Vast Umbrellas and: ‘The Moisture’


Vast Umbrellas and: ‘The Moisture’


Connor McDonough-Flynn

It was a rainy day in Foggy Dublin Town, even when wet, the cities beauty and imagination knows no bounds.

Umbrellas were out and about in full force, seemingly growing larger and larger with each passing droplet of rain. Portable fabricated brolly houses on display for all to see. Dry ceilinged havens, as drip drops from the sky trickled down. Creating the excuse to use that, which was purchased. Hoping, praying, pleading for rain, to constitute a reason to justify the gigantic umbrella obtained. Material expenses exchanged, to shield one, from the immense threats of misty moisture.

I’m being facetious to a rather tactless, unwieldy level, though the rain was doing exactly as stated, trickling, down. Trickling! No more, no less, trickling. Not even a dribble or a leak, a Trickle! We’re talking an itsy-bitsy streamlet here people… but I digress.

I bring up the umbrellas, and more importantly the size of the umbrellas, for I don’t understand why a person would need or desire these gargantuan constructions. For more often than not, they’re only canvassing themselves, singularly, from the rain:The Moisture’.

The incredible size of these expansive umbrellas, carry with them the ability to shelter entire small communities from: The Moisture, yet sadly, they’re only used to shelter one – two at most.

It seems that the abilities of the broad umbrellas have not been considered at all. Rather no consideration has been taken on the umbrellas behalf. The poor brolly hasn’t been allowed a say in the matter whatsoever. Leaving the monumental umbrella feeling underappreciated, misrepresented, and misused. Deep down I feel that these umbrellas really want to be protecting the greater good in the colossal numbers that it’s size affords, but the umbrellas cries are not heard. The brolly is caught, held captive, by the singular invested carrier, providing safety for only one – two at most.

Not to mention the dangers created by the stupendous umbrellas to passers bys eyes. The traffic and congestion created, as well as the visibility obstructions presented to the hustling and bustling commuters. The travelers, who’ve chosen to brave: The Moisture, with no security, or have managed to look within their reasonable selves and come to the conclusion that an umbrella aptly sized for one would far suffice, and do the job to properly preserve themselves from: The Dreaded Moisture.

Now I’m not meaning to argue the use of umbrellas, or meaning to be judgmental towards those who choose to utilize an umbrella to safeguard them selves from the rain: The Moisture.

I am curiously poking fun at those who chose to elaborately guard themselves with these vast structures of moisture defense. Broadcasting their general disregard for the people around, and thinking at no point of the safety or comfort for the surrounding hustling and bustling commuters. Instead brandishing these massive moisture evasion mechanisms with no regard at all. Putting all neighboring them at a greater danger and discomfort merely on account of their own dryness.

I suppose I am asking those who wield these humongous canopies of wetness prevention, to perhaps, consider how their actions and decisions impact those around them. Maybe even going as far as to accentuate their undoubtedly titanic character with a more considerate, practical, reasonably sized brolly.

I know: The Moisture, can be quite treacherous and distressing; dangerous even – at times depressingly downright disheartening. But fret not, remain dry, and hold on to the hope that perhaps the floodgates of: The Dreaded Moisture, will one day stop, cease, and reach a more publicly spirited understanding of the discomfort IT: The Moisture, creates.

Perhaps, even lead to a passing chat in a side street nook – an opening – escaping: The Dreaded Moisture, and unexpectedly accompanying an unknown passer by with an injured eye. Where the hazards of the monstrous umbrellas can be discussed, and the sanctity of vision shall be harbored and protected from the menacing probes and prongs of an outstretched brolly in full mushroom.

Career Counselor


Career Counselor


Connor McDonough-Flynn

I was sitting in the chair at 10:38am on the nose. I didn’t want to be late. Such an action would be disrespectful, unprofessional even.

The CV’s that I’d printed up especially for the meeting were placed on the table. One artistic. One professional. They’d cost me €2.60. I’d even gone out of my way and changed my daily walking route around to print them.

The printer required resided in an Internet café, where angry Asian lads sat behind massive computer screens playing bohemian rhapsody on their keyboards – staring through imaginary scopes looking for the virtual kill. Not much for conversation these lads, I thought.

