Missing Finger III
Missing Finger III
III
Years give grace of the good and the godly,
yet he found himself bound to his absent
appendage through the accidental gift that was
himself, to the fairer.
As an arthritic tremor informed his motion
and word of his power spread mouth to mouth,
he found himself perpetually at use, savaged ghost
curse to the bearer.
On a cold morning, early November, his heart stopped
and the lady upon him extricated herself from
his final motionlessness and went about her business.
Train Story
Train Story
“Yellow.” After much deliberation, she decides upon her favourite colour. Blue falls short, losing by a half a length. Yellow is a happy colour, perhaps the happiest, according to her. My thoughts quickly turn towards poisonous yellow. The image of a yellow tree frog flashes behind my vision, staring at me with black eyes full of passive aggressive potential. The hazard signs that draw attention to the lethal threats of radiation, high voltage, biohazards, all black on yellow.
“Trefoil.” It comes out as I awaken from my yellow reverie. Thought doesn’t exist, but here it penetrates reality. But a word does not exist either, does it, insofar as it leaves no mark? I could look her in the eye and deny having said anything at all. A semantic investigation into words like ‘exist,’ or ‘reality,’ she might enjoy that.
“What?” She leans towards me very slightly, clearly thinking that I had said something. Her eyes are very blue.
“Nothing.” And I never said it. She looks out the window. I stare at her. She’s a dainty thing. The train trundles north at a steady speed. She absently surveys the landscapes as they pass.
“I think you’re having an emotional affair with me.” The train moves through the land. The next stop is hers.
An hour earlier she watched me drink a coffee. We talked about films, music and food. There was a moment where her face was about twelve inches from my face. We walked to the station together as we both were going towards the city. When I tried to buy my ticket at the machine, she kept pressing the wrong buttons on the screen. She laughed at her exploits. I told her to stop being so annoying but I didn’t mean it.
“I have to be there at nine.” You’ll be late, I think.
“What are you doing there, something fun?”
“Going for another walk.” No more questions from me.
The train moves through the land. The next stop is hers.
“What?” She leans towards me very slightly, clearly thinking I had said something. Her eyes are very blue.
“Nothing.” And I never said it.
Rob and Neil
“What about Rob?”
“Rob who?”
“Rob! Neil’s friend, Rob?”
“What about him?”
“Don’t give me that! You and Rob?”
“Nothing happened like, nothing!”
“No way.”
“No, seriously like, nothing happened.”
“Ah, I heard you scored Rob.”
“No! Who told you that?”
“Everyone was saying it like.”
“What do you mean, ‘everyone was saying it?’”
“Like, everyone there.”
“I pure wasn’t though.”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s nice like, he’s alright.”
“Would you score him?”
“If I haven’t already.”
“Have you?”
“No!”
“What?”
“I was just messing!”
“So would you?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Neil?”
“You like Neil?”
“What?”
“Ciara told me.”
“What?”
“Yeah, she said you were talking about him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yeah, I don’t know like, she just said.”
“Where did she get that from?”
“She just said.”
“He’s grand like.”
“Do you like him? Imagine if you were with Neil and I was with Rob?”
“So did you get with Rob? Do you like him?”
“I don’t know. We scored for a second but it was weird.”
“So you scored Rob.”
“Yeah. But, like, you were with Neil.”
“But don’t tell Ciara.”
“What, so you were with Neil?”
“Yeah, but he said there is some thing with Ciara.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t sure, he was all like, ‘uh, there’s this thing with Ciara and I don’t know what’s happening there.”
“Was he with Ciara?”
“He was before, like ages ago.”
“And does he like her?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s just real weird about it like.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s just kind of real off with him.”
“Yeah, she was real weird the other day.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was all like quiet when we were with Neil and the lads.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No.”
“Does Neil know about Rob?”
“I don’t know. They’re mates like, so probably.”
“Yeah.”
“He texted me after the other night, all like ‘hope you got home alright’ and stuff.”
“Rob?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you text him back?”
“Yeah, but I fell asleep and only did the next day.”
“I’d say you waited until the next day just so you could text all day.”
“No, I really fell asleep!”
“I’d say you did.”
“He didn’t say anything anyway. He asked if we’re going to Shauna’s at the weekend.”
