Tag Archives: book

they got him on milk and alcohol

A wee paragraph I like from a bit of an auld novel I really like

 

 

The yearning inside for the poison she fed me has shrouded my whole existence in a fog of decrepit uncertainly. I want to look in their eyes and reach in their pockets and take from them what I need, I know they have some, all these scumbags use it, little bags of pure muck far from the pedigree it once was when it grew in some mountain side field of a third world shit hole of a country. I have the money, I don’t have the balls. I have seen it done in films, the brown bubbling on the metal spoon, the sizzle of the demon being sucked into the plastic, the decaying teeth pulling the band tightly around a limb to coax a vein to the surface, the dribble of blood marking the incursion, the metal point penetrating, the skin lifting gently, the depression of the scene and of the plunger, the dragons blood mixing into the addicts stream, the eyes flutter, the face relaxes and they are gone, far from this world to ride on the back of whatever demons they fear and love the most.

() Francie McGivney

Advertisements

Writing 

she didn’t look the maywest. Her nose was pointing in two directions which made the path of her tears meander in a most preciliar fashion. She was screaming and moaning and mumbling to herself. The neighbours stood at their doors with ears stretched to avoid missing the scandal.

“Bit of a domestic mr shanks” the auld bitch in 12a asked. Her look of concern failing miserably to hide her delight. I heard a thump from one of the floors beneath, where I stood thinking I should have pegged her out the window. It’s not like I didn’t appreciate short hair on a woman but I only put up with this one because of her Long blonde locks which now lay butchered on some gobshite hairdressers floor. I hoped the nutter in 3a wasn’t going to come up to see what was happening. He had just been released and looked like a man who wouldn’t mind spending another spell inside for the pleasure of beating lumps out of a woman beater. 
Francie McGivney on the iPhone with a version of an extract from the novel I working on. Just rewrote it on the phone just for fun

The Hospital

“Just a private joke about my neighbours, don’t mind me” replied Patsy. The poor auld fecker he said to himself as the look of bewilderment on the surgeon’s face revealed the mystery. It was his eyes, one was going one way and the other was going the other, that must be a shocking hard thing to live with, he mused, there wouldn’t be many women would stand within a mile of the likes of that kind of disability, well not in a loving kind of way anyway.

“Okay well it is in fact our job to mind you. Don’t worry you are in the best hospital in Ireland. Your operation is scheduled for first thing in the morning, after it is finished you will be brought back to the neuro ward. You will have to stay a number of days for observation”

“That’s great” Patsy was in fact delighted to finally been treated for his crushed vertebrae, he had lost all power in his left hand and the right one was starting to malfunction as well.

“We will leave you with the nurse and I will see you in the morning, good night Patrick”. The surgeon said to him looking at him with the one eye and nodding to his merry crew to get out, with the other. Sweet dreams and don’t let the bed bugs bite Patsy finished in his head.

“Thanks Doctor, good night to you too.” He said realising he was also looking in two directions at the same time. Jaysus he said to himself aren’t I a shocking gob-shite, I forgot I have the same ailment myself. I better not tell anyone I forgot about it. But it’s easy to forget something when it’s the one thing which you can never see yourself. It’s the same as a woman having a big arse, they can only see a quarter of it at any one time themselves and don’t realise it’s only the tip of the iceberg. A level of sadness descended on him, as the truth, of what he had been thinking about the surgeon’s life, hit him as applying to himself too. His life had been pretty lonely but he had managed to block the speech impediment and the eyes out of his mind in the interests of sanity. It was only at times like this, he realised why women who had returned his smile usually then turned their eyes away.

“Are you okay?” A male voice interrupted his silence, instantly sending the mad thoughts back behind his sanity barrier, into the deep place where they lay forgotten, until the next time.

He hadn’t noticed them all filing out of the make-do tent, until Patsy and the nurse were left alone. He had never felt such disappointment in all of his life. He stared at the evening shadow and listened to the not quite deep enough voice of the male nurse. It was bad enough having to put life on hold to go into the hospital, but to not at least get a female nurse to root at you, well now it was just on the wrong side of injustice. He wasn’t fussy, any cut of a female would do, it wasn’t like he would be sharing the bed with her and he wasn’t some cut of a pervert but any man could do with the comforting nature of a woman, when you were about to have some foreign lad pull your neck apart and start beating into your bones with a hammer and a chisel. All he wanted to do was listen to her voice, feel the heat of her close to him and languish in the sweet musk of her perfume. Then maybe of a chance, perhaps a man might be fortunate enough to even get a glance, at the hint of a boob pressed beneath the linen of her white uniform. But sweet mercy he had instead ended up stuck been interrogated and probed at by a nurse with a flat chest and more hairs than a fecking orang-utan. Perhaps the unusual son of that auld Biddy, with the loud voice, would be interested in his big red head and bog Irish accent but Patsy Reilly was far from impressed.

“My name is John, I am your nurse who will be taking care of you tonight” the man who should have been a woman, said with a smile that needed a shave.

“Nice to meet you John” Patsy replied as the Irish desire to be polite overpowered his disappointment. You had to make do with whatever meal the devil served you up of a day, no matter who unpalatable or disappointing it happened to be.

