Shankill Butcher (1st draft) Peer Review

I'm sitting in class right now, listening to the class of 20 students tear apart my flash fiction story. I didn't expect anyone to like it because nobody in any of my English writing class have had any interest in my Irish influenced stuff...

...but so far I've had three people tell me they really like it. I'm surprised, considering I use a lot of slang and terms that aren't exactly common knowledge to Western Americans.

So here's what people are saying:

"It would make for a good dramatic monologue"

"I like the way it starts with pity, ends with pity"

"What does Craythur mean? and what is a punt?"

"We don't need as much 'da' for 'the' "

"This says A LOT in a short few paragraphs"

"Cut out the dialect, I don't get it."

"I really like how the story is told."

"We need one scene to make it flash fiction."

"Each of the events could be dramatized out into a book"

"It doesn't have a current story."

"It feels like just a memory, or recruiting"

"Whose he talking to?"

"There are some really nice things going on in the story, just needs some more exposition."

"Write more! Forget about 550 word limit and expound on each part."


This was pretty much the synopsis of what the class was saying. Pretty positive overall. I'm actually pretty shocked. The changes people wanted seemed mostly to expound more on what I've already written.

Wild Country (Ist draft of Part 2)

So here I am in Donegal.

After all these trips, I’ve never been to Donegal. For some reason the encounter with the old singing man left me weary of Donegal. But there’s nowhere else to search in Ireland. There are thirty-two counties and I’ve searched thirty-one. Donegal is located in the north western county of Ireland, a bizarre place…a wild place. It feels isolated here, lost in a different century.

The locals speak Irish Gaelic to each other. It’s a very musical language and I enjoy listening to it. They speak English to tourists but their accent is unlike the accents of the rest of Ireland. Their accents are of people who speak English only when they have to. Some of the people here are uncomfortably nice to me. I don’t know what to do. I’m not accustomed to kindness since after the incident that caused me to stop writing, ruined my marriage, and sent me spiraling towards Ireland. The people here probably don’t read the news.

The hotel is old, built a hundred years before the potato famine that sent millions of people either into the soil or over the water. The hotel overlooks the town square with its little park of cement and benches. It’s a small town with only a few hotels and shops circling the square. Donegal Castle looms just to the east of the square along with an old Presbyterian church. I parked my motorcycle on the street near the castle and was greeted by an impressive amount of black ravens flying over the Castle like something you’d see in an old Dracula movie. It gave me chills.

I checked into the hotel and was surprised that they gave me a key with a piece of wood that said “Room 313” rather than the more widely used electronic card that resembles a credit card. I didn’t think hotels used keys anymore. The key itself wasn’t even modern. It was long, made of thick steel. It looked more like a prop in an old British play. For some reason I was reminded of Sherlock Holmes. I smiled. Sherlock Holmes was the first novel I ever read. I was nine years old.
I noticed a window on the north end of the room that overlooked the little town square. I walked over to the window to open it up so air could circulate. The Irish don’t believe in air conditioning and it can get quite hot and humid during July. The window well was unusually deep. It made the outside wall appear to be unusually thick. I opened the window outward towards the town circle to allow some circulation and then I headed down to the pub.

When I got down to the lobby of the hotel, I heard a beautiful sound flowing from the pub. It was a remarkable melody, something familiar. I picked up the day’s newspaper from the lady at the front and headed towards the music. I was shocked to find that the melody was emanating from the old singing man. Only this time he was sitting on a stool on a dark stage playing what sounded like a more melodic version of the highland bagpipes.

The instrument he was playing was much quieter than the blaring highland pipes and he seemed to have the ability to bend and melt notes together. It was beautiful. The instrument was held in his lap. He had a bellow under his right arm that would pump air into a black leather bag that was placed under his left arm. He’d squeeze the bag and air would pass through an ivory chanter. The motions he made with the chanter reminded me of a snake charmer. Every move he made would shape the note into whatever he pleased. There were some other parts of the instrument that looked like the drones on bagpipes, only these drones faced the ground between his legs.

He sang as he played. It reminded me of those one man bands you’d see at a county fair. These drones made a single low note that harmonized with the melody from the chanter. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t seem involved, a part of the melody. It was magical.

