Stories tagged james-claffey

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.

The Whim of Dictators

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Torn paper, an insulting note from a nurse he’d given the eye to as he scrubbed up for a routine appendectomy.

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...

National Museum of Art—The Taking of Christ

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A red-faced man with a walkie-talkie rushes to her side and speaks into the microphone, summoning aid,

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.

Winter of ’84

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I’ve quit my job and squirreled away a bit of cash to get me started. I’ll live with Eoghan Brady and some other Irish guys in a house in Harrow and Wealdstone.

Where Comfort Resides

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In this glass your eye looms like the Cyclops, huge and bleary, the red veins like those that stick out of the beheaded turkey at Christmas before Mam cleans it up for stuffing.

To '73

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My father’s ashes are still in the Jacob’s Kimberly Cream tin, weighed down by a pile of old manuscript pages from a novel that’ll never see daylight.

B-Movie Gunfighter

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The back of the car was where all the words landed, all the sighing and weeping, all the bemoaning of the list of those who’d wronged you.

Silent Prayer

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She had been dreaming, of a crowded street and her small daughter who’d slipped her hand and got lost in the throng of shoppers.

The Last Irishman to Walk on the Moon

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“Wouldn’t it be a grand thing altogether if a poor creature like yourself won the money?”

Paralysister

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The younger recovers from her fit and wipes the spittle from her chin with the back of her fist. She’d kill for a jar, a small whiskey and water in the local.