Aliens First Contact by Ben Hennessy

Still Birth- A poem by Eamonn Barrett

Still Birth

All through morning, the weight of morning lifted.
I felt words once whispered come back to me:
"Mezzo del cammin..."
I would away to our father's
house and its separation, the slow-din of Sunday's
bells falling his village as all becomes holy.
Or to the Garden before Adam cursed the earth.
"...di nostra vita."
Outside, autumn's small print
shifts, hesitates, then as the automatic still
takes hold, repeats itself within the haunt-song
of a cicada. The air fills with sheer activity.
"mi ritrovai..."
I find myself back by her side.
The midday sun pulses light on her glass coffin.
"...per una selva oscura."


by Eamonn Barrett.

Ridiculously cool art by Ben Hennessy

Falling Asleep In a Hollywood Dream by Robert Billington

The stifling heat awoke Dave slowly. Clumsily he pushed the bed covers off him in an attempt to cool down slightly, turned over on his side and stretched his arm out to his bedside locker. His hand fumbled to find his cigarettes. After a few seconds of pawing around he found them, slowly drew one from its box and lit it. Dave inhaled fast and let the smoke fill his lungs, slowly exhaled and watched it flitter into nothingness. It had been three weeks since he had slept for any longer than three hours. “I need to stop this; can't function anymore; mind becoming erratic.” he told himself with conviction. With that he sat up at the end of his bed, scratched his head and looked around. His large bedroom was in a bad state of neglect. Dirty clothes were strewn about the floor and dishes were turning green with mould. The stench was putrid. “Ah, there it is, damned thing”, he muttered as he snatched his maroon dressing gown from the floor and slipped into it.

As he quickly stubbed out his cigarette Dave stood up, blood rushed to his head and his pupils dilated. His vision was blurry now. He thrust his left arm against the wall to support himself, “Oh God, I feel like shit” he thought in self-pity. His stomach tightened and groaned and with that Dave ran to the en-suite and as he did so he slipped on the glossed black tiles and violently hit his head off the hard surface. Waves of pain pulsed through Dave’s body, “Not again, I cant take this,” he muttered to himself but as he finished his inner monologue he felt a warm burning sensation rising up his oesophagus, His mouth automatically opened to let the vomit pour out as Dave’s nostrils filled with the sickly smell. He felt the warm thick liquid stream down his chin and cheeks. For a moment he just lay there still and mused to himself, “How can I even vomit anymore? I haven’t eaten in three days.” The room filled with a cackling laugh; the laugh of a man who had stooped so low that he could even make hurting himself amusing in his head.

After about fifteen minutes of lying there and laughing at his own sorrows Dave slowly stood up, turned on the faucet and splashed water over his face to wash off the vomit and the water felt good on his skin; it was a small amount of relief in comparison to the mishap he'd endured. He looked up from the sink and into the murky mirror overhead, “God, man, you look horrendous” he said to himself with disdain whilst feeling his face. Dave was a good looking man of twenty-six but the past few weeks had taken their toll on him. His usually immaculate short cut brown hair now hung over his brow and was matted to his scalp. The area surrounding his eyes was composed of various shades of purple, black and yellow and the eyes themselves were almost entirely bloodshot. Wrinkle lines had carved their way deep into his brow and he had now grown an unbecoming beard. This was completely out of character for Dave as he'd always been obsessive about his appearance.

Dave took one more quick glance at himself before he fastened his robe and shambled into the living room. As he opened the door light flooded through his eyes, squinting as they struggled to take in the strong midday sun, “Christ, I need to clean this shit up,” he thought to himself. Magazines were strewn across the floor, his couch was broken in two and empty vodka bottles had taken over the kitchen to where Dave proceeded and boiled some water to make himself a green tea. He struggled with the kettle as he tried to pour water into a cup, “SHIT!!!,” he screamed in agony missing the cup and scalding his feet he cursed again, “Goddamn it; need to focus; need to regain composure.” Dave took in a deep breath and stirred his tea, limped back across the living room and stared out of the huge window. “Hollywood hills: The symbol of celebrity, status and culture.” Pausing for a minute he made a puzzled expression and thought “But what does it all stand for? What does it mean? It’s entirely shallow. Everyone who lives here is a blood-sucking whore who'll cut you down in the name of their public image.” He clenched his fists and his cheeks turned claret. Picking up a glossy magazine from the floor he gazed trance-like at it for some time. “How could they do this to me? The tabloids and their fucking see-saw morals, it's all a show. Ha! 'Natalie Goldman set to marry new hunk.' ” His hands began to shake and scrunching up the magazine in his fist he threw it at the stack of empty vodka bottles and sent one of them crashing to the ground, exploding into hundreds of tiny shards. His mind filled with hate.