“Oh yeah, her birthday.”
“Is that in her house?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going?”
“Are the lads going?”
“Neil and Rob and them?
“Yeah. Well they said they’d do what the lads were doing.”
“Oh right. They’ll probably go. Jake is scoring Shauna so…”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you getting off?”
“Just at the station. Pretty much the same.”
“Yeah, cool.”
“Do you want a lift up? Rich is collecting me.”
“Is that your brother?”
“Yeah.”
“That would be so deadly actually, I’m knackered.”
“Ah, no worries.”
Linus Spacehead and Target
Linus Spacehead and Target
There was no movement on the street. Everything was bathed in the orange half-light radiated by the street lamps. Linus sat stationary behind the wheel of his unmarked car, which itself sat stationary about thirty yards from the junction that sees Cyprus Avenue cross Green Dolphin Street. His left hand was tense, stuck to the top of the steering wheel. Tucked inside his pants, his right hand was wrapped around his gun, the tips of his fingers tickling his testicles.
“Target exiting The Squatty Roo alone. Target walking slowly east on Green Dolphin Street. Over.”
The ear piece hummed incessantly when there were no transmissions coming through. The chatty kid that does the electronics told him that it was the last one he had left after the budget cuts that central had enforced.
“Aw dang Spacehead, they bleedin’ me. You know I ain’t got shit else. These fools down in Central, they tell me do this and do that, but do it all with no damn money. Gotta learn them some shit about what we doin’.”
“That really is terrible. I was wondering if you could please make it work so that it doesn’t ring like that? I would really appreciate it.”
“I’ll try man, but you ain’t know what they leavin’ me with up in here. I ain’t got no damn tools.”
“Thanks kid. I really hate noises. I get migraines, you know, like really bad headaches. I don’t think I’d be able to get the job done with a migraine.”
“Target approaching crossroads of Cyprus and Green Dolphin. Prepare to engage Target, Spacehead. Over.”
Linus had been sitting in the car for more than two hours, humming different tunes from radio and television advertisements to keep himself amused. It seemed so long ago now that he had been trying to remember the jingle from the toilet paper ad with all the little puppies. They run around a lovely house in a dreamy suburbia, dragging toilet paper everywhere. Needless to say, the family that lives there are very unimpressed when they arrive home. You can’t stay mad at little dogs though, so as soon as one of the young children cracks a smile at the paper’s softness on his face, the rest of the family all have a nice laugh about the situation. Linus expects that they bought quite a lot of this brand of toilet paper after the incident, but also a gate device to keep the dogs from going upstairs.
“Target turning south onto Green Dolphin. Spacehead, prepare to engage Target. Over.”
Officer Linus Spacehead locked his right hand on the handle of his gun, his index finger around the trigger. He focused his eyes in the poor light, fixing his gaze upon Target. He matches the description given to him by The Chief earlier in the day. Written on a beer mat, it was to the point.
“About three and a half feet tall. Tight blonde hair and blue eyes. Could be wearing an eye patch.”
“Target nearing your position, Spacehead. Engage Target. Over.”
The throbbing in his head was getting worse, but Linus knew that once he had killed the little fellow then he would not have to listen to the ear piece. He would drive home, picking up Chinese food on the way. His cat, Escargot, would curl up beside him. Escargot loved watching the blue comedies that played late on television. So did Linus. They were made for each other.
“BANG!”
Linus shouted as he shot his gun, firing a bullet into the side of the little man’s head. It was very quick. He reached out the window, aimed, and then pulled the trigger. The little man toppled over with the force of the shot and was dead.
Fig 23.1: Escargot, Linus' cat.
Cigarette, Rope, Tweed, Knife, Woman
Cigarette, Rope, Tweed, Knife, Woman
It was unlikely that she would survive the fall. He knew that. And of course, survive she did not. What surprised him was how swiftly the event passed. His mind did not present the scene in histrionic slow motion, nor a momentary poetic silence between the instant that her trailing foot left the rope and the next, the moment that her person crumpled to the solid ground. There were screams all around him. The crowd that had silently gazed upon the majesty of her performance only seconds earlier were now an hysterical collective, some running towards the scene and some running away, climbing over what had quickly become a scattered mess of fold up chairs and novelty hats, partly consumed hot dogs and other such things. However, he only stood inanimately, pondering what she might have thought en route, if indeed conscious thought could force itself upon such an extraordinary second, and if that thought was simply extinguished with the thud, vanishing from itself.
