Liberties: Flash Fiction from Ireland



  Liberties: Flash fiction from Ireland

  Edited by Jacinta Owens

  © Copyright 2015

  ISBN: 9781311418654

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors. This book contains works of fiction.

  Rights to the individual works contained in this anthology are owned by the submitting authors and each has permitted the story’s use in this collection.

  Cover image elements provided by Fiona Duffy ficreative@gmail.com for Liberties Festival Dublin/SICCDA. Design by Jacinta Owens. libertiesflashfiction@gmail.com

  libertiesflash.wordpress.com

  Contents

  Introduction4

  Tom O’Brien5

  Sue Kinsella6

  Ciara O'Connor7

  June Nelson8

  Tom McElligott9

  Gary J Byrnes10

  Michael Jay11

  Maureen Gallagher13

  Caroline Hurley14

  Gareth Fox15

  Margaret Casserly16

  Mick Jordan17

  Rosslyn Johnston19

  David Keane20

  Jessica Clerkin21

  Tric Kearney22

  Camillus John23

  Dawn Lowe24

  Margaret O Driscoll25

  Emmaleene Leahy26

  Mark Jenkins27

  Introduction

  In Summer 2015 the Liberties Festival Dublin held its very first flash fiction competition. Writers were asked for their best short short works on the theme ‘Liberties’ - both the concept of liberties and the Liberties area of Dublin, Ireland.

  This collection showcases the finest entries received as well as the winning entries by Mark Jenkins and Gary J Byrnes.

  The area known as The Liberties is the south-west part of Dublin’s inner city – approximately west of Aungier Street and south of the River Liffey – predominately in Dublin 8. Steeped in history, its name originated with the arrival in the 12th century of the Anglo-Normans who titled jurisdictions united to the city but outside the boundaries of its walls as ‘Liberties’. Two of the most important were the Liberty of St. Sepulchre (under the Archbishop of Dublin) and the Liberty of Thomas Court and Donore (under the Abbey of St. Thomas, later the Earl of Meath’s Liberty). For supporting the ruler, these Liberties received privileges such as freedom from various taxes. Today’s Liberties area is made up of these two ancient Liberties.

  Tom O’Brien

  I remember Dublin in the rare oul times

  Born May 27 1929, my inauspicious entry was at The Coombe Hospital in Dublin. I mean the REAL Coombe, which is no longer, except for the columnar facade which has been preserved (not in my honour).

   

  In St. Francis Square, Dublin 8, one of my earliest memories is of flags and bunting decorating the streets in a very hot summer. I reckon it was the Eucharistic Congress in 1932 which was imprinted on my brain at this time.

   

  School days began in the Parish school in the churchyard, thence to the Christian Brothers in Francis Street. I remember my mam handing me a sandwich through the gate; a Cadbury's chocolate bar between two “cuts” of bread. Heaven!

   

  Saturday morning was with Granny, who took me to Merchant’s Quay for 12 O'Clock Mass. This was a great day, firstly because of the Bulls Eyes bought in High Street, and secondly because of the congregation in the church - a truly eccentric group of people. They carried bicycle pumps (for no reason), bunches of flowers, and anything at all which could be described as “personal” belongings.

   

  On Saturday, after Mass, the lighting of the fire was a treat. The process of fire lighting began with sticks, paper, coal, and a small can of paraffin oil! Usually the first attempt was successful but one day I recall a near disaster. Having doused the coals with paraffin and applying the match there was a negative result. So, back came the paraffin and then the second match. Whoosh! My eyebrows were gone, Granny’s wispy grey streaks were singed and, presto, the fire was alight!

   

  Once lit, she used her old Wexford phrase: “That’ll be a grand fire when it lights, as the fox said when he pissed on the rock”.

  Sue Kinsella

  Michael's Liberties

  I took a notion yesterday and cycled out to your old place.

