Stories tagged ireland

Leaving Seamus Heaney's Funeral

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The sky cannot fall in Ireland. It threatens constantly, a wagging finger pointing at the fog rising, an upside down heather cake with a peat and bog center. The sky in Ireland is held up by stories and the rhythmic sound of sean-nos,…

The Third Time my Father Tried to Kill Me

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They sang and clapped and stomped shod feet on hardwood floor, the smell of man sweat and bomb-making thick as perfume.

Baling Twine (Extended)

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Before I go to sleep at night I make sure to tag my big toe in case I pass away before daybreak and the undertakers come for my corpse. The cardboard is attached with a loop of baling twine, and if I had more courage I'd staple the tag…

Birthmark

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She sat down in the big soft chair in front of his desk. “In your religion you believe in past lives, right?” “Yes, reincarnation is a tenet of the Hindu faith.” He replied. “As Catholics, I think we believe that only Jesus had the power to come

Typewriter Holes

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After a quick lunch of baby carrots and iceberg lettuce I sipped down the road to the liquor store and stocked up on a dozen bottles of Old Rasputin and a copy of the "Irish Times."

The Sky Suffocated

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In the night the rain made gentle, the flood still far off, and downstairs on the dining-room table the centerpiece collected dust as the hours passed.

Waiting, Softly Crooning

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She sat adjacent to the bottle of Rioja, half-consumed, and as the week passed the dust settled on her like the faintest covering of snow.

Old-fashioned Radio Dial

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Red-bricked houses and four boys running rampant, singing, “armored cars and tanks and guns.”

A Dish best Served Unnoticed

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There was a moment when I expected you to murder me in my sleep.

Bone

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In my pocket, my fingers rubbed lint and thread together, a complete absence of coin.

For FAther

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Post the absolutism, the fall.An upside down apple is a fragileImage and Nation together createN-trop(-e) chér my dear.Gallivanting about the frosted country-SIDE of lamb with mint sauce for afters.Ministrations to the dead.The body empty-D of all blud, dryin the cold…

The Bitter Light of the Single Bulb

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Running the gauntlet to the toilet in the dark meant finding a way past the loose boards and the possibility of being caught and dragged under like a drowning victim. No lifeguard stood sentinel on the landing, only the bitter light of the single bulb—40w

A Thin Line of Brown...

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O’Riain was an old-school teacher, trained by savages, who drummed learning into the skulls of Ireland’s youth.

Murder—My Legacy

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After the box was in the ground, we dumped the soil on top and patted it down tightly in case the bird came back to life and haunted us.

The Eve of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception

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Hope, like a hangover, coiled and crawled from the bed. A pillow. Make-up streaked painter’s palette and the refracted light from the pond a half-mile away, some scurred and big-puffed clouds sadly tolling by.