“How could that goddamn bitch do this to me? It’s only been two months and she’s engaged, is she for real?” Tears streamed down Dave’s cheeks and his head became heavy with emotion, “Does she have no feelings for me at all anymore? All I ever did was give that girl everything I could and then she cheats on me with some stranger in a nightclub. Not only that but she didn’t have the tact to do it away from cameras? I don’t know who’s worse, her or me. I spent 3 years of my life with her after all but I never thought she was capable of something of that degree. Got to stop thinking like this; I’m going around in circles.” Dave turned away from the window and went over to his answering machine and pressed play. “Hey Dave, it’s Troy. How are you doing, man? Sorry I couldn’t ring sooner, just been really busy. Anyway, get to the point, I’ll drop by at three, see you soon. Oh yeah, I‘ve got what you asked for.” Dave glanced at his watch. It was two-thirty so he'd have just enough time to shower before Troy, his agent, called over.

The broken actor opened the fridge, “Ah, the Devil's brew!!” he said to himself with a grin on his face whilst reaching in and grabbing a fresh bottle of vodka from the seven that were in there. He opened a cupboard above and grabbed a pint glass, placed it on the table and with shaky hands filled it half way. Dave picked up the glass and idly watched the vodka swirl around before downing it all in one go. He felt his stomach warm and his throat burn, It was a feeling he had grown well accustomed to over the past few weeks. In the en suite the smell of vomit almost turned Dave's stomach but he didn’t care as it was the least of his worries. He dropped his robe and stepped into his shower, the warm water was comforting. He closed his eyes and let the alcohol take over.

Dave was woken by the doorbell ringing, he'd fallen asleep standing in the shower having succumbed to the vodka; “One second” he shouted out while stepping out of the shower and putting his robe back on. Staggering down the hall he opened the door sharply. Troy was standing there with a full bin liner. He was a well preserved forty-five year old and had mousey coloured hair which was cut tight to his head, aviator sun glasses sat on his long nose, which he peered over with a sombre look on his face, “Hey Man, how are you holding up?” There was a grave sense of sympathy in Troy’s voice. “I’m good Troy , real good. Come in.” Troy knew in his heart that Dave was not OK, but decided to indulge him for fear of enraging his long-term client. The pair walked down the hallway, Dave turning to Troy with a smile: “Do you like the new look? I’m trying out something new, a kind of New Age hippy thing.” Troy looked up at Dave with a false grin, “Yeah, You look great kid.”, “Thanks”, replied Dave with a big smile but Troy could see that Dave’s teeth had yellowed severely since they'd last met and that his breath smelled rancid. He loathed seeing Dave like this. The pair went into the living room and Dave turned to Troy with an earnest in his eyes, “Empty the bag” he said with a bitter tone in his voice. “Are you sure Dave?” countered Troy with an air of reluctance. Dave moved forward, intimidating, “Just empty the bag” almost losing his temper, feeling his heart beat rising and his stomach flutter with anticipation.