  Leaving from Chapelizod at 3pm, along the river route to Kilmainham and then onto Thomas Street in less than 30 minutes.   Beyond the front gates to the Brewery I stopped and sucked in a huge lungful of the city’s air before cycling off again.  It had been far too long.   I’m not sure why I had delayed in visiting but you know yourself, that’s just life, sometimes.

  Two women with their trolleys had crossed in front of me to the footpath outside Vicar Street.  I wanted to shout,   “hi, my ancestors are from around here.  We share DNA.  Where you off to?  Can I come?”   God that would have put the wind up them!   “That one’s for the birds.”

  Quietly amused by my own internal dialogue I rode on down your streets;   saluting the fine churches,   touching the old city wall for luck, getting off on Meath Street and Francis Street, just not wanting to miss a thing.   He told me once, his heart beat differently on Meath Street; a little faster, a little younger.

  I parked up and lay in the sun for a while.  Snug between the great St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Michael, your very own, Iveagh Buildings.  You loved this place, its history, the loyalty; people looked out for each other.  You’d laugh and say, “everyone knew everyone else’s business – there was nowhere to hide.”

  I suspect it was the box of old photographs you brought out to show us - just before you left.    Out of the blue you asked, “Were you a Coombe baby?”  “Yes Michael,” I said, “my own too.”    “Sure, you’re as good as one of us so.”  That was Michael, generous to a fault.

  Ciara O'Connor

  Taking Liberties

  Im taking liberties no punctuation hell I think im going to ditch capital letters too my iphone doesnt like it it keeps trying to autocorrect me but i dont care because taking liberties feels good you should try it sometime mister break a few rules see where it takes you

  June Nelson

  Liberties

  Liberties begins with an "L" what better way to describe it. "L" is for life and boy has it had bundles of that. Love, laughter, lice and lust. "I" is for inviting with all the previous elements rolling together to create the modern Liberties with its armies of cultures still spitting out raw living as it always did. "B" is bustling. There is a sense of past, present and future all travelling at ease through the streets,bustling along. "E" is for everyone for everyone has a place here and humour is the common thread. "R" is for rousing as rousing the "Liberties" have always been attracting revellers to its doors. "T" is for timeless as we all know about the "Libertiens" and love their stories through time. "I" is for inclusive as people have taken change and made it part of their community. "E" is for endless, endless possibilities as people are moving back towards city living. And finally "S" is for sex and what better way to end the word "Liberties" representing one of the most famous hot spots recorded in many a song and poem, no better way to represent a true Irishman and a true Libertien.

  Tom McElligott

  Stoned Cold Man

  ‘How you doin’ Big Fella?’

  ‘Ok buddy.’

  ‘So, what’s new man?’

  ‘Fat L
ucy ’s a grievin’ for her daddio.’

  ‘Yeah man, sleepin’ rough as a locked out dog, told him to get his ass indoors, -23 outside other night. Seen him on the stretcher. Hell, he looked cold. Lucy spread her legs ‘n covered him with her yellow cotton coat,  like a big umbrella, tentin’ and a shadin’ and hiddin’ matters meant be unseen and private.’  

  ‘Didn’t know if he was dead or what? Nobody knew, exceptin’ Lucy. Fools stood a gawkin’, thinkin’ he’s smashed again. I felt awful sorry for him - looked bad. Damn cold almost did  him. Should a earned couple bucks and got his-self a warm bunk.’

  ‘Next day he’s off again, like crazy man.’

  ‘My buddy called second next night - says, this guy ’s a dumped on the porch.’

  ‘ So fuckin what?’

  ‘Get him out a here man. Call the fuckn cops - don’t want his raisin’ trouble.’

  ‘I tell the cops looks like he’s shed his load. Cop says, piss off and mind my own shit. Then cop calls in, says send a paddy wagon ‘n bring some extra gloves, bums gone to the bathroom where he lies and shit flies. Man they just wheel his ass off, shit ’n all.’

  ‘And you know what? Funniest thing, the guy gets killed three days later in the back lane near Dowzers lock up. Wouldn’t spend the god damn money, an he got plenty, so I’z told.’

