Saturday, 14 July 2012

G4S admit to becoming a little confused.

The chief executive of G4S today admitted that he has just realised he does not have enough security guards to cover the London Olympics.

G4S won the contract bid in 2010, the conditions of which were to supply 2,000 security staff at Olympic venues, a figure which rose to 10,000 in 2011, at request of Games organisers.

‘It’s all gone terribly, terribly wrong,’ Mr Buckles said earlier today. ‘I found the whole thing rather confusing from the beginning, if I’m honest. The only way I could cope with such magnificently large numbers was to separate each number the Olympics people sent to me into gazillions, trillions, millions, hundreds of thousands, tens of thousands, thousands, hundreds, tens and units. Somewhere along the line, someone rubbed out all the columns preceding the thousands column, which sadly discombobulated me.’

Approximately 110,000 people applied for the advertised post, but due to the confusion with the columns, only seven were interviewed. ‘The interview process was extraordinarily complex, and rather tiresome,’ said Mr Buckles. ‘Each applicant had to be able to spell their name, effectively communicate in English, and be able to stand with their hands loosely clasped in front of them, their chin raised in a defiant manner, whilst throwing a menacing stare. Sadly, all the applicants we eventually recruited failed on the clasping of the hands. Some even toppled over. Don’t worry though. I have phoned the army.’
Karina Evans 2012

Sunday, 17 June 2012

Gary Barlow awarded OBE

Take That frontman, Gary Barlow, has become an OBE in the Queen’s birthday honours list. The 41-year-old singer, songwriter, TV personality and lead organiser of the Queen’s recent Diamond Jubilee celebrations found worldwide success with pop group, Take That, in the 1990s.
Gary, who is a singer, songwriter, TV personality and lead organiser of the Queen’s recent Diamond Jubilee celebrations, is delighted at the honour. ‘I am delighted. Previous to this OBE, I was just a singer, songwriter, TV personality and lead organiser of the Queen’s recent Diamond Jubilee celebrations. It is all happening for me now, I am practically Simon Cowell. I have been trying to earn an OBE for weeks, ever since remembering that it is possible to get one for being helpful and kind.’
Gary, who is a singer, songwriter, TV personality and lead organiser of the Queen’s recent Diamond Jubilee celebrations, wrote most of Take That’s songs, except the ones ripped off from Barry Manilow, The Bee Gees and Dan Hartman. Barlow’s song-writing career peaked with an Ivor Novello award for the 1994 song, Pray, the lyrics of which are now apt in their emotion, with Barlow crooning ‘I’m so cold and all alone,’ a quote he has recently admitted to being directed at Her Majesty. ‘I just wanted a hug, really,’ Barlow admits. ‘I am a singer, songwriter, TV personality and lead organiser of the Queen’s recent Diamond Jubilee celebrations. I first clapped eyes on Her Majesty at a Royal Variety performance during Take That’s heyday. Nobody could possibly be warmer or more refined than Elizabeth, I could tell this from afar. When I tied myself up in the Pray video, I was tying myself up for her. When the guys wore hot-pants, yet I wore a suit, it was not because I was the fat, ugly one; it was because I am a singer, songwriter, TV personality and lead organiser of the Queen’s recent Diamond Jubilee celebrations and I was thinking of Liz and wanted to cover my erection. I am delighted. Not once has Elizabeth mentioned ‘Forever Love,’ or ‘Love Won’t Wait.’ No man is an island. I am a winner.’

Wednesday, 30 May 2012

Fact of the Day

YouTube Video

Karina Evans 2012

Sunday, 20 May 2012

Facebook co-founder marries for (((hugz)))

Co-founder and CEO of Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg, today married his girlfriend in an 'intimate backyard ceremony.'
The couple tricked their family and friends into thinking the event was to mark the graduation of Zuckerberg's then girlfriend, Priscilla Chan.
'Mark created an event and added us to the guest list,' said one shocked wedding guest. 'I almost didn't go; I felt a bit tired and had run out of coffee LOL and felt a bit down and that, but someone said 'aww hun don't let em get you down ur betta than that,' so I went. I'm glad I did. There was a lot of food. I took photos of it and I shall post them on Facebook later so everyone can be sure I'm not hungry. ROFL.'
Mark and Priscilla poked each other thirteen times during the ceremony, which occurred a day after Facebook shares were floated on the stock exchange. The shares, disappointingly, closed just above the offering price of $38 a share, something which 28 year-old Mark is a bit annoyed about. 'Im a bit annoyed about the share thing lol,' said Mark last night. 'I expected them to make me richer than rich which is how rich I currently am. PMSL. Hugz? BRB. I'm off to 'like' my wife who 'likes' my shares. Do you have shares? They're there. How do you spell their? Their shares. They are shares. There shares. Their there they're. LOOOL.'
Karina Evans 2012

