Finnegan’s Folly by Lydia Little
He had his back up against the wall, his heated body taking relief from the cold stone. The night sky offered a clean darkness with the glimmering of the moon behind the October cloud. His lungs drank deep the crisp air, cooling the back of his dry throat. He scanned his space nervously. He was good. There wasn’t a sound about him other than the teasing of the trees, their branches toying with his intentions.
His wristwatch told him he was early. He pulled the collar of his jacket closer around his neck and reached into his jacket pocket for fags. Another quick scan gave him the confidence to take a cigarette, instinct told him to rethink and he crouched onto his honkers. Cupping fag and lighter he lit and pulled deeply, inhaled and held the warmth deep in his chest. He relished his habit, exhaling each breath downwards, blowing the grey smoke into the wet grass under foot. It curled between the blades and found its way into the confines of the hedge that met the wall at a right angle.
His sweat now turned cool and cramp in his leg made him readjust his balance. Another glance at this watch and he began to question his motives. His loins gave him his answer. The girl should have shown herself by now. Pushing down into his boots, he slid his back upwards against the wall and took another look over the hedge that separated him from the enclosure. The garden was silent. The windows from the library wing stared lifeless back at him.
A movement down the hedge caught his breath. The garden gate opened and a shadow stole up along the edge. The light of the moon caught the scampering form and a flash of flesh sent surges of adrenaline through his body. It was she.
Her bent form straightened on meeting him. Panting and eyes white wide, she greeted him with a practised air of nonchalance.
‘Hey there’
‘Hey’ he replied with a cocky nod of his head. ‘Any probs?’
‘Nah, lights out over an hour ago, prefects all gone down, and the nuns are out cold.’ The girls hid her nervousness by glancing over her shoulder towards the wing of the nun’s enclosure, and then back to him. Shoving her hands deep into her coat pocket she shuffled from one leg to the other. She bowed her head not wanting to meet his gaze, only wanting to appear cool but her stomach churned with excitement and nerves. She could smell him, a strange mix of earth, tobacco and cheap aftershave. She raised her head and watched him as he looked again towards the confines of the nun’s quarters. He had a bold jaw and makings of a tash on his upper lip. She found herself smiling at the thought of tash rash and what the other girls would say.
‘Where to?’ he asked masking his own nervousness with a hungry smirk.
‘The old boat house on the lake is always safe bet’
The two went to move off, when a sound from the gate startled them both. They froze. The opportunity of flight lost in the element of surprise and naivety.
‘Shit’ she whispered low and tight.
A tall dark shadow moved quickly along the hedge with a strong stride of intent and purpose. The darkness did not allow for the recognition of face but the swish of habit told the girl it was one of the nuns.
‘Shit’ the girl repeated this time with the knowledge that the gait and form fast approaching was that of Sr. Benedict, or Benny, as she was known. Responsible for the convent farm and animals, this nun was a nun merely by don of habit and chant of benediction. She was mannish in every other form. And feared or respected by all.
‘You there’ she bellowed. Looming directly in front of the frozen pair, standing tall and still, hands hidden within the folds of her habit, she held their eyes in her own.
Editor's Comments: A big welcome to Lydia Little, one of the two new Irregulars to be published this week. On the positive side, this piece has been written with a wonderful degree of style and is immediately both descriptive and atmospheric. At the same time we felt it lacked two things - an effective finish and some kind of tie-in to the title. Who was Finnegan in this story? However, there is no question but that Lydia has the makings of a true writer. Send us more, please.
Tim
FINNEGAN’S FOLLY by Flor Lynch
In the final, mad dash for the train, as they were pulling into the station and with a minute or two left, Jim thought he was going to make it – howbeit, just in the nick of time. Traffic had been very heavy, and the city morning pouring rain, but now they were at the target. Approaching nine o'clock. On the car radio, ads: the Nine O’clock News would be after these.
The advertisements ended, they were still short, and the presenter of the `Morning Ireland` programme announced: "It's now a minute past nine and here with the news this morning is...” “Oh Jesus the train's probably gone - nine o'clock!! Blind Jim Finnegan lay morose: What-the-hell am I going to do?
`What'll we do, so? ` Jim asked of his uncle, Stephen, the car’s driver.
`You'll have to get the next train, I think: that's at half-eleven. `
`Can we not ... catch this one along the way, go to Mallow something? `
’No; I've got to go back to work as usual ... We'll check it with the man at the counter.’
