Rushing blood to my head, and awakening

Senses which lay dormant, peaked to explode

In a fury of love and hate and recklessness.

Can you hear the sound of silence?

Of Fear? And dim hum of a ventilation machine?

The grieving of an acquaintance sitting distraught

At what the future will behold.

Thoughts filled my head- How? Why?

Dropping and flowing through the

Conscious river on tides of desolation

Lapping at the banks of broken dreams.

But its not the sound of silence or

The constant muted void which proves

Itself a completed recollection to me,

It was my job. My words.

Her face and tears when

I broke the news on that cold September day

A day she’s never escape, always scream about.

And my life seemed to stop for a moment

Before her tears became fountains of woe

And everything I’d done or said

The false ideas of hope

Were washed away in the river of tears.

Its piano stands idly by the door

Legend grows by the dormant key

Someone to return and a song will play

A Picture hangs over the fire

With blotches of thick paint unevenly spread

This heavy touch divides the room

Waiters on the right side of simpering

Mingle with cats preening and dreaming

Fat men heaving and leaving

Books on the shelves

They are asylum seekers of the past

Wanting to work on your mind

Smiling faces play rugger

On sepia, on fields, on walls

I was here before

Playing the exile

Passing Chilean wines from hand to table

Toasting all that was to come

That precise space with dimensions

Of beginnings and endings

Angles of a well turned mind

Intimate rendering of a scene

Not necessarily being parent to the child

To the moment of the happening

Near or far from the seanchaí’s breath

To be recorded into history by lecturers

Clicking Dictaphones and directing ears

Toward years and drinking beers

Swapping stories through the lens

Of girls looked at, walked at

Holding hands in a courting land

Stamp my visa with kisses, dear

I am a travelling back

Memories unfurl like

Hanging meats cured by salt

Enda Kenneally

“Checkmate!” Alice crowed triumphantly. “You win yet again!” Henry smiled. “Shall we have another game then?” Alice shook her head and rummaged in her satchel, producing her love-worn copy of “Short Stories for Children”. “Will you read to me Henry, just this once? Please?” Henry fought to keep his face impassive. “Not today, little one” he said, as always. “I’ve had a long week, why don’t you read to me instead?” As always, Alice’s face brightened. She opened the book eagerly and began to read. “There once was a little princess who lived…”

Henry closed his eyes as he listened to her trilling 8-year-old voice reading the tale of The Giant and the Little Princess. The Little Princess loved the Giant, loved spending time with him more than anything else in the world, but that was nothing compared to the Giant’s love for the Little Princess. While the Little Princess was always surrounded by people who loved and cared for her, the Giant lived alone in a cave in a remote part of their village.

For him, the Princess’ weekly visits were the lone star in a dark week. After only a few short hours together each week the Little Princess would have to return to her palace, leaving the Giant alone once more. Henry emerged from his reverie as Alice stopped reading abruptly. She looked at her pink plastic watch. “I’ve got to go… ” she said sadly. “Can’t you finish this story first?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “No, I’m sorry but my mum is waiting for me.”

Their eyes met for a moment. Tell her now, Henry’s mind urged. But as he opened his mouth to speak, fear, the fear that she would never return if she knew, coursed through his veins. “Off you go then” he said, almost gruffly. Alice slipped her book and chessboard into her bag and waved shyly. “See you next week?” “I promise you will, little one.” He watched her scamper off as another lonely week unrolled before his eyes.

Time seemed to crawl by in Henry’s house that week, with the passage of hour after lonely hour painstakingly empathized by the ticking of his old wall clock. He passed the week sustained only by the promise of another hour in Alice’s company and strengthened by the lit picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus he always kept above his pillow. When the day came finally to meet Alice in the park again, Henry heaved himself out of bed and carefully down the stairs of his small terraced house.

He ate his morning porridge amidst the trappings of his world, a world that had grown smaller and smaller with each passing year – well-worn cushions, a whistling kettle and a framed photograph of a young woman with her arms around Henry as a young man, light still shining from their eyes as they surveyed the cramped kitchen from the top of the bare fridge.

