Lucky Charm - Gerry Hancock

Another ex-boyfriend -

Another ex-boyfriend -

Another ex-boyfriend -

Marie swiped through the screens until eventually she came to a photo of a guy she hadn’t embarrassed herself with.

This guy was dressed in hunting gear but what Marie noticed more was that around his neck hung a pair of binoculars in the brightest shade of pink she had ever seen.

“Brave lad,” she giggled; less in reference to the obvious abuse he would be subjected to by his fellow hunters and more in reference to the bright target the binoculars made him for any voracious prey he might think he was hunting. With those binoculars in that particular shade of pink boyo here would be the real prey!

There’d be no more swiping however, this needed further investigation.

Marie tapped on the icon in the top right of the screen.

Mike it said.

Mechanic it said.

Like hunting and shooting it said.

This could be her lucky day.

Was Mike her lucky charm?

Or was it his pink binoculars?

  

Cathy Beck’s session Picwits session Feb 2023 Annette

 The hour between 6am and 7,

The cracks in between the curtains,

Light streams in,

Alarm clock breaks the nights silence,

Intruding on his sleep,

In another place an exhausted nurse heads home,

Night shift over,

Leaves the overcrowded ward,

Falling into bed,

The hour between 6am and 7,

Cars leave the ordered estate to find their spot in office car parks ,

Working from home is almost over,

The sound of the coffee machine cranks up,

The hour between 6am and 7,

The telephone rings 

“She died peacefully,”

The nurse closes the curtains to respect the dead.

The hour between 6am and 7,

The Ryanair flight takes off for Lanzo,

A family settles in excitedly looking forward to sunnier climes and dreamy days ahead.

Annette Brown

A tidy up of a Picwits quick write from a writing prompt. Annette

 The morning after the night in Thomas Connolly’s snug we felt a walk along Strandhill beach was needed.

With thoughts of the family secrets shared over pints of Rockshore, we needed time to breathe and the gentle lapping of the Atlantic soothed our dull headaches and brought us ease.

Limpets clung to rocks weaving in and out of the sand. The Atlantic waves washed in and out of us as we walked through the squishy sand.

Moving to a piece of firmer sand I could see the majestic sight of ben Bulben under a swirling grey sky bringing back memories of the past. 

By Annette Brown

Waves of Words

The word waves intrigues me as it is both simple and complicated.

At its most simple it is both a noun and a verb of course. 

The waves roll in and out. 

The young child waves goodbye to his mother as he or she heads off to school. 

And still the waves roll in and out but the child stops waving. 

It is no longer cool.

A Martyred Saint

 Paddy O'Riordan was a martyr, not to bunions, not to his bad back, but to his wife Josie.

Paddy was a quiet hardworking Corkman who bothered no one and was bothered by none. Even his Corkconian origins were accepted without remark by all his neighbours.

Josie was a Dub and a loud one at that. She was in fact not just loud but probably the person for whom the word uncouth was coined. Josie was always heard at least a block before she was seen; ever complaining about her lot and the deficiencies of that "ghost from Cork" as she often referred to poor Paddy.

Neighbours nor strangers were spared her tongue and the quicker witted of them would quicklly learn to keep their heads down while suddenly remembering that they had some pressing chore to complete before she had the chance to light upon them.

In spite of Josie's barbs Paddy never rose to the bait, didn't get involved in any public disputes with his wife and had learned to keep his head down too. He also kept very busy. He worked long hours in the C.I.E. Works foundry in Inchicore and signed up for all the overtime he could get. 

He had a hobby too, directly related to his employment. At that time C.I.E. owned both the Royal and Grand canals and the land which lay on either side. In a number of places along the length of the canals they rented some land to employees who worked them as allotments at a nominal rent.

Paddy's allotment was a finely manicured piece of heaven on earth and a Josie free zone as it was about half a mile from their house so out of Josie's usual ambit. It was a place of repose for Paddy and a connection to the land he had left in Cork as a youth. Furthermore it was a source of healthy food for his family and, when there was a glut of a certain vegetables or fruit, also for his neighbours . 

Without this narrow strip of fertile ground by the still waters of the local canal it is likely that Paddy would have lived an even shorter life than the meagre sixty-six years he was granted.

I remember Paddy with deep affection to this day,

More Questions Than Answers

You didn’t have to come, but you did.

And what good did it do you?

Did it take away all those years of guilt,

Those years of silence,

Those years when I didn’t know if you were dead or alive?

