patmac

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I have 13 stories published in one collection on the site.
My stories have been read 86415 times and 2 of my stories have been cherry picked.

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Patrick Mackeown

My stories

Cherry

Hilarious Nigerian Scammer Story

By patmac on Sun, 11 Jun 2006

Hilarious Nigerian Scammer Story (To find out what it's all about: Visit www.bookscape.co.uk and read the absurd section) My name is Andrew. I work in a bank in North London. And you simply wouldn't believe the number of times people ask me to give them money. Not just small amounts of money either. I'm talking about entire mortgage repayments, or refinancing of companies. I've been asked on occasions if I could allow strangers access to our accounts department's records, when the building has been closed for the weekend! I understand that at least some of those enquirers have since been questioned by our local police force. But you just wouldn't believe the things that people ask you when they find out that you run a bank.
Humour
Certificate U

Cruel World

By patmac on Tue, 09 May 2006

In an age before there was time itself in the Achean Period of Earth's existence was it not sulphur which filled the atmosphere? And did being not issue forth from deleterious surroundings? In the days of Pompeii's splendour Was it not the Roman law of Patria Protestas which extolled the virtues of exposing superfluous newborns in the wilderness to die? But have we not passed into a time now of Brooke's Granchester meadows? Now do we not wonder at Wordworth's lakes? Are we not all now both Swallows and also Amazons? So why now do you beset us with the ravages of Katrina? Why do you send torrents down the streets of New Orleans? Is it to wash away the wretchedness of our existence? Or have we yet to learn that the sulphurous Achean beckons a hedonistic populous with its imminent return?
Miscellaneous
Poem
Certificate U

In Hank's Town

By patmac on Mon, 08 May 2006

In Hank's Town "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard, boy. You gonna have to do better than that, I'm tellin' you," Sheriff Hank Callan said, snorting deeply and expelling a giant globule of phlegm onto the dusty floorboards at our feet. He examined his damp right hand and wiped the forefinger and thumb together across the dangling mound of his stomach. His sweat-stained, wet, half-open, khaki shirt which stretched over his enormous, pale belly, now had a streak of spittle soaking into it.
Other Fiction
Certificate 15

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