Today, Alice was waiting for him when he reached the park bench. “Hi!” she said excitedly. “So do you want me to beat you at chess again?” “Not today, Alice” he said gently, wearily. “Let’s finish the story of the Giant and the Little Princess.”  The book was open in her lap before he’d finished the sentence. In the end of the story, the Giant came down from his cave to live with the Little Princess and they spent many happy years in each other’s company. Alice closed the book. “Well, what do you think of the ending, Henry?” “I think the Giant was very lucky to have a friend like the Little Princess.” he said. “`Well, the Little Princess was lucky too, because she got a friend who was older and wiser to teach her about the world” Alice said thoughtfully.

Silence fell between them, the silence of two people who understand each other perfectly. Then Alice looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go now.” she said softly. He nodded, resigned to his own reality once more. His secret rose up in his throat, flickered in his eyes. Alice smiled at him with the blissful oblivion of an 8-year-old. “Tomorrow’s your birthday, isn’t it?” she asked. “Well… would you like to come to my house tomorrow for lunch? My mum says it’s okay.”

Something stirred in the depths of his eyes. “I’ll do my best to be there, little one” he replied. “Cool!” Alice grinned. She stood up and, for the first time, impetuously kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow then!” Henry watched her skipping off towards her mother’s car. Passersby wondered at the sight of the old man alone on a park bench, smiling wistfully as tears rolled down his cheeks.

The doorbell rang in Alice’s house the next day as Alice’s mother was laying the table for lunch. Alice raced down the stairs as Alice’s mother opened the door. “It’s for me, Mummy, it’s for me!” She stopped short as the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman framed in the doorway. “Is Alice Scott here?” she asked, in a businesslike tone. “That’s me!” Alice cried, bursting through the door in front of her mother. “Where’s Henry?” She faltered at the sight of this stranger, alone with her briefcase on the doorstep.

The woman’s face changed, kindness breaking through the brusque exterior. “I’m so sorry, but Henry died this morning. He’s been ill for a long time, didn’t he tell you? I’m his care worker, I called in this morning but he had already passed away… he phoned last night and asked me to call and give you this.” She handed Alice a black velvet box. “If I had only known he was going to… He couldn’t read or write, and so he never made a will- it seems you’re his only living relatives.”

Alice’s mother gazed at the woman, bewildered. “But we’re not even related to him, Alice just met him in the park one day and they struck up a friendship…” Oblivious to the two adults, Alice was opening the velvet box. Inside laid a gold necklace. The inscription read “For the Little Princess.”

The artist yelled in exhilaration, spinning the wheel from side to side as the silver convertible obeyed ruefully, like a melancholy horse. They were going so fast the road must have thought the car was trying to beat the falling stars of the dusk to the old inventor’s house. Sitting upright with his hands clenched to the white suede handle, Sal tried to pray but only puked.

‘Mind you don’t mess up the paint,’ Beacan said.

‘You’re lucky I didn’t mess up the windscreen,’ retorted Sal, who had had the good grace to lean over the side.

‘I’m lucky?’ said Beacan. ‘Luck should be grateful I was born. Oh, before I forget…’ The artist rummaged in the pocket of his corduroy coat and took out a silver spoon. ‘This is for you. It’s quite worthless.’

Sal took it. ‘Right,’ he said.

‘You should get out more, Sal, get some oxygen. It’s the one drug our bodies always crave, but we hardly ever fix. What d’you think those mountains were put there for? Pretty pictures? Nah: exercise and fresh air. All you need. In century 22 we don’t even drive, you know.’

The back of Sal’s neck prickled: the lunatic was on the grass. But this lunatic had the steering wheel, a fact which had he had known Wushu, would have been an excellent defence for a fatal strike in a court of law.

Faintly, he said, ‘Is everyone so old fashioned in the future?’

‘I wouldn’t put it that way,’ said Beacan. ‘We have found a balance between our natures and our ideals. That is precisely why it’s so boring. This century is much more interesting. Especially the early part. On the one hand it is the most technologically advanced culture in history. Yet it spends the majority of its time second guessing that power. I’m here doing research for my dissertation as it is on that topic; it’s called the dichotomy of hubris and self-loathing in the greatest discoveries of century 21.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Sal said, ears ringing. ‘Hubris is underrated these days.’

He was completely sceptical, obviously, but the self-evident risk of pissing off a time traveller terrified him. Unsure if he wanted to know, Sal asked, ‘If you’re from the future, how will I die?’

