In Turbulent Times

excerpt

George’s Market. Men, women, young people, children, infants. Some were whole, Liam wrote; others barely resembled human beings. The first shock he got was a burned hand lying in the entrance to the market.’
‘Poor Liam,’ Joe said. ‘Having to go through all that. I heard horrendous reports on the wireless, but it brings the horror of it home when someone you know is in the city, seeing the worst of it.’
‘Tragic though it is,’ said Caitlin, ‘there’s not much we can do down here, is there? Except pray for the souls of the dead and for the comfort of the living.’ She paused reflectively, looking first at the fire in the range and then at Joe. ‘Go and see Nora, Joe. She’ll want to see you. You know that.’
Joe said nothing for a moment. Nor did he change his position. Then he said, ‘Wouldn’t it look bad for me to go visiting Nora at this time of night and her alone in the house?’
‘It’s not late,’ Michael pointed out. ‘There’s still a lot of daylight left. Double summer time, Joe.’
‘No, I don’t like the thought of it all the same. I’ll wait till after the funeral. If Liam’s back before I leave again, I’ll go and give both of them my best wishes and congratulations.’ Joe’s voice faltered again.
Staring at the fire he bit his lip, unseen by either Michael or Caitlin. Then he stood up straight and with a visible effort said, ‘I won’t stop for tea after all, Mrs Carrick, if you don’t mind. I’d rather be alone for a while. Perhaps I’ll see you both tomorrow.’
‘That’s all right, Joe,’ said Michael. ‘We understand. We’ll be at your father’s funeral.’
‘I’ll say goodnight to you both then.’
‘Goodnight, Joe.’
҂
He sat on a lonely rock on the shore near the harbour. He watched the waves’ white glow in the darkness but he saw only Nora. He recalled their happy times together: their walks, their dances, their hands touching in the pew at church, their embraces in the dark rows of the picture house in Carraghlin or Lisnaglass. He remembered the sad times too: the arguments, the periods of separation, the coming of the war, the bitter sweetness of his trips home on leave, the partings. And now to be parted from her for good.
Joe thought back to when he believed it all had started: that day in the village square above the harbour when Nora had taken one of her epileptic fits. Many of the men and women and the older adolescents in the village…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

Small Change

excerpt

I watched in horror as her skirt darkened and one fat drop after another fell to the wood floor and trickled lazily into a pool between my desk and hers. I prayed to the Virgin Mary. Please don’t let anyone see. But I was not overly hopeful.
Sister Miranda enjoyed patrolling the aisles during our enforced siestas, and, before long, the toe of her high-topped black nun’s boot came smack down into the middle of the puddle and it splashed a little, and she recoiled as though she had stepped on a viper and just like that something clicked in her head and she smiled and began to talk in a voice that sounded a lot like Father Brackendorf would sound if he’d suddenly put on forty pounds. It was a long speech about growing up and self control and the rebellious nature of all flesh.
Rita kept hugging her arms and peeing softly through her clothes.
Blackie’s face got redder and redder. Then it relaxed into the face of a nasty child.
“Rita peed her pa-aants. Rita peed her pa-aants,” she chanted. Joey and Skinhead popped up from their desks. Then some of the less adventurous kids began to test the sleep and silence rule too. Soon the whole class picked up the beat, saying those words over and over, louder and louder, breaking into little bursts of nearly hysterical laughter. Sister Miranda conducted the uproar, waving the yardstick around and slashing it through the air like a machete on the word “paants.”
Rita was beside herself. She cried, then she screamed, and kicked at the desk, but the more tormented she became, the more everybody chanted and laughed.
That’s when I climbed up on the desk and pulled the yardstick out of Blackie’s pudgy fist and shouted right in her face, my useless glasses bobbling on my nose.
“Jesus will get you for this. He doesn’t want us to laugh at this poor girl. It’s all your fault, you fat waddle head. God made us have to pee and you have to let us.”
Well, Rita cried even harder, and Blackie Miranda laughed like someone had tickled her ribs, and the whole class roared, and pounded their desks, and started a new chant: “Georgie lo-oves Rita, Georgie lo-oves Rita,” and the voice with which I should have roared against their unchristian behaviour stuck in my throat because what they said was true, and my face burned and Sister Miranda wouldn’t let her go…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763157

Tasos Livaditis – Poems, Volume II

Long-listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards

2023 Longlist Announcement

OF COURSE, there was no semblance or other sign that
showed us it was him; only that familiarity with forbidden
things since he had always been fooled, and his cloths from
the second hand store was only suitable to shadows, and
let us not talk of resignation in a loud voice since
the frightened man could still be standing behind the clay
mask as abandonment finally becomes a familiar concept;
yet I could see the preventive arm holding us at bay
so you could say: I went and sat at the last step, although
only him had walked where we could never get to know;
I occupied the least possible space, however with much
candour since even God had to start in a humble way
with a small city and almost mortal by now He couldn’t
had finished His works in eons.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763564

Fury of the Wind

excerpt

As Will approached he saw that she stood at least an
inch taller than his five-foot-six frame. What he could see of her
blonde hair was short and curly. These facts he noted with little
interest. But when she turned her long-lashed blue eyes on him his
step faltered. He had the momentary impression he might drown
in their depth.
Reluctantly he turned away to accept two large suitcases from
the conductor. Placing them on his cart, Will prepared to retrace
his steps along the platform. The conductor hollered “Aboard” and
jumped back onto the coach. The train whistle shrilled, the wheels
turned and gathered speed, moving the coaches out of the station.
Will and the young woman stood alone on the platform.
She looked around, clearly bewildered, glancing first in the direction
of the station house then across the expanse of gravel and
blowing dust to the main street. She appeared to scrutinize each
building as her head turned slowly from left to right. Will could
only guess what she must think of the old store fronts, most of
which were in need of a coat of paint. When her eyes finally came
to rest on the town hall, the most impressive building on the street
with its long flight of stairs leading to the upper floor, she sighed
and looked back at the station.
Will relieved the woman of her hand luggage and set off with his
cart. “Where d’ya want these?” he called over his shoulder.
She hesitated, then hurried to catch up to him, her stylish high
heels clicking on the planks. With one hand she clutched her hat
which was threatening to become a victim of the hot wind.
“Well … I don’t know. You see, I’m to be met here so I’m sure my
… uh … friend will arrive at any minute.”
“Might as well wait in the station then. It’s more pleasant.”
Will pushed the waiting room door open but the air that met
them belied his words. Her nose wrinkled, presumably at the fusty
odour of the old station house. Will dumped the luggage on the
floor and banged the door shut as he went out. When he walked
into his office he saw, through the wicket, the woman sitting on a
wooden bench near the window.
For a considerable time she sat without moving. Perched on the
edge of her seat, her eyes constantly darted from the window to the
door. Not once did she glance in the direction of the wicket behind…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073530