simply to have a good time, raise some money, and make sure nobody suffered a serious injury.

If so, it was a tremendous success.

And just when I thought the evening couldn't offer anything more entertaining, Guido and his girlfriend arrived.

They appeared as the final quarter was ending.

Perfect timing.

Apparently, they'd been delayed at McDonald's, where the urgent business of feeding themselves had taken precedence over supporting a family member.

By the time they arrived, O'Hare had scored his baskets, the police had suffered their humiliation, the jerseys had practically disintegrated, and a thirteen-year-old commentator had spent the evening making a public spectacle of me son.

Guido, however, had presumably enjoyed his chips.

I suppose everyone has his priorities.

All things considered, I thoroughly enjoyed meself. The basketball was questionable, the uniforms were a disaster, the refereeing was optional, and the scoreboard suggested the police might want to stick to law enforcement.

Ouch!

But the atmosphere was wonderful, everyone seemed to be having a grand time, and the club had raised money for a good cause.

Besides, it's not every evening you get to watch your son score nine baskets while being mercilessly heckled by a child who isn't even old enough to drive.

And if the club decides to hold another fundraiser, I'll certainly go.

Although next time, I might bring a lint brush.

Gabe

Giant-Pumpkin Growing Is Apparently A Blood Sport

2026-10-11T10:36:39.512-04:00

11 October 2026

2026

R. Linda:

Lucky me! Since I live near one of New England's biggest pumpkin festivals, Cruella decided I should cover the Great Pumpkin Festival for the paper. For joy! I don't mind taking the kiddos the weekend of what is the equivalent of a harvest festival in Ireland. But covering it as a news story takes all the fun out of it. What could I do? And how much can one say about pumpkins?

Now I know from years back that the pumpkin growers in the region are the most competitive people I've ever met. One year, there were accusations of 'fertiliser doping' that led to a bloody nose- yes, there was, really! Within five minutes of standing in the crowd waiting for pumpkin weigh-ins (a biggie, let me tell you), I discovered a world of fierce pumpkin rivalry. So I knew pulling a story from these pumpkin growers…wasn't going to be easy.

I half expected to meet gardeners. Instead, I stumbled into what seemed like the Formula One of vegetable cultivation. I started interviewing men who spoke in hushed tones about soil composition, seed genetics, compost recipes, watering schedules, and one even refused to reveal his 'secret feeding regimen'. At the same time, another one insisted, "It's all in the mycorrhizae," as though discussing nuclear physics.

Then there was the weigh-in. People gathered around a forklift to see pumpkins lifted onto an industrial scale. The atmosphere was like a heavyweight title fight. Competitors eyed each other's pumpkins suspiciously.

"A bit too orange, isn't it?"

"Too symmetrical, if you ask me."

I had no idea if these were compliments or accusations.

And weighing these enormous beauties didn't go without remarks and arguments all over the place. One man, in particular, was not happy his giant was on the "wrong side" that didn't show off her plump roundness. I was like, say what? Who cares? It's what the thing weighs that counts, but no, not in the eyes of these people with their gargantuan pumpkins.

Once every pumpkin was weighed, the judges announced the winner to much fanfare, and the other contenders took the news with varying degrees of disappointment.

Earlier, I walked up to the defending champion, who answered me questions while affectionately patting a 1900-pound pumpkin proudly named Littice. First, I thought he said "lettuce," but no, "Littice." Don't ask me why; he didn't know either.

"She's been a bit temperamental this year," he mused, while I quietly wondered whether I should point out to him that, in fact, Littice was a pumpkin.

And the winner is … not Littice

Unfortunately, the 'temperamental' Littice didn't win, though she was second; another biggie did, at a whopping 1964 pounds! I asked the winner what they'll do with this enormous champion.

"I'll make pie." She said it brightly, like, "What a great idea I have." Uh, duh.

And there you have it, pumpkin fans.

I drove into Boston to write up me story (such as it was), and I thought somewhere, someone had just baked the most expensive pumpkin pie in New England. I do respect the dedication behind the eccentricity. I even think when I go back next year, I'll ask that pumpkin grower how Littice is looking.

Gabe

The Cracker Barrel Switch

2026-10-08T16:16:54.822-04:00

08 October 2026

2025

R. Linda:

I came home yesterday and was asked by both me Mam and wife, if I could take a picture of each of them to work and have the print department make a photo of them in old Victorian dress.

