Stories tagged ireland

Cork—July Morning

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Salmon and hake stare wall-eyed from an icy bed. The Turkish coffee seller makes thick lattes for €2.00

Brú na Bóinne—July Afternoon

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St. Brigid’s Crosses go for €7 a shot. Inside the passage grave the walls are tight.

Invented Memories of my Father: 21

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Our legacy in these pages, the first inklings of going into the red, the hull breached, the trickle of debt begun, only to grow larger and finally sink the whole damn thing. A lamb bought for Easter—£4.30. A load of brick for outhouse refurbishment—£5.6/1

Invented Memories of my Father: 22

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Whilst nobody was looking, I placed a hand on the same rhinoceros’ hide recently and tried to feel your vibration.

Stephen’s Green—False Summer 2015

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The famine memorial is ignored by passers by and in a far corner a colorful Oscar Wilde is recumbent on a boulder.

Cobh Harbor—July Evening

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The Titanic Experience is closed for the day and deck chairs sit abandoned in a parking lot

Home—Celbridge 2015

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he limped along his usual route, dogless since the days the beast savaged his hand.

Inverted Memories of my Father: 25

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Hounds at the horse’s feet, sniffing air and ground for a trace of the prey; fox, was it?

Inverted Memories of My Father—29

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How the tables turn when I enter the horse latitudes of my life and wonder about you at my age.

Divine Intervention

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All year long he had an expired calendar on the wall—Bridgestone Tires, 1996—and the same leopard-skin clad model posed over a Formula One racing car, a sudsy sponge in her hand and a flashing smile on her face.

Cork—July Morning. Rain.

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the priest wipes kidney stains from his chin and pulls an extra pair of socks on

Natural History Museum—Lunchtime

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young tourists from Latvia or Estonia take selfies and mug for the camera

Cobh—Late Afternoon Before Rain

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These huddled souls could be a cult of fairytale scholars exiled to the area by unseasonal floods in Belarus...

No Communal Mythology (Patti Smith)

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My father fell midst wax and sticks into the rubble of our family woes.

Golden Swallows, Scraped Faces

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A spasm rippled across your face as the dropping sun emphasized your bloodshot eyes. “More fool me,” you said, propping me back in the now upright pram and pushing it along towards the church gate.