Nicholas Martin, 1986 Leinster debating champion, Bachelor of Arts (second class), and apple of his mother's eye, shivered nervously in his twin bed. He pulled the covers until they were tightly wrapped around him, cocooning for warmth, his body in fetal position. One hairy foot protruded to test the temperature. It withdrew quickly inside like a nervous rodent peering from its hole only to scamper back within. His oversized cranium nestled snugly in one arm. It housed the brain that posed most excellent questions in high school. Father Morrisey wrote in his report that Nicholas was "a gifted, insightful child" adding "the sky was the limit with a boy like that." The report card was kept along with other chosen mementos. He stored them in a Jacob's biscuit tin in the closet, opening it only when the world was unforgiving. Then he reviewed each, handling it reverently, carefully re reading

When I walked passed the café I often saw her in there. Often she was carrying her tray between the bar top and the tables, which lined up neat and in a row, a small aisle in between. The tables were set back in a balustrade area which led up to by a step. I knew this because I was often in there in the evening, though much to my regret she never seemed to work evenings. She was coming and going in an energetic yet defiant manner. I should have be courageous and gone in there and asked her her name. I should demand more importantly that she should have coffee with me sometime but I could never find the balls and so I stood out of sight uncertainly. I didn’t smoke but this would have been an occasion for numerous cigarettes as I waited unsure hoping that the conviction would grab me and I would walk in there confidently and proposition her. To me she was Venus-. a romantic goddess and my Muse.

Johnny Martin was not a masterful man. He had lived long enough to taste the bitter tang of disappointment in his thirty years. Things had not gone according to plan. And in his more honest moments he suspected that neither were they likely too. These days he clung to more irrational and extreme hopes. He rolled over in his bed before the alarm and in the darkened room took stock yet again of his situation. There was Ruth. She was moderately successful – more successful than him. And they were an item. They had been for six years. He had his job – a grimace passed over his face at the thought. Four years in university and he was stalled, buried in a small finance department in Dublin. Nevertheless it was a boat in a big ocean. Still he never could have believed he would still be there.He had so many plans and so much conviction about his own abilities, and yet convincing the world that had been the problem.

Nicholas Martin, Fulbright scholar, graduate cum laude University of Chicago and, top producer, Stephen’s & Co was close to his goal. He woke before the alarm, deep in his queen-sized bed. He rubbed sleep-encrusted eyes, before tossing back the covers. The carpet was warm to his naked feet as he strode across the room. He glanced quickly through the balcony doors. A winter's sun was rising from the lake. He sat at his computer, massaging his nose, snorting loudly to clear phlegm from his throat. Trionics was unchanged. The market hadn't opened yet. He struck a key. A graph of the week's closing prices flashed up on the screen: a steady upward curve. Satisfied he got up and walked to the bathroom. The tiles were cold to the touch. He rested two suntanned hands on the washstand staring into the mirror. He brushed back short black hair with his hand. An irrepressible smile spread across his face.

Joe O’Malley slowly opened his eyes and stared at the dark and grimy ceiling above. It was yellowed with age and cigarette smoke. Tall, narrow, windows ran almost to the ceiling and let in a profusion of morning light. Leafy trees outside brushed gently on the glass casting wavy shadows on the ceiling and the blank walls. He was lying in a hospital bed encased in a metal frame. He propped himself up on one elbow feeling his beard. There was three days growth at least.
He was a tall, thin with wild green eyed. He lay back head on the pillow, pinching a prominent nose, jabbing a yellowed thumb deep into his left nostril. He ran his free hand through curly black locks gazing vacantly into the middle distance. One hairy, muscular leg he placed outside the covers. His build was slim but not athletic. On the locker was half a packet of cigarettes and a cup beside it half full of butts. Enclosing the bed running from floor to a rail above was a curtain.