Tag Archives: writing

Paddy Faces the Dragons Fire

Paddy Goes to the Dragons

 

Well now there you are the five of you and you all looking grand so you are. My self and the wife are here to extract a fist of money of you lot. We would like about €100000 for a small lump of our Business. Say hello to the people Sheila.

Hello

She doesn’t have a lot to say for her-self in the company of strangers, not that you lot are really strange. But you should hear her at home she never stops yapping. Anyway so we haven’t really got a name for the business yet so we are fine going with whatever you lot come up with. At the moment we call it the pen. Sheila said to ask when we would get the money and could half of it be in cash, she is a devil for the cash. So if you have any questions fire away

Hello Paddy, you haven’t told us what it is you are selling

The pen

The pen

It’s like an echo in her, yeah the pen.

Perhaps you can enlighten us as to what its function is?

What doesn’t it do is the question

What doesn’t it do then?

Well it doesn’t keep asking questions for one.

Paddy tell the people what its does

Right Sheila, enlighten us, my arse. Anyway it’s for the young lads and lassies in the exams. It helps them out. Sure those exams are shocking difficult, the young lad took to growing plants out the back garden, beside her self’s rhododendrons, the year of the leaving cert. Stone raving lunatic mad so he was, up there in the bedroom carrying on with himself and smoke coming out of the bedroom window, the cat was going around all queer after it stepped in to say hello to the wee pup.

So how does it helps them?

Well you see what it does now is simple enough so it is. It have a bit of an auld computer there in the body of it and it scans the questions from the exam paper, then the young lad has it set up to look up the answers on the google and there’s a wee display there and the young lads and lassies are sorted

Is that not cheating paddy

Oh god no I wouldn’t be one to condone that cheating carry on.

I think it may be

Ah no I wouldn’t believe in cheating, all it is, in a way, is a cut of stress relief. I think the doctors should be prescribing this to the students. It stops them having to study.

Sounds like cheating

Now cut out the messing boy, it’s not cheating at all, its just a bit of assistance. All that book learning couldn’t be good for you, no wonder all the young people are in need of doctoring.

And how much does it cost to make?

Oh we don’t make them

Well how do you expect to sell them then?

Ah no a wee company over in china makes them, the young lad found them on the computer

Is there a patent on it?

Ah no it wouldn’t have anything as fancy as that now, it just comes with nothing on it and we put them in a big cardboard box and sell them in the market. Matty Ryan, the brother in law on the wife’s side built us a lovely stall, painted it green white and yellow on account of the Easter rising and all that auld malarkey

And what are your sales projections?

Well now let’s see there. Right in the first year we expect to sell a heap of them, then in year two god willing, we will sell an even bigger pile of them. Be year three sure jaysus we will be selling bucket loads of them.

Can you be a bit more accurate?

Well in year three now boss, we will be going into the Americas. Over to New York and Dallas.

I want to see the Ewing house

We talked about this Sheila

Well I’m going to see it

Right well whatever. Anyway, dragons the American’s love the technology so they do, no doubt about it so we will sell a fecking load of them over there, sure they would buy anything, we will put a big harp and a shamrock on it and away we go.

Okay well because I have no pen experience I am declaring myself out

You don’t look like the examing type anyway

I think it illegal so I’m out

Feck sake

I couldn’t possibly understand a word you are saying so I am out

Good luck to you

I have no money to invest and am just here for the publicity so I am declaring myself out

I knew be the look of you

Let me think here now, I am willing to make you an offer

Good man yourself, fire away big fella

Yes €20000 for 30% of the business

You what

You heard me, do you want to think about it

Think about it are you having a laugh? You see we only have 5% left. I have 20% on account of me being the boss, the wife has 20% because she is the wife. The son has invested €20000 from selling the leaves from his plants and owns 20%. Joe Lynch the local postman said he will arrange for free delivery so he has 15%, the mother in law supplies the cardboard boxes and make ham sandwiches for the market days and grand flasks of tea, You haven’t drank the likes of it anywhere so she has 20% and she is a bit on the cantankerous side so you don’t want to be disturbing her share.

I couldn’t offer any better

Ah go on

No

Go on, go on, go on out of that

No

Ah well thanks anyway, now come here give us back them pens we gave out to you lot earlier, you not keeping them you shower of shaggers.

 

 

Paddy and Sheila drift out into the twilight with their pen and their dreams intact.

