Writing, mostly.

First published at 330 Words, April 21st, 2011

When Billy-o’s daddy came home from the war he said Billy-o don’t you go, no Billy-o don’t you go.

That’s all the man wanted to say as he took to his tea and tapped out a ditty on the old tin caddy.

But Billy-o wanted to know. He wanted to know why he should not go. So Billy-o’s daddy stirred his tea and looked at the pocket watch he’d brought back from the front and said hush now Billy-o, just don’t go.

But this was before Billy-o ever saw a clock and before Billy-o ever was dead and so Billy-o just asked and asked with a why not daddy, why not, why not. So Billy-o’s daddy said see this spoon, this old pitted spoon? Your grandaddy gave me this spoon. He told me he’d took it away to the front and he used it to stir as the kettle whistled and the bullets sang. He liked his tea strong and each sugar was home. One for his daddy and one for his mammy and one for his dear me and one for himself. So don’t you go, Billy-o, don’t you go. There’s not enough sugar to remind you of home.

But Billy-o wanted to know what do they do when they’re not stirring tea, what do they do and why shouldn’t I go?

These things would not be said and so daddy just stirred. He said nothing. Nothing of the rain and mud and the blood. He said nothing. Of the cries and the tears in the darkening nights he said nothing. Nothing of faces lost in a bang and nothing of tea mugs left by the stand. He said nothing except don’t go, Billy-o, don’t go.

Then his grandmammy sang and though Billy-o cried he didn’t dare go

but daddy-o did
once
more.

First published at 330 Words, March 4th, 2011

I should be using this time to tell you other things, important things like look after your mother, be kind to your sister, marry for love or give everything you can.

You are no doubt upset that I didn’t tell your mother about the tests, or why I left you for those months

These are good questions and perhaps, if time permits, I’ll set down some answers. They could ease your mind or provide an outlet for anger.

Because you are angry. I know that, even though I’m no longer there. I know where it comes from and I know it remains long after you wish it wouldn’t. I don’t know how you deal with it. I never could. I never found the words to make it go away any more than I found the words that would convince Aunt Dorothy to leave us alone.

I’m resorting to humour again because even now I find it difficult to be open.

So let me try again and instead of using this time to sit beside you, instead let me give you this one piece of advice:

Don’t stop kissing men.

As children we give our kisses freely. Our mothers, our fathers, our relations, all get the simple beauty of the kiss. We plant a seed upon the lips that grows into a smile.

You still do.

But you will stop. I stopped. My father stopped. My brother stopped.

There comes a time when men just stop kissing other men.

I don’t think it’s out of fear. I don’t think we worry about appearing effeminate. I think it is more that we begin to define the father/son relationship along different terms. Like pride and activity as fathers aim to inspire, and sons aim to compete.

But it isn’t important why we stop. It’s important what we lose when we stop. The recklessness of youth, the trust of touch, the regrets of middle age.

You are five years old. Don’t stop kissing men.

First published at 330 Words, January 21st, 2011

The first time Billy-o saw a clock he was baffled.

He understood numbers of course. And he understood counting. Billy-o’s grandmother had counted all kinds of things as she made soups for them in their large, stone-clad kitchen.

“Thirty-three stirs of the onions and carrots, Billy-o” she’d say, “eighty-seven stirs of the stock. Clean the windows downstairs.”

Counting was easy.

Life was full.

So the first time Billy-o saw a clock he was baffled because the numbers didn’t count properly. Everything ought to be 1, 2, 3 up to 10, 11, 12 and so on. 100 came after 99.

Billy-o had learned this from his Grandmother who had learned it someplace else, she said.

On the clock, however, the numbers didn’t count up properly. It didn’t even get to 60.

At first, Billy-o thought he hadn’t woken properly. His eyes were still heavy, and the pains in his head might be making his eyes play tricks on him.

He asked the people who came to see him and they explained what a clock was.

It still didn’t make sense. He quickly learned the concept of counting 57, 58, 59, 00 but he couldn’t understood why.

The people explained it again as they washed and shaved him.

Although he still didn’t really understand why, Billy-o came to associate certain numbers with certain events. Back home he had never needed to know “when” to do jobs. He had never needed to know “when” to put the children to bed or make dinner for his grandmother.

The why of time made no sense.

But “soon”, Billy-o understood the clock. He understood that the people woke him at a set time, changed his sheets at a set time and turned the lights out at a set time.

And then, as he began to take pleasure in counting the people in and out, and the sunrises in and out, and the meals in and out, Billy-o finally learned how long he had left to live.

First published at 330 Words, December 22nd, 2010

Angels are at their most vulnerable at Christmas. It’s a fact. Not well known, perhaps, but no less true. Perhaps it’s the time when they take their foot off the pedal (an unfortunate turn of phrase here but an apt one) as they ease into the festive period. After all, who amongst us mortal folk would keep a clear head when subject to such celebrity adoration?

So it should not be a complete surprise to learn that the moment Charlie’s car impacted into the back of an overburdened family car, that at that moment his Guardian Angel wasn’t really paying attention.

Three of the four children riding high in the other car were killed instantly. And perhaps it was unavoidable, perhaps it couldn’t be predicted. Certainly not by someone on Charlie’s Angel’s pay grade.

Still, the angel wasn’t on the ball, high, no doubt on Christmas cheer, the smell of the party and the thoughts Charlie was having about the presents his son would be getting. That’s the trouble with angels, they say they are altruistic but they aren’t, not really. Like mortals doing good on the promise of eternal life, angels are ultimately in for themselves.

Not that Charlie knew what his angel was thinking. Certainly not as his ribcage splintered against the steering wheel and certainly not as a shard of glass surgically removed part of his oesophagus.

This is, however, Christmas. Good things happen at Christmas and so Charlie’s wounds, severe as they were, escaped being life threatening. And as the back of his head was shattered by the missile-like impact of a sackful of toys, Charlie saw his Guardian Angel for the first and last time.

Sadly, the Guardian Angel wasn’t so lucky. Impaled by the shockingly close inevitability of its ward’s death, the angel was killed outright.

For the rest of his life, Charlie would look over his shoulder, hoping to be watched over but knowing you only get one angel.

First published at 330 Words, October 14th, 2010

When God was bored He usually took it out on Job. That poor bastard got it in the neck a lot. One minute he was swimming in his own private pool and holding court on his own daytime TV show, the next he was face down in his own piss, wondering where his next meal would come from.

After the first ten or twelve times, and the first ten or twelve wives, Job became numb about the whole thing. It no longer rocked his faith like it used to; in fact it kind of reminded him God was just around the corner and coming home pissed, truth be told. Although he never quite knew when it was coming, Job became a dab hand at making the best of it.

This one time, the latest time, Job was sleeping. God leant over him and brushed a moonbeam from his face. Sorry son, He whispered, but the bastard Devil put me up to it. This time it could get rough.

Normally it went down that Job only woke after the fact, a face full of bruises, his fortune gone and a summons stuck to the side of his face. This time, however, something woke him up. Something told him it was different. Maybe it was the beard.

The sight of Him was beautiful and terrifying, like being trapped in the path of a tsunami but rich enough to survive. And Job was a survivor. He knew he’d recoup whatever he lost.

But this time was different. This time he was awake after so long.

God pulled out a rag, made from clouds or Angel shit or something, and wiped it across his sweating face. Tomorrow’s rain would scorch the earth.

Job, son.

Said God.

You know that I love you.

Then, His breath volcanic, God took everything.