And now with your Yankee accent

Like someone from a TV show,

No hint of Dublinese left in your speech.

And when you knocked on my door

In the company of Matron

What did you expect?

The fatted calf?

A slap in the chops?

Were you filled with a burning desire

To see your old mother again,

Or was it a duty, an effort

To salve your conscience,

To put things right

Before it was too late?

And when you introduced yourself

With your “Hi”

Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?

How would I not

When you were and are

Part of me?

And you rattled on and on

About the steps you had taken

To find me here in St. Paul’s,

How Google was a wonder,

Whatever that is.

And I only ten miles from the house

That you were born in,

And the whole country about

Knowing well I was here,

And have been for nearly

Eight years now,

Ever since I caused a small fire

In the kitchen

And my home help Agnes

Got carried away with herself

And informed Dr. Moore.

And the stories you told,

Of a family I have never seen,

And the great things they are doing

All over America.

And I learned for the first time

That I was a grandmother,

Not once but four times over

And soon to be a great grandmother.

And a little present

In a wooden casket,

A necklace your wife bought

No doubt,

But it was truly beautiful.

And you left my room not much more

Than an hour later.

You had things to do,

People to see in London,

Business of course

And very boring, you said,

But had to be done.

And I’m wearing the night blue necklace now

And finger it’s stones every night

Like my Rosary.

You didn’t have to come.

But you did.

 

 

 

 

Where I'm From... Going back to an old one for a little tidy up today

I'm from neat terraces

The New State's first houses

With gardens and yards

And spaces to play

And underground tunnels

And the sweet smell of tobacco

From the Players Wills factory

And pealing church bells all

Sunday long

I'm from Community Care

And clips on the ear

From the nearest grown up

When I did something wrong

I'm from May Marian processions

And convent girls in communion dresses

And pipers on the Coombe

Playing lonesome laments

I'm from stories of hardship

And tenements left behind

And hopes for a republic 

And hopes that had died

I'm from all of these places 

And people and lives

The encouragement of some

And the punishment of Pride

A ghost of a past that visits with me

I'm from a Liberty

I was born free

  Feb 2023 - Session with Cathy.

 Postcard Piece - take a recent, fresh memory and write it on a postcard. Micro-fiction.

This morning, driving Aoife to work, we creep along the traffic packed roads. We turn a corner into a quiet, narrow street and both exclaim "Oh!" at the sight of frothy blossoms bubbling pink and white on either side. We're a Dublin version of the Japanese blossom admirers who sit on picnic blankets under laden trees and collectively sigh "Aaaah!" with each petal flurry. We non-Geisha girls smile and comment on the loveliness, the delicate colour splash that surprises us as we go round the bend, but in a good way.

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Time piece. Taking an hour in the day and write.

6 pm late autumn sun gold glow, leaf crunching the way home.

6 pm winter dark lit by fire flame, hearty book, hunkering down.

6 pm spring hint of evening stretch, bird concerto, daffodil nodding to good days ahead.

6 pm summer sitting au dehors, sun warm skin, chilled wine, sea call.

Same time, different time.

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Prompt : Confessions. [ From a zoom session during Covid lockdown.]

When I was young,

With my grubby index finger and thumb,

I swiped icing off the side of the cake

intended for visitors

and greedily sucked them clean

and swore the cat 

had done the damage.

I have pretended not to hear a doorbell ring

so that I could stay in my book world.

Having given a long lecture on not doing this

I squished an insect under my sturdy shoe.

I have reached into an open cereal box

with my bare hand

and smuggled out

a fistful of crunching satisfaction.

I pretended not to be me

when someone I didn't want to speak to

unexpectedly answered my phone call.

I've used a disposable face mask twice.

I've used a reusable face mask twice before washing it.

I have pretended to be hard at work

on research

and emails

when I'm playing Solitaire.

I made myself laugh

each time

at the right time

when hearing my dad retelling

the same anecdote

countless times.

And I wish I could do that again.

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Prompt : What lies beneath? [Quickwrite - 5 mins 10 sec.]

When I was a child we went to Mayo for our holidays where my bed companion was my granny. During the day I was her assistant as she baked bread, fed the hens, collected eggs, fetched the milk, washed the plates. Sometimes I was allowed behind the counter of the post office in the porch and could use the worn wooden postal stamp with the ink pad, its surface an uneven mountain range from years of pounding, to leave my mark on a postage stamp. I was also one of the respondents to the rosary she gave out each evening as we knelt around the range, except for my uncle who knelt at the chair by the door ready for a quick getaway.