Lighting up yet another of innumerable cigarettes, the artist sighed. ‘I’d be breaking the law if I answered that. Self-fulfilling prophesy is a dangerous thing.’

‘Ah.’

‘But I could tell you a story about a louse called Sol,’ the artist continued. ‘As a special concession. Right?’ Beacan glanced in the mirror as if checking for helicopters. Apparently satisfied, he lowered his hand and delicately twisted the dial of the Blaupunkt radio to zero.

So. There was once a colony of woodlice who lived in the tomb of a wealthy landlord. Imagine the crypts you always see in old graveyards, with a flat capstone, and the engravings worn away by the rain. One day a young louse called Sol found a small crack near the ceiling. He had been wandering on his own around the periphery of Food Mountain. “Food Mountain” was what the colony called the dead man, for louses cannot comprehend creatures more intelligent than themselves. Being naturally curious and foolhardy, Sol ventured out onto the capstone into the blinding light.

All around the tomb was a broad tract of bare, inhospitable land, but in the distance, Sol was beckoned by a range of fair purple hills. Excited, he scuttled back inside and told the whole colony. “Friends, we must leave before Food Mountain runs out, or the weeds trap us in!”

Now the chief, who was a clever orator, replied, “If Food Mountain did not run out yesterday, it will not run out today!” And the colony clicked in agreement and mocked the poor louse.

However, every active agent has its adherents. Soon he attracted a small group of like-minded louses, and together they planned a voyage to the purple hills. They would gather a stock of morsels for the journey, and when they reached their destination, they would build a new colony and a new life feeding from the heath.

Beacan fell silent. His features were veiled.

‘So what happened?’ Sal prompted after a while. ‘Did the louses escape?’

‘Alas, no,’ he said. ‘They weren’t quick enough. Food Mountain ran out, and by this time the weeds had crept into the cracks. The whole colony died, encased in the tomb with the bones of the dead man.’

‘That won’t be me,’ said Sal bitterly.

‘I agree,’ the artist murmured. ‘You are much bigger, for a start. There is a moral, however. In this particular outcome, the colony died because they lacked the unity of purpose they needed to save themselves from certain death. But there are millions of tombs on Earth; infinite possibilities. Nothing is written till it’s written. So it’s up to you.’

Mountains passed in silence. If they had gone westward, they would have seen the Twelve Bens, a range of quartzite peaks rising over Connemara. But Silverlining was further north, well past the length of Lough Corrib, where the roads were thin and the land was blasted like a sea-green desert; full of ponies and old walls. The huge sunset beyond the horizon cast a pleasant ruddy glow across the Fenian landscape, washing away the murk. When finally the gravel of Silverlining crunched under the tyres, the mackerel clouds were a dusky silver, and the chemical tang of pending rain was in the air.

After such an ordeal, Sal was glad he had made it here alive.

‘May you have my luck,’ said the artist. ‘I’ll be painting the show when you’re done.’

Beacan was like a puzzle that you had no choice but to work out for your own sanity. Sal was determined not to believe such nonsense.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said.

There were other cars in the driveway too. Professional media types: moderately fast and expensive. The back of the tall gothic house of Silverlining loomed ahead through the dark. Walking up the flagged path flanked with glowing lanterns and buddleia bushes, Sal jumped badly when a crow leapt off a wire nearby. All those notes he had spent so long memorising about Guido Polo were flooding back to him.

It was no accident that he was hiding here in Ireland, away from the world. Tonight would be the exhibition of his latest invention, an astrobule as he called it, which would change astronomy, and indeed science itself forever. With such a weight of expectation, it was no wonder he was such a recluse.

A drop of rain fell on his head, unheard over the sound of a loud stream running through the orchard nearby. Soon it became a steady drizzle, then a heavy torrent, pelting off the roof and gushing into the drains.

A voice sounded nearby. ‘In here!’

A side door in the house was open, and against the light was the slender silhouette of a woman. He stepped into the tiny corridor, muttering his thanks; immediately and painfully conscious of her beauty. Her eyes were light and vivid, and her sun-kissed skin was framed with perfect curtains of dark-blonde hair. He felt shabby and under-dressed beside her. It could have been the effect of that internal, wiry vigour that seemed to hit like a fist.