(C) Francie McGivney 04.06.15

the butcher boy

Francie brady talking to me. You wouldn’t find the likes of what’s in that book on the television . Well unless the film of it was on but the book is better. Tell you one thing there’s nothing like an Irish author. Patrick McCabe has a way of telling stories that grabs you by the mind and draws you into a place where humour is found in shades of black. You can keep youe McDonald’s humour for the gombeens I’ll have a nice day when I want to and a miserable one of the inclination comes upon me. It’s my right as an Irish man to be free to laugh while I’m happy or miserable.

Start of a chapter from a novel i’m working on

Chapter Running With the Girl

It was the dreams that made me run away. They came every night with the wet sheets. I woke up cold and shivering, not knowing where I was or how I would get back to where I came from. My mother had turned into a robot in them. She still looked the same and moved the same but the heat of her love had turned into the cold of isolation.

Each morning my real world mother came in and took the wet sheets away, I could smell something different from her breath, that hadn’t been there before. It was the same smell that my Nan had after drinking a naggan of whiskey.

It was a Friday when I put a pair of jeans, three t-shirts and a towel into a bag and sneaked it out of the house. Cora knew something was wrong as we walked along.

“I’m running away” I told her.

“No you’re not” she replied smiling, that smile could feed any hunger I would ever have inside of me.

“I am, serious. I am going to get a bus up to Dublin.”

“Your only twelve, you can’t run away.” She had stopped and was holding both my hands.

“Why not? I can get a job or something.”

“Francie you can’t, honest to God, why are you going? You won’t be able to get a job, you don’t know how to do anything.” the softness in her voice was breaking me down, I didn’t know now if I really wanted to go. I didn’t want to go anywhere she wouldn’t be.

“I don’t know Cora. I just have to.”

“I’ll come with you.” she replied, her voice filling back up with its usual enthusiasm.

“You can’t run away.”

“Why not? Are you saying girls can’t do what men can do? You better not be saying that, Francie Kelly or I will never talk to you again.” she was looking straight into my eyes. She kissed my lips gently, when I didn’t reply. I didn’t know what words to say, even if I could manage to talk, as my face went crimson from the wonderful heat spreading all over me from the quick feel of her lips on mine.

“Wait there, don’t move an inch” she ordered and then she was gone back the way we had come.

It felt right having her sitting on the seat beside me on the bus. The driver had barely acknowledged us when we got on and paid. I had the communion money, I had saved in the wallet that my daddy had given me. It had been a present from his brother in Australia. It held the two hundred pounds easily. Even if I didn’t get a job surely that would keep us going for ages.

She leaned her head against my shoulder after she placed the bag she had taken from home under the seat.

“Put your arm around me Francie, make me feel warm” she whispered and I did. I looked at the blonde hair and the top of her face, while she looked outside at the trees and nature. Every time the bus drove through a town she sat up and leaned her head against the window turning from side to side so she didn’t miss anything. I saw glimpses of the things she pointed out to me, but mainly I just saw her. My side felt cold while she was at the window. Each time the towns retreated behind the bus, she leaned back into me and we shared the heat of each other once more. I kissed the top of her head and she looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back as the rest of the world faded away and I felt something inside of me that I never felt before.

“Listen to this Francie.” She took out her Walkman and put one plug in my ear and the other in hers. Her fingers on the buttons were as soft and gentle as the rest of her and they fascinated me as much as the words of her mind. There was a whirling sound and a guitar riff was followed by Bruce Springsteen singing about never retreating and never surrendering.

“That’s me and you Francie Kelly. No retreat and no surrender.” She said suddenly turning around and kissing me on the lips for the second time that day, before quickly sinking back into my arm and holding my hand where it touched her shoulder.

“What will we do when we get there Francie?”

“I don’t know but we will find out together, it will be the start of our adventure.”

“Will we travel to different countries?”

“Of course but the ones we will go to will be those with the wildest of adventures, where the most beautiful of nature’s animals live and where the plants have the strangest and sweetest of smells and trees with leaves of all the colours of the rainbow stretch up in to the sky.”

“Will we meet many people?”

“We will meet hundreds and each one of them will let us life with them for a while. They will tell us all about their lives and show us where and how they live?”

“What about the ocean Francie?”

“We will sail down the Amazon and life in the trees and at the end of the river we will reach the ocean and swim in it among dolphins and schools of fish. A whale will come along and pick us up on its back and we will go out into the deepest part, to see the sunsets that only the creatures of the sea have ever seen.”

“Will you stay with me for ever Francie?”

“If I ever leave you Cora then the seas will dry up and the sun will burn out and the world will come to an end.”

“Wow we better stick together then.”

We sat in silence until the bus stopped at the depot. We stepped out and we were swallowed up into a different world. Everywhere we looked people walked faster than they did at home. There was so many of them. The noise level was the scariest. It was deafening yet we could hear no one particular sound. The car horns, the people talking, the birds squawking, the rustle of newspapers, the engines of the cars all of it just combined into one operatic rush of sound that surrounded us, as we stood motionless looking out at the city streets. The smell from the river mixed with the filth on the pavement created a thickness in the air, making it harder to breath than at home where fresh fields were everywhere to be seen. A woman in rags who looked like the victim of a famine country in Africa, except with pale skin turned black with dirt, stood beyond the glass door that separated the relative safety of the depot from the noise and our potential future. In her hands she had a bundle of The Big Issue magazine for sale.