When the button was pushed and my Internet privileges allowed, I re-worked the CV’s and tightened them up. Not to say they weren’t presentable before, but I read them through, worked out any kinks, brought a bit of a jig to their step. Was going to pay a euro for an hour anyway, figured I’d use a bit of the time productively and get my money’s worth. Would be disrespectful to not turn up with an edited, reworked, jazzed-up CV for the meeting and future career prospectus.

I was meeting the career counselor at 10:45 in the cafeteria of the government financed college building. Suspecting that this could be the meeting I’ve been waiting for, the meeting where I’d realize my path in life and walk merrily towards the light – fearlessly abhorrent to where or what I was doing beforehand – sprinting forwards to a state of perpetual bliss where monetary petals would rain down upon my barren pockets.

The night before I’d set the alarm clock for 8:00am, 8:30am, 9:00am and 9:30am, to make sure that I didn’t sleep too late. Being late would be disrespectful. Unprofessional even.

The 8:00am alarm got me up, the 8:30am out of bed. My plan was running smoothly. I dusted the morning dew away, made some coffee and wrote for a bit. Read for a bit while taking a shit. I then took a shower, got dressed, did some push-ups, and finished the coffee while listening to some music and once again, writing. The morning was going swimmingly.

I headed out the door leaving myself 45-minutes, knowing, it only took me only 15-minutes to complete the walk. But I didn’t want to be late, that would be disrespectful. Unprofessional even.

I walked the walk I walked 5-days a week, only today there was an extra stop. Normally upon arrival I’d go straight into the classroom and sign the paper to prove my attendance. This action was crucial, not doing so would result in the educational payments that I was receiving to cease post haste. Today, I didn’t go to the classroom to sign on time at all. Instead I went straight to the cafeteria to meet the career counselor about my career. I’d bigger aspirations on my plate. Career aspirations to be exactly precise.

The career counselor meeting: my life changing, future event, that causes the stars to align in a beautiful symphony of structure and solitude. The type of shit that dreams are made of, I thought.

Upon my early arrival to the college cafeteria I looked around and noticed the place was empty, all the chairs free, the vending machine buzzing away. Proper meeting setting, the type of setting that one envisions for a life changing moment with a career counselor. Her name was (and by all accounts remains to be) Helga.

I chose a round table, with five chairs lining the outside; the table had a predestined ability to seat five people comfortably. Perfect. Just in case Helga brought any of her esteemed colleagues along with her to handle this decaying young minds future conquests. Perhaps I could become a case study? One could only hope, I thought.

With my jacket tossed over the back of a chair I sat down and got my CV’s out and placed them on the table, all professional like – taking away any possibility of coming across disrespectful. Professionalism at its finest. With a book in hand I looked at my phone for the time, 10:38am. I was early. Proper style, I said to myself as I began to read.

The book I was reading wasn’t great, hadn’t been great, but I wanted to finish it so I… didn’t have to read it any more. We’ve all been in that scenario. Reading a book that you thought would inspire but it turns out that your intuition was correct from page one and the book’s simply a piece of faeces.

The author had written good books previously, some even turned into movies, so I gave it a go and as I got closer to the end I really wondered how in the hell this book got all these rave reviews, because it was an absolute pile of dog shite. Nobody should pick up this book, I thought. The acid on the shit alone would incinerate any surface that it came into contact with. Causing the shit to smolder deep into the earth’s crust, creating a geyser of oily shit to erupt from the earth’s core. Leading to the fire brigade having to be called and the national guard being brought in to throw explosives into the inflamed surge of shit spewing out a fire ball of excrement – for the sole purpose of putting out the chaotically defecating mess that was bringing danger to the lives of everyone around – on account of the toxic capabilities that the shit could contain when introduced to explosive elements. “Apologies, that ran on a bit, but you know the score. We’ve all been there. Here we go…”

Reading away I looked at the phone again, 11:00am. Not to worry, it’s a Tuesday, probably running a bit late. Looking around, the room was still empty, not a sinner. A lady had come in a while back to get a snack from the vending machine, which rounded off all the action in the area. The vending machine was getting more face time then I was. The area still remained a quintessential setting for a career-counseling meeting, me still sitting at the table with the capability of seating five comfortably, if necessary.