Leaning forward Troy picked up the bag, tipping its contents on to the white marble floor. “Here they are, just like you asked. This is pretty much every article either you or Natalie have appeared in since things went bad.” But Dave wasn’t listening, he was on his hands and knees frantically pawing through the magazines. He looked up at Troy with wild eyes, flailing a magazine in his hand, “Have you seen this? I mean, come on!” The article's title read “Naughty Nat up to no good!” and underneath was a picture of her straddling a unknown man in a glitzy nightclub. Troy’s heart broke for Dave, he looked at him and saw the hollow shell of the man he once was. His hair was filthy, eyes sore and vacant, finger nails crusted with dirt, cheeks sunken and taught and a straggly beard. It was a far cry from the man who'd been awarded two Oscars and had been to Africa on numerous aid missions. “Yeah I saw it, Dave. She isn’t worth thinking about anymore. I mean what she did to you was disgusting.” But Dave wouldn’t answer, rather fixating on the brightly coloured trash on the floor.

Troy moved away from Dave, sat in an armchair, gazed out of the window and reflected. Four months ago his client was the hottest property in Hollywood and now the media had raped him, sucked him of his integrity, and spat him out. It wasn’t long before both Natalie and Dave had become targets, Natalie for obvious reasons and Dave because he'd 'Let himself go.' Troy’s mind grew heavy. How could they do that to people? Didn't they realise that actors are just human too? Just people like anyone else except their lives are in the spotlight and that in itself makes the ridiculous amounts of money they get paid justifiable. Suddenly Dave hopped in front of Troy, flicking through the pages of a magazine, “Sorry Troy I’m being rude, how are you? Have I had any job offers?” That put Troy on the spot; there hadn’t been any studio calls regarding Dave at all but he knew he couldn’t offend him either so tried to skirt the issue , “Ah I’m ok, same old story as always” Dave who was sitting cross legged on the floor in front of Troy peered up at him with an eager look, “So what about jobs?” Troy shifted uneasily in his seat and placed his hand on the side of his head, “Well there haven’t exactly been many man”, Dave looked up from his magazine confused, “What do you mean?” since Dave‘s first big movie he'd gotten used to rejecting hundreds of offers. Troy sighed “I mean there's been no acting offers, only tabloids wanting your side of the break-up.” The afternoon's visitor hoping not to offend his trusted charge accepted there was no way to avoid it. Dave was a passionate actor and the thought of talking to the tabloids about his private life apppalled him,so Troy cringed in anticipating Dave’s reply.

Looking up from the magazine Dave stared blankly at Troy and an uncomfortable silence followed. The actor closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, “I cant do that” he said calmly while looking back down at the magazine. Troy was surprised by Dave’s nonchalant answer which encouraged him to further understand his reasoning, “Why not?,” he asked in plain honesty. Dave put the magazine to one side and uncrossed his legs, “Why not? Why not?” Dave let out a quiet chuckle, “I’ll tell you why not. Because all my life I’ve taken the path of honesty, integrity, and dignity and even though I’ve adhered to that philosophy I’ve ended up on the bottom you know?” Dave leaned forward in his chair, “And I’ll tell you why.” He grabbed the magazine he had been holding and began to shake it and point at it, his voice rising, “These people have killed me inside, and for what? To sell more copy. It’s despicable.” Dave started to flick through the pages frantically, “Ah here it is, 'Dave West’s Meltdown!'” The article contained various pictures of the fallen star of which some were taken during his brief public appearances, while others were clearly taken from the hills surrounding his apartment, highlighting the various states he had been in. Pictures of him pushing paparazzi away or standing at his window semi-clothed with a bottle of vodka in hand. He read out snippets of the article, “ 'Dave west has wasted away'. 'Delusional'. 'A broken man.' ” Troy cut him short as Dave was about to say more, “Don’t listen to that garbage, it’s all sensationalised nonsense. It‘ll do you no good believing it.” Dave was biting his fingernails hard, still reading the article unphased. ”Ok, ok! You wont believe this” and drawing a deep breath proceeded to read the article aloud: “ 'Meanwhile his glamorous ex, Nat, lives it up in Spain with her new hunk. Turn to page 49 for her exclusive interview'. ” Dave put the magazine down and walked over to the fridge, “Why do people believe these lies? And why is she making money by selling me out?”, he asked while pulling out the already half empty vodka bottle. Before troy had time to answer the questions Dave took a large gulp directly from the bottle and continued talking, “Does that girl have no dignity? Or is she just playing their game? Do they forget what she did to me? Or are they glad she did it to me? I just don’t know anymore and I cant believe she is feeding their ever hungry venomous mouths like this. That isn’t the girl I loved, but it seems she is full of surprises these days.” Dave was eyeballing his favourite stimulant. He let out a sorrowful sigh and downed some more.