  ‘Who gives a shit anyway, yeah? What really pisses me up is, man he cud a lived, if he’d a god damn listened. Still wasn’t cold that did him or maybe twas.’

  Gary J Byrnes

  Privilege Revoked

  Jesus, the heat on Francis Street today. Every day for six months had been the “hottest day ever”. As Tommy passed through the security scanner at the pub entrance, the TV wall babbled about how fossil fuels were the best hope for a sustainable future. His body image flashed onto the scanner screen, every fold of fat on show, each cavity exposed.

  ‘Jaysus, Tommy. There’s a void in your stomach, cryin’ out for a pint of stout,’ laughed the security twat as he checked Tommy’s toolbox.

  Tommy grunted, took his tools, sat himself at the bar. The droid whirred along its rail.

  ‘Pint of plain, cunt,’ said Tommy, inserting his WorthCard into the slot on the counter. He always took pleasure in this robot’s lack of insult chips. It was the little things.

  The robot found a plastic half-litre jug and held it under the relevant dispenser. It suddenly jerked back. No stout flowed.

  ‘Pardon me, sir or madam. It appears that your WorthCard has declined this transaction. It transpires that your residential water bill has not been discharged to the System’s satisfaction. Alcohol privilege is revoked until the matter is resolved. Thank you and good day.’

  The bardroid whirred to another customer.

  Tommy slumped on his stool, everything finally catching up with him. Twenty years on from the Crash of ‘08, life was shit. No other word for it. Just shit. The EFU - Euro Fascist Union -  now controlled every aspect of life. No, call it existence. The fucking robots had all the jobs and the function of the ninety-nine percent came down to serving the elite, tending their droids, managing welfare credits, and not much else.

  Tommy snapped open his toolbox, found a nice big wrench.

  Michael Jay

  Taking liberties

  Set in a pub in The Liberties on 14th July 2015.

  Marie Antoinette O’Halloran sits on the bar stool. Her team mates are due to arrive soon. She is considering the first line of the Limerick they must write and perform using the scavengers.

  ‘There once was a Marquis de Sade’.

  She reads the Scavenger list aloud.

  ‘Fifty Shades of Grey ‘

  ‘Fishnet stockings’

  ‘Handcuffs’

  ‘A whip?’

  ‘A feather’

  She plonks the feather duster on the bar. She puts her purse beside it.  She searches her bag and adds Fifty Shades to her stash. Her team mates will get the rest.

  Tariq notices the attractive young woman. He has come to the pub for the liberties festival event they told him about in the hostel. He thinks it is a Bastille Day celebration. He is wearing a striped tee-shirt and a false Moustache. He plans to celebrate his national day.

  He approaches Marie Antoinette.

  ‘Salut, qu’est-ce qui boit?’ he purrs to her.

  She, thinking this is part of the treasure hunt she is on, replies: ‘Un pernod avec Coke pour Moi.’

  She feels attracted towards this dark handsome stranger who speaks French like David Ginola.

  She remembers seeing Sue Barker on question of sport when David was on. Now she knows how Sue felt.

  ‘Je m’appelle Marie Antoinette.’ She says. All thoughts of the treasure hunt are forgotten as she drowns in his gaze.

  ‘Moi, je suis Tariq.’ He says. ‘Si vous avez un problem que je tiens a vous l’aider.’

  Marie Antoinette blushes: ‘Do I have a problem getting laid? Look you’re nice, but I don’t know you that well.’

  Tariq laughs: ‘My apologies I thought you spoke good French. I just asked if I could help with the puzzle.’

  She smiles back: ‘Well you could be my Marquis de Sade. You may have to take some liberties.’

  Maureen Gallagher

  Dogs In The Street

  The local Labrador stops me in my tracks the other day. “We’re the road patrol and we’d like a word please.” By we he means himself and the mangy mutt he hangs about with. I stop short. Have they been sniffing around my back garden? Discovered the freshly-dug earth? Burrowed for buried bones?

