Stories tagged writing

Driving me to Distraction

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In those moments of irritation it's as if he descends from the heavens and settles into my body, takes a good grip of the steering wheel, and elevates the tension in the car to Code Red.

Invented Memories of my Father: 15

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You watched their endeavors from the saddle, the way they created four walls with the sheets and towels, an inner sanctum conjured out of their cleverness, within which they pegged bras and underwear for modesty’s sake.

Fish & Spoons

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Mam and I lit candles and prayed to St. Jude for a cessation to the deluge, but the rain kept falling and the flower beds turned to a muddiness I equated with the No Man’s Land morass of World War I.

Camioneta

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Elvis meant nothing to me.

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.

The Day I Wrote My First Short Story

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watched skin fall / away from bone

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

Making Conversation in a Bar Making Soap Into a Bar

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For every four fingers of good whiskey you down a glass of water.

So You Want to Be a Poet

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You’re the girl that would sneak out to poetry readings instead of parties, watching fierce semi-bearded men reading their poems from hand-stapled zines.

Home—Celbridge 2015

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

The Crack in my Heart

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We have rhythm; in the way I fork lentils into her dropped lip, how she scratches her left temple with jagged fingernails.