Troy got up from his seat, walked over to Dave and hastily tried to grab the bottle but he pulled away from him, “Come on, man, just give me the bottle” he said with his arm stretched out as if trying to beckon it to him. Dave cowered backward, cradling the bottle. “ I'm fine,I’m fine. I don’t see what the problem is.” He snapped and Troy grew impatient with his friend, “You don’t see the problem? Really? You believe that, do you?” He felt himself growing angry, Dave stepped back again, surprised at Troy’s remarks. He put the bottle on the counter saying “No I don’t see the problem. Not at all, in fact.” Troy’s hand slid down his face with frustration, “What 's happened to you Dave? Come on, lets be honest here, you’re a complete wreck. What's gotten into you? Four months ago you were the great David West, two-time academy award winner, What she did to you was inexcusable, I know, but you've got to forget her, I mean she isn’t wasting any time getting on so she doesn’t even deserve the thoughts in your head.” Dave began to laugh hysterically which completely puzzled and angered Troy, “What? What’s so funny?” Troy snapped at Dave and whilst buckling over with laughter the actor looked up and replied, “It’s a new look, I’ve told you that already and as for that daughter of a whore, well I’ve told you already I loathe the ground she walks on.” Dave regained composure, stood upright and said with a smile, “I’m fine Troy, really.” Troy had reached boiling point and knew that his long-term client and friend was blatantly telling lies to his face. He lost all composure and grabbed Dave by the collar of his robe, little resistance was offered and before he knew it Troy had him up against the wall, “Don't you see what you’ve done to yourself? You’re a wreck, You look like shit, And it’s all because of her, Just let go, You let that Bitch out;. of your head because you can reassure yourself that you have kept your dignity, Your pride, And Your self worth, What does she have? Nothing, Its all a lie, All fucking smile’s and rainbows for the public but I guarantee you that when show time is over so are her smiles.”, Troy looked into Dave‘s eyes, He was staring back at him timidly, Almost in tears, It was at this moment that he realised what he had just done and let go of Dave, “I’m sorry, I,I, Didn’t mean to do that, I don’t know what came over me, I’m just trying to look out for you”, Dave collapsed to the floor and curled himself in a ball, The adrenalin flowing through his body made him feel weak and sick. He looked up at Troy with blood red eyes, “Get out now,”he said slowly through clenched teeth and Troy took a step back holding his hands up as if to signify innocence, “Look I’m sorry Dave, It just angers me to see you like this because I know there’s nothing I can say or do to help.” Dave’s head lay on the cold marble, he was staring seemingly at nothing, “Get out and leave me be”, he said, this time with no conviction but more of a hollow tone; Troy’s head hung low, “Ok, I’ll leave then, but you call me if you want to talk.” Dave lay still and expressionless, he did not answer Troy, nor looked at him, just listened to the sound of footsteps and then heard the door slam shut. He was alone once more.

An hour had passed and Dave was still lying on the ground, his finger tracing idly along the lines of the tiles whilst thinking about Natalie. He thought about the good times they'd spent together in this very apartment; the days when they would curl up together on the couch and talk about each other’s hectic lifetyles; the nights when they lay in bed together where not even the paparazzi could get their claws into them. A sentimental smile crept across his face but as always the tragedy seeped into his mind. The betrayal, the disregard for his emotions, the soiling of his once sacred memories which she regurgitated to the tabloids for money. He grew angry, slamming his fist repeatedly on the marble whilst writhing on the floor as if his mental anguish had manifested in him physically, but he decided enough was enough and slowly rose to his feet. The old familiar blood rush kicked in once he stood up, but he didn’t mind, “Time for me to get back on track”, he said with conviction whilst making his way to the bathroom. This time he stepped into the main bathroom, unable to face the smell of vomit in his en suite. It was a grand room filled with all the sterility of modern design. The fading daylight gave the room a comforting orange hue and Dave dragged his feet along the cool floor then stood in front of the large mirror. He decided it was time to shave and at least look semi-respectable if he was to find his acting feet again. He filled up the sink at the foot of the large mirror and applied some shaving foam to his face, finding it difficult to shave through his scraggly beard. “Fuck!”, he muttered to himself whilst wincing from the pain of cutting his face. Twenty minutes after finishing and his face looked like it had been attacked by a small animal, he then decided that shaving whilst drunk was not the greatest idea in the world, however he was pleased at how he looked. He was beginning to see remnants of his old self.