  “Now, Ms Gilhooley, I’d like to draw your attention to the aesthetic of skyline.” He points a blond paw. “Take a gander, if you will.”

  I glance up at the row of red roofs. “Very nice,” I say.

  “Nothing amiss?”

  “Not as far as I can see.”

  “You absolutely sure?”

   “Who are you anyway, may I ask?”

  “We’re the road patrol, I told you.”

  “But you’re dogs!”

  “That’s beside the point,” he retorts.

  Should I be worried?

  “Why have you taken liberties, ruining a magnificent skyline?”

  Sure enough, the enormous aerial I erected last week looks very ugly, a gigantic spiders web.

  But I’m not going to answer to a dog.

  “You’re only a dog.”

  “Copping an attitude will get you nowhere.”

  His pal the mongrel growls.

  “What’s with…?”

  “Suffered in childhood, can only wuff like a dog now.”

  “But – ! You are dogs!”

  “Exactly!”

  “That’s a non-sequiter.”

  “C’mon Tonto,” says Labrador, “let’s peel.”  As he turns to leave, he shouts, “Philistine!”

  “Wuff!” echoes the mutt. A good job they didn’t ask to see my television license.

  Caroline Hurley

  Letter to The Liberties

  The Tower of London

  England

  My dearest Jane,

  After almost a year consigned at His Majesty’s pleasure to the dankest conditions imaginable, I have survived, despite my fears. I should soon be home in Dublin.

  I long so much to see you again. How’s Edward, our sweet boy? Your father, Sir John Bingley, assured me that this letter would reach you through his good offices. I tried to write before, on a hymnal page, but the warden tore it up and took my ink. They gave me one change of clothes in ten months. The bucket I wash from remains till it’s empty. I won’t horrify you by describing unutterable provisions for toilet and food.

  I’ve been sympathising with my Liberties tenants crowded in their little houses, hungry and cold, although the Anglo-Normans spoilt them with sovereignty. Strong rule is crucial for order and prosperity. I welcome the Huguenot migrants with their expert weaving, although it’s only a matter of time before their superior prod
ucts rattle English competitors. I’ve missed the world of ordinary business, terribly.

  I dream of trotting around my estates, admiring streets named for me. Please inform the land agents of my imminent return. Have they managed properly in my absence? Royal awards bring their own worries to families like mine; first Leicestershire from Henry III, then 300 acres in Ireland. Grandfather was made Irish Vice-Chancellor. Papa became Baron Ardee. I’ve been knighted, made Earl of Meath and appointed to Ireland’s Privy Council, but I’ve my fellow Parliamentarians to thank for my dungeon stay. We failed to help poor Charles I, executed for ideas about royalty, religion and the people. Let the other princes battle it out.

   

  I’m tired, Jane. Holding you again is all my heart desires.

   

  Your loving husband

  William Brabazon 1645

  Gareth Fox

  I wonder what it is my doctor reads

  I’ve never really wondered before but now that I’m here and we have a little time between us, I’m trying to distract myself. I don’t go to the doctors often, only when I’m sick – and by sick I mean only when in pain or when I feel like time won’t see the thing pass.

  This time she is investigating my rectum. I noticed a lump while shaving. If it had been there for a while, I couldn’t answer her. It never panged or smarted. It was only when I lowered the razor to trim around that area – in anticipation of a sexual liaison with an older woman - that I became aware of its existence. I thought it was maybe a spot and so went very lightly to squeeze it. But I knew it wasn’t.

  I then googled my findings but couldn’t brave reading the diagnosis of those who had suffered tumours or cancers. Normally, this kind of thing would disgust me, but the reality of it all is relaxing. Unless. Unless the more real it is the more disgusting it is. I don’t know.

  For some reason I don’t want her to read the things I do, to enjoy words like I do. I don’t want us to have anything in common; our mutual love for Oblomov should not speed forward images of my arsehole the next time we speak about fatigue or wanting to have that little bit extra in bed in the mornings. Certainly not.