It had been four years since my first experience with the old singing man. I wasn’t surprised to see him doing something musical. In fact, I was quite relieved because he had been appearing in my dreams whenever I would come to Ireland, always singing about Donegal. Perhaps that’s all he does. During these four years, I was convinced that he didn’t exist and that my experience with him in the pub was either a drunken hallucination or a schizophrenic episode. I talked to therapists, argued with most of them. I was diagnosed with all sorts of disorders, given medications and placebos. Everything just got worse. Then the incident happened during the last trip to Ireland and I stopped talking to everyone altogether. That was a year ago. I promised myself that I was never going to come back. But here I am.
I don’t feel disordered though. Perhaps a bit lost, that’s all.
After self-medicating the night away, listening to the old singing man’s music, I stumbled up to my room.

So here I am…

…sitting on the edge of my bed at 5:30 in the morning. People always say that it’s always the darkest before dawn. Tonight is no exception. A fog has covered the town square. Because I left the window open, my room is full of a thick mist, thicker than I’ve ever seen. I awoke only moments earlier to whispering. When I sat up in my bed, I saw a girl sitting in the window well, hiding behind the curtain. She is still there, whispering to someone and giggling. I think I might still be a little bit “medicated”. Perhaps I’m still dreaming.

After staring at the girl and trying my best to convince myself that she doesn’t exist, I decide that she must be a prankster who climbed up through my window.
Right before I went to bed, the town square was full of loud young college girls. I suppose that it could be possible that one of them could have climbed up here on a dare. She’s probably stuck in my window well, too scared to climb back down and too shy to ask for help. I get up and walk over to the window in nothing but my black boxer briefs, annoyed at whoever is waking me up. I think briefly about putting on a robe but decide not to. I don’t care if she see’s me in nothing but my skeevies. Maybe seeing the naked body of someone who has spent four years in a self-destructive mood will teach her not to climb through hotel windows.
I open the curtain quickly, hoping to startle the girl.

Empty.

I fall back onto my bed with shock. “What the fuck? I can’t still be drunk…hung-over maybe but not drunk. Maybe I’m just sleep-walking.” I have been known to sleep-walk but I haven’t done that since my early twenties. I close the curtains and turn towards my bed. As I lay back down, feeling a bit foolish, I hear the whispers again. She’s back. I study her face in the dark, hiding behind the curtain, for a solid ten minutes. The mind can often play tricks on your eyes when it is early and dark. I want to make sure of what I’m seeing.

She occasionally turns and giggles something to someone hidden behind the curtain. I must be imagining her, somehow awake in a dream. When I can’t convince myself of her non-existence any longer, I stand up and repeat my earlier action.
Empty.

“For the _____ love of Patrick!” I scream out the window, “Where are you?!” I quickly climb into the window well and poke my head outside, thinking that she must have climbed out onto the edge. I’m sure I’ve caught her but the fog is so thick, I can’t see more than three feet outside the window. The ledge is only about six inches wide. How could she have gotten away? I must be asleep, dreaming. I reluctantly climb back into my room, close and lock the window and climb under the sheets of my bed.

Before I could even close my eyes, I heard the whispering again. This time I tried to ignore it. The relief of seeing the old singing man the previous night is supplanted with a certainty that I am having a schizophrenic episode. This girl is all in my head. I doubt whether the old singing man last night was even real. I sit up in bed, trying desperately to ignore the whispering girl. I start weeping, wishing I had some whiskey nearby to help me wash this night into oblivion. The loneliness and humiliation is unbearable.

“Who are you?” I manage to blurt out through the sobs.

No answer.

“WHO ______ ARE YOU?!” I scream, throwing Gideon’s Bible at the window.
I don’t care if people in the other rooms hear me. I don’t care if people think I’m crazy. I don’t care if people have to break into the room to find me yelling at nothing. God could be standing in that window well for all I care. I just want to know. The worst part of being broken is not knowing if you are.

I close my eyes so tightly that my entire body is shaking in the silence that echoes through the room. My is beating so hard, my chest hurts. After an eternity of silence, I open my eyes.

“Sìve…my name is Sìve,” a young lady says as she emerges from the window. Her accent is strong. I can tell that English is not her first language. Every part of me that tried to keep my eyes shut is now trying to keep my eyes open.

“Why are you here Sìve, tormenting my brain?”

“You don’t know?” She put her hands over her mouth, excited, smiling. I find myself smiling back at her, studying her. Even if she is just a figment of my imagination, she is gorgeous. Her hair is black. Her skin is tan. Her eyes are an emerald green. I don’t realize how short she is until I stand up to look into the window well to see if the person she giggled to is still in there with her. Her eyes reach my chest. I can’t tell her age. She could be anywhere between 16 and 30 years old. I don’t recognize her except that she has the same mischievous eyes of the old singing man.