Stephen stopped the car, they got out, and Jim purchased his ticket. The man behind the counter confirmed that the nine o'clock train had left and the next Dublin-bound train would not be leaving until half-eleven.
The staff were puttering about breakfast things in the downstairs canteen; and the waitress there - when they learned of his plight - agreed to serve Jim the meal, bacon-and-egg. Ahead was going to be two-and-a-half hours of ...
He had brought along a battery-operated Walkman with tapes for the train ride, but not enough for this contingency at all. [This was in a time before mp3’s and mobile phones.]
The occasion of visit was supposed to be the opening of a computer-training annexe at his old school in Dublin. He'd been notified of it, as all past boys of the school had also apparently bee, by R.S.V.P. invitation. The Minister for Employment or for whatever-it-was) would perform the opening. Six years in the past, Jim had last visited the place (a school for disabled boys) a short time after he'd finished school there. He hadn't liked it at all. But now he was attending University as a mature student – or, as some people put it, he was “going back to school; and now going on into third-year English and Sociology next week. Now that, he felt, was worth at least some advertising.
However, on this present grey, end-of-September Tuesday morning, it was now just five-past nine with a void up to half past eleven.
He'd woke and arisen this morning at 7.15, although he had meant to rise half an hour earlier, but he'd overslept the alarm set for 6.45. However, he was ready, after his cereal, at 7.45; and his uncle was by then outside the door to pick him up for the fifty-mile drive to the station which often took seventy minutes, or (‘seventy-one minutes on the N71’!) occasionally more.
On the now gone train, he'd been meant to arrive at Heuston at 11.50 whence his cousin would drive him to the school. Now, however, Stephen would ring and tell his other aunt of the sorry turnout, so that she could be at the station at half past two - instead. If she were not there Jim would take a bus to the school where he'd been meant to have lunch. At any rate, now he'd miss the best part of the festivities.
Jim Finnegan was twenty-six years old, still single, and had been born without eyesight. He was of average build, with fair hair which had gone dark instead of blond and with a slight air of disappointment to it showing off now as beginnings of baldness.
By the time he’d finished his fourth coffee, it was still only a quarter to ten. His father had always brought him, as a boy, on time, to the back-to-school train on time whether Jim liked it or not; and that when he was really beginning to like it he had to leave off. He was then nineteen.
And it happened at about twenty-five to eleven. He suddenly remembered that it was Tuesday. It was not the right day at all! The event had been put back to Wednesday, tomorrow. One of his brothers had told him of the phone call a few days ago, but he’d quickly forgotten about it.
Editor's Comments: Welcome to Flor, our second new Irregular this week! The group enjoyed the folly, the twist at the end, but felt that much of the detail in this piece was unhelpful to the story and slowed it down a bit. Still, a bold first effort and we look forward to seeing how Flor will develop as an Irregular West Cork Writer.
Tim
An Amnesiac’s Memoir by Gerry Connolly
Another year has passed and life seems unchanged and mundane only for the changes in my diary, which I have kept for many a year, ever since my stroke, which happened on my 60th year. Here I am in Golden Meadows, a nursing home in West Cork for people like me who need such a facility. I have my own little room with a TV, phone and a few other things that I rarely use.
The doctors advised me to keep a diary so as to keep my mind occupied and to increase activity. My family help me to fill in the past events (when they call) to keep memories fresh. I will read to you some of its contents:
Married to Mary, back in the yearly 50’s, she was my first love and bore our four fine children, three boys and a girl.
The three boys are away in America and working at various jobs. The girl who is called Jane after her mother is in England and married to a solicitor; they have no children. Jane was working as a legal secretary, which is how she met her husband, Michael Ross.
James is a carpenter and married with his own family of two girls, Anne and Claire, my first grandchildren, both under 10. His wife Katherine McCarthy is an Irish girl whom he met at a singles bar when he first came to America; they live in Chicago.
Michael who is James’ twin – they are in their 30s - did not get married yet! He works as a policeman in New York. As Michael has not married he comes over to see me (more often than the others) when he has holidays that he usually takes in August.
My third son Tom who was called after me works in a bar which he and his wife, Elizabeth have rented from a cousin of mine and of similar age to me - now retired. They have one child, Mary, who is just like her grandmother – my late wife.
I met their mother while working up in Dublin in the early 50’s. I worked at a branch of the Bank of Ireland. She was a nurse in St James hospital – which is why we named one of our boys James. She originally came from Kildare
We had a good life together and never a cross word between us. She was great with our kids and they grew up just as good as any family.