"And, this be why?" I asked, suspicious they were up to no good.

"Well, sonny boy, we decided to have an old-fashioned photo made, frame it and stick it on the wall at the Cracked Barrel," Mam said.

"Cracker Barrel, you mean," Tonya interjected.

"Yeah, dat place."

I sat there in wonder at both of them. What possesses them to do what they do sometimes baffles the bloody hell out of me. I'd expect this from Weasil, not me own.

"May I ask why?" I really wanted to know.

"Well…we go dare fer loonch when I haf me eye appointment."

Silence.

"AND?" I prompted.

"And, the portraits on the wall are of ugly faded people. We thought we'd pretty one booth up." Tonya said like that explained it all. Then, to explain further, "We seem to get the same booth every time we go, and well, the Grimes brothers don't help our appetites."

"The Grimes brothers?"

"We don't know them, Gabe. The photo says that at the bottom, and the year 1860, so…" and her voice drifted off like that should be explanation enough.

"Let me get this straight: You two think that by hanging your likeness on the wall you will "pretty" the place up and no one will notice? AND," I held up me hand to keep them from talking at me, "what happens to the Grimes brothers? Do you remove them and bring them home? Or, do you covertly hang them under the table? Just WHAT?"

"Ooh, I dint tink of dat," Mam said, looking befuddled at Tonya.

"Me either. I do think Gabe is on to something; we could bring an extra hook and hang them on the wall under the table." And she started laughing, and so did Mam.

I was horrified.

"Okay, okay, okay! You are japing, of course. Ha-ha, very funny, ladies."

"No joke, Gabe," Tonya said, suddenly all serious.

"Ye haf not seen da Grimes brothers," Mam said, just as serious, and she made a face like, scary stuff those Grimes bros.

There was silence all around. I was deep in thought, the other two looking at me expectantly, sure I was on board.

"I dunno." I sounded out the 'dunno' for emphasis.

The exclamations of disbelief were just a little too overplayed.

"Coom on, Gabriel. I will make ya yer fav Irish stew, I will."

"Mam, a bribe, really?"

"I'll make you those brownies you like." The wife chimed in.

Oh, this has the makings of a wonderful bit of mischief! The kind I want no part in. Because I knew my getting a photograph made was just the tip of the iceberg. They'd find a way to pull me in. I just knew it! Neither of them was pulling a prank; that was the beauty of it, so no harm, no foul. In their minds, they were simply improving the décor of a restaurant that has offended their delicate sensibilities!

As for me, it is obvious I be the only one who sees anything remotely wrong with replacing two perfectly innocent dead men's portraits with those of me Mam and wife.

After much badgering and many food promises, I reluctantly and I mean reluctantly agreed to have portraits made, thinking that once they see themselves as Victorian ladies, they'll have their laugh and forget the whole thing.

I won't bore you with what they wanted to be dressed in. I am clueless about what a cameo brooch is, or shiny taffeta fabric with that "old look." All to make sure Victorian dignity shone through.

"Make sure the pictures are yellowed and aged, Gabe," Tonya said.

"Ooh, and put 1860 on the bottom." Mam chimed in.

Yeah, I'd do both and more; I'd label it the Grimes Sisters. And I did. When they saw the portraits, they were thrilled. The print department did a fine job. It took a moment for one of them to notice the label.

"Ooh, wot be dis? Grimes Sisters?" Mam looked at me, her eyes slits like when she gets angry.

However, Tonya's laughter stopped that. They both thought it funny. Well, ok then.

"Me work be done," I announced, starting to walk off.

But Mam caught me by the arm and turned me around.

"Get yer coat, we be goin' ta da Cracked Barrel."

"Oh, no, I'm not."

"Oh, yes, you are." Tonya chimed in.

The whole ride over to the Cracker Barrel was nothing but a jumble of cajoling, distancing, more cajoling, more distancing, until I couldn't hear meself think. I pulled in, we got out, they had the portraits in one of those huge canvas bags women carry, and we went in.

"I can't believe we are doing this," I muttered over and over.

We get the "usual" table, and I'm sweating bullets while Mam and Tonya dig out the portraits. I look at the wall, and there are the two ugliest men I've ever seen. I stare at them, me mouth gaping open like a marionette.

