Tag Archives: writer

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

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 

a paragraph I wrote and i just liked the sound of it

The only time he actually did bring us to talk to a man about a dog, he brought Nan along with him. We ended up in the cow dung splattered yard of some cottage up the hills half way between the middle of nowhere and the end of the road. There was the pure sickening smell of dogs mixing with the bovine excrement, filling the air with an intoxicating mixture. We all bundled out of the car on to a driveway where the once solid concrete was chipped and lying as dust on the ground waiting for a wind or a splash of rain to take away. The cottage was in a state of disrepair beyond anything imaginable by a person from outside of the rural way of thinking where a caravan with a rusted roof and no running water was a grand spot to live. However it lay in the league of a palace compared to the out buildings which had the appearance of a site which had been hit by a stray bomb from world war two, most likely from a German plane which had been flown across the whole of England by a pilot with bad eyesight and a dodgy aim, who upon seeing the state of the cottage decided he would do the world a favour by cleaning up a tiny bit of the world by way of dropping a bomb on it. Thick Ivy shimmered with the rhythmic motion of a huge wave of green leafs which had settled over the walls of the farm and had forgotten to ebb back out to sea. Nature came to teach me a lesson of what truly lay in the surrounding shadows when the brother shoved me into the embrace of a thicket of its stems. I came out covered in spiders, the whole wall was a breeding ground for a malignant looking population of eight legged hairy creatures of nightmarish countenance. My fear of tearing down the Ivy which in my mind appeared to act as the mortar  holding the walls up was lost in the realisation I wouldn’t in fact be killed by the falling rubble but instead there was a distinct possibility of me been eating alive. The family who were meant to love me laughed in a most unsympathetic way as I jumped around the yard beating of spiders who seemed determined to cling to their newly discovered residence.

Francies Chronicles a paragraph

DSC_0005

“We are all born with original sin on our heads and looking around this classroom, some of you fine specimens obviously had it worse than others. The holy priest, most likely my good self, cleansed you lot, the best he could of the sins of your forefathers, when you were innocent babies in the sacrament of baptism. But now it’s time to wipe the slate clean again and it will take some cleaning for some of you.” Father Murphy wasn’t the worst of them really, Nan didn’t give out much about him so that was some kind of a good sign on his behalf, because Nan usually cut the socks of the clergy even worse than she cut the rest of what she called the privileged gobshites. I don’t think she realized gobshites was a curse word because she never blessed herself after saying it, the way she would when she used the other words I was forbidden to know, not to mind use. How I was meant to not know them when her-self and Daddy used them constantly, was beyond me. Mammy used get shocking upset with my father for using them while my-self and the brother were in the room. The only one she would permit herself to use was “feck” and that was always when she was giving out socks about Daddy and even then she would bless herself and call for the forgiveness of the good Lord who is up in heaven. Much like I will have to be doing myself within the next few months for the first time.   “Yes Father” the rest of the class say in response to some question the Holy Father has asked. That Micheal O Suilleabhain catches my eye from across the room and sticks his tongue out at me. A right class of a full idiot so he is, him with his white collared shirts always done up tidy with a blue tie wrapped around it like some sort of Nancy boy, while the rest of us look like we have just come out the far end of the worst hurricane ever to have hit the town of Ceannais Mor. Not that a hurricane has ever actually hit the town, as far as I know, but sure there’s no harm in wishing for a bit of excitement now and again. Of course the mother goes on like he is a great chap altogether.

(c) Frank McGivney 21.01.15

conversations the escort

Hi

Hello baby

I was wondering, I mean I saw your advert

okay sweetie

Are you free now, I could meet you know if you were free

Give me half an hour to get ready baby

How much are you

Well it depends baby

For half an hour and just normal stuff you know, none of that weird stuff, just straight in and out.

Have you ever been with someone like me before baby

Well i have had girlfriends, well kind of.

Okay well its 100 for a half hour

Do you kiss, I mean can i kiss you on the lips

Yeah of course you can.

Okay Where do I go.

I ll text you the directions

Jaysus do you have my number

It came up on the screen when you rang

oh yeah of course , i just nervous should i have a shower

Yeah a shower yeah baby that’s good

Right I see you in half and hour, oh god I may have to call some other time

why baby

I had an accident

are you okay

yeah i just got so excited thinking of you and a shower i had an accident I need to go and clean up

CLick

Hello are you there, ah here , not again.

th

Writing

You sit and listen and learn and the desire to write builds up inside of you. She has a look about her and a way of talking that makes you wonder. The words of another resonate in the air and you wonder could you ever, would you ever write as well.
Then you realise you wouldn’t want to because it’s not you. You write your way and yours alone which mightn’t be the best or even that good but by jaysus it’s your own. As wilde said be you own person because all the rest are taken or something along those lines.
You come home and what you write is different and perhaps mysoginistic and definitely violent and perhaps loving and yet you like that character and you want to hear his voice as he talks to you.