Tag Archives: writer

In the pub

Well

Water

Nah whiskey

I’d prefer a martini

A who

With a small drop of gin

Sweet Jesus

Now Tommy mind the tongue

Mmmm

A green spot, make it a double and a martini with gin for Denis there barkeep

Right you are Tommy

Nice dress there Denis

It’s Denise tonight Richard

Your right there now, it is Denise for sure

Is it comfortable

What

Well the get up

The get up?

The dress

It’s not too bad.

Breezy I’d assume

Fresh

Yeah fresh

Grand colours by the way

Ah green goes well with my eyes

Ah here give over with that now

Do you not agree

Yeah right

And the under carriage

Ah tucked and slung

Jaysus

Ah he would climb down from the cross

Be no harm and we in need of the wood

I wouldn’t be wanting to get that now

What

Wood

Wood?

You know a surging down below

Ah right

Yeah cause me an injury

So come here tell me are you a transgender or a transvestite or a cross dresser

Well I won’t be getting anything cut of

Thank fuck for that

Yeah I just like the liberating feeling of it

Sure gives you more choice

What

Well you know a more varied wardrobe

True

Jeans trousers skirt dress shirt or blouse

And all the colours

So are you set for the mart tomorrow

Ah yeah come here get me a pint of stout will you

For sure

Fecking half shot from that martini malarkey

Frankie with a WIP

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

Random

Corduroy boots prancing

She stepped beyond the

Pole he wrote on the line

Weeping lines of ash

Trailers painted morning

Pink reflecting in Spaniard

Dancing boots of vacant

Leather

Hidden he commences

To descend above the flames

Burnt into pale fluorescent

Tattoos depicting the stray

Torture of a dreary priests

Last moments

Curled toes stretch to caress

The lost pole golden skin

Of the girl lying naked

Fiddling with his emotions

While her cross eyed stare

Describes the winter time

Design of her corduroy

Boots cast meaninglessly

Before the amber turf

Of his vacant fire

(C) Francis Mcgivney

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

Freedom

Belfast, Beirut, Palestine, Iraq, Syria, Sarajevo, Dublin 1916, the Congo, Paris, New York, London and everywhere in between where a man’s quest for freedom is demonised by the ones with their fingers on the triggers

He knelt among the rubble, the dust never to be cleaned from his clothes, her blood dripping on the stones where once the fire of their home warmed a family, before the bomb pierced his heart and all he ever had in life. The woman, he once waited for at the top of an aisle, was now scattered in crimson shades of slaughter among the stones, her body drifting in the eastern winds blowing over a paupers city decimated for no reason beyond the greed of men and the hunger of a world for the black blood beneath a dust covered land.
They sit in comfort staring into the orange of a fire lit with coal and turf, they listen to the words of the press, they nod in agreement to fit into the jigsaw of the non questioning man. From one to another as time drifts horrors into memories they ponder why he rose with battered breath to step forth to unsheathe the sword from its resting place within its scabbard.
Frank McGivney 01.12.15

Novel Extract Chapter 19

Chapter 19 Hospital days.

Then the night came when the ward was silent, apart from the background hum of various life monitoring or body function sustaining machines, the nurses in their station had their heads submerged in the reams of paperwork which accumulated during their daily shifts, the fellow residents either slept freely or in their coma’s and I silently put my foot on the ground beside the adjustable bed and the other one followed and combined they tentatively discovered they had regained the strength to support the rest of me. I stood up straight, and my eyes wandered around the ward and took in the view from this new higher perspective where the ancient cracks were subtly hidden behind the building’s sterile yellow paint, the oxygen bearing tubes stood out from their rotating connections, the sacred heart looked down upon the broken and battered, the injured and sick, the virtuous and the sinner. I breathed deeply, slowly testing the first step, feeling it give but not fully, then the next gave as well but didn’t disappoint. I looked back to the distance of a foot I had travelled and knew the road lay ahead of me once more. I took one sloping step after another until I found myself circumventing the separating curtain between my isolation and that of the man with the loud snores and pungent flatulence, who I had only saw in my imagination on account of his determination to grasp the final strand of his privacy via a blue and white striped retractable screen. I was aiming for the toilet, a noble destination for my first excursion unaided. The blood drifted from my brain as I rounded the bed of my hidden companion who looked at me with concern and a worrying curiosity as I leant against his mobile food table for support, trying to reconcile the withered specimen in front of me with the rotund grease-ball image I had imbedded in my visual cortex.