"Whoa!" I said under me breath.

"I tole ya." Mam said, nodding at me.

The portraits sat in the ladies' laps because the waitress came over. She took our orders and walked away. I was pleasantly surprised; we were either early or late enough that the crowds had thinned out, and there were like three other people in the restaurant.

Mam took the Grimes brothers' portraits down in a flash. I'd never seen her move so fast in me life.

"Hold dese, Gabriel," she said to a horrified me.

"Uh, no," I said, but she shoved them on me lap anyway. I nearly choked on me biscuits!

Quickly, Tonya hung one portrait, then looked around and hung the other.

"Okay, we can leave now," I said, trying to get up, but remembering I had the Grimes brothers on me lap.

Mam took out a tape measure.

"Mam! You brought a bloody tape measure to a restaurant?"

"Shh, Gabe! People will look."

She actually was measuring to see if the new portraits were crooked!

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

Just then, the waitress brought our order. We all acted like nothing was going on. Thankfully, she was too busy to catch Mam with the tape measure. But she noticed Mam looked disturbed (and I use that word loosely).

"Ma'am, is everything all right?"

"Grand, darlin'. Joosta wee tooch of indigestion. I be fine, I be."

When the woman left, Tonya asked me to slide the Grimes brothers under the table so she could put the portraits in the canvas bag. Turned out only one fit. It was an oval frame, not square like the replacements. It stuck out of the bag. I could have said a lot about not planning capers better, but I refrained.

"Stuff the other one under your shirt, Gabe, and I'll just stick my sweater over the top of the one in my bag."

"Hold on," I whispered intensely to the two of them, "you take these out of the restaurant you will be stealing."

"Nah, we replaced them," Mam said, waving her hand Vanna White-style at her and Tonya's portraits on the wall.

"We are not taking them out of here!" I was adamant.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Tonya asked point blank.

"I dunno. Hang 'em someplace in here." I looked around and saw an alcove with pictures and a few spaces where the Grimes brothers' portraits might fit. I told them, and they looked. Yes, it could be done.

"How are ya gonna hang 'em? You don't haf any screws." Mam said to me.

"ME?" I shouted, then lowered me voice, "Me hang them? I don't think so." I said, totally put out that they'd enlist me to do the deed.

"Was your idea." Tonya, unhelpful as ever, pointed out.

The meal? I don't remember it. I just remember me stomach churning, me nerves on edge, and squirming a lot.

While I sat there shaking me head by meself, Mam and Tonya had gone off to the ladies' room to plot, I suppose, more portraits they wanted to replace; a gent came over and asked if he could sit down. I was taken aback; I had no clue who he was. I said yes on reflex.

"I was sitting behind you, and I heard every word." He said softly.

"Oh no." I hoped against all hope he wasn't the portrait police, or worse, the manager.

"And I agree with the ladies: those brothers are the ugliest men I've ever seen, and how anyone can eat a meal with those two hanging on the wall…" he looked at the new portraits. "Isn't that your mother, and I assume your wife?"

"Aye. Unfortunately, both of them."

"Big improvement. Listen, you take one Grimes brother, and I'll take the other, and we can stand them on that shelf in the alcove. No need to worry about hanging them. This way, they can be rehung someplace else, and these two lovely ladies (he gestured to Mam and Tonya's portraits) can grace this booth." He smiled.

I looked around; an old couple sat at a table way off at the front. No one else was left but us and this guy who was going to help commit the rest of the crime. I thought, okay then, let's do this. And we did. We both got up; no wait staff around, the old couple silently eating and staring at their food, as I handed him the portrait I had and grabbed the other out of Tonya's canvas bag. Then, strolling to the back of the room as if we always did, we each put a portrait on a shelf, looked around again, still no one to see us, and went back.

At me table he shook me hand and said, "Your ladies did a service whether they know it or not. Mission accomplished." Before I could ask his name, he threw a cash tip on his table and strolled out.

Relieved, I sat down and let out a breath. The waitress came then to give me the bill. She started clearing the table and then stopped. She looked puzzled, and I was holding me breath again. Oh no, I thought; she sees the switch.

Just then the two culprits returned to the table and sat down. The waitress had cleared what she could, but she lingered a minute looking at the portraits, then at Tonya and Mam.

