Tag Archives: fiction

Random

There you are and he milling the spuds and no bother on him while the blood floated in the air and the roars evolved to screams and the light fading to dark.

The beef didn’t meet the appearance of steak and toughness would be the word best used for a texture hidden by an over zealous salt shaker

And he told them to stop the swinging

Why they asked sure isn’t the damage done

Because the juice from the cow is all I have an inclination to enjoy

Sure we’ll be finished soon

So will I so just hold on until I put the fork down on the plate beside the knife in a patrolled fashion or perhaps with the top slightly touching

And the sound from the radio is a song from a time when he was young and bolde and seeking truth and he will be humming it for the day

There was no need for what they had done but he couldn’t be telling them when he was the one who bred them into the ways of his heart

Her smile drifts from the shadows. Laughing at the strange ways of him knowing she wouldn’t be having it any other way apart from the unusual touch of his mind upon the world

The cat on the wall beside the bush where the sycamore watched the blackberries erupt in autumn yawned with the mundanity of the scene

The napkin slipped to lie on the once proud floor

I’ll be heading then he replied

Give ma a hug for us

Right then

The wind smelled of a factory in need of closing as he stepped outside and wondered where the madness ended and the sanity began

Frankie loving the words spilling from his mind

A seat

The bench, old and worn, was cold to the touch through the wool of my trousers

Hi

I could see a line of grime etched into the lines beneath her face as she looked up from her can and threw the shortest of dirty looks expertly mingled with a sound mixture of disinterested distain

Sometimes no doesn’t have to be put Into words or perhaps a look is the strongest no

Still and all it’s not a bad day all things considered

The look again this time I noticed a bunch of her hair stuck together with blood or sweat or vomit or whatever sticks hair together when a member of the human fraternity doesn’t get to avail of the washing facilities of a day or even a month

You can go fuck of if you think you getting something out of me I’m no hooker

I’m no punter either

Good cos I’m particular about who I be having the fun with

Me too

Yeah right

Yeah right exactly

Don’t be getting fucking smart you fucker

I just saying I not into hookers

You should be

Ah here

Well the state of you with the head on you and that Gammy eye and you look like your mother picked out the clothes. Is that wool?

Feck sake you’re worst than a commentator on one of them shows

What shows

You know the xfactor bollixology

Here listen don’t be using that kind of language in front of a Lady

Fair enough

And a slow breeze trailed across our path while we both looked on at the city passing by. a quietness in the kaleidoscope of hustle

You know no one talks as they walk

I looked up and listened and watched

Your man over there is talking on his phone

I thought I told you not to be a wise fucker

You only mentioned being a smart one

Whatever. He is on a phone that don’t count

Why not

It just doesn’t

Why

Cos it’s like the mad cunts who talk to themselves it’s not real talking it’s just pretend chitter chatter

I see what you mean

About the phone

No about them not talking they just are all rushing

Yeah

Yeah

Have you a light

Have you a fag

Yeah

Right then

And I saw her eyes were brown when she held the flame

She would have been a beautiful daughter to some Da a long time ago

She held the smoke deep inside, feeling it’s warmth before slowly releasing it back into the world

I better make a move

She nodded and looked back down

I touched her shoulder gently when i stood, the briefest of contacts; she didn’t react, maybe she hadn’t noticed

I walked on with out a word been uttered to a soul, a member once more of the rushing throngs

(C) frankie mcgivney

Just a random story of top of my head I hope it reads okay. The words I love to write

You forgot the end again

You forget where it began

Drifting from your eyes

Your fearful grip

On strands of words

You write each time

Her name her hair

Her smell her eyes

Lost to be refound

Through blurred notes

On unworthy slips

Of yellow and green

You make her laugh

You make her smile

You use your smarts

You use your words

To hide the fear

The darkness wins

Once more

The emotions remain

But her name

Even her name

Flounders on your lips

You forget when it began

But the agony of the end

Tightens it’s grip

repeats

To fade into a memory

Forever lost once more

You loved her once

You love her still

You will love her once again

(C)frankie Mcgivney

Character

this writing malarkey is fascinating. Doing it nearly a year and a half now and every day I learn new stuff. 

The interesting for me the last few weeks is what happens when you add an extra dimension to a character and then rewrite what you had written previously.

It’s like a new world opens up, a more interesting one for the character to explore or in this case cause havoc. 

I’m excited what this let sing curve will throw my way next. 



The dead plot (work in progress)

Its dead

but they wont bury it

not knowing its demise

its there to torment

to weaken my will

to break my soul

to drive me to whiskey

maybe its not all bad

_______

Bukowski is talking

marked by a slip

a taxation page

i thought he would laugh

He lies upon Palahniuk

Plotting to have nightmares

for all the others

dreams

_________

The plot

a beginning

any page could do it

a middle

where boredom festers

the end

what they want to hear

__________

Truth melts

as thoughts become ink

spots on a page,

changing from reality

to the angels voice

of fictions plot.

(c) Frank McGivney 14 January 2015

What to write

I dream of writing both awake and asleep, it’s something that reaches into my soul at all times. Both sides of the same coin it doesn’t matter which side that pops up head or tails . The two side being reading and writing. I don’t feel I have achieved any real quality in my writing but I do sometimes see where I want to get to as a tiny pinpoint far distant in my horizon. I stretch and reach for it and someday I hope I get to it. If it turns out good then I will look to the next horizon but I know it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. That’s the aim of course to be different so that those who like it love it and those who dont well they can only hate it because of its distance from the norm of warm comforting sunsets.
I was listening to stories and thinking to myself sure wouldn’t it be great to be able to write them lovely tales of times gone by or of lovers in fields of gold or of a fisherman sailing across the broad Atlantic foam.

Then I realised the reason why I cant tell you about the green leaves melting into the crimson beauty of autumns rain. Why I can’t tell you how the sunset looked of a winters day as the purple of the evening sky faded into the star filled world of dreams. I also realised I didn’t want to tell you those things because I have read stories by people much more talented than me who have in beautiful prose and with elegant sentences alreadydescribed the sentiments and the beauty.

I want to look at the other side I want to see how the moon looks on the dark side away from the earth. I want to tell you how the drug dealer feels as he put a bullet into your knee cap. Its my job to tell you how the mind of the crazy person works as he stumbles along lonely roads stretching his hand out to spread his madness.

My stories want to lie in that rat infested corner where damp seeps into the lost child’s clothes and tell you how he escapes from the crap the world throws at him but maybe he doesn’t escape.

When the hunter is standing over the dead prey I want to tell you the feeling in the jaws of the lion as he attacks and tears his skin from his bones.

But then I want to tell you how the lonely man feels inside how his hearts yearns for the plain girl with the cross eyes and the pimples. If you want to read about the blonde blue eyed girl and the handsome lover then mills and boon is awaiting for your money

Most of all, I say most of all I want to write what the people inside my head tell me to write which from the echoes i am hearing is different to what I expected and sure isn’t that something to aim for. To meet the definition of normal is a boring objective but to look at things from the inside out while hanging upside down well then that makes me want to tie a rope to my feet and jump of that bridge.

boat on lake

Morning

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