Sunday, 13 May 2012

William Hague teaches people things

Foreign Secretary William Hague has suggested that businesses ‘pull their socks up and send more stuff abroad.’ Mr Hague, in an interview with the Sunday Telegraph, stated that the UK should implement a brand new growth strategy, involving, not least, a higher production of goods and exportation.

‘We, as a country, need to reorientate,’ laughed Mr Hague. ‘I am painfully aware that Microsoft Word 2010 does not think ‘reorientate’ is actually a proper word, but I know it is. It is my word-baby. Try it on Scrabble, you could earn upwards of eleven points if placed correctly.’

Mr Hague, dressed as a school-teacher, also hollered that we need to ‘do more with less,’ stating this is the way to rescue the work ethic. He bellowed: ‘people need to learn to not really listen to me. I make stuff up. Businesses need to send stuff abroad. Everyone should leave on a jet-plane, taking their stuff with them. They should sell it, make money, make twice as much money, give money to me. Toilet roll could be sent abroad. You get twice as much toilet roll as you think, you know.’ Mr Hague demonstrated how to pull apart a two-ply sheet of tissue, before shouting: ‘your finger may go through it, but who cares? We don’t, not if it is sent abroad. Finger up arse. I am not the Foreign Secretary for nothing. Gobbledegook. Also, we could send watered-down ketchup and dried-out teabags. Teabags. Teabagging. I am not a gay. My throat is sore.’

Karina Evans 2012

Thursday, 19 April 2012

Olympic torch really very broken

Stringent tests have been carried out on the Olympic torch to ensure it is capable of withstanding anything that could possible happen to it, ever. The tests were conducted by Basildon-based Tecoism Technical Simulation, working alongside Bullfinch; the engineers who designed the burner inside the torch.
The torch needed to be able to withstand extremes of temperature, extremes of weather and certain other criteria, before being described as weatherproof by Olympic organisers, Locog.
Tecoism’s MD, Stuart Hawker, oversaw the tests, before the findings were reported back to Locog; the Olympic organisers.
‘I oversaw the tests on Torchy,’ states Mr Hawker, fondly. ‘We needed to make sure that not only could Torchy bear up in this hideous English weather, but that she could also be abused with little or no physical ramifications. It is for this reason, and ONLY this reason, that I have a bit of Torchy left inside my anus. It is certainly a minor infection risk.’
Clare Pelly was project manager for torch production for Locog. ‘We thoroughly enjoyed pushing the torch to the very limits of its capabilities. Sadly, we can’t trust the general public to light it and turn it off and all that shit, what with their crapness at barbecues and whatnot, so we have asked the Metropolitan Police to waste their resources on being Torch turnerofferers. Operation Torcherfucker. Also, whilst you’re here: it was ME who sucked up all the water from the reservoirs with a straw. I am saving it for the opening ceremony, whereupon I shall spit it into cups for the overseas visitors. Overseas visitors are, incidentally, phenomenally more important than residents of the United Kingdom. Sadly, after all the stringent tests, the torch is now really fucking broken. Broken Britain. Fucking Tories. Broken fucking Tory Britain. Fuck ‘em. Set fire to them. Set fire to the Tories. Dance with me.’
Karina Evans 2012

Sunday, 15 April 2012

Campaign to end obesity crisis

Doctors’ organisations in the country are working together to form a campaign to combat the United Kingdom’s obesity epidemic. The campaign proposes exercise awareness, ‘fat taxes’ and banning or restricting fast-food advertising.
‘Up to twenty-five percent of the United Kingdom’s population are said to be obese, but it is very difficult to pinpoint an exact number as they sort of wobble into each other, making it impossible to count them,’ says Professor Terence Stephenson, a spokesman for the campaign. ‘Imagine two jellies on a plate; a yellow one and an orange one. If you shake them to parody fat people walking, you will see they touch each other and soon begin to BECOME each other. Yum. This is why I can’t count fat people. And also because I have only ten fingers, two of which are thumbs, and there are more than ten fat people in the UK.’