“I don’t know who you are. Why would I have any clue as to why a girl would be coming into my hotel room through a window? Answer that.”

“I can’t answer that just yet. I’m not actually supposed to be talking to you…not yet. I’m just supposed to give you this.”

She hands me a card and giggles with excitement. I smile back at her, confused, and turn towards the far wall to turn on a lamp so I can read the card. After I flip the switch, I notice the card has Celtic knotting around the border adorned in gold-leaf. In a Celtic script, the card reads “Conor O’Sid. Shoe repair and accessories. Located in the old fallen oak down by the bay.” My eyes light up, suddenly realizing the shoe-repairman shares my last name. Finally, I’ve found someone who might have known my Grandfather. I turn towards Sìve to thank her.
She’s gone. The window is wide open. The mist outside is gone.

“You could have used the door you know,” I yell out the window, not knowing if she hears me.

Wild Country (1st draft of Part One)

(This is the first draft of Part One of my latest short story...I'll post more as I finish them so stay tuned)


Donegal, Ireland.

That old singing man in Dublin called it Wild Country. What does that mean anyway? Wild country? When I say it…wild country…it reminds me of something I’d hear in an old western movie, a warning whispered through a gritty voice by a cowboy dressed with a jagged scar down his cheek. I don’t like westerns though, not anymore I don’t.

When the old singing man sang it, those words didn’t sound like a warning. They sounded like an invitation...like some sort of drunken ghostly sort of invitation. The memory of that old singing man has stuck with me ever since. Perhaps it was because he reminded me of my Grandfather. My Grandfather loved to sing. And he was Irish. I guess they had that much in common. He passed away a few months before that first trip to Ireland. In fact, his death was what triggered this obsession.
I knew nothing about his life. I was a writer back then and I was interested in secrets. He was a secret man and secrets always make good stories.

All I know is that he came to America in 1941 when he was just twenty-five years old. He never told me why he left. He never told my father either. He never spoke of it. The only way you could tell he was Irish was his accent and the songs he’d reel off at any given time. When I was younger, I was more curious. I was persistent. My Grandfather was stubborn. His stubbornness won out and I lost interest. I remember he had a limp, always had a limp. When I asked him about it, he would always look me in the eyes and tell me that he had polio. As I got older I realized that most people look away from you when they lie…the Irish look you in the eye.

That first trip to Ireland was life changing. I knew relatively nothing about
Ireland other than the various clichés: leprechauns, clovers, beer. I came looking for a good story to write, for inspiration, for answers. My publisher was pressing me for something new, something good. My Grandfather's secret childhood had always lingered in the back of my mind as a possibly good story. I was desperate.

My plane arrived shortly after 6:30 in Dublin that morning. I checked into my hotel just a few streets away from Trinity College near St. Stephens Green. I deliberately picked a hotel near that park because of its history as a place for writers like Yeats, Joyce, and Wilde. I admired Yeats the most of those men. He knew rejection intimately.

I crashed onto my bed expecting to sleep from the jet-lag and the long day of traveling but after a few minutes of lying opened-eyed on the bed, I realized I was too restless to sleep. I decided to go exploring. The streets were relatively empty except for the few people going to work. I walked through St. Stephens Green to the east-side of Dublin near the docks. It was daring, dangerous. I wanted to be near the real people, not the tourists. The docks seemed like a perfect place to explore. It was the rough part of town. The buildings were grey and depressing, covered in graffiti. The graffiti was different though. It wasn’t like the graffiti back home. One tag read “get knowledge, then vote no,” another read “up the IRA”. Homeless men and women were huddled in corners and alleys. Windows were broken and I could see into various tenements where the poor of Dublin would find refuge in abandoned apartments and office buildings.

Despite the depressing tenements, the air had a sweet taste to it, a sweetness I had never tasted before. In fact, I don’t ever remember ‘tasting’ air before Ireland. I liked it. It made me feel alive, like I’d been somehow dead my entire life. As I got closer to the docks, I noticed that buildings looked older and more dilapidated. I came upon an old pub that seemed to be open. I thought it was bizarre that a pub would be open so early in the morning. It was known as an Early-license pub. They are allowed to stay open until 7 or 8 a.m. to allow those who worked the night shifts at the dock to grab a pint before going home. That made me chuckle. They really do love the drink, don’t they? I casually walked in and ordered a pint of Guinness from the barman. Before this trip I was generally a Corona and Lime type of guy. Things change.

