THIS is Micheal O Conghaile's second collection of short stories. His first, Mac an tSagairt, was published in 1986. Eleven years is a long wait for a follow up, but, for the greater part, these 13 stories have been worth waiting for.

Thematically, the book may be divided into two parts those stories which deal with the bizarre, the ludicrous, the fantastic, and those which examine more fundamental issues of contemporary life, from death to gay love to male rape. All the stories are driven forward by a style which is forceful, subtle and unique.

That said, O Conghaile does fail in some basic aspects of writing. For example, while he has little difficulty beginning a story, he occasionally fails actually to grab it by the throat in order to give it direction and arrive at a satisfactory conclusion. The title story is an enigmatic work which relies heavily on the reader's indulgence towards the narrator and the reader's indulgence is certainly required, as the narrative melanders a little too much for its own good.

The stories which deal with the ludicrous and the fantastical are the weakest ones. Faoi Scath Scaile, the story of a man who becomes estranged from his shadow, is certainly impressive. The angst the man experiences when realising that his shadow is demanding parity of esteem is well captured, as are his belated attempts to establish a rapport with his newly autonomous phantom.

However, less frivolity and a little more menace might have turned a good story into an excellent one, and might have highlighted more starkly the issues of who and what we are, or what we think we are.

Ar Pinsean sa Leithreas, the story of a man who locks himself in the loo, is more successful in its portrayal of estrangement. Similarly, Seacht gCead Uaireadoir and An Mala Freagra a Goideadh, while entertaining, lack a certain bite. I wonder if there is not too conscious an attempt in these fantastical stories to try to out Titley Alan Titley.

However, O Conghaile pulls no punches in his portrayal of sex illicit, welcomed or forced as the case may be. Gabhal na gCloch deals with male rape and is shot through with real terror. The abuse which the young footballer suffers at the hands of his manager is slowly brought to the surface and its final stages are brutally effective. As Laimh a Cheile tells of a gay encounter between a young man and a priest.

However, in the final two lines O Conghaile throws away all the good work he achieves in showing us a horny young man on the make, by having the young man unexpectedly meet his mysterious and anonymous lover celebrating midday Mass. The whole edifice simply collapses under this unforgivable lack of judgment on O Conghaile part.

Had he struck to the ferocious promiscuity of the gay man, he would have created a story which could have stood on its own simply as an examination of gay sex.

Certainty, priests get short shrift in Leabhar na bPeacai. Here we see a monsignor and his curate consult, out of cruel and idle curiosity, the Book of Sins, while an old woman lies dying. She is conscious of her own failings and aware of the priests judgments on her. She rallies briefly to harangue them before dying. O Conghaile's portrayal of the woman's pain is masterful.

Unfortunately, he takes the easy way out by making his two priests entirely without sympathy for her in her anguish. Their casual brutality toward her in her plight is too much to accept and scars the story.

The final story, Athair, is an unqualified success. A young man tells his widowed father that he is gay. The father's pain and the son's fear of rejection are movingly presented. In one moment, O Conghaile shows us the father digging up the memory of his son's ex-girlfriends, and the son, haltingly, trying to explain that that was then and this is now.

O Conghaile avoids moralising and lets the story reach a truly poignant conclusion. It is a fine reminder that it may not be important whom you love, but that you are loving.

Pol O Muiri is a freelance journalist