Creative Writing Index
Title, Author,
Excerpt
Mariah II by Claire Dix
Once when
the sky to the west was the faintest of reds and
the sun and the winds were low then from inside
its glass walls the Exxon lights were white and
strong on the road. I sat there outside it
holding my knees and the wind tore grey ash from
the cigarette that hung limply between my
fingers. The light reached across the road to a
shack, half on wheels that sold leather and
buffalo skulls and just at its door stood a fake
bull with dead eyes that in the half light seemed
to drag its hooves through the earth. Over the
door was a speaker and the cover lifted off at
the top and the side and in the evening it played
music, crackling and low.
Mariah I by Claire Dix
This is the
evening and the evening light. These are the kids
that hang around and speak and laugh about soft,
easy things like tourists running from the warm
rain. They clung to each idea and each body as if
it were the last and by the evening had clung to
newer things with even stronger arms than before.
Gary was one night and now it was the next but
his hands still touched her face and her fingers
as though he didn't understand.
Five Hours by Alison Bourke
And yet I
understood. I always did. I'd made him hate me. I
had to go. So I did. The door was no longer a
jailer guarding my patterned cell. I'd tried to
walk through it a thousand times before, this
time succeeding, and I kept on walking.
Cowtown by Bernie Furlong
When he got
back the shouting would start. He would play the
piano loudly and out of tune. We would be dragged
downstairs to sing songs. I drifted into sleep
watching the lights of each car that was not ours
raking slowly past my window. I fancied I could
see the shadowy outline of a giant's enormous
hands poised to scoop up the house and carry it
away into outer space.
To Dwell Amongst Them by Patrick Martin
Frank had
no look of an executioner when the room was lit
up by Rose. Standing centrally in the room, as
though planted in it's floorboards he did not
flinch nor did his pupils dilate when the room
was illuminated. Rose stared at him and he at his
father - neither with decipherable intent.And
they stood for some time in these attitudes of
fixedness, as though attendant upon some other
logic that might explain to them their situation.
Or perhaps waiting for action to suggest itself,
not unlike actors awaiting the intercession of a
prompt from the wings. And perhaps the room
itself speculated on all the permutations of what
had happened and what would happen.
Choking On Tears by Ciara Hickey
A layer of
sadness, confusion and guilt welled up and clung
to his eyes, refusing to let go and start their
descent down his face that seemed to have
changed, lost something. There was something
disturbing in watching my father lose all pride
and strength and succumb to tears. There was
something troublesome with watching my mother
lose control. She was possessed with smothered
anger which seemed to have been re-ignited and
was inextinguishable.
A Declaration by Brian Grant
I think I
believe in every drug, and I feel like I know
them closely. There is plenty for me in what I
have tried, and I reach the happy conclusion that
I should only move on when the possibilities of
what I have experienced have been exhausted. My
next thought is that this will make me tedious
and unwelcome to change. Then I am convinced of
the deep sadness of drugtaking. Then I am sure
that this sadness has the sweetest taste.
Everything is possible. I only despair that my
memory is not the equal of my dreaminess.
School Daze by Daragh Field
How da fuck
are you going to apologise for gogglin at her
tits like?, only yer dumb ass would get caught
man, I mean, for fuck sake, I've seen the
cherries man, the nipples,
making
tweaking gestures at his own chest.
- And I did
most certainly, fucking not get caught.
75th Street by Maeve O'Connell
Infact
there's no telling what might have become of
Marge if we hadn't found her that day. But home
she came with us and we washed her up real good
and left her on our sofa. Now, I can't honestly
remember whose idea it was or maybe it just
happened, but somehow we figured that we might
make a bob or two if we got kids to come in and
look at her. And we did. Twenty bucks we made the
first day. Mostly they just looked, copped a feel
or two and ran out giggling. But some of them,
kids of about twelve or thirteen, well they made
fuller use of those rubber orifices - it was
understandable; those were some ugly kids and
Marge was as near as they were going to get a lay
for the next seven years.
The Death of Flowers by Patrick Martin
Madeline in
her grave witness to this change and unhearing
little noises like mousegnaws in the dark and the
centipedal shuffling of death coming over as in
the sussurrous movement of sound through the
airwaves or the eerie lament of seawash, the
muttering of stones. With knowledge only in the
stillened blood as to what it all forebodes.
Joyride by Conor Hallahan
We hit the
ridge - another heart-stopping moment as the
tractor threatened to leave the earth, and found
a steep downhill slope before us. It was at this
point, I think, that I spotted a flaw in her
plan. At the bottom of the hill, between us and
the sanctuary of the trees, lay the little lake,
glinting red in the sinking sun. We screamed in
unison. Amanda lunged forward and pulled the
engine stop knob, very hard. The
engine stopped, cutting out abruptly and belching
the last of its smoke into the air. The tractor,
however, sailed on in silence, and now our
screams filled the world.
Mirror by Triona Buckley
The mirror
had been a gift from her Aunt Joan on her twenty
first birthday and, like her Aunt, was rather
aged and decrepit. Its French, you
see - very old! exclaimed Joan as the
gilded mirror revealed itself beneath mountains
of tissue paper. And very expensive
mouthed her mother, glancing suspiciously over
her shoulder, so be careful, but from
the first moment Nicole had laid eyes on
its three faces, she had hated it - it was
ugly, almost vulgar in its ornate and blatant
call for vanity.
Be Special by Aiden Corkery
- I'll tell
you a decent joke though...how do you know
Frankenstein is a Protestant?
- Dunno
- `Cause he
looks like one.
Poetry by Siobhan Maguire
Treason
The
stench is back,
Dripping
heavily on my head,
staining
patches play Judas
But
turn the blind eye, I have.
An Excerpt from Zulu Hotel by Paul Keenan
Jerome
pushed from his mind what could not be dealt with
by wishing and turned his attention to Street's
girls. His friend had earned his moniker from the
fact that he had spotted the opportunity in
hard-up female junkies and started his own
sideline in streetwalkers. While other dealers
were accepting blow-jobs, Street was creating his
own stable and getting the financial returns.
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