‘I’m Sal Kennedy,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘I know who you are,’ the girl replied rudely. ‘I’m a new intern at the paper. The editor said you couldn’t make it so he sent me instead.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Sal. ‘But you know, usually when someone tells you their name, it’s polite to tell them yours.’

For a moment she looked startled. ‘Alana Jasmine,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘All mine,’ he replied, grinning. ‘What is this place, some kind of haunted mansion?’

Alana Jasmine laughed. ‘Probably. Since I’ve been here things have been a bit strange. Dr Polo is gone. He left this morning, and took the astrobule with him. The other journalists are furious. They’re all in the conference room waiting for news of his whereabouts. I’ll take you up there if you want.’

‘Thank you.’

Alana Jasmine led him into a bright central atrium, full of art deco furniture and strange, cubed statues. She spoke about herself for a while, of the ordeal of examinations, of the merits of buses versus trains and why she hated Italian cuisine. As he listened, he was strongly reminded of a girl he had gone out with one Summer in Oregon. There in the middle of nowhere, there had been little else to do other than talk and fool around for weeks on end. He still remembered how intensely he had loved her; before the sky had fallen. How with love’s broken rubble, he had built a wall so high never to be torn down by any woman.

The conference room was packed. The two of them crammed into the back in a scrum of journalists. All were staring rapt at the streamed image of a tanned old man with large glasses and a scrubby beard projected onto a silver screen.

‘Again, my sincere apologies that I cannot be here,’ said the old man, Guido Polo. ‘For security reasons, I have concealed both the location of the machine, and myself. Tonight, I will describe it as simply as I can. The astrobule is like a telescope, except that in practice a telescope may only look into the past, due to the limited speed of light. With an astrobule, we can see the Universe as it right now, in the present tense.

‘By establishing a network of infinitesimal wormholes from star to star, it connects them into a web which can be mapped. But more importantly, the astrobule opens up the possibility that one day, we may be able to see the future also. It proves a point I have often maintained, that the most profound questions in astronomy have never been a matter of space, but of time.’

Amid the eager scratching of biros, Sal was struck by a sudden déjà-vu: he had been here before. Somehow, impossibly, it was true. And he knew exactly what to do. Telling Alana Jasmine to wait for him, he left the room and ran down the stairs, through the atrium, and into the garden, where the rain still poured and thoughts of her still lingered.

Then it stopped raining. Wait: that wasn’t supposed to happen. It was all wrong. Something had changed. Bewildered, Sal walked through the garden, slower now, away from the house and through the orchard, across a bridge over the stream, to the foot of a dripping grove of joshua trees.

A noise sounded in the dark: an electric moan. It came from the direction of a well built of stone near the edge of the grove, where the house of Silverlining could just be seen through a crook in the trees. On the fourth floor, a balcony window glowed. A curtain ruffled.

There was only one way of finding out. He lifted off the tarpaulin, and stared into the murk of the well, a big-eyed Narcissus. Suddenly he remembered: the silver spoon. It was still in his pocket, worthless. He flung it into the shadows. Seconds later a loud clang reported no water present. Then came the ominous drone of a broken astrobule whirring into life. His blood ran cold. What had he done?

He saw a large corn field down a hill beyond the grove. A path was trampled into the very centre, like Van Gogh’s last painting before he died. The lonely figure of Beacan waited there with an easel, staring upward. Looking up too, he saw the clouds were parting away from the broad sky. One by one, like the flashes of distant paparazzi, the stars were going out.

John Barker

Dear Diary!

I struggled today. I really did. This whole ‘keeping it together’ thing just doesn’t seem to be working. I know I promised myself, I promised you, that this year things would be different well no, I’m still here, not that anyone notices or even cares. I really don’t know how much longer I can keep it up!
My wrists itch. The temptation is overwhelming! I don’t want to have to cover them all the time, I would wear my scars with pride, only that they’re not a true reflection of the pain I feel inside, they are mere scratches. And if I’m not likely to find comfort in his arms anytime soon, then I may as well take what little comfort pain has to offer. What else can I do?

So yeah, he walked past me again today, didn’t even look at me. It’s like he doesn’t know me, but you and I both know that it was a different story at Becca’s party! That night was so special. Oh, he was so special. I’ve never felt such an intense connection with anyone before. Well that’s the last time I let anyone else in, except for you of course, you know you hold the key to my heart and well I’m not sure you’d have much use of me ‘letting you in’ the way I did with him! Lol! I hate him!