My darling wife was killed in the late 80’s as she was driving her car, a small Toyota, to visit her mother and father at their home in Co Kildare. The Gardai said the accident was caused by (what we now call) a joy rider.
“Mr O’Brien!” called the nurse, “time for your medication…you really should put away your diary for today…. you know how upset you get when you read it…I’m sure your family will call to see you one day.”
“Yes nurse…any post for me today?”
“No, not today. I will write to your brother Michael and try and get him to come and see you.”
“How is Tom O’Brien today?” The Matron asked Nurse Maher. “He still thinks his family are alive and living in America and England. The St Vincent De Paul people are very good to him, though, pretending to be his family and filling in his diary for him.”
“That car crash in which his wife and four kids were killed all those years ago must have been awful!”
“Indeed it was” said the Matron, “it helped to cause his stroke the Doctors said.”
Editor's Comments: First let me extend the warmest welcome to Gerry who, with this piece, becomes our fifth and newest Irregular! This story starts out as an almost sparse 'listing' of family members but the twist two thirds in turns it into a story. This is an excellent first work Gerry, and I hope you will be picking up the gauntlet again soon. I look forward to your next contribution.
Tim
An Amnesiac’s Memoir by Delia Van Hemmen
When my second child was born he physically kicked his way out of me in an urgent need to escape the almost translucent solitude of the womb and to exist in the real world - to become. Two hours and nineteen minutes from first twinge to taking comfort at my breast. They did not cut the cord straight away but lifted him up onto my belly, still sticky, blotchy red and coated in white vermix as though he was very lightly greased to swim the Channel. As I took him in my arms, alive and overjoyed, there was an instant recognition between us. My reservoirs of unconditional love swelled. He knew me at once and felt safe. We had been alone together long before he woke up in this world.
It amazes me to think that something so tiny and precious, something unable yet to lift its head or to even form a smile could struggle so determinedly to be free.
The will to exist.
I have no recollection of the birth of my first child at all.
Many times I have tried to imagine it. I have even tried to relive it, like a crime scene re-enactment, in the hopes of jogging my own memory. It is really just as farcical as a man who wears a pillow up his shirt and believes he might feel some empathy with his heavily pregnant partner. It’s never going to work.
I ask my husband who was by my side to recall every detail and tell me over and over the story of how we became parents for the very first time. I am only ever listening to somebody else’s story. I hope one day to be awakened inside to some remembrance but my time is running out.
My husband tells me the little details that he says I chose to recollect when I ever told the story. He had a cloth ready to mop my brow but I refused to allow him to let go of my hand for one second that he did not have chance to reach down into his bag and get it.
The doctor wore white Wellingtons in the delivery room.
I don’t love my little girl any less. I mean I would love an adopted child the same as my own flesh and blood wouldn’t I? And she is definitely flesh and blood; the resemblance between us is uncanny.
But I wish the gaps could be filled in. She only missed me for four weeks while I was in the coma. Though for a child separated for the first time from her mother it must have seemed forever.
I lost my own mother twice.
She died the year before my first girl was born. I don’t remember the grief and though I cannot recollect any love for the woman in the pictures I feel the loss more now for never having known her. By all accounts we were close. Cancer. I am told she fought bravely and was a true hero and a martyr. I don’t doubt that this is true. Truth is I don’t know if we fought, if I tired of her, if she was disappointed in me. Who would dare to tell me those details? What purpose would it serve?
My husband told me that I missed her most terribly during my first pregnancy. A daughter needs a mother not least when she is preparing to become a mother herself.
Funny thing is that despite having no recollection of my first pregnancy I seemed to take the second one in my stride. It was as if my physical body remembered just what to do and could manage quite well without me.
I am just getting to know myself, to get a sense of whom I am but I am afraid I will never really know who I have been.
It is strange to be reborn at twenty-six years of age, but that’s what happened. I could protract the metaphor of my rebirth at length: the sudden propulsion into existence, the hospital setting and so forth. The single most significant comparison I can draw is that of being delivered into the arms of a person I did not know and yet with whom I felt completely safe. My world was no wider than his embrace.
Had I not fallen instantly in love with the man who introduced himself, as my husband things might have been more difficult for me. As it is I know I could die a thousand deaths and live a thousand lives and love him in every one. Sometimes if paranoia kicks in and I wonder if my world is a hoax then I am so happy to be fooled all the same.
