The eyes stared upwards. The blonde hair was caked with blood. The nose was cute even in death. The mouth held what proved to be a golf ball in a sock. The hands had typed a social security benefit disallowance.

“So where’s the rest of the body?” the detective wondered.

Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.