bahern7

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVhSrvgUEso&context=C332b0a1ADOEgsToPDskKSDK8uW9dbdchknJpawdHY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gS4Y0zx6H7k

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qhQZBHCsrk

Here's a little creation of mine... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9W8wqmjt238

                                                            The more he got to know Usheen Keady, the more Gene Christopher started to believe that Keady was an evil spirit roaming the world for the ruination of souls. In the course of their six-month association, the evidence mounted rapidly before Gene's eyes. This was no mere troublesome, restless spook, making intermittent appearances from the afterlife, but an actual incubus, preying on the living—in the land of the quick—and hoping to suck every good person it met down into the mephitic pit whence it came. Gene had grappled with similar spirits in the past. Memorably, one clever and satanic succubus had run him ragged for several centuries; only van...

Today I learnt speech bubbles. In the 23rd second my mate Gerry shouts from the crowd: "She just wants to see the boy happy!" Now you see it... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRlFaz_3aKE&feature=g-vrec&context=G2788056RVAAAAAAAAAg

      Wherein we encounter Mr. Grudge Galmount...   Forget wood. He wanted to be a carpenter of words. So he persevered and wondered if he was writing the longest suicide note in history.   He was jolted in his mind to St. Valentine’s day in 1996:                                                          “Morning time blinding sun,                                               Terrible letter has come,            ...

There was no lowlier vagabond than Henry Carton. About fifty, he’d been on the tramp trail for nigh on seven years; the classic routes, drink and gambling, having led him to his ruinous state. He was one of quite a few bereft souls of no fixed abode who existed in the locality. Henry slept nightly in a thick bush situated in an overgrown section of Saint Stephen’s Green—that beautiful city park. For the past year, this vagrant’s version of domesticity had been his home. Tonight he’d retired early enough, around eight, and immediately began rolling from side to side trying to find comfort in the damp foliage—an impossible task which he knew was doomed from the start. A lack of money and a consequent lack of cider had him thus flustered and he sensed that going peacefully to the Land of Nod was a hopeless prospect. Henry’s depression was grave. The old blankets, newspapers and cardboard of which his nest comprised had become smelly sodden piles over the weeks and sleeping upon the...