Ugh! Here comes another one of my problems: that stupid bitch! What a head-wreck! It’s like ‘yes, I have done my fucking homework! Yes, I have put my washing in the basket! No, I don’t want rice fucking pudding! Just leave me alone!’ God! I’m actually going to snap!!!

Will let ya know how ‘Round 2’ goes…
Ding! Ding!

Simply Scarlet <3

The blade was cold against her flesh. She didn’t want to. It wasn’t her fault but she saw no other way. Piercing the already raw skin on her left wrist, in one slow, smooth movement she drew the blade across. The blood spilt out, growing from a gentle oozing to a steady gush.

She grimaced again as the coldness of the fine, little blade met the warmth of her right wrist but this was eased once more by the soothing heat of her blood.
It’s over now.
Its better this way! <3
She scribbled, a single drop of blood staining the left corner of the floral page. Then she lay back on her bed, her wrists at either side of her slender torso. Slowly she unclenched her fists, her palms facing upwards in such a manner that to any onlooker it would have appeared that she was offering herself to some greater being. Her gaze was empty. Her chest rose and fell again in a steady rhythm. Her heart was broken.

Thirty seconds later she screamed.

***

She sat her way through a whole week in the hospital without saying a word. The second week did not prove to be much better. It was a week of helplessly arguing with her mother, a week of being probed and poked both mentally and physically by doctors and psychologists. What frustrated her the most however was how the untrained staff looked at her, how they enquired about her wellbeing and just as quickly turned back to their Hoover or catering trolley. Nobody cared.

When she finally did feel like talking, she soon learned that ‘how are you’ seemed to be the extent of the staff’s ability to converse with a ‘psycho’. The days without company became routine as one ran in to the next and she began to accept this monotonous life as normality. Frustrated and bored, it got to a point when she seriously contemplated starting a conversation with the rubber potted plant which seemed to follow her from psychologist’s office to psychologist’s office. Time was a thing of the past.

Things picked up when she was given her release date. It was to be the following Sunday and she was due to report back ‘just for a chat’ every second day. Her remaining time in the Clinic was spent planning every little detail of her first day of freedom and so when the day finally came, she was like a boiling pot just ready to boil over. The adrenaline was pumping.

***

She stepped out of the shiny, new Mercedes and smiled up at the sun, peeking shyly from behind threatening clouds. ‘Perfect’, she thought, and proceeded to dash on through the front door. Ignoring shouts from the front lounge, she jolted up the stairs and into her bedroom.

Pausing for a moment she slumped against the back of the door, breathing heavily. Careful not to delay and upset her plans, she ripped off the wine polo neck and grey sweatpants which the Clinic had provided and began sifting through her wardrobe, sending a shower of dark coloured material over her shoulders. Finding what she wanted, she then took another moment of calm for herself. She was taken aback by the lack of light in her room, having never noticed how dark it truly was. With little time to waste she grabbed her diary, a pen and her blade and stuffed them into her little black backpack, picking her phone up off the dressing table before running back out into the brightly lit hallway.

Her mother gasped as she saw Scarlet at the top of the stairs. ‘Hadn’t the clinic had any effect?’ she questioned as she beheld the sight before her. Stood there was her once angelic little girl, now tall and thin and clad from head-to-toe in black. Her dyed red hair spiked in the way it used to be, with traces of black beginning to creep up on the roots again. She stumbled her way down the stairs, her leather knee-high boots proving to be quite a challenge. She couldn’t meet her eye but she kissed her mother softly on the cheek and whispered ‘just trust me, I love you’, and bolted out of the door. This was it.

She smiled as the sun was now nowhere to be seen, only grey clouds and gulls. ‘Even better’, she thought.

***

It didn’t take her long to get there, only fifteen minutes at the most. The long swaying grass tickled her thighs through her fishnet tights. The strong wind blew her hair in every direction. As she climbed over the weathered fence, her slight figure battled to stay upright. Tears fell steadily, like diamonds, down her cheeks and lone strands of hair clung to the paths they made. She stood a mere three feet from the brink and offered a pathetic smile through her angry tears. For every memory a new tear fell. She was angry. She was angry that she had let them take away her pride. She was angry at how easily she had forgotten who she was and what she stood for. She was angry with her father for giving up hope. She was angry that God had taken her brother. She was angry at life.