The Royal Medical Colleges and Faculties are also concerned about the Olympic sponsorship from the fast-food giant; McDonalds. ‘McDonalds makes people fat. This is a fact. A fact which fucking worries me. It fucking worries me that people will travel from other countries to watch the healthy, sexy, Olympic games and be encouraged to eat seventy-five burgers, then go home all fat,’ mutters a spokesman through a mouthful of Haribo. ‘This will result in one of seven outcomes. The first potential outcome is the world tipping clean off its fucking axis due to all the fatty chompers and we will all fall off. Secondly, when our Olympic visitors return home, their family and friends will notice they have become fat whilst in England, therefore England will henceforth be known as FuckingFattyland and we will be internationally bullied. Seventhly, and definitely most terribly; our beautiful, skinny, skinny, beautiful athletes will start eating burgers instead of raw eggs, spinach and tofu; they’ll be too fat to run. Fat is not sexy. Thin is sexy. I am a pest.’

Professor Stephenson suggests that a ‘fat tax’ and pointing and laughing at fat people is the most effective way of dealing with the growing issue. ‘There is nothing like humiliation to garner enthusiasm,’ he says whilst masturbating furiously. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to persecute them, I am merely trying to control the huge number of them. They are no longer fetishist if you see hundreds every day, wobbling their delicious flesh. Squash me.’

Saturday, 14 April 2012

Government positively encouraging fuel strike

The government are sorely disappointed that their contingency plans put in place in case of a fuel strike may not be utilised.
The government have held several meetings to discuss the action they would take if a fuel strike were to go ahead and have planned to hold a meeting at eleven o'clock every morning to secure the plans and ensure they are watertight. A spokesman for the Department for Energy and Climate Change states 'We are positively furious at the fuckawful news that Unite have come up with some half-cocked plan to ruin our ideas. We have enough battenburg and filter coffee to see us through this month. We had amazing plans and displayed these plans upon this flip-chart. Look. These little stick-men are the fuel tanker drivers and this man waving his arms saying 'Your job is not fucking dangerous enough,' is Davey Cameron. If you look over the will see a pie-chart and a venn diagram. I drew both because I was not sure which one was prettier.' The spokesman chews his pencil thoughtfully, before continuing 'the pie chart and venn diagram both represent how aroused we are by the thought of people queuing for petrol. Over the page can see a graph displaying exactly how aroused we are. I produced over four gallons of semen last week when I went to my local Morrisons' petrol station and saw that they had run out of Super Unleaded. This is sexier than war.'
Unite, the union which represents 2062 tanker drivers, is calling for minimum standards of pay, holiday and redundancy. Nick Dennis, a spokesman for Unite, says the government are not being helpful. 'The government are not being helpful,' he says.

Friday, 13 April 2012

Royal Mail makes stamps really fucking expensive

Royal Mail have taken the bold move to ration stamps in the lead-up to the unprecedented price rise, due on 30th April.
A spokesman for Royal Mail states that the move is to prevent people stockpiling thousands and thousands and thousands of stamps to avoid paying the extra fourteen pence; a first class stamp is due to rise to sixty whole pence and a second class stamp to fifty whole pence. 'They're still an actual bargain,' giggles the spokesman coquettishly. 'We at Royal Mail will make absolutely certain that the general public sluts are not able to save any money in any way whatsoever. We have already stopped Superdrug in its tracks; the whore ran out. Stamp whores, fuck whores, fuck stamps.' The spokesman sips some pink lemonade and spins in his chair until dizzy and sick, stopping only to fire stamps out of an adapted BB gun.
One member of the public told us that he is planning to buy a million stamps in advance, to avoid the significant increase in cost. 'I can't really afford it,' states the gentleman, who wishes to remain anonymous, 'but I will sell my house if need be. Stamps are robust and extra sticky, so I could always live in a stamp house for a while. Do you have any gingerbread?'
The Royal Mail says that the extra revenue generated from the price rise will go towards 'important and sexily interesting things, namely a massive stamp-themed party, in which we hope the Queen will arrive with her beautiful face covered in stamps, which in turn, are stamped with her beautiful face.'
The Queen declined to comment.

Friday, 20 January 2012

Nine Seconds of Anonymity

Another short story, destined for a life of loneliness in a miscellaneous folder. Hug me.