Oh boy, the jig is up. She knows, I thought.

"Hum." She said, then looking at Tonya, "YOU both look a lot like the women in the portraits. You know I don't remember either of those." She bent a little closer to read the 1860 Grimes Sisters label. "I could have sworn it was Grimes brothers, not sisters."

"Why, yes, darlin'. Dat's me great-great-gran and auntie from 1860. We try to sit here just to pay our respects to our dearly departed ancestors, don't we?"

We nodded and mumbled, "We sure did," "Indeed we do," etc.

"My, how much you both look like them." The waitress said.

"Good genes, darlin'. Very good genes."

It was then I realised we'd never eat there again.

Once we were outside and safely in the car, they asked me where the Grimes brothers were. I wouldn't tell them.

Gabe

The Frost Of Ballycree Beg - Or In Other Words, CHALLENGE MET!

2026-10-06T15:22:11.440-04:00

06 October 2026

2024

R. Linda:

OK. This story be for me two fellow Irishmen who challenged me AGAIN. This time, I'm writing a story with a little romance.

I listened to me Mam's storytelling last night, got the story below from her, and embellished it with a bit of romance. This is a PG blog, LOL, most of the time, so nothing heavy. BUT this proves if I wanted to, I could write a silly romance novel. And to the two Irishmen, now that I have written this, you owe me. The challenge was that if I couldn't write a romance, I'd have to buy a donkey. BUT since that's not the case, THEY have to buy donkeys, one for each of them.

The October wind did not blow through the valley of Ballycree Beg; it bit. It carried the sharp, clean scent of the Atlantic and the heavy, damp smell of rotting ferns from the hillsides. By mid-month, a strange, mouldy frost had coated the grass in a brittle, sickly white. And that was when the trouble began.

Grainne (Grawn-yah) Buckley pulled her heavy wool shawl tight against her chin as she walked the narrow track near the parish crossroads. She was heading back from the creamery when a sudden, heavy silence made her stop.

Just past the low stone wall, in the ditch running alongside Murphy’s pasture, lay three young bullocks. They were stiff as wood, their legs thrust awkwardly into the air. Grainne gasped and climbed over the stones. No sign of a struggle, no blood, and no footprints of wild animals. The beasts looked as though life had simply been sucked out of them in the dead of night.

"God preserve us," a harsh voice muttered from behind her.

Grainne jumped, spinning around to find Tomás Murphy, Conall Murphy's hot-headed younger son, standing on the lane. He stared at the dead cattle, his face pale and hollowed by a fear he wouldn't name out loud.

"That’s nine of them this week," Tomás whispered, crossing himself. "It’s a blight, Grainne. It follows the frost. Or rather, it follows her.”

He looked toward the northern ridge. High up on the rocky slope, half-hidden by a cluster of gnarled, leafless ash trees, sat Siobhán’s lone stone cottage. A thin ribbon of blue turf-smoke rose from its chimney, bending sharply in the gale.

"Don't be talking foolishness, Tomás," Grainne said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "Siobhán has been healing the people of this valley since before we were born.”

"Aye, when it suits her," Tomás snarled, his eyes darkening. "But the land is turning sour, and she’s the only one who doesn't attend Sunday Mass. The men are gathering at the crossroads tonight. We can't just watch the herds rot. If she won't lift the curse, we'll make her.”

He turned and strode angrily down the lane toward the village, leaving Grainne alone in the biting wind.

Grainne felt a cold spike of dread in her chest. She knew logic wouldn't save the old woman once the village was driven mad by fright. She needed to get up the ridge to warn her. But as she stepped back onto the lane to hurry away, her boot hit something hard buried in the frozen mud near the perimeter of the shared livestock water spring.

She knelt down, brushing aside a layer of dead leaves.

Half-concealed in the earth was an empty, amber glass bottle. It wasn't a local medicine vial, nor was it a jar Siobhán would ever use. It bore a clean, chemist's label from a London company. Grainne lifted it to her nose. A sharp, acrid smell clung to the glass—entirely masking the scent of the October earth.

Worse, just a few feet from the bottle, a distinct, heavy bootprint pressed deep into the soft, muddy edge of the livestock spring. It wasn't the cheap, split-leather work boot worn by the local farmers. It was the print of a tall, expensive riding boot with a fine, horseshoe-shaped heel plate.