I grabbed the pilsner glass full of black Guinness with a tan frothy head. I took my first gulp of Guinness and caught a bit of the frothy tan on the tip of my nose. My eyes opened with wonder. The taste was thick and full. I remember feeling a bit guilty for drinking so early in the morning but I justified grabbing a pint because of the time difference. It was only midnight in Boulder, Colorado where I live back in the states.

After I took my first gulp of Guinness, I examined the pub with a writer’s eye. The pub was dark like the popular drink with low lights hanging above various tables. The walls and tables were made of dark oak that had been stained even darker from years and years of cigar smoke seeping into the pores of the wood. The air didn’t smell like smoke however and I found that to be odd. Pubs are notorious for being full of cigarette smoke and the Irish are notorious for loving tobacco. I pulled out a cigarette and started to light up but the barman stopped me.

“Ya’ll have to do that outside mate.”

“Why?” I replied.

“You’re a yank then are you? What are ye doing ova ‘ere in da earlies?”

“Just flew in...wanted a pint.”

“Aye, dat you can ‘ave in ‘ere. Da woodbine ‘as to go,” he pointed towards the door. "Tis law dey passed last year…bloody rubbish if ya ask me. Sodding eejits over dere in da big white building, trying to act like dey care.”

I nodded my head in agreement and put the cigarette back in my shirt pocket. Inside were only a handful of people. I can only assume they were dock hands. They didn't seem like the socializing type. Nobody was talking. They all just stared into the darkness of their pints, each with a story they weren’t likely to tell, hidden beneath their worn out eyes. I sat down at the end of the bar and pretended to care about the sports analyst commenting about a Hurling match that was played the night before. I didn’t have any idea what hurling was. It looked like a funny sport to me like a mix of hockey, soccer, and baseball. But then again, they probably think football is a pretty funny sport.

After about twenty minutes, onto my fourth pint of Guinness, an old man seemed to appear from the shadows. He was wearing a dark, thick, wool sweater with a matching wool skally cap. His slacks were an old and worn grey that didn’t seem to match his perfectly polished black leather shoes. His shoes were striking. The soles seem to be a glowing gold with a golden buckle over the top. I had never envied shoes until that moment. His cap was pulled so far forward you could only see his mouth and his long pointy nose peaking from beneath the bill of the hat. He started singing without notice or invitation. I thought it was bizarre. I would later learn that singing without invitation was something the Irish often do. But on that first trip I was taken back, uncomfortable. Thought I was seeing the ghost of my Grandfather at first.

Perhaps it was because he seemed to be singing at me, staring curiously through the darkness beneath his skally cap. He was bent slightly forward like many old people do whose spines are bent with time. He shuffled over to me slowly as he sang. He wasn’t a ghost nor was he my Grandfather. I was reminded about something my Grandfather used to say. When my Grandfather’s spine began to bend with age, he would joke “the wiser you get, the heavier your brain becomes.” I never doubted my Grandfather. Perhaps this old singing man was a relative, a brother maybe.

We never talked or even exchanged greetings. He just sang and shuffled over to the bar for another shout of whiskey. His eyes barely came level with the bar stool. He was awkwardly short. He motioned for the barman’s attention like a soldier in a foxhole, raising his shaking hand as high as he could. He ordered his drink without breaking his song, turning to me so I could see his eyes. His eyes were more than just young, they were mischievous. He winked at me as the barman handed him his shout of warm whiskey and he shuffled back to his corner.

He sang, “Lets go up to Ol’ Donegal, where its wild country…beware for the little folk because they aren’t what they seem.” He sat down in his corner and seemed to disappear into the shadows while his voice continued to carry to my ears. He sang of Donegal, mixing English with what seemed to be gibberish to me then. I didn’t know the Irish had their own language. I turned to look at the other men in the pub to see if they cared about this old singing man. They didn’t seem to care about anything further than their next gulp of Guinness, staring blankly still.

He ended his song by standing up from his corner, his head peaking into the light from the lamp above his table, staring right at me. He sang, “Go up to Donegal, Young Setanta sitting here, there you’ll find God’s country, where your destiny will appear.” He sunk back into the darkness of his corner, quiet. I was shocked. I felt a sudden sense of fear because he knew my given name, Setanta. Perhaps it was just a lucky guess. Setanta was an Irish name, perhaps the only Irish thing my Grandfather gave me. He requested my parents call me Setanta.