Reaching into her bag she took out her mobile. As she shook violently in the cold, she dialled his number, that ‘special’ number and waited for an answer. When it came, seconds later, she took a deep, quivering breath and screamed ‘fuck you’, tossing the phone into the crashing waves below. Her throat suddenly felt dry and coarse. Her voice became vacant; there were no words, merely yelps and empty convulsions. Her love had been wasted.

Tears flowing freely now she fumbled in her bag for the blade. ‘Shit’ she muttered as it nipped her thumb. Unafraid she took hold of it, held the blade to the wrist of her outstretched arm and pushed gently against the raw flesh. ‘Not this time’, she cried and flung the blade into the whipping winds before they could take it themselves.

As she focused on a lone gull flying over the ocean, at that moment Scarlet realised again the spectacular surroundings which she stood amongst. It was this breath taking beauty which made this her favourite place to be. The following feeling of warmth and the smile was effortless. She remembered the days spent here with her brother fondly. The hours spent hiding in the long grass as he told stories and she contributed her name as the star role and as they had grown older how they would come here to write songs and play the guitar. It wasn’t fair. She questioned how this place of beauty could be the setting of such heartbreak. It just wasn’t fair.

Unable to remain standing any longer, she took up a cross-legged position on the ground and took out the heavy diary and pen. She did not pause to think, she scribbled freely, battling with the elements to write again for the final time.

Diary!

No one wins in this game.

I’m fighting a loosing fight.

You know this.

You break me.

Well not this time.

Sorry.

Scarlet. <3

Then laying the diary aside, she rose to her feet, confident and sure about what came next. She allowed her leather coat to fall from her shoulders as she kicked off her boots. She trembled uncontrollably now. The coldness consumed her whole body, but she had to go on. Her black lacy top fell on top of the diary as she threw it aside. Her breath quickening, she slowly pulled down her skirt and her tights, flinching as she caught sight of the pink skin on her wrists. She could feel the sharpness of her fingernails as she fumbled with the clasp of her bra and then let it fall to join the blackness of the rest of her clothing. Picking up her diary she took a step closer to the edge. The ferocious wind billowed through her hair, as the air rasped her breasts. Standing naked, she began to tear the pages from her diary, one at a time. They were caught in the whirlwind of air surrounding her and continued to encircle her until all that remained of the diary was its spine, which she offered gladly to the snapping waves.

Her thin stature was a stark contrast to the rough winds, vengeful pages and harsh cries from the seagulls, yet her delicate mind remained calm and empty as she took a slight step forward. On the spot she doubled over and clutched her chest. It felt like her insides had been torn out, like her heart had been ripped from her, like she was nothing more than a shell. Then taking a deep breath in, she threw her arms back and cried:

“On my own!”

For Nikolai Lossky

I have not killed a man

I have not driven women and children from the streets

with shields and batons and gas

I have not destroyed lives in the search for gold

and other riches of the earth

I have not ignored the downtrodden near or far

I have not tortured

I have not maimed

I have not justified horrors

Indeed I have done nothing

Indeed-

nothing

and that nothing

could an eternity of penance erase?

Robert Lennon

I’m grasping at the gas lantern

Slipping

Sliding

jinking

gracefully

gemmelesque

between the jarveys

and broughams

avoiding bricks

chucked around a plinth

and you wouldn’t want

to be stuck in traffic

sucking

smoke along

Fenn’s Quay

Where queerly

The concept of

Catenaccio

Was not cast,

Nor was a key for the lock

Cut.

The special sense of a bus

In a showband setting is

Travelling in the grass and

Maybe

Think about the letter

Loosely

Spoken

As a lost art

Lurid Lancastrian laboratories

Exquisitely empathetic to the

Effluent errata

Trembling torpidly

And tunnelling unguents

Towards the ticking over of

Temperance everlasting

Emergency exits are especially

Catered for regularly,

Ruminating

Ruefully on what might have

Been is not.

David Toms

Ciara Guiry

If I were to eat any food while writing my suicide note I would choose a peeled and segmented orange. Served on one of my mother’s best saucers. The pieces would lie individually out, plump bellies down, not touching. As it will be the most important thing I ever pen I would like as much care to be taken while eating the last food to go into my body as I would give to the words I will be using to explain the departure.