The kind worn only by the English land agent, Mr Corcoran. In the back of her mind, Grainne remembered walking behind Corcoran and noticing the boot-print pattern as he walked.

Grainne’s breath hitched. She shoved the amber chemical bottle deep into her cloak's heavy pocket. The village was looking for a witch, but the real monster carried a walking cane and bought up their ruined farms for pennies.

Two days before the cattle died, the rain had turned the valley roads into a soup of tarry mud. Grainne slipped into the forge as the evening light died, the collar of her wet cloak tucked high against her chin.

The heat hit her first—a thick, roaring wall of warmth from the hearth, smelling beautifully of coal smoke and hot iron. Tomás' older brother Liam was alone at the anvil, his shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows, the heavy muscles of his forearms glinting with sweat in the amber glow of the fire.

He looked up at the sound of the door, and his face instantly brightened into a wide, easy grin.

"God bless you, Grainne," Liam said, setting his hammer down with a heavy clink. "Come on in out of that miserable weather before you catch your death. You look absolutely perished."

"I am, entirely," Grainne said, stepping closer to the hearth and extending her frozen hands toward the flames. "I’m just coming from Siobhán’s. She sent me down with a jar of clover honey for your father’s chest. He’s got a terrible cough, she says."

Liam’s smile softened, though a shadow of worry crossed his eyes. He took a clean linen cloth and wiped his soot-stained hands before stepping closer.

"Aye, he has. Fair play to her for thinking of him. But me father won't touch it, Grainne. He’s in a terrible way. He’s listening to me brother Tomás and the men at the creamery. They’re saying the sickness in the grass is Siobhán's doing."

"It’s not, Liam," Grainne said softly, looking up into his dark eyes. "You know she hasn't a bad bone in her body."

"I know that, a stór," Liam said, his voice dropping to a gentle rumble. He stepped into her space, his broad frame completely shielding her from the drafty door. He reached out, his large, rough hands gently covering her cold fingers. They were warm—unbelievably warm compared to the October chill outside. "And I tell them so until I’m blue in the face. But the men are driven mad with the fright of losing the stock. Corcoran is hovering around the farm like a hooded crow, offering a pittance for the land."

Grainne looked down at their joined hands. Liam’s fingers were calloused and black with soot, but his touch was incredibly gentle. A quiet, sudden heat flared in her chest, entirely separate from the forge fire.

"Do you believe them, Liam?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper against the coals' crackle. "Do you think I'm foolish for defending her?"

Liam squeezed her hands, his grip firm and reassuring. He tilted his head until she had to look back up at him.

"I think you're the bravest girl in this whole parish, Grainne Buckley," he said, his eyes intensely earnest in the firelight. "You’ve a good heart, and you stand up for what's right when the rest of them are acting like right eejits. I’d trust you over the lot of them any day of the week. Don't you ever doubt that."

The intensity of his gaze made Grainne’s breath hitch. For a long moment, the howling October wind outside vanished. Only the heat of the forge and the undeniable weight of the unspoken feelings that had been growing between them all autumn remained.

"Thank you, Liam," she murmured, her face flushing warm.

"Don't mention it," he whispered, a small, tender smile returning to his lips. He reluctantly let go of her hands, though his eyes didn't leave hers. "But promise me you'll be careful walking the ridge path after dark. If anything ever happened to you... well, I’d never forgive meself. So I wouldn't."

The sound of the mob came before the light—the low, rumbling murmur of angry men, punctuated by the heavy thud of marching boots on the frozen earth. Then, the orange glow of pine torches began to bleed over the crest of the hill, casting long, monstrous shadows through the gnarled ash trees.

Inside the dark cottage, Grainne’s hands shook as she secured the heavy iron bar across the timber door. "They're here," she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Let them knock, a stór," Siobhán said calmly, standing by the hearth. "Sure, a wooden door never stopped a fool."

Suddenly, a sharp, rhythmic rap echoed against the back windowpane. Grainne gasped and spun around, her hand flying to the heavy iron fire poker.

"Grainne! Open up, for the love of God," a breathless voice called out from the dark.