Nine Seconds of Anonymity
He shuffles down the street, his mind as heavily laden as the stormy clouds above him. Each step he takes is wearier than the last, and, at times, he thinks he will not make it. He is struggling, yet persevering; he needs to reach his destination, for it is where he belongs. As he walks, he observes. He examines the buildings full of memories, and the gutters full of mistakes. His feet are bare inside his worn-down leather shoes, and they are slipping in the sweat created by the stifling, stormy atmosphere. In the house to his left, he observes a faceless woman cradling a newborn baby. A male looks lovingly over her shoulder to peer at the crinkled face of his son and heir. Seconds later, they all disappear from sight, and he knows deep in his heart that they will never be that happy again.
He looks ahead; a sign pointing to the menu at a pub catches his eye. He stops, and then looks in the window to observe the clientele. A man, aged approximately thirty-five, is standing at the bar. The man is drunk and he is leaning against the bar for support, fumbling with some change in an attempt to purchase another pint of their finest. Grabbing onto his leg is a small boy; he has tears rolling slowly down his ruddy cheeks. The child is desperately trying to get the man’s attention, trying to say something important. The words are indecipherable through the heavy, frosted pane of glass, but he knows that all the boy wants is to be picked up and held. All he wants is to be listened to.
His feet are aching, and his stomach is churning with the anticipation of what is ahead of him. Onwards, towards his destination, his home; his mecca. The walk feels like it is taking hours, but he can sense that the length is deceptive, and the journey poignant in its slow motion.
A teenage boy cycling towards him at high speed startles him. He sidesteps to avoid collision, and winces as the boy hurls a string of expletives in his general direction. He curses the reckless lack of respect of the youth of today, as he bends to adjust a lace that is sitting uncomfortably inside his shoe. As he straightens, he tries to view himself in the glass of a shop window, but his focus is blurry, and all he can see are the people inside the premises. The shop is a model shop, selling plastic aeroplanes and cars, all sitting neatly in their boxes, until an enthusiast deems it essential to purchase and lovingly nurture them to life. A scruffy-looking man in his mid-twenties is inside the shop, and he watches with disgust as he picks up a tube of model glue to work inside his coat sleeve, until obscured from the view of the shopkeepers. He briefly ponders why it is necessary to steal such an item, as surely its value is negligible, and hardly worth a stint in the cells. He suspects the man will use it to get high. He shakes his head, and moves on.
He has arrived at a cul-de-sac, decorated by young trees and bushes with their best years ahead of them. He bends down to pick a rose, but cannot feel its silky petals between his sweaty thumb and forefinger. He hears a scream, and looks up to see a partially opened window, a female face pressed against it. A man is standing behind her, pummelling blows upon her broken body, shouting above her screams. He can see blood and he can see tears, but what can he do? He can do nothing; it is too late.
He walks on, despite his aching feet, and sees a church. It is magnificent, regardless of its impoverished location. He peers through the arched doorway, and notices an elderly lady sitting on a pew at the back. She is alone. He steps gently inside the church, and listens as the lady softly utters a prayer, a prayer of salvation for a loved son who has turned bad. He feels like holding her, holding the anonymous woman who has loved so utterly deeply and unconditionally, yet achieved nothing but hate. The lady turns, and he is shocked to see bruises upon her soft face. Painful darkness, disappearing between the deep lines of what could have been a beautiful life.
He is shocked, and stumbles back towards the doors of the church, reaching forwards for support as he feels nausea welling inside him. Through the darkness in front of his eyes, he can see a beautiful horizon, but this cannot stop him vomiting violently on the tiled floor at the entrance of the church. He wipes his mouth, and urges himself onwards. He must keep walking, for his destination is looming. His stamina is waning, but he calls upon his inner strength to move himself onwards. There is no one left to support him, nobody to show him the way, he needs to find the right path on his own.
There is a young woman heading towards him on the footpath. The woman is approximately twenty years old, and simply stunning in an understated way. Her blonde hair is tied in an almost child-like ponytail, and she bounces slightly as she listens to music through foam-covered headphones. As if from a clich├ęd nowhere, a man appears behind her. The man looks familiar; the anger on his face is proverbial of a mugger, a rapist, a murderer, or perhaps all three. The woman screams as he pushes her to the floor and rips a purse from her pocket. The sky is turning blacker by the second, and he feels its ominous presence crushing him. He is as powerless as she is, and the words he needs to shout to stop the brutal attack are stuck in his dry throat as he cowers behind a bush. He silently and helplessly watches the dying woman as she attempts to fight off her attacker. This is the last fight of her short life, it is a fight against a man almost twice her size; a fight she cannot win. He knows that her lifeless body will remain in that exact position until a passer-by happens upon her later in the day. To that passer-by it will seem a merciless killing, but he knows that she paid the ultimate price in an exhibition of power and control. The man who killed her feels like God right now, and he will feel like God until he is scorned for his actions. He notices a glove on the ground, carelessly dropped by the attacker, and he tuts his disapproval as he knows that this innocuous item will be the killer’s downfall; the last downfall of many.
The sky suddenly lightens, as the storm clouds part to reveal a beautiful sun. The darkness has lifted, and the light is welcoming and warm.
Clusters of buildings are ahead of him, surrounded by a high wire fence. The irony is not lost on him, as he considers that the brutal crime was committed just metres from a prison. He can hear joviality, which strikes him as odd. Joviality in the face of oppression does not sit well with him. He cannot see them, but he knows that amongst them is at least one who does not laugh, who does not cry, who does not wish to exist anymore. There is one who knows that to repent for his sins, he must die. There is one man inside the prison block who is slashing at his wrists, because the overdose did not work. That man is he; I am that man. This was my life; these were my memories, my mistakes, and my countless sins. This was my journey, and now I must leave. The nine second flash of life before the darkness of my death is complete. This is my destination.

