Stories tagged writing

I Will Not Be That Woman

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Not today. Even when the Isar rolls so cool and deep and I could wade and wade 'til sleep. Not today. When I have the tablets in a drawer in a box winking chalkily at me. Not today. When the church tower soars and it's bells toll out a seductive beat …

Crystal Ball

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---What's that word I like? ---You like a lot of words. ---The funny one. That's long. ---Bamboozled.

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.

Rotten (in Denmark), Johnny

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"ever get the feeling you've been cheated?"

A Nod to Sonnet 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?”

The Only Tricks We Know

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The day Eugene told me his secret he gave me a bouquet of lilies. Ice clung to the petals like fuzz. Sorry about the frost, he said. That was an accident.

20 Years

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It's David Hasselhoff with some sort of bandana singing some awful shit into a microphone on top of the wall.


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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.

Max's on Broadway

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I got turned around at The Block in a thick, dense layer of alcohol-induced confusion and disorientation, and decided to park and go get a drink somewhere. The girls were out working.

A Fissure Inside

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Her mother was one of fifteen, so there were children and grandchildren like the mitten crabs scuttling along the lakefront on her parents' farm.

Mindfulness, Misfiring.

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Make a space and inhabit it by placing two lamps at either end of the sofa, eschewing the need to populate the coffee table with Taschen’s Book of Symbols and Ansel Adams’ Yosemite.