Each morning was a reprise. A sharp replay of the heat and noise, the infinity of war that had brought him here.
In the dark of predawn he was lost, he remembered nothing of himself before the flesh flaying heat of desert sand and the ripping and rending of the scalding mine. Continue reading
An old man followed us into the restaurant, he was one of those spritely types, tall and ramrod straight. He had a sense of pride in his bearing, invisible in the younger men of the village and only a race memory in our slouching children.
A Dark Night
A memory of brother hood; the staccato rhythm of rain on a tin roof. Two boys standing against the large window, we are waiting for the perfect raindrop to fall within our half of the pane of glass. It must not be so large that it will roll straight down the window in a useless erratic line nor so small that it is a blind eye. The perfect raindrop, one that will hit the window and sit just so, a perfect semi-orb of pure water that forms a lens into another world. A world inverted and stretched in fisheye view. The harbour with boats flying upside down in a sky of sea while masts and rigs are submerged in a sea of blue grey sky. A moment to step through the lens into a fantasy world before gravity drags the orb askew and down in erratic lines to the gutter line. A world dragged away to run in time to the sea. Continue reading
Cissy curls up on the blanket under the apple tree. So typical of Megan to write out of the blue after four years. They had been inseparable. Twins, sisters, best friends but time and circumstance had torn them apart and now the world was again on the verge of annihilation but for Cissy all that could wait, she kicks off her pumps, scandalous, but so uncomfortable in the heat. She is thankful for her hat that provides shade but everything else feels uncomfortable on her. She is in the fourth month of pregnancy but has told no one yet. Even poor Harold doesn’t know. She fears the wrath of time. Already she has felt life begin to grow three times and always it has been snatched away but perhaps now, almost half way through she can relax and feel safe.
Dublin weeps like a moody middle aged woman, her tears cascade in a saccharin sleet of cherry and magnolia, the park littered with the detritus of her tears. Spring is so untidy. The erupting greenery alive with chat and chaffing of finches and sparrows. The breeze is cutting in directly across the Mourn Mountains, fingers of Baltic ice cutting red and raw. I wear a scarf across my veined cheeks and whiskey nose, a curmudgeon on his return home from a morning of tormenting both staff and stockholders. Continue reading
This started as a poem a month or so ago but I always intended to write it as a story. This is a rough and I would love for some of you guys to read it and tell me what you think. If it stinks please tell me.
When did courage die Maura Daly? When did the crazy heart of brave convulse and arrest in the face of fear? When did sunken black eyes overtake the screaming voice of a tomboy and let the thunder clouds in. Continue reading