As the book lagged on, the end in sight, two gentlemen walked into the cafeteria and sat at a table wielding two chairs. Perhaps another career counselor meeting? I thought. They both had laptops; I had no laptops, only CV’s, maybe I should’ve brought my laptop? I thought. It’ll be grand a voice inside my head reassured me, It’ll be grand.

Kept reading. Looked at the phone, 11:25am. No big deal, I’m still a few pages away from finishing this book I said to myself.

Before finishing the book I decided I’d go out and have a smoke and call the career counselor Helga to see if she was still coming. I collected my CV’s, pushed in my chair and headed out the gap with a rollie rolled. I gave her a shout when I’d passed through the gap and stood, standing, outside. Voice mail. Ah. I Left a message, finished the smoke and went back inside to the table with the five chairs. I opened my book once again and read on as the setting slowly changed. This time I left the CV’s in my bag.

The cafeteria began to open up and come to life, there were people walking around to and fro too and fro. Places to go, someone to see, the vending machine still buzzing away. The book’s end was even closer when I looked at my phone again, 12:05pm. Helga, the career counselor, was over an hour late. She’d forgotten my career.

The pages of the book dragged on, as the hustle and bustle in the background continued; people getting coffee, no real small chat, just clippity-cloppity. My phone read 12:25pm, it was time to go, I’d had enough. My Career remained in limbo, my mind left racing like a crank addicted butterfly.

I called the career counselor once again, this time she answered: “Don’t worry about it, thanks a million.” I said when her excuses began, and I hung up the phone. Had taken me two weeks to book that appointment.

Gutted, I finished off the book, the last sentence reading: “Raising my hand just a tiny bit higher, so someone might finally look and see me.” And I thought, with my hands down, what a fitting end to a shitty story.

“Lonely Chair” photo by:

Peek-A-Boo Pussy


Peek-A-Boo Pussy


Connor McDonough-Flynn

            Walter loved vagina. He loved it. He loved eating pussy. Eating pussy was his favorite activity. Satisfying a woman with his mouth was the highest form of pleasure for Walter, and he was excellent at getting females there with his tongue, lips, mouth, fingers, nose and saliva. Oh yes, saliva.

He’d had numerous hands on experiences, he’d researched intently, read articles, studied diagrams; Walter was a self-proclaimed pussy professional. He’d come across some sordid insights along the way, silly ones to – the strangest coming from an article written by a woman in her twenties describing how she liked men to talk to her pussy, and more precisely, to baby talk her pussy. Baby talking is what got her feminine engine revving to hair-raising levels, leaving her elatedly howling to the starry skies.

Baby talking a pussy heightened Walter’s curiosity immediately. Instantaneously captivated. He was intrigued as to how far he could go with baby talking a pussy. At that stage of his life he’d been with his mystical woman for a little over a year, and she loved to get her pussy eaten (what women doesn’t?), and Walter would please her honeypot every day with absolute delight.

That night, when Walter and his beautiful lady came home, Walter was ready to rock with his baby talk. Walter told her that he wanted to taste her. She excitedly got onto the bed, and he slipped her pants and panties down. Her vagina was compressed and scrunched inwards on account of her tight pants and panties. Walter slid his tongue over her pussy, loosening the muscles, introducing moisture, saliva – bringing the hidden pleasures behind her picturesque folds of skin to life. She began to groan with excitement. Her lips opening. She loved when Walter made a meal of her pussy, she came in multiples each and every time.

Walter’s tongue was in rhythm, tickling and moistening her cliterous, labia and vulva. He knew all her spots. His lady was grabbing the back of his head, sensually taking hold of his hair, pushing his head and tongue deeper into her. Her panting, sighs and pleads towards the sky were reverberating around the walls of the room, creating a symphony of bliss in Walter’s ears. She tasted of delicious sweet sweat – her natural body odors and smells – her lush love box. Her hips were gyrating, her hands still navigating around Walter’s head, she was in another dimension, an alternate reality of reflexive ecstasy, she implored him not to stop.

“Don’t stop baby, don’t stop, please don’t stop. Oh…”

Walter listened to her and continued on. His tongue circling her cliterous like a soft rabbit’s foot. Gently lashing at her orgasmic spot like a professor of climactic proportion.