It was his name.

I stared into my pint and then looked at the bartender confused. Perhaps I drank more than I thought. How could he have known who I was? Nobody has known my given name since I was twelve. Kids can be mean. I’ve been called Brian ever since.
I got up and walked over to the corner booth where the old singing man was sitting. As I bent over the table to talk to him, he was gone. The old singing man who had been shuffling slowly to the bar moments earlier had somehow left the pub without me noticing. I can’t possibly be THAT drunk? I whispered into my fifth pint. Perhaps the beer here is just stronger. I paid the bartender and went back to my hotel to rest until the afternoon.

That first trip was a failure except for the bizarre old singing man. I came to Ireland to learn about my Grandfather but I soon felt like I was chasing a Ghost and I eventually returned to America empty handed. My publisher was not happy. They sent me back five more times before giving up on me. I came back five more times, ten times in four years. Each time I would rent a motorcycle and ride around various counties to see if I could find anything about my Grandfather. I found nothing about him or our ancestors. I couldn’t even find the origin of our last name. In a country where people were very proud of their surname and where records and origins of surnames were highly regarded, ours seemed to be missing from the records. Our last name, O’Sid, had somehow been lost. I began to wonder if my Grandfather was ever really Irish. My Grandmother dismissed that notion saying that he was more Irish than Ireland herself. I thought maybe she was saying that to humor me.

My Grandma grew up in the quaint little town of Castleknock just outside of Dublin, bordering Phoenix Park. She would often talk about her childhood and about Ireland but she rarely spoke of my Grandfathers life in Ireland. It was as if that world was off limits to everyone but themselves. It was their secret, their world.
On one occasion when we both had too much to drink, she told me how they met. This single morsel of information felt like five Christmases rolled together into one.

She revealed the story for me as she sat in her favorite chair, sipping hot whiskey, never looking at me. I never understood why she liked her whiskey hot. She said thats how it's supposed to be taken and being that the Irish invented whiskey, that was the way it's meant to be taken. I love my Grandmother.

She told me that she met him on a cold November morning in 1932. She was walking her dog during that time in the morning between darkness and light when the air was full of a comfortable mist. She loved to walk Phoenix Park at this time because she felt that it had a certain magical aura about it. The deer would be more willing to be out grazing on the vast grassy fields. As she approached the Wellington Monument, my Grandfather seemed to appear out of the mist to flirt with her, as if materializing out of the moist air just beyond that old reminder of British colonialism. My Grandmother would always scowl when she spoke of that old obelisk. It reminded her of an oppressed people by a colonial society. This is why I don't like westerns anymore.

She was as tight mouthed as my Grandfather was. In frustration, I asked her once if there was a secret about Ireland that they didn’t want anyone to know, a secret about my Grandfather that would ruin the way I viewed him. She would always laugh and say with a wink, “tis no secret my dear.”

The Irish are a slippery bunch of people.

Dreaming In Circles

It’s always dark at 3 a.m. in July,
walking a midnight mile with the moon
as my companion.

I let my mind
wander ahead of me, leashed
with headphones fueling each step with
only the best Scandinavian metal.

I walk
in circles,

dreaming of conquering
this reality once the sun comes
screaming high over the hills.

But will I?
…ever?

Consciously dreaming,
I return home
with heavy eyes
and heavy feet

to ambitiously dream,
until noon or later.

Soon You Will Be On Top of the World (Fall 07)

I: The Alarm
The alarm strikes six but I’m already awake,
have been for ages,
waiting.
She’s coming, Cailleach Bheur, and there is no escape
from that ol’ bitch.

I check my phone every three minutes.
Haven’t gotten a call for weeks,
if you don’t count Luke.
Luke’s not a friend, just a bill collector
and I can’t hide here forever.


II: The Store
It’s only a mile so I walk,
headphones in, to block the sounds of the world.
I can sense the cold fingers of Cailleach Bheur
stretching over the horizon,
that blue faced hag.
She’ll be here soon to torment me again.

The doors open without effort,
(offering a quick escape),
and for just one moment
I feel like Moses when he parted the sea,
but nobody notices.
They go about their routines,
providing for their families
or maybe their lovers.
I wouldn’t know.
I search for manna and the water of life,
but here, they seem to be out.
So I get fortune cookies and whiskey instead.