The Second Sin

I have just found this, languishing on my phone. It's not funny, but I like it.

The Second Sin


Bless me Father, for I have sinned

Homework: write a poem about something you regret

Like a present
Waiting to be opened
Like a past
to be erased
It exists
If only to be regretted
A truth
That nobody knows
If I could take my mistakes
And draw them again
Would I compromise
And leave this out
My best sin?
A work
Awaiting completion
The conclusion
of a heart
That began beating
I didn't think
I didn't know
A sin
A rhyme
An end
With a forgettable beginning.


Molly holds the rosary beads tightly in her hand; feeling the warm, fleece lining of her jacket pocket encasing her cold hand. She needs to count her sins, but having had a lot on her mind lately, she neglected to bring her own prayer beads. For a familiar moment, she feels like a fake: looking for Him: not in His house, but in an ordinary street with ordinary people and ordinary buildings. A fraud. That's what her mother told her last night, when the realisation had set in. 'A good Catholic girl, Molly. That's who you are meant to be, that’s who we raised you to be.'

Molly had struggled with this; she was surely no longer capable of being a good Catholic girl, and was unsure whether she ever had been.

‘When did you forget this? How could you forget this? When did you become this person?’

Molly had then pulled her baggy jumper tightly around her stomach, inducing an unprecedented rage in her mother.

‘Look at yourself! You are a FRAUD, pretending to be someone you are not, hiding under those hideous clothes,'

Molly knew her mother well, and knew that in different circumstances she may have laughed, even been impressed, at Molly’s current talent for disguise. She understood that her mother had to be angry, but all she really wanted was for her to say that everything would be alright. A soothing stroke of the hair and a chocolate biscuit, and everything would be okay.

‘You deserve more; we deserve more. We told you to forget the boys, avoid the sins. Concentrate on Him, we said, for He has the answers; He is the guiding light. A GOOD CATHOLIC GIRL, THAT IS WHO YOU ARE MEANT TO BE!'

Molly is now a statistic, which she now feels is actually no less fraudulent than scrubbing her cheeks until they stung, donning a pretty frock, and pretending to believe something that she could not see. Molly’s school friends-'they are not true friends, they are leading you astray,'- have always mocked her mother, mocked her father, mocked her faith. This is why Molly sinned that fateful evening. She sinned so that she would fit in, be one of them, and be far less than a compromise. This is why Molly is here now, right now, clutching plastic beads from a fashion store. Does it matter? It is another compromise. The rosary beads in her pocket; they aren’t real, but she thinks she probably needs them to guide her.

Hail Mary.

Two sins, at the last count. The first being a stolen moment in the woods with Simon after the school disco, seventeen weeks ago. Simon is a popular boy, and Molly was understandably flattered that he wanted to spend some time with her. Molly had never before imagined the consequence of time. She would, in all likelihood, still be flattered if Simon continued to want to spend time with her, but now time means nothing to him; he points and he laughs and he mocks along with the rest of them. Molly smiles, she likes to smile through adversity, and she knows that the secret-his secret-that ticks away inside her, will soon wipe that smug grin from his face. Molly places her hand on her stomach. Life. A life that began in a damp wood; a life moulded with fumbling hands; a beautiful beginning; a perfect being, made by amateurs, in a shocking showcase of beginners’ luck.