Relief flooded Grainne’s chest. She unlatched the heavy door, and Liam Murphy hurried into the cottage, bringing a rush of cold October air. His eyes usually held a quick, easy humour—but tonight, they were wide with fierce protectiveness.

He immediately stepped close to Grainne, his large hands catching her elbows to steady her. "I slipped away from the crossroads when I saw which way the wind was blowing," Liam panted, his gaze intensely locked on hers. "Tomás has them completely whipped into a frenzy, Grainne. They're out of their minds with the fright. Corcoran is right out front leading them, whispering poison in their ears. I won't let them lay a finger on you. Not a hope."

The solid warmth of Liam's presence grounded Grainne's spiralling panic. She reached up, her hand resting briefly over his. "We don't need to fight them, Liam. Not with fists. We have the proof.”

A heavy boot slammed against the front door, rattling the iron hinges.

"Siobhán of the Ridge!" Corcoran’s voice boomed from the darkness outside, rich with artificial authority. "Open the door! The parish demands justice for the blight you’ve brought upon our land!”

Siobhán didn't flinch. She looked at Grainne and Liam and nodded slowly. "Open it, children. Let the winter in. We may as well see what these boyos think they're doing.”

Liam took his place firmly at Grainne’s side, his arm brushing hers, offering a silent wall of support as he threw back the heavy iron bar. The door swung open to reveal the shouting mob, their faces twisted by torchlight. Corcoran stood at the front, flanked by an angry Tomás.

"Step aside, Liam!" Tomás yelled, brandishing a heavy wooden club. "The old woman is a witch! She’s after poisoning our father’s own stock!”

"She didn't touch the cattle, Tomás, and well, you know it," Grainne’s voice rang out, clear and steady, cutting through the wind. She stepped forward onto the stone threshold. Liam moved with her, his shoulder anchored against hers. "But the poisoner is standing among you. Don't be making a holy show of yourselves for a liar.”

The crowd murmured, shifting uncomfortably. Corcoran let out a cold, mocking laugh. "A desperate lie from a witch’s apprentice. Push past them, men!”

"Is this yours, Mr Corcoran, or did it drop from the sky?" Grainne held aloft the amber chemical bottle, the torchlight catching the chemist's label. "I found it at the shared livestock spring. It carries the mark of a London chemical merchant. And the mud around the spring bears the print of a gentleman’s riding boot with a horseshoe-shaped heel plate. I know that heel, Mr Corcoran. I've seen its print before, and I've heard it clicking across the boards."

Every head in the crowd turned downward. Corcoran instinctively tried to shift his feet into the shadows, but Liam stepped forward and thrust a torch down toward the land agent's expensive leather boots, still caked in the dark, distinctive livestock spring mud.

"Father almost sold you the land that's been in our family for generations this very afternoon, out of sheer desperation," Liam growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rumble. "You fouled our waters to starve us out, and you used our fears to hide your dirty work. Have you no shame at all?”

Realisation washed over the farmers like ice water. Tomás looked from the bottle to Corcoran’s boots, his face flushing with sudden, volatile rage. "You absolute scoundrel," Tomás snarled, turning his club toward the agent. "You had us acting like eejits while you robbed us blind!”

The mob’s anger pivoted instantly. Corcoran’s sophisticated facade completely shattered; his face went pale, and he backed away into the darkness as the furious crowd surged toward him, chasing him down the ridge path and away from Ballycree Beg for good.

As the shouts faded into the valley, a profound, peaceful silence settled over the mountain.

Siobhán stepped onto the threshold and looked out over the moonlit valley. "The frost is clearing," she murmured softly. "The land remembers who loves it, buíochas le Dia.”

Grainne let out a long, shuddering breath she felt she’d been holding all October. She looked up to find Liam watching her, his dark eyes filled with a quiet, profound admiration. He reached down, his rough, warm fingers gently sliding into hers, squeezing tightly.

"You were brilliant, Grainne," he whispered, stepping closer to shield her from the biting wind. "Fair play to you. I was worried sick, so I was.”

Grainne smiled, leaning into his side as the hearth embers glowed warm behind them. The village had looked for magic, but it was truth and the quiet strength of the person beside her that had saved them.

Gabe

The Midnight Market

2026-10-02T10:23:25.990-04:00

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

October In The Wilds

2026-10-01T10:14:51.061-04:00

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