“Are you alright there buddy?” the old timer’s accent revealed a long forgotten hint of the old country behind his strong New York tones. It was always the Irish condition to retain deep inside of one’s soul the country’s accent for the benefit of fellow citizens of the land of leprechauns, irrespective of the length of time since its rhythms had dominated the person’s linguistic charms. It was a powerful sort of secret code capable of resurfacing the deepest held fears and feelings of inadequacy from years of religious based sexual and moral repression, in the most successful and confident of emigrants. Its malignant purpose was to restore the natural order of the Irish way, where no one was ever allowed to indulge in the audacity of stepping above their predefined station in life. A station based on parental roots, primary school inadequacies and level of skill with a hurley or football held in the hands of red faced youths who were expected to retain the national drive for homogenise behaviour and to avoid stepping beyond the safety of the proverbial rails.

“Yeah not a bother, just a bit of a head rush” I said looking down at his prone body sensing the danger in the way his eyes fixed upon me and in the look he had about him of a man who retained an interest in the goings on of the land in which he was born and raised, despite having lived longer away from its green fields than in them.

(c) Francie McGivney

The Hospital Part 1

The Hospital

“Do men read books?” her tongue lightly layered her faint moustache with saliva at the prospect of having someone new to talk about.

“My youngest lad has the head forever stuck in between the pages of a book”. Bridie in her new flannel gown replied gently straightening the fabric over her knees and admiring the swirling pattern of the fresh material, which felt refreshing and smooth against her wrinkling skin.

“Is he the unusual one?” The moustache was getting wetter as their voices travelled throughout the room, their flat accents coming alive as the conversation changed from the mundane to gossip.

“He isn’t unusual, he is just a bit different”. Bridie’s eyes went to the floor, avoiding the feel of the intense eye contact from her best friend Gretha. There lay the problem with growing up in the same town with someone from infancy to old age, they ended up knowing more about you than you knew yourself. She promised herself she would stand up to her for once, if the auld codger mentioned anything about the disappointment of Old Tommy and his rejection of Young Tommy. It wasn’t the young lad’s fault that he couldn’t meet the responsibility of been the namesake son.

“Did he ever find a girl for himself?” Gretha pushed the knife of bitterness in a bit deeper, she couldn’t help it. She had been raised by a cruel bitch of a woman and more of it had rubbed off on her, than had been buried in the auld woman’s grave.

“No Gretha, he hasn’t got a woman for himself. It isn’t women that takes his fancy and its well you know it, wasn’t it yourself who told the whole town about him when I told you in the strictest confidence, he had come out to us” Bridie wouldn’t be letting the auld bitch get away with taking the mick out of her son.

“Ah now Bridie that wasn’t me, I didn’t mention it to anyone.” Gretha insisted

“You were the only one who knew apart from me and Tommy senior. Don’t be denying something now when I know it’s true.”

“Everyone knew, sure you only had to look at the young fella to know he was queer in his ways. Anyway would you look your man, he still hasn’t made a move. He will need to put on his pyjamas soon, he can’t be sitting there reading a book in a pair of jeans all night. He will have to get into the bed at some stage.” The topic was changed, the chance lost and Bridie was left with that familiar bitter taste in her mouth once more.

“You sound mad interested in seeing him undress. Have you taken a bit of a shine to him? He isn’t a bad looking chap for a big lad” Bridie teased.

“I most certainly am not, I never have watched a man undress in my whole life.” Gretha blessed her-self, relishing in the feel of the lovely new material pressing against her skin, where the Son and the Holy Ghost had just lay their mark.

“What about poor Jimmy? You must have seen him in his nothingness at some stage over the forty years of marriage.”

“I never took much notice.”

“No wonder he was always wondering around with the head bent low like a man lost in a field.”