III: The Cemetery
She’s here cloaked in clouds,
Cailleach Bheur, that dark witch!
I wish I could kill her
with the blunt side of ambition,
but the darkness took that away.
So I ask,
Dear God,
tell me, please, before she takes me
in her chill-filled lust,
before she leaves me in the wake of her snowflake world,
to cover all the friends I’ve never met,
each already beneath the warmest of blankets…
What am I meant to be?

So I scream and I scream
each fortune I read,
as if a simple sentence can fix everything.

Yet she responds to none;
while I’m left shattered,
with a bloody throat,
a warm bottle of whiskey,
a pile of broken cookies at my feet;

at the top of the world.

The Orange Parade (Fall 07)

The air is full of morning fog
and distant voices of beaten drums,
where on streets with cobble-stone paved
here, there comes, the orange parade.

On top of the roof, one month short of proper,
gun in hand and hair of pure copper,
like my father before me
and so on down the tree…
I’m a Fenian to the core.

I can feel the windows quaking,
which will soon be breaking
from rocks of misconception.
And here I sit,
so ill-equipped
above this traditional insurrection.

Our eyes meet, between roof and street,
down the barrel of my gun.
Before I pull…I see…a reflection of me
and strangers there are none.

Your nose is my nose, your hair…my hair.
Your skin is my skin, your stare…my stare.

The only real difference between you and I,
is the bright orange sash you wear at your side.

Where on streets where cobble-stones paved,
here, there comes, the Orange Parade.

Taoide Stiurthe (A Tide Will Guide You if You let it)

This ink engraved across my chest,
above my heart, below my mind,
appears to be a guiding tide
that pulls together life and limb.

A message sent, these ghostly words,
from sailors of the emerald coast,
who cast their prayers from wave-worn boats
while riding swells where mermaids swim.

A lighthouse built to guide my dreams,
the sailors knew I’d need a home
to save, in vein, this drowning soul,
while red drips slowly from black ink.

They died like waves that fade to shore,
a memory now, within my pores.

On Some Nights (Fall 07)

There is nothing like taking a winter mile,
while the city sleeps,
dancing jigs down naked streets
with a pint of the Pogues for my ears.

It’s especially nice when the fog comes in to play
like the breath of God bringing the ancient folk with it;
a reminder of that timeless tradish’
of shared blood and magic.

Some nights, in the middle of 8th and Main,
I’m comfortable enough to lie down
on yellow paint
and stare at the stars for hours.

I wonder if there is anyone like me
staring back, surrounded on both sides
by darkness, avoiding the inability to dream,
eyes wide like road-kill.

Some nights, I’ll wear my kilt,
with my goatskin sporran dangling,
as I trot along my own parade,
with pipes droning for attention.

I imagine they’ll call me the Midnight Piper
after I wake them up with my bellowed face,
fingering my own version of Amazing Grace…
O’ how sweet the sound’
of more wretched hours yet to be found.


On most nights though…
I’ll just sit under a street lamp,
chasing thoughts like impossible moths,
praying to whichever God cares to listen…

Mother Earth is Complaining of a Fever (Winter of 08)

Or so I’ve been told.
To me, it seems she’s got the chills
like a junkie going through withdrawls.

The trees in my backyard are shivering
and I want to help her feel better but what can I do?
I’m no nurse, no doctor. I’m not even a scientist.
I’m just a product of society,
apathetic as the rest.

I woke up this morning thirsty as a desert,
with an albatross decomposing around my neck.
Everywhere I look: the ocean
is knocking at my rocky door.

I think I’m too late.
Mother Earth seems long gone with dying
but I’m no mariner. I’m just a man
floating in an upside down reality.
That’s all; a man
that lives in a simple house,
drives a simple car to a job I hate,
past factories of smoke, cement buildings,
and a million other people just like me.

Still, we go about our lives thirsty,
drowning our sorrows in oil.

With our albatrosses round our necks,
We tell ourselves, it’s only a dream.
But none of us believe it. Not really.

My Crimson Queen

I’m drowning in a sea of disbelief.
Waves crash onto reefs of sharp coral blues
as the moon tap dances off rising swells.
My heart is pulling me to the ocean floor.

You are the waves, the moon, the reef,
the reason I’m falling, barely able to breath.
I almost gave up believing you could exist
but here you are…

In my arms, I can feel your heart.
It’s beating in a rhythm matched to mine
like waves that lap on the dark sandy shore.
And still I’m not sure,
I could be dreaming that you are real.