“Baby. Don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t stop. Oh… Oh…”

Walter didn’t stop, he continued on, his fingers now gliding in and out of her dripping vagina. Her juices flowing freely, uninhibited, her passionate sounds echoing through his ear drums.

“Don’t stop, baby don’t stop, please don’t stop. Oh… Oh… Oh…

He passionately continued on, he could feel her getting close. Fervently. He looked up to see her eyes closed, her head cocked back, her pelvis pulsating, her right hand gliding through the hairs on her scalp, her left hand still pushing Walter on, guiding him towards her holy land. He, still joyously journeying around her most intimate of environments.

Baby. Don’t stop, don’t stop, baby please don’t stop…”

Walter kept going, his tongue was now lapping the inside of her pussy, looking to find the holy grail; her G-spot. She was convulsing with enticement, he felt her juices boiling, her body opening up, her mind erasing. Her entire being becoming one in the moment before climax. Now’s the time, Walter thought.

“Don’t stop baby, don’t stop, baby please don’t stop. Oh… Oh… OhOh… I’m…

Who’s that silly pussy? You want to cum don’t you? Yes you do. Who’s a silly little pussy. Look at you all wet, turned on and juicy…


She grabbed a hold of his hair, only now in a fist.

“I’m baby-talking your pussy.”


“Yeah. Peek-A-Boo Pussy?

Her hands now tugged his head up and his hair was at it’s wits end, there was a large group of strands being separated from his scalp.


Walter looked into the eyes of his infuriated woman, wondering what he’d done wrong? He was the self-proclaimed pussy eating master and he was only intending to add to his arsenal. The magazine, the woman, the article, it’d said that baby talk was a sure thing. He’d even introduced the Peek-A-Boo, a new move that he could patent, the Peek-A-Boo Pussy move. “Perhaps magazines don’t contain ALL the answers?” Walter thought to himself in the moment. “There shall have to be further research done…”

Walter saw the carnal rage in his loving ladies eyes, she’d ripped out a chunk of his hair and slapped him across his head. She’d been seconds away from an orgasm that would’ve shaken the nature of humanity and he’d stopped to play peek-a-boo with her pussy.

He felt in the moment that time was, in fact, of the essence. This was no time for laughter. He looked dead into his vibrant woman’s eyes and dove his face back into her holy land, and ate, and licked – introducing fingers from all angles. She erupted with delight, tearing further chunks out of his head. And as she lay, head and neck extended back, both her hands on the back of his head, her legs spread akimbo, her eyes closed, her vagina glistening with saliva, fluid and flowing moisture. Walter looked up at her and looked back between her legs, at her soundly satisfied pussy and said:

Now there’s a happy pussy, what a good pussy, aren’t you the happiest little pussy in the whole-wide-world, Yes you are. Peek-A-Boo Pussy. Peek-A-Boo…

Walter’s little vixen said nothing, there was no hair pulling, no screaming, she just lay there gorgeously panting in the moment, harmoniously satisfied. And Walter learned in that moment, in that moment of sheer sensuality and intimacy, what the baby talk and peek-a-boo pussy was all about: Timing.


“Hear No, See No, Meow No Evil (Grey Cat)” Picture by:

The Daily Paragraph – Netted Heart

The Daily Paragraph

Netted Heart


Vamoose! Gripped. Griped. Gone. Desires. Written and writhing on a wall of befuddled backdrops. Running wild on a bed of nails. Extremities warped. Contorted.  Misconstrued and moonlighted. Strings clasped. Plucked, snatched and snared. Canned public lava, rushing! Erupting vandalism. Red organs. Sandy surfaces. Afflicted. Bittersweet gingerbread – Racing. Cupid’s nemesis, skillfully swift. Confectionery affections. Inflamed scarlet spectrums. Ensnared. Pulsating. Coarse restrictions. Intangible barriers. Morpheus’s graphical metamorphosis. Corralled in a back alley. Remembering. His adage. His liberty. One must always: Keep ‘it’ real, in the streets.

By: Connor McDonough-Flynn

Photograph: Connor McDonough-Flynn

The Daily Paragraph – How Ya… Giraffe…?

The Daily Paragraph

How Ya… Giraffe…?