“That was just him saying his prayers.” Gretha mumbled, not enjoying the way this was going, she was used to having the upper hand. It was none of that Bridie O’Shea’s business about her and her Jimmy. She would want to mind her manners or she would put her in her place. That husband of hers was like a wondering bull with the local women before the consumption took all the energy from his drive.

“More’s the pity you hadn’t a stallion of a man to fill your minds, then you pair might mind your own business a bit more. You should be grateful for the thrill, if you happened to come upon something half decent buck naked in front of you. It would give you both something to think about rather than the lives of others”. Two sets of ageing but still sharp eyes pierced into the back of the nurse, who passed by the ladies, without looking or waiting for a venomous reply to her comment.

“The cheek of that one and she one of those half casts. She probably came out of some decent white woman been put upon by one of them darkies” Gretha said even louder, this time aware everyone within shooting distance could hear her. Yet her skin didn’t flush or her body shake, she was too used to anger and hatred for her body to rise to even the most extreme of her emotions.

“You can’t be saying things like that Gretha, it’s not politically correct. She is from Kerry however they managed to find one of her type among that pile of sheep herders.”

“What the Jaysus does politics have to do with anything, such a load of auld cods wallop. She is what she is and no one is telling me I can’t say something out loud. Look your man has pulled the curtains around himself. Would you listen to the noises he is making, he must be going at himself, have a peek inside the curtain’s Bridie and see what’s going on”

“I most certainly will not, I am a descent widowed woman.” Bridie replied staring at the curtain and running her tongue between her moistened lips.

“Whist up, here comes the posse.” Gretha said giving Bridie the nod to go back to her own bed.

________________________________________________

“Mr Reilly” the doctor, with a confident look about him and a suit with a price tag capable of feeding for a year the village he came from, said, as the gaggle of surgeons pushed in through the curtains causing the temperature of the newly formed cloth room to rise rapidly.

“Yes that’s me” Patsy replied squeezing his book on to the chest of drawers alongside the bottle of 7up, the roll of wine gums , the packet of digestives and his Walkman.

“We apologise for having to put you in the female ward but we are waiting for a bed in neuro surgery and this was the only one available.”

“That’s okay I have been getting acquainted with the habitat of the local population”

“I’m sorry?” Mr Hashit asked, Patsy couldn’t help look at him trying to figure out what it was that was so queer looking. The odour of the peppermint on his breath couldn’t hide the smell of curry and his suit looked way too expensive for work in a hospital, but it was something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

(c) Francie McGivney 03.06.15

paddy and the referendum

I could see it in the look they were displaying

What could you see?

The lord himself.

Did you bless yourself?

No, I laughed

You’re damned

No doubt and do you want to know the worst bit

The fires and the stakes

Not that rubbish, no Paddy, they didn’t know

Know that you are damned

Ah here keep up, they didn’t know what was inside of them, what was leaning into their souls, what was pushing them down?

Are you sure they weren’t the crowd from the back hospital

Smart arse

Thanks

His will was pushing them down, the words they put in his mouth were weighing upon them like a big bale of damp hay, making them forget the meaning of his message.

That’s shocking

I seen it myself. Auld lads in brown suits and mad eyed auld ones in their best coats.

Did they salute you?

They did and all, with big suspicious eyes cast down upon me as if they knew.

Knew what

They knew which one I was voting yes for and which is voting know for

Well you know you do go on about queer like

The ladies like it seemingly

Yeah right

Yeah exactly.

No harm in fooling yourself

No harm at all

So what else

The girls at the desk

I know

Yeah good for the humour or what

I’m still smiling after the look of them

Should last a few days

The weekend even

Would you by the way?

What?

You know with a fella

Only if he had long hair, real boobs, smooth legs and no willy

What about a pair hanging

Nah better without them either

A Brazilian

Spanish even

Good night

Good luck

Writing

lieing here half asleep

My eyes telling me

Go asleep fat boy 

My body fading and

The words keep 

Calling me
Listen Francis joe

Listen and take down

These words 

Their quality is doubtful 

Their meaning never found
A care couldn’t be given

The dreams continue
Too tired to carry on

Good night

Francis Joseph McGivney