You crashed into me like a wave on a reef
and saved me from falling like a rock in the sea,
where I would have spent my life
trying to swallow this abyss.
Here you are, my Crimson Queen,
giving me purpose to breathe.

Awash in Ripples

My reflection,
a stranger,
yet familiar,
a trusted friend,
my most intimate enemy.

Here he is again
arms folded left over right
in symbolic ink,
like two snakes entangled.
He stands below staring up,
at the edge of a quiet lake.

What is he doing here, my reflection, ruining my Sunday?

Always watching,
always contemplating,
this figure staring back at me,
like a judge at a pageant?
like God at judgment…

He wants to show me all the reasons I‘ve failed;
all the chips, cracks, and creases,
all along my crumbling foundation
built on selfish silt.

He wants to change me into the ideal,
whatever that is anyways.
I try not to care…

His beard?
It’s not mine
and it’s not Jesus,
just the mask of another lazy man
I suppose.

I certainly don’t feel as old as this reflection
I don’t think I was meant to.
I liked being ten better.
I could sleep then…
except on Christmas Eve.

A pebble skips across shores and disappears into the shallows,
along with my reflection in the ripples that I made.

My Own Movie

I want to be a star.
I want to be a badass
with a scar like a Sparta
falling down my left cheek.
I want a catch-phrase
to say during silences,
words that will make
every person cheer.
I want to save the world
with a stare that faints.
I want a soundtrack to play
every moment of everyday.

I want to be a star.

I want normal people
stuck in absurd situations
and absurd ones trapped
in normal situations.
I want my heart broken
over and over and over
and then to find true love.
She was there all along,
in the least likely character.
I want montages of my day
played back to me before I sleep,
to see what I accomplished.
I want my life to be a tragic romantic comedic mystery thriller:
the few zombies to beat back with a broken broom,
the passionate kiss during pouring rain,
the heart beating faster.
I want to be a Star.

Shankill Butchers

You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve lost a limb. At least, that’s what I tell them feckin’ eejits who stare at me left arm with practiced pity…a worthless emotion if you ask me. If only they knew what happened, they wouldn’t have use for pity. They’d grab me by da shoulder and offer me da next shout; a hero’s welcome they’d call it. But aye, ‘tis been a long while since these lips have graced the craythur on another’s pocket.
Instead, I pity them for livin’ like cowards, carryin’ about their days hopin’ for change but not willin’ to do anythin’ for it. Most people will never understand life until their eyes witness a piece of their own flesh…dead. “A sacrifice,” I call it, making da sign of the cross on me chest with da only arm I have left.
“Freedom.”
Aye, but we wouldn’t have freedom would we? Not yet at least. Not the type of freedom we hoped for…prayed for. That was 25 years ago and still, the old steel walls that loom between us Taigs and them Proddies casts long dark shadows over Falls Road, a reminder of exclusion, as if our Catholicism is somehow contagious and deadly.
I grew up just off of Falls Road in a small apartment with me two brothers and me mother. We were raised on the ol’ heroic Fenian stories of Finn Mac Cool and of Cù Chulainn. Me Da’ was killed by da feckin’ UVF when I was a wee lad of seven but da stories remained. I was haunted by those stories.
Ten years later I joined the Provo’s with my grade school friends, eager to add my name among the ranks of IRA folklore. It was only a day after da Bloody Sunday incident in Derry where British Paramilitary’s opened fire on a civil rights march. Thousands of lads like meself signed up afta day.
We didn’t hate the prods for their religion like da way they hated us. We hated them for da oppression, for da fact that they control everything: da police, da government, where we live, where we work, where we don’t work. We hated them most for keeping us from being a part of da Republic. Ireland was never meant to be cut in two.
For ten years I fought da Shankill Road prods only a few blocks from Falls Road. We hijacked buses and taxis and drove ‘em past da great steel gates to use as roadblocks for shootouts. It became our obsession, our sport. We fought ‘em because they fought us, both sides claiming the side of good.
I lost me arm in ’81, a bloody horrible week to be Irish. ‘Twas a week after Bobby Sands died in da H-block prison of a hunger strike. Emotions were runnin’ high. The Shankill Butchers, a notorious gang of feckin’ UVF members who became famous for butcherin’ people like cattle, kidnapped and killed my brothers. Hung ‘em by their heels, slit their throats, let ‘em bleed out. I planted a bomb in their local on Shankill road, succeeded in killin’ two of ‘em in the blast. Lost me arm in da process. The rest were either killed or arrested shortly after.
I don’t remember much from that day. I don’t even remember how I got away but I did. I just know that after that day, it was a bit safer for da men and women of Falls Road to sleep at night.
So pity…pity is a worthless emotion.