 

 

 

 

© Frank McGivney 02.06.16 (lunch time half hour of madness)

Paddy tempts St Peter

Paddy tempts Saint Peter

Well
Well
There you are
Welcome Brother
good man isn’t it only your self Saint Peter
heaven awaits you
Jaysus that was easy
mmm taking the lords name in vain
what are you at
making a note
a note of what
your sins
I’m shagging well dead
mmm cursing
give it over
its says here you gave up going to mass
I didn’t believe a word of it
how about now that you are outside the gates
I’m still not sure
What more proof do you need
let me in to have a look
you have to prove yourself worthy
I could give you some money
mmmmm bribery
give over writing it all down
by the look of this you haven’t a hope of getting in
you aren’t doing so good yourself
what do you mean
well your stuck out here with me
this is where god put me
so the rest of them are inside having a whale of a time and your stuck out here with the likes of me
its is my vocation
even the boys in Hell know how they’re fixed, do they leave you in at night.
no I am always here waiting the souls
you got righty screwed for the bit of denial
I am humble in the error of my way
You’re a full gobshite,
Mmm bad language
Put down the pen for a minute and listen to me
I got this pen from Jesus himself
Did he post it to you
Well kind of
Exactly. Look come on down here with me
Where to
Down to the other side, sure give it a shot and see how you get on
You are a heathen
That I am but it could be good auld craic once the burning and stuff is over with.
Will there be girls
Loads of them, bad girls
Hang on a second
What are you doing
Posting back the pen
Good man

Francie passing five minute at lunch time

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

the coal man calleth

The coal man calls (for once a true story)

there you are
hows it going
grand
I’ve given up the wood
have you now
yeah
must have been a pain in the arse going around to a heap of houses
tell me about it, head melting boss
so what you at
I have something in the back of the van
have you now
I do
i’m not buying anymore pots
that’s was the Christmas special
lovely
pat bring up the chainsaw
ah here steady on I was only messing
no its a lovely chainsaw
pat hold on there now
pat get out the chainsaw
honest to god pat leave the chainsaw where it is
you can have it cheap
look at me
you what
what would I do with a chain saw
cut stuff
I’ve nothing worth cutting
270 euro its a grand chainsaw pat turn it on there for the man
listen I wouldn’t know one end of a chainsaw from another
are you sure its great value
honest
what about the path there
you couldn’t use a chainsaw on concrete
no cleaning
you’re alright
I’d do a lovely job
but its spotless
no its not
you cant see it when the car is parked up
i’ll throw in the chainsaw
stop it
and a set of knives
cut it out will you
how about socks and boots
I still have the boots from last year
I have lovely socks
pat grab a pack of socks
I still have the packet from two years ago
you mustn’t clean the feet to often
its was a 20 pack
are you sure
the wife thought I was setting up a sock shop when I brought them home the time
these are great ones
the last ones left the feet black with bits of stuff
ah those ones
yeah those ones
come on pat we’re going
see you later
go on see you around

girls in love 

she smiled feeling the skin of her finger caress the palm of her waiting hand. Beyond the walls a man from Belfast sang a tune about a dance. The silver from the New York moon shone through the slit in the curtains tracing a line between their prone bodies splitting the bed in two equal parts, a jigsaw waiting to be pieced together in mutual desire. Somewhere a child with over eager lungs screamed for a mammy who was too drunk to care, a cat shimmied through an alley in the display of metal rubbish bins beneath the window, where their eyes sought the unquestioned answers of a lifetime of timid downcast smiles and whispered hellos. 

Saintly Ramblings

Saintly rambles

 

Line up St Francis on the 25th of July

Walk up that path among the birds

And the flies,

 

Line up the whore from the end of the

Street, shake up her ass and all the rest

in between

 

Line up St Christopher with the medal of

Hope, travel down that boulevard and

Dream all alone

 

Wake up the ginger dog with the shaky

Mind, walk that mama’s leg from the store

For a measure of wine

 

Wake up my lover with the one crooked eye

Strip off her mind with the hope she took

For a ride

 

(c) Francie McGivney 04.02.16

 

saint-francis-of-assisi-in-ecstasy(1).jpg!Blog

Apartment 45 a short extract: the Death Metal paragraph

The Death Metal paragraph

A racket is grating from behind the mould ridden door of one of the apartments, a din only a drug induced frenzy could produce, it screeches through the hallway. Beneath the plucked whines of the steel strings is the pulsating beat of a drummer who has lost the plot in a utopia of mind altering pleasure. The voice is demented, the vocal utterances reminiscent of someone been lowered slowly into a pit of sabre toothed, well fed but hungry boars. Jesus has long flowing hair apart from one side which he meticulously maintains shaved to an evening shadow consistency. His parents came from Africa where they had loved God enough to call their first born son after their saviour. I imagine the second went by the handle of Moses or Abraham. Jesus had inherited his mother’s propensity for excessive fat accumulation and his father’s poor taste in music. The cross upon which we were nailed grew in torture on a regular basis as the African prophet of Death Metal music practiced his self-composed creations with his fellow musically challenged buddies of Brad and Lucinda. Lucinda from the Bronx had a chewing gum addiction and drove men both married and single to distraction with her choice of minimal material based clothing. Brad was sired from the loins of a man who held greed as the central theme of his life’s philosophy. One day Brad would be saved from a detox centre by his Bentley driving daddy and taken to a better place. A world he should never have tried to reject where the girls all have perfect complexions and the staff enter by the back entrance hidden from view by an artistically designed hydrangea.

(c) Francie McGivney 26.01.16

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