As well as ruling the world the Irish also own the world of linguistics by the introduction of one word which covers every possible known sentence in the world. This word is unique to Ireland and is of course “feck”.
Feck can mean anything that you want it to mean but it has to be used wisely because of how powerful a word it is. It also has extensions such as fecker which is it in noun form. And feckless which is a new kind of feck used by posher types. As an example take the following sentence in common use .” Feck sake paddy you only after tearing the guts out of the bitch.” Which translates to ” ah now paddy what did you go and drive the tractor at such a high speed for and destroy the engine “.
Or “I feck the little fecker up good and proper the little gobshite” one translation of this would be “I shall severely reprimand my young son for doing something a bit silly”
Charles Bukowski now that’s a man who could write. No political correctness or bullshit just hard living drinking whiskey , working his way through women and jobs. I reading factotum at the moment. I want to write
like him, maybe a novel that gets banned but then becomes a cult classic. Something Irvine Walsh would be proud of but set in the land of Ireland among the squalor and the pain.
To write a novel where sunsets are seen through darkened curtains and moonlight nights are lost in bars and whorehouses spilling liquor and loving women
The bar is shut and I’m standing here with a bottle in my hand, grime in my hair and thoughts in my mind. The bottle is empty, some of its contents is splattered by the side of the bar. That guy that sold ideas had ruined my chances with the blonde with the short skirt and the long legs. She gave up smiling as I gave up on the night. She left with someone else as I knocked him out. Well I wished I had knocked him out. it was the whiskey he drank that knocked him out. The doorman knocked three shade of shit out of me while throwing the pair of us up the alleyway. He only did because he fancied Ms Blonde himself. I could see jealousy in his eye as he opened the skin above my eye with a punch. I don’t know what I am doing with the bottle. somehow I imagined sticking it in to his face, but I wouldn’t be able to do that. I throw it against the window and it smashes. The bottle not the window. I run , where do you run to when you have no where to go.
http://www.53wordstory.com/ interesting competition only 53 words allowed no more no less this months theme is “Secrets”
Chilling to Nick pushing the sky away
Finished joesph o connor’s star of the sea tonight . A brilliant book by one of my favourite Irish writers. Time to use the inspiration to move the pen a bit myself
. That there snail is purple. Jameson reserve whiskey and ice the best Saturday night companion to writing.
Sitting working due to October deadline for tax returns here in Ireland, Listening to Bob Dylan asking a woman to give him just one more chance and wishing that I was sitting in my reading room at home and writing stories or poems or working on one of them there novels that will one day be finished
Long listed in a competition about chicken soup . Considering how much of it I have eaten I shocked I didn’t win lol http://brilliantflashfictionmag.wordpress.com/2014/09/25/finish-the-story-contest-results/#more-314
chicken Soup Ice Cream
She met him at an international student exchange.
He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
“Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
“Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
“All right,” Sharon said.
She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
They went for ice cream instead.
“In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
“Does it ruffle your feathers if you are feeling hot?” I asked him. Those brown eyes that I would look into for a lifetime went out of focus until a smile spread across his face with his comprehension.
“Yes, it is very stimulating,” he laughed, placing his hand on my arm gently, spreading his touch to reach my heart.
Thankfully the parlour didn’t serve chicken soup flavoured ice cream. I would have tried it if he had insisted, his awkward stiffness entrancing me into submission.
Six months later I sat at a table in his hometown, my stomach rumbling with excitement and panic. I smiled as he put the bowl in front of me. The one spoon, I tasted under his hopeful gaze and pretended to like. Amidst the giggling and talking we held each other’s hands with love. I looked back, as his arm wrapped around me, to see a waitress emptying my bowl, but his eyes were on me alone.
Pen in hand searching for words . The other gripped firmly. One used the other motionless. Words spill out on to the page slow at first then erupting . Sprouting out in fountains of sentences and paragraphs. They speak to my soul telling me their plans their past their future.
Starting in a field not knowing where the path will lead but not that it matters. It’s the sights along the way, the words of the people you meet the smiles the tears the dreams. None of them are yours they belong to the story to the characters. They take your hand some hold tight and some loose and they lead you to their world