Wildly Traveling

Well, g'day again, everyone. Here in Sydney we have had the shortest day of the year, the psychological point where my winter ends. It's been a mildish winter anyway. But, to business. Today I will tell you why I wrote the thirty-sixth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Where to Go? Essentially, this story I wrote for one of my cousins, Michael Fitzpatrick, who was out here in Sydney, from Ireland, working, two or three years ago. I am myself Irish, and the happiest time in my life still remains the year and a half that I lived in Ireland, from the age of twelve. I am now aged forty-six. Thus, this story was dedicated to Mick in homage of those wonderful times.
     I also wrote this story to explore the planet a bit more in which Aus (Australia in a parallel Universe, the setting of most of the stories in Aberrant) is situated. Thus, the main character, Michael Pearse, travels overseas for a bit, whilst at the same time being homeless. I drew upon some of my experiences with homelessness to describe Michael Pearse's overseas, homeless adventure. It was an easy story to write, and I really enjoyed traveling to other parts of my fictional Earth. In fact, I liked the traveling so much that I may even do some more traveling on the real Earth. We'll see.

Friends Indeed

G'day again, everybody. How are we? I have been somewhat challenged with my mental health over the past two weeks and so was unable to post here. Did you miss me? I'm fine now, but sometimes I go off the tracks somewhat and do not live at peak mental health, as I normally do. Anyway, today we are up to the thirty-fifth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, 'Simply Unable.' The beginning of this tale is based on actual events, events that I found very distressing at the time. Basically, the story starts off with some young people high on LSD, having a good time in a pub, when one young lady desperately begins sobbing, but quietly, and asking to be taken home. I was sitting next to this young lady and, as I was at this stage still in a psychotic state, I thought she was asking me to take her back to my place. For what purpose you can probably guess. I was not interested though in taking her home because her quiet crying confused me. To be frank, I didn't know what to do. The others at the table, all high on acid and joking around, didn't give a stuff. If that young lady had become irrevocably insane none of the bastards would have given a toss. And I still, over two decades later, feel guilty for not helping this lass. But I excuse myself on the grounds that I was at the height of psychosis at the time, and thus barely able to look after even myself.
     'Simply Unable' is my response to this trauma, and is a fiction developed from the real events that open the story. I hope the young lady is okay. I really do.