It was strange to come home to a place I did not recognise and feel the compulsion to gather up the stranger’s dirty socks and pants from the side of the bed for the wash.
I did feel the need to clean the house really well. It’s funny; a woman will move into a new home and scrub a perfectly clean house from top to bottom. Why? So she knows that all the dirt in the home after that is good clean dirt of her own making.
Did I not trust myself then?
Had I changed?
It doesn’t matter now.
I had fallen in love with my husband. I trusted him and believed him but was I the same woman he had fallen in love with?
Was it possible that we always laughed this much together? Did we really sit on the toilet in each other’s company? What bliss!
And now this.
Six months if I am lucky the doctors tell me.
I needed to get something down on paper for my next departure. I need to know that there will be some record.
For my children.
When you read this my children I will be with you no more.
I may never remember the suffering of my mother because the slate has been wiped clean for me. I hope the cancer will not take me cruelly so that you will not see me fade. It breaks my heart that you are both yet so young. As a baby forgets the womb, you will forget me.
You will probably only remember me as a series of faded impressions, coupled with the stories that daddy will tell you and curled up photographs. I want you to know who I am, who I was but failing that I need you to know how much I love you. Every second of every day I feel like the most blessed person on the face of this planet to be surrounded by so much love and joy that you give me.
Joseph you will be two tomorrow and I only woke up in this world three months before you were born. Titania you are nearly twice your brother’s age, but yet so young.
My life is destined to be short, but better one moment of my life, so blessed, and so loved than to live long and lonely.
Never settle for anything less than your dreams. I know in the next world I will remember you and everything that was before. When we meet again we will know each other well.
I am always and forever with you and watching over you.
Love
Mummy.
XX
Editor's Comments: There is no question but that Delia has a powerful gift for language and she gives it full rein in this piece. That said, I did wonder if there weren't too many loose threads thrown in - such as the unexplained four-week coma, but think that this sort of untidiness is more typical of a first (rather than a final) draft. If so, then the fault probably lies with me and this absurd pressure I put on all you writers to get your pieces finished within the week allowed. This is not an apology because I also think the slight risk of untidiness is more than offset by the magic of the Impossible Challenge. Plus, I'm a sadistic little git........
Tim
Cheerleader of the Apocalypse by Delia Van Hemmen
Once upon a time there were three sisters, Daisy, Maisy and Bob. Poor Bob was supposed to have been a boy and was named before she was even conceived. It would seem she was to have little control over her destiny from the start.
When she was nearly three she whispered in my ear… “Mummy, can we make a surprise for Alice”.
She had never whispered in my ear before…I was being drawn into her little secret. My ears tingled and tickled and buzzed as she touched them with her lips. Her whole body was tense; she was so thrilled by her own idea. Her fists clenched involuntarily in front of her and she shivered…surprises were so exciting.
I had no idea who Alice was. What’s more I could not think where she might have heard the name. No one at playgroup was Alice, no one we knew, I could not even think of a character in a story she knew or in her favourite television programs called Alice.
“Who’s Alice?”
“She’s my friend”
“Oh. And what does Alice look like?”
“Like a boy!”
“Oh”
“Where is Alice?”
“She’s far far away.”
Bob would often tell me about the castle she had visited. She always began by saying “When I was a big girl I went to a castle”.
There were lots and lots of people there. They too were her friends. With each telling of the story she filled in more details - the black and yellow flags, the towers, the candles in the halls, the fires, and the funny animals. She even had pet names for the four horses that lived in the stable”
What a wonderful child, such fun, such imagination.
The years galloped on. Her sisters grew up plain but popular. She was alone and beautiful.
Just before her seventh birthday Bob asked if she could have a friend stay over. I was delighted she had found a friend and said “Of course. Who is it love?”
“Alice”.
Alice came to visit our home often after that, though I never saw her. Sometimes she would stay for days at a time and then she had to go home.
Bob was always sad when Alice left and got so excited when she knew she was coming to visit again soon. How strange I thought that my child chose to send her imaginary friend away at all. As parents we had never questioned Alice’s authenticity or discouraged the relationship. It seemed that Alice had another life to lead when she was not in Bob’s company.
Bob was able to tell us a great deal about Alice. Alice was older, already thirteen. She had been that age since Bob first met her. She was a dancer, well a cheerleader actually. She even taught Bob some cheerleading moves and we were often entertained by her jumping up and down in the lounge shaking the tea towels and getting confused trying to remember the chants that Alice had taught her.
One day Alice had to leave and Bob was more upset than usual.