At One With, a Pillow and a Blanket

At One With a Blanket and a Pillow
By Jeph Preece

I slept in on Sunday again.
It’s been about a year or two.
God tells me to rest on the seventh day…
so why do I feel guilty when I do.

I’ll blame it on my blanket.
I’ll blame it on my pillow.
I’ll blame it on my mattress
for being more comfortable
than the pew.
So God, if you’re listening to me now
Just know that I’m on my way.
It may take me longer than Peter or Paul
but I’ll make it back to you someday.

I finally got out of bed around three
to eat some Cheerios and toast.
I didn’t have jam to spread
or fruit to cut,
it’s not the sacrament
but its close.

I went running to the toilet,
barely made it in time,
for my ass to confess
the sins of the prodigal life.

So God, if you’re listening to me now
Just know that I’m on my way.
It may take me longer than Peter or Paul
but I’ll make it back to you someday.

Those Eyes (for Tavia)

You came into this world
like a pasta mama,
cheeks like chipmunks
and eye’s like heaven,
to melt every soul in a
five mile radius.

But I didn’t know you then.
I was alone in a different world,
far away from your dirty diapers,
your impossible smile
your insane laughs.
I had a soul like winter.

You’ve grown into those cheeks
but those eyes…
…those eyes remain the same,
reminders of the life before,
the perfect love of a child,
the innocent mischief
of a three year old
learning a language
for the first time.

You’re not my blood
but I’d still give you
every ounce of mine
if you needed it.

And someday you might…

You’re a daring girl,
without fear of pain.
(God knows, you’ve already had enough).

I’ve seen your face
green from grass stains
after flipping backwards
off Grandma’s swing.
You told me to push you higher,
I told you to hang on tight.

You let go
and I gasped,
ran to catch you…
…missed.
But you didn’t cry,
you never do.

You hugged me instead,
made my eyes tear up,
healed my pain.
Melted my soul.

I can’t say how you do it,
you just do.
It’s who you are.
It’s who you will always be,

those eyes.

It Must Be

Love.
I don’t understand how I got here,
in this boring department store
shopping for what? and lost in thoughts of tomorrow:
diapers, first steps, lips like butter…
instead of wicked guitar licks and driving drums.
I’ve outgrown the shell of being alone, I guess
I’m both broken and complete.
In a foreign world.
With foreign words.
Like anam cara…
…soul friend.
…mate.
I love knowing the face of the moon
from staying up all night,
parching my throat with stories and jokes.
I love to strum on my guitar ‘til my fingertips bleed
that passion.
And I love the sense of purpose,
the sense of existing for the first time.
I love the way I feel complete now
when I climb into bed.

I love being loved by someone I love.

In The Venue, 2006

These lights,
cooking my sweat-drenched face
with colors kaleidoscoping off closed lids.
I don’t dare open my eyes and welcome the sting
of being at the center of this storm.

I can smell the fog machine blanket the stage
as I hold my first love in my arms.
We move together like two birds flying
over the crowd, gathered and energized.

We fly over a floor of ecstatic chaos
and I’m not the only one singing…
a bridge is being built between
these strangers and my songs,

built until we’re closer, intimate,
together in this hurricane of noise.
So when I scream, they scream…
so when I breathe, they breathe…and we all know how it feels to be alive

In My Room, There Are No Windows

Just a cave, a place for my mind to misbehave
among shadows…
cast by flames inside my head.

I can see whatever I want to see
in the flickering wall,
a library instead of a closet,
a place for every word worth committing to memory,
hung up on hangers.

I want to catch these shadows with my clumsy mind
like swinging a net at butterflies.
I caught one once with the melody of the guitar
leaning against the far wall.
Too bad I broke a string with ambition
and it melted away.

I can see everything I’m not,
everything I want to be,
flickering on walls that mock my dreams…
…that mock everything.
so I laugh like an inmate
that hasn’t slept for years.

I WANT to knock my fists through these walls
and let the light shine in on my flaws.

I WANT to knock my fists through the world
and let the light shine in on its flaws.

For years, I’ve wanted
windows of my own to peer through,
but nothing ever seems to be enough.
There is always room for change.

This is my Republic: population one;
maybe two if you count Nietzsche, my cat.
He doesn’t care much for republics though.