And then bedtime. I had to get in first, next to the wall, and face it, while my granny undressed. A soundscape of sighs, grunts, clicks, clacks, unhooking, unbuttoning, popping, rustling, crinkling, heavy breaths, unclipping filled the room until, at last, the mattress waved with her presence and we had ANOTHER rosary, she and I, while, on the chair next to the bed, all I could see was her dress laid over a soft mound of mystery. What lies beneath?

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Prompt : Sweets. [Quickwrite: 5 mins]

Sweets have been my downfall all through my life. As a child I lost my front top teeth and gained multiple metal fillings all on account of my sweet habit.

A moment on the tongue, a lifetime on the gum. And hips. And stomach.

Why is it that I can always manage to be in the mood for sweets but have to be in the mood for, say, broccoli?

In my childhood I loved fruit pastilles, the hard, sugary texture to crunch through to find the firm jelly that tasted of fruit. I do realise that it was probably more a chemically induced illusion rather than one of my five-a-day.

And wine gums, the hint of sophistication with the word wine, the rubbery, ridged surface, the jaw ache from chewing.

And as for parma violets - tiny, crunchy dies of aromatic joy.

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Confusion

(based on a timed quick write during the summer course)

He struggled to open his eyes. How do you wake up tired he asked himself. But..tired he was. Exhausted. Drained. He thought back to when it had happened. He wiped the sleep crust out of the corner of his eyes. Come on, he urged himself, remember. It was like a plea. He didn't recognise the weakness in his whisper. And yet, the memories kept slipping through his mind, he was like a child unable to hold on to a ball. Each time he grasped at a memory it slipped out of his reach.

They'd been together, of that he was sure. Definitely. They must have been together. They were always together, yet, why was he alone now? He looked down at where his strong muscular arms should be.

Confusion.

Papery, spindly, skinny arms with thin, long tapered fingers. And the blotches and the veins. He couldn't take it in and yet it was familiar. He'd get to the bottom of this. He looked around the room, everything in a soft, blurred focus. His uniform. OH!! There'd be hell to pay. Where was it? One of his bunkmates must've hidden it. Where was it? He was always fastidious, his uniform as clean as a new penny. He needed the security of his uniform. Once he put it on, all would be ok.

He rubbed his hands slowly over his face.

Stubble.

He'd be in trouble if he was seen with stubble. He'd be given the what fro. He'd shaved that morning, using the small broken mirror and resting it on his canteen. In fact, he'd managed to nick his chin in the process. Funny how he couldn't find the scab of it now.

He sat back down on the bed, tired, frightened, a nervousness creeping over him. He knew there was a horrible truth, a reason, a finality just dancing at the edge of his mind...just out of his reach.

He needed to sleep. He'd be late for line out and there'd be hell to pay, but he needed to close his eyes. He lay back and closed his eyes. His eyes dancing under his eyelids as if still searching for his uniform.

She quietly tiptoed towards the bed. He was asleep. His mouth was ajar, snoring softly, his thin chest rising and falling slowly. She pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. 

Poor Eddie she thought... an old man of 90 in his body, a young man in his prime in his mind. She shook her head in pity and disgust. Times had changed, but still, young men women went off to fight the wars and some continued fighting them even as they neared the end of their lives, their minds forever trapped in no mans land. 

As she closed the door to Eddie's room, she thought of a poem she had learnt in school "Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori"- it's a sweet and good thing to die for your country. She wondered if Eddie would agree with it if he could.

 Thoughts on time.

Time. It waits for no man..but it can stand still..like an errant toddler wanting to be chased it runs away from us. Time can crawl, drag, fly or even stop.

We can save time or spend it, wisely or foolishly depending on our day.

We can become lost in a moment only to be found in the nick of time.

And all the while, time passes.

Time can be killed but its slow march can never be stopped permanently.

Time is the greatest healer but in the end we die when we run out of time.

We can give time to others- a moment, a second, a minute, an hour- or we can refuse to give it- "I haven't a second to spare". 

You can be in time, on time or if you run late...over time.

And all the while, time passes. 

When a decision needs to be made it can be down to a matter of time or perhaps you'll have time on your side.

However..my alarm has just sounded..my 6 minutes is up..I would love to write more but I seem to have run out of space!!