“What is it my love, sweetheart…what’s wrong?”
She sobbed loud and deep, losing her breath as if in an asthmatic fit. Her shoulders heaved with every heavy heart-wrenching gasp.
This was not sadness but a deep deep wounding.
“Did Alice do something to upset you?”
She finally calmed down enough to wipe the flood of snot and tears onto her sleeve and tell me. “She…(sob).. She. (Whimper). She said we were all going to die. You and Daddy, Daisy, Maisy, even Brutus and Snowy”.
I gathered her in my arms and gently cleared away the rogue hairs that had fallen across her eyes and stuck themselves across her wet and ruddy cheek.
What had brought on this sudden change in the relationship? Hell, I even had to remind myself that it was not a real relationship. Why the sudden and alarming change in my little girl?
She let it all pour out in a continuous breath.
“She said there was going to be a big party and all her friends and everyone she knew was coming and then we would all die. Everyone Mummy, everyone. Everything will be gone.”
I should have found the way to comfort her…to tell her it was untrue, to protect her. All I could do was to ask “When?”
“Next Thursday after lunch”
Her mood lifted surprisingly quickly and there was no mention of Alice for the rest of the week.
Thursday morning came. Bob sat at the breakfast table, shuffling the sodden cornflakes around her bowl. Suddenly she declared.
”I’m going to be a superhero!”
And we all lived happily ever after.
The End.
Editor's Comments: This latest piece by Delia struck each one of us as a stunning and near flawless bit of writing - fully and perfectly capturing the power and the butterfly mind of a little girl's wonderful imagination - and taking our breath away with the mastery of her technique. Thank you so much for sharing this Delia!
Tim
Cheerleaders of the Apocalypse by Daniel Firmo
Under the misting mountain that blots out the bright circular shape of the moon and shadows the terrified village below, three sisters call out to the forever darkness. Margaret, Colleen and Aine, stand side by side on the cusp of a burning pit in their tattered robes; their sickly green toes curled over its edge.
They chant into the thick smoke that smells like flesh and hair and screams as it curls up before them disappearing into the unseen cracks in the rock ceiling. Like cheerleaders of the apocalypse they throw out their hands and move rhythmically in sync with each other dancing to some unheard ancient song. Their knuckles crack and pop as they reach out their fingers to grab handfuls of smoke to eat, for in the smoke is all the youth and life and love and bravery burnt from the bodies in the pit.
The dead below were lured from their homes, transfixed by false desire, transported by blood and bone magic or snatched and taken by the three sisters who can only hunt during the nights of the hidden month nestled between June and July. The smoke cupped in their thinning fingers breathes stolen life into the wretched sisters.
Lucas, the Foregetful, the most powerful of the Fore, frowns as his booted foot crunches the gravel outside the cave entrance. Some terrible thing draws him into the dark damp dank of the cave and propels him through its twisting turning tunnels with inhuman speed but like always his mind blank.
Lucas carries knowledge of only his own name, in itself a force to be reckoned with, one of good and righteousness, he hopes! He twists his ring as he rounds the last bend and comes to a halt before a huge chunk of fallen rock, behind which is the source of the call. He glances down at the ring, there’s something about it, some Foreboding rooted deeply in its history telling him he should not take it off - but why not? What could possibly happen to him if he did?
The sisters snap around hissing and spitting, “Who dares!!!” they shout before throwing up a barrier to break the spray of rock and dust thrown in their direction as the boulder they’d placed over the entrance to their cavern explodes in the wake of a blue green light. Hissing again at the sight of a boy - a mere boy! – Standing with his head cocked questioningly, alone in their lair.
The three sisters call out a jumble of sharp words and the ground rumbles and then cracks. The parting earth shoots towards the boy who holds his stand and stare until the last possible second. Quickly he raises his hand and waves the crunching chaos into nothingness. With a flick of the same hand the three sister’s fall to their knees, their barrier vanished and their strength drained.
“Who are you?” the stranger says striding up to the pit to stand alongside the kneeling sisters.
“Is it he?” Aine whispers to Colleen, who repeats her question on to Margaret who says to the man, “Is it you?”
“I don’t know, is it?”
The three sisters glance to and from each other until one of them realises whom the man is, “The Foregetful!!!” Colleen snaps then spits as her sisters gasp.
Aine throws back her long thick hair and flutters her big beautiful eyes attempting to lure the stranger closer so she can lock her jaws around his neck and rip out his throat spilling his blood like water all over the rock floor.