How ya…? Stone Free…! Nature’s charming Voodoo Child. Herbage roots… Undulating buttresses… a bolstered Quadruped Ungulata. Indiscriminative patches. Blushing… Brownie… Pumpkin shapes. Jack-o’-lantern’s… jacket of curvatures… Shingling a biscuit aura. Elongated connections… All Along The Watchtower… Streaming deltas… Flowing overlaps… Yapping leaf trap… Sneezing sets. Adorably adolescent… Vestal vibrations. Rock-n-Roll Baby! Harmonizing… Ivory wings… An a cappella… Savanna Angel. Crystallized… Inkblot Gypsy Eyes… Piebald. This Little Wing is… as… Bold As Love… Foxy!

By: Connor McDonough-Flynn

The Daily Paragraph – Setting

The Daily Paragraph



Roar! Righteous roar…! Prismatic lion… Psychedelic… Dandy…  Daydreaming anomalistic eye. Earthly-incandescent stem.  Lustrously… Veracious lights. Temporal havens… Tempest presentiments… Disseminating conceptions. Cultivation. Phantasmal… Hazy horizons… Alizarin hues… Mountainous undertones.  Climbing. Clustered cacophonies aroused. Wafting. Aerial nucleuses… Freely transposed. Maturing. Undomesticated. Liberating pastures. One… Breath… Away… Vapor. Beauty… Invigorating beauty. Winded existences. Rejuvenated perspectives… Reincarnated… melodramatic metamorphoses. Wistful eclipses… Breaking… Dawn.

By: Connor McDonough-Flynn

The Daily Paragraph – Scuba Jellyfish

The Daily Paragraph

Scuba Jellyfish


Bloop… Bloop… Boob…? Medusa’s gelatin embodiment… Enchanting. Seductive. Descending deep… Delving negatives… Turning to stone. Venomous… Flailing… Flippant appendages. Fervent feelers… Wisping… Man… Out of his element. Oxygenized and outfitted… Submerged in aquatic murkiness. Vacillating hydrae… Naked… Electrifying beauty. Powerless… One must oblige. Breathtaking reservoirs… In a snapshot… it’s gone… Reverted. Tick tock

By: Connor McDonough-Flynn

The Daily Paragraph – Cat Show

The Daily Paragraph

Cat Show


Ding! Pussycat penumbra. Animated. Three. No two… no… Scintillant. Ghostly matting. Tabby pelt. Bamboozled. Diversified existences… Ambitious eyeshots… Tunnel vision. Doorway bleached. Ebony borders. Characters. Life. An amphitheatre. Mitts elevated. Elongated… Joyful prizefighter. Inevitable. Patient victory… Tail or made…? Whiskey whiskers… Shadow boxing UFO’s… Targets suspended. Doohickeys… closer than they appear… Deception blemished perception. Gambits… Catcalls… This lion will become…

By: Connor McDonough-Flynn

The Daily Paragraph – Man Net Fish

The Daily Paragraph

Man Net Fish


Rickety raft… no oar. A serendipitous surface… Eager to explore… Harmony. Effervescence. Shades. And shadows… A spindle and spinnaker… The nourishment… Sole… Natural equities entangled. Casting. Extending a hand. Natures. Spidery man. Rapturous ripples breaking the surface… Morning dew?  Or midnight mist? Liquid reflections… Wind swept lasso. Tethered. No bait… No bobber or pole… No lines or lies. What’s beneath shall suffice… Periwinkles. Pollock. Perch. And plaice… the net profits. Unperturbed. Ambition filled waters. Reaching the lazy rivers delta… with a humble appetite.

By: Connor McDonough-Flynn


The Daily Paragraph – Pug Hat

The Daily Paragraph

Pug Hat


Walk the plank! A giant amongst men… Adorning his egoless crown. Addressing his magistrates. Paparazzo… Cool. Calm. Composed… His nap interrupted… Lips drooping. Characteristic wrinkles. Accentuated cuteness. Coat agleam. A rascally rebel… penguin tux… necktie… pants, unnecessary. Whiskery mustache. Lick-able nose… Strutting on all fours. A Herculean stature… Don’t mess with me sucka…! I pity the fool… Star encrusted backdrop. Universal eyes… Innocence. Majestic amazement. Man’s best friend. Enlightening man…

By: Connor McDonough-Flynn

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