If faith had allowed them, Molly is sure that her incensed parents would have marched her to a clinic to remove the sin from sight and from memory. But this had not been the case. Through whispers and through anger, Molly had felt a hazy blur of burdened love emanating from them. A weakness growing stronger through misfortune. They were furious, but they were forced to accept, forced to forgive and forced to support.

‘A child?’ Your child?’

'Your grandchild.'

Molly feels for the beads in her pocket, and counts down to bead number two, closing her eyes in concentration. She does not want anyone to see. She does not want anyone to mock. She does not want anyone to judge. She does not want to care.

Errare humanum est

To err is human

Molly has been forced to count her sins on many occasions, but this time-the time she wants and needs to-she cannot bring herself to do it. Molly wonders why and she looks towards the sky, searching for an answer. He is there, this is what they say. He is everywhere, He is all encompassing, therefore it matters not where she looks.




Yet, He does not give her an answer, nor does He comfort her. Molly inhales deeply on the cigarette she is holding in her free hand, and strolls-with a confidence she cannot bring herself to feel- towards the ashtray. Another sin to add to the list, she thinks with a smug bitterness. A sin that is bad for the life inside her, bad for the beating heart. Molly just wants to be accepted. Molly just wants to be happy. Pure, simple, unadulterated happiness, the thought of which makes her feel sorry for herself. Molly occasionally allows herself the indulgence of emotion, and now she feels another deep in her stomach; twisting, hurting, punishing her. Guilt. Guilt for the sin, guilt for the cigarette, guilt for the compromise and guilt for being unable to ask forgiveness for any of them. Molly’s knees tremble as a wave of nausea washes over her, and she sinks to the ground, holding her head in her hands. It is nearly tea-time, and she is sure that despite her failings, her parents will want her back for her meal. With this in mind, Molly struggles to her feet, holding her stomach, holding on to the precious life that will love her forever. It is a sin for which she cannot possibly ask for forgiveness, because it is a sin that she will never regret.

Molly’s second sin was another compromise; a struggle between being a Good Catholic Girl and being part of the crowd that had grown to occasionally tolerate her, despite her obvious faults. Molly again fumbles in her pocket for the beads and, holding them tightly, rises to her feet to pay for the second sin. She walks slowly back towards the doors, proudly thrusting out her growing stomach that she has deliberately encased in a tight, white T-shirt. She feels them looking, feels them judging her, but she has decided that she does not care, for she can only ever truly be judged by Him, and He is nowhere to be seen.

‘Babies having babies,' she hears someone mutter as she walks past them.

A walk of shame.

Molly laughs as tears well in her blue eyes; another contrast, another compromise, but she walks on, tasting the bitterness of the cigarette she has just smoked, mingling with the sourness of guilt. In front of her is a row of shops and Molly wishes that she had some money to spend; she wants to buy something for her baby. She would buy a dummy, or a rattle or a tiny, knitted pair of bootees. She just wants to make the fluttering real; solid and unchangeable. Molly shakes her head to bring herself back to the matter in hand, the baby is moving and willing her on. This is the beginning; a new beginning, a new start that she will never regret. Molly is a huge fan of irony, and the humour of this situation is not lost on her. She defiantly raises her chin and walks back into the shop in which she had been ten minutes ago. Time goes so slowly when you are looking for something. She finally reaches the counter, and spots a friendly-looking sales assistant, wearing a badge that proudly proclaims her name is Jennifer. Jennifer makes her way over to Molly, fleetingly taking notice of her rounded stomach.

‘Can I help you?’ Jennifer asks softly

‘Yes, I think you can. I stole these, you see, and I thought I should return them. They don’t seem to work anyway.'

Molly hands the rosary beads to Jennifer and waits patiently for her to call the police.

‘That’s irony, eh? Did they come in useful?’

‘I don’t think I need to atone for this, you know. This is my Best Sin. Are you going to call the police?’

Jennifer studies the beads.

‘No, I won't. Don't show your face in this store again. Just go.’

Molly walks from the shop and looks towards the sky. Still nothing. She feels the familiar fluttering inside her.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

I believe
in something worth believing
My life
Is waiting to be born
I regret
Nothing worth regretting

I waste no time
On the consequence
of a mistake that means everything
Then and now
Time is drawn
in black,
upon white paper.


Accept me Father,
Accept me for me
I forgive you Father

I thank you for this:
My best sin.