“Stop that!!” Margaret snaps, “Do not insult him with your amateur dramatics, this is Lucas, the Foregetful. He opposes all that we are, he fights for reasons lost to him, he kills at will, he is everything to the cause of good and…he is too late!” Margaret’s final words drip with venom as the pit behind the witches erupts throwing up its contents.
Having heard its servant’s calls it burrows up from beneath, He is here!
Editor's Comments: Our warm welcome to Daniel, a young writer from the suburbs of Cork City and our newest Irregular. Daniel has chosen to write this piece in a very contemporary fantasy style gleaned from the realms of the video game inhabited by the likes of Lara Croft, and so there is a rat-a-tat pace of colour and action. He does this well and it would be interesting to see if he can perhaps forgo a little of that action for more development of plot and character in his future contributions.
Tim
Already by Delia Van Hemmen
By the time Mungo started shouting at me I was already dead. We both were and in our hearts we knew it. But like all living organisms we would cling on to our existence by every fragile thread. What were we worth? What value our lives? No more and no less than the maggots that would soon be feasting upon our rotting flesh.
Why could we not permit ourselves to rest our weary bodies upon the baked salty earth, to invite death to come with some mercy? Why must we torture ourselves in vain hope?
We were to drag our corpses for miles across the desert floor, the scorching roof of hell, rather than to give in to our fates. How can anyone escape his or her fate? The best you can hope to do is tinker a little with destiny. Try and find an alternative route to the same inevitable destination.
Fools.
I had longed to go since I heard of the place as a child. Timbuktu.
I knew nothing of it and yet I yearned to be there.
Why?
The most isolated place on the face of our planet. …Just the sound of it on my lips…Timbuktu…
Maybe it was the romantic in me…
The camel screamed giving birth on the burning sand. At the same moment the boy manipulated her to a climax. I will spare you the unnecessary details. The whole thing sickened me. I would never know if he had done it just to satisfy his own perversions in this the most barren of landscapes or as benevolent act to distract the camel from her own suffering. Perhaps it was meant to expedite the birth of her dead offspring.
It was plausible that the act was a recognised practice of our guardians the Tuareg. A strong nomadic race, leather faces, oxblood red shrouded against the heat in indigo blue cloth that billowed and flapped in the desert winds.
The wisdom and learning of their ancestors who faced precisely the same brutal landscape was burned upon the common psyche of these people. They were a formidable race, evolved to survive.
Instinct to survive.
In any case it repulsed me.
My brain had melted into a primordial soup.
Birth. Death. Agony. Ecstasy.
Everything became as a harsh dream. Hot blazing images, visions, images that burned the soul as the sun burned the body. I was held captive in an awful and yet wondrous dream. Sounds lost and echoing.
Does a tree make a noise as it falls if no one is there to hear?
I heard that camel scream.
Our own screams would be silent. Lips so parched and cracked. No moisture in our mouths to formulate a sound. No one would witness our death.
Was our pain any less?
An act of kindness he had seen his grandfather do or the cruel perversions of a boy becoming a man?
I should not have lashed out. I was sick into my heart, my body, my mind, everything, everything, and everything….
They beat us.
They left us.
…Our only guides.
The rising sun flared over the horizon, like to re-emergence of light after an eclipse. Soon it would burn my body, now frozen from the cloudless night.
I struggled to some sense of consciousness and I started to crawl towards the illuminated horizon. Must be nearly there…the pernicious ball of fire was steadily rising…no shelter.
The name. the connotations. …Timbuktu…. Okay I will admit it, and this sounds frivolous…I just liked the sound of the word…. just to say,”oh I’m just back from Timbuktu”.
Idiot,
Still what a great eulogy…”he died close to Timbuktu”
What a character on the family tree. “Your great great uncle Neville nearly made it to Timbuktu”.
Better I had never tried.
Three miles short. Three miles. Had we only known.
Had I but trusted my own instinct and kept going towards the rising sun.
Bastard Mungo. If he had not shouted for me to turn back and follow him westward we might have made it.
I trusted him.
We were each other’s destiny.
Editor's Comments: Welcome to the Irregulars Delia! Delia has chosen to write in an experimental William Burroughs-ish style that some love and some hate. As with Burroughs her language is at one moment wonderful and at another horrible. The opinion within the group when I read this piece out was mixed but there WAS a concensus that Delia had taken us on a journey. I believe there IS an audience out there for this style so will include below a couple more pieces received from her last week. If you read them please write in with comments.