“There is something you should know,” she had said. As soon as he raised his eyes to meet her gaze she looked down at her cigarette, surveying it from every angle. She always held it between her ring and middle fingers. She said that to hold it any other way gave her a cramp in her hand.
“I walk the highwire.” They stood together in the dark, outside an electrical store in the city. Dozens of televisions flickered in the window. There was a goal for the team in blue and they were now up by two with fifteen minutes left. A little boy was missing, thought to have been abducted as he played outside his home on Sunday afternoon. Heavy snowfall had caused traffic mayhem earlier in the day with more snow expected over the rest of the week. A woman answered correctly and advanced to the final round where she would play for the jackpot.
A man with a very thin grey moustache pushed a pair of golden frames up his nose, closer to his eyes. He hunched down and inspected her, still folded where she landed. His autumn tweed figure paced up and down her length several times, back arched in thoughtful cadaver perusal. Finally stopping at her feet, the man began to resolutely rummage around in the pocket of his jacket until he found what he was looking for. He appeared to extract a lit cigarette from those depths. He spoke, conducting himself vigorously with his right hand, the hand holding his cigarette, while taking off and putting on his glasses every few seconds with the other.
“Well, friends,” he announced, pausing to ensure that the only other soul remaining in the circus structure was listening. He breathed deeply and began again.
“It looks as if this young woman, this most beautiful young woman, has died. While I cannot say for certain what the cause of death was, I suspect that it may have had something to do with her fall from the ghastly rope above us. It looks terribly evil, all the way up there, plotting.”
The tweed man halted his wildly theatrical gesticulations to throw his eyes about the empty expanse. He smiled and put his cigarette back in his pocket.
“Well now, I should be getting off. It must be at least eight o’clock now and I haven’t eaten anything all day, bar those two digestive biscuits I had with tea this afternoon. Good day to you all.”
His first step was towards the body on the ground. He looked down at her, clicking his tongue in affectionate disapproval before spitting on the back of her head. Turning on his heel, he briskly walked away, whistling merrily as he went.
“She was carrying my child.”
The tweed man stopped in his tracks. He stepped around himself, and gazed at the body from his distance.
“My boy, I daresay she still is.”
He drifted slowly back towards the centre of the circus. The two men now stood facing one another, about six feet apart, divided by the heap.
“I’m pregnant,” she had said. She threw her cigarette into her glass of wine, a gesture saying that she would not be smoking or drinking anymore. She picked up the wine glass and stood up at the table. She raised her arm slightly, her teeth biting her lower lip, and then threw her arm downwards, towards the ground. The glass shrieked as it died and the patio upon which they were dinning became silent. The rest of the customers tried to temper the rubber elements of their necks, but to no avail. She took her seat once again and continued to eat her mayonnaise covered mushroom risotto as if nothing had happened at all.
The tweed man once again thrust himself deep into his pocket. The determined furrow of his eyebrows suggested that he was looking for something very specific.
“I asked her to leave the ropes until the baby was born. These dangerous walks killed her and the child.”
“Now my boy, you know very well that what you are saying is not exactly true. Really, you know that -”
His eyes burst into flames momentarily only to revert back to their tiny grey state within only a fraction of a second.
“Bingo! I’ve found it, at last!”
He drew a long knife from his pocket, so big that one could almost have called it a short sword. Brandishing it high in the air, as he did with his cigarette earlier, he began to conduct his own oration.
“She can’t have been long, you know, up it, as it were. Two or three months pregnant, maybe. I used to be a doctor, and an abortionist, but I’m still not very good at these things. And the child was yours? Are you sure, because you never can tell for certain with these things.
“I once had a child. I was living with a tribe of wild natives along a tributary of the Amazon. A young woman became quite fond of my pink skin and told me that I was the father of her child. Being a gentleman bound by high moral standards, I did the only thing I could do. When she went into labour I brought her deep into the forest, as was tradition with that tribe. After some time had passed, I returned to the other villagers to inform them that evil spirits had taken my love and my child. I could only communicate in basic terms of course, their language was very strange, but I believe they understood.”
