The Hound of Moulsecoomb (A Short Story)

All he could see out of the window was the reflection of himself and the empty carriage he sat in. Unflattering lights above made his reflection look drawn out and old. His eyes strained to see things in the gloom. Faint silhouettes of leafless trees and house lights. Thinking of warm homes and central heating made him feel far away.

Tiredness spread over his body. Eyes heavy, he scanned the document he was reading making sure it was worded perfectly. He was going to hand the Divorce papers to his wife, that very night. Fifteen years of marriage. He sighed as the brakes screeched, a great scrapping of metal on metal. He wrapped his tartan scarf about his neck and departed the train at Moulsecoomb.

Crisp night air greeted his face at the deserted station. The chill reached his bones. He walked down the dark platform and up the stairs to the bridge over the track. His heels clacked on the concrete. It echoed all around him on the walled bridge but the sound that bounced back made him stop in his tracks. A growling emanated from somewhere in front of him followed by unnatural snarling.

His wits lost, he stood stock still for a second and lifted his briefcase in front of him, as if using it as a shield and shuffled forwards. Barks sounded around him making him cower, terrified, but he could see nothing. He edged towards the stairs and as he turned onto the next set of steps, waiting for him at the top was a black blood hound the size of a horse who lunged at him, ghostly passing through him. And so he tumbled down three flights, landing dead on the platform, the divorce papers falling quaintly about him in the still cold air.

© Jack Nugent



Grey dawns and routine yawns

The beeping from the rubbish truck mingles with the sound of my boiling kettle

Caffeine to wake the senses

While the radio plays the soft trumpets of Primal Scream


Here’s to the rubbish collectors and early risers


The 7am tooth brushers

The make-up applying bus riders

The silent line of oaps at the chemist

The street sweepers and office cleaners


The over worked class

By the end of the day it’s all done

Trudging home to fester in front of a flickering TV

Grabbing my attention like a moth to a flame


Aldi or Lidl? That’s my choice for booze and discount food

Buying paint stripping kidney rotting juice

On Friday afternoons

The integral part to that fleetingly glorious night of the week


© Jack Nugent



In the vast celestial like web of the internet, this little corner is my own, although blogs are entirely modern in their gumption, writing has been a staple part of our history, evolution and imaginations. There is, I am sure you know, a power in words that exists that can evoke in plenty, our emotions. A love of words led me to doing this.

Here, if you wish to continue reading and indulge me, you will find some of my poetry, stories, opinion pieces and general musings. I will also post substance I find inspiring, funny, weird, controversial, interesting, whatever, ay. Words have their meanings, their histories, their uses, their misuses and their profoundness.