I would sit in my favourite space; in my parent’s room where my mother perfume lingers and my father’s jumper lays forgotten on the floor. I would wrap up in the comfort and strength of him in that garment and I would inhale. Their smell was the magic fairy dust of my childhood that quelled the loudest scream, softened the sharpest blow and swept the angriest of monsters right back under the bed. I would sit cross legged on their bed which was a dungeon, castle, lake, ocean, ship, cave, tavern, boarding school and racing car when my brother’s and I were at our most earnest and active in terms of overactive imagination.

The curtains would be wide open; sweeping the floor of the room and the light through the window would drench me in a warm watery Autumn sun. The trees outside would flutter in a Spring expectant excitement. I would smile as I overhear my parents bicker as they put the clothes out on the washing line. The fundamental hanging of one king size duvet cover can bring the strongest of marriages to its knees. Our restless dogs are barking in the distance as my oldest brother walks them through the browning rushes of the top fields in our land. They would leap and dash into the only puddle that can be found in a twenty mile radius, but their eagerness and gusto to achieve the ultimate splash would bring a smile to my brother’s face. He is his father’s son and his gentle spirit will laugh off even the dirtiest of dogs clambering all over his respectable city outfit. Home visits are the messiest thing a city kid can do these days.

My sister and brother in law will be in the kitchen looking through the Sunday papers which I have already rifled through. He will sit upright in the couch in the corner while she lies across him. Her head lays on his lap as she fidgets with the remote control, clicking from one channel to the next. He absentmindedly reads the paper held in one hand while he plays with her hair in his other hand. They breathe in unison in a oneness that catches in my throat.

Through the afternoon lit corridors the drawls and wit of two young men can be heard as they discuss the match taking place on the television screen in front of them. Best friends like no other they battle out all subjects, topics and genre. They never tire of opinion and humour and that is why my two younger brothers are men who have taken after the strongest characteristics we were lucky enough to have seen through the eyes of our soft loving, strong living mother. They will be the men she raised because that is what they owe her.

My mind will travel to my closest and best kept friends who will be spending the day together; their laughter and humour will fill my head and crowd out the task at hand as I watch them in my minds eye. They are happy and the smile on my face as I begin to sharpen my pencil is because of them. Once I have written my decision out in the temporary pencil (because that is what my life is, temporary) I will text my best friend and tell him I love him and he will reply in kind and I will believe him. My others, my heart keepers will all know my mind when they finally get the chance to hear what it is I have to say. That is what the paper in front of me will afford me to do. Tell them.

I love them but I leave them? Is that right? Am I fair? I see nothing past the pain wall I have hit off.

I pick up a piece of orange and suck on the bitter fruit. Its tang makes my mouth water to such an extent my taste buds are bursting as is my torn hungry stomach which has not greeted food in two days. This is its reward and it has every intention of enjoying it, or so it would seem.

I write what I know and what I know will fill the white space in front of me. I scrape the grey lead onto my childhood copy book which I found earlier in the week. I speak of the times I was happiest; with the individuals I have just thought of. I thank them; I tell them what I did right for them; and more importantly what I did wrong by them. The latter is a longer paragraph.

As I finish up I hear my parents in the kitchen joking and laughing with the rest of the now gathered family and I rip the five pages out of the copy book. Uncrossing my stiff legs I will slowly rise and find a yellowed with age envelope and stuff the offending thoughts inside. I will seal it so the badness is contained I will slide it into my dress pocket.

I put on my jacket and leave my haven. Closing the door softly behind me I push the kitchen door through and enter the busy room.

My mother is by the sink, leaning on her elbows, lost in a thought I will probably never be privy of. She awaits the kettle to finish boiling and with me clicking the door shut behind me she is aware she forgot herself for a moment. Her motherly facade had fallen and she was a person for all of five minutes. She smiles at me so warmly I feel it across the room. I return her warmth and walk through the room leaving behind the full kitchen table of family members.

I walk out of the house and walk to my place, remove the letter from my pocket. I close my eyes, count to ten. Remove the lighter from my other pocket. Open my eyes and gingerly light the corner of the envelope.

The letter smoulders on the ground before me and I have another piece of orange.