Both men looked down at the heap.
“Here you go.” A tweed sleeve reached across the gap, handing over the knife.
“What is this for?”
“You, my dear boy, are going to skin this rabbit.”
He produced a white rabbit from his pocket. He held it up by the back of the neck and looked on imploringly.
“No.”
He bent to one knee and let the rabbit run away.
“No, that’s right. You are going to retrieve that child of yours!”
Fig 16.1 : The lego man should watch his step.
Snow
If anybody is still waiting for the final part of the Green Forest Blues series (Part 1 and Part 2 are already up), it’s on a break due to economic developments in Ireland. This is a story called Snow.
Snow
Paul was sick of chasing her. Had the pursuit been a literal endeavour, on a round track, his feet would be raw and the blood of his toils would be marked upon the ground, running continuously. As it were, there were no physical marks upon his body. Instead he felt heavy and as if he were slowly melting.
Of course, he was still dancing. He stared across the haze of the room, making sure to move his arms and legs in time with the pulse of everybody else, a pulse that he resented as it battered his chest. She was dancing with somebody else, or everybody else, and the pit of his stomach kept leaping up and trying to escape through his mouth. However, stoic as always, Paul maintained a sickening decorum. Halting the painful movement of his appendages to a beat that he could not engage with, his breathing became difficult. The beat was crushing his chest now and the door looked like a safe option.
The hallway was littered with snakes. Young ladies and gents flirted and laughed, standing and slouching against the walls. Negotiating the serpent pit was daunting but suddenly made easier as the front door swung open. All of the movement stopped around him. Outside the house there was a velvet blanket of white. Snowflakes drifted down from the night sky.
Paul drifted through the seemingly frozen crowd, buoyed by the pure white on black beauty of the snow against the night. As he came closer he saw a female figure in the blackness, standing upon the whiteness. There was not a single footprint around her. There she was, wearing her white dress and black tights, atop black heels. Snow gave way underfoot as Paul traversed the threshold, his first step sinking deep. He continued to move out to her. Her eyes were alight and she smiled.
Touching her hands, lifting them from her side. Paul held on so tightly. His arms now around her waist; he clutched her. He did not let go. They waltzed over the snow. There was no music but the sound of their breathing. Her breath was soft. Snow kept falling. Beneath their feet, everything was undisturbed. He pressed his lips against hers. She pressed her lips against his. They halted their dance. She clung to him as they kissed. She pulled herself more tightly to him. She rested her face on his chest. The snow stopped falling. Flakes held in mid-air, and everything stood still. A cat watched from a window.
The snow began to fall once again. She moved away. Now Paul was fixed on the spot. She took a step backwards. The snow crunched beneath her heel. She engaged Paul’s eyes. The look told him something that he did not understand. Her eyelids fell shut and her head bowed. She turned on her heel like a dainty carousel. Paul did not move as she walked away, leaving heavy red heel-toe prints in the whiteness. He followed the red drops as she disappeared into the blackness.
He was heavier than before. He raised his right hand adagio. The cold of his fingertips seared at the open flesh of the hole in his chest. He closed his eyes. The blood dripped down his body, saturating him. His black clothing fell towards an increasingly intense shade in the meager luminescence offered by the streetlights. Feelings began to fade until all that remained was the cold and a resigned helplessness. Paul melted.
The cat watched. Paul’s knees gave way and his body crumpled to the ground.
Poem: Street
- While I always maintain that poetry is dead when faced with people who genuinely love poetry, I don’t really think it is true. I don’t know how regularly I’ll publish this kind of stuff, if ever, but here’s a poem. I’ve been too busy to form an opinion and bitch on about it this week.
Figure 7.1: Troy McClure, unrelated.
Street
You look so dainty
crossing the road,
barefoot,
over puddles,
shoes in one hand,
with my jacket
over your head,
over your shoulders.
You smile
even though your dress is wet,
just a little,
just at the end.
You say something
and I nod,
water falling from my hair
towards the ground.
It is quite useless
to keep stars
in darkness
when light
smothers
the sight
of those who
need it.
Everything is deaf.
A street light struggles,
disregarding cliché,
desperately straining
to give us a spotlight.
It is too late.
The street sleeps
somewhere over there.