Dave stepped into the living room with a smile on his face, feeling small signs of progress for the first time in months. He sat on an armchair, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Tomorrow will be the day: The day I throw my problems away, start fresh, change my direction and start that goddamn screenplay I’ve been harping on about for the past few years. Get away from the camera. Get away from the limelight and be myself again, he thought to himself optimistically as his smile grew wider. Dave pulled a loose cigarette from his gown pocket, It was bent and crumpled but it would have to suffice as he didn’t want to look for the box. He grabbed a lighter from the floor and lit up his cigarette. He stretched out in his arm chair, gazed out of the window and thought about nothing in particular, which made him happy. He hadn’t had a clear mind space in a long time. Dave let the peace blanket him and lost consciousness.

After what seemed like days Dave woke up with a groan, He checked his watch it was 10:00 pm. His eyes focused on the half bottle of vodka sitting invitingly on the kitchen counter top, He had a playful grin on his tired face, “One last night of debauchery wont hurt, I must have a fitting goodbye to my old comrade, The great vodka!.”, He rose from his seat sporting a look of lust on his face and half danced over to the bottle picking it up quickly and downing it all, He let out a gruff grunt and wiped the excess away which had dribbled down his chin, His stomach was on fire but he paid little attention because tonight was his last night of fun. “Music, That’s it, I need music!.”, His reaction to his thoughts suggested he had a great epiphany, In reality it was in fact more mundane. He walked to his sound system and fumbled with the buttons for a while, He stood back from the machine, Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” echoed through the apartment, His father had instilled a good knowledge of classical music in him, And Moonlight sonata always invoked a deep sense of nostalgia in him. Dave turned away from the stereo whilst humming his favourite composition, The alcohol had taken over and he was staggering and hiccupping, He ambled to the fridge and took out another bottle of vodka, He most certainly didn’t need it but that didn’t cross his mind, There was a magazine on the floor which caught his eye, The headline read, “Natalie’s wedding plans.”, It didn’t hurt anymore, The articles, The loss, The loneliness, He had reached his emotional thresh hold and was at a comfortable level of numbness so he awkwardly picked it up off the floor and sat back in his arm chair, Slugging from the bottle and flicking through the pages. Dave read through the article, It detailed her lavish wedding to her new man, involving all sorts of grandiose amusements and over the top furnishings, Natalie’s husband to be was a sickly rich Wall street business man by the name of Michael Anshel, so there was no doubt in Dave’s mind that she would be spoiled rotten by him, He never knew her to be like this but then again he doubted if he ever really knew her to begin with or if it was all just for the media, He exhaled deeply and took another swig of vodka.

Dave sat in his chair looking at pictures of his ex frolicking on a boat in some tropical waters with Michael, she looked so happy, and so did he. Dave flung the magazine to the ground, He could feel emotion and sentiment creep back into his head so he made the conscious effort to snub them out, alcohol had always been good for that, He looked at the bottle and mumbled “Good for you Natalie, good for you.” sarcastically whilst taking another large slug, He was now severely inebriated and his train of thought had been derailed. Dave felt a warm sensation trickle down his leg, He had soiled himself but he didn’t care, He feebly raised the bottle to his mouth and drank the bottle until there was no more, He missed his mouth several times and was now covered in vodka, He looked around the room as if he was looking for someone, His eyes opened and closed slowly, “More.”, He said aloud, no reply, only silence, He let out a loud scream as if was a distressed gorilla and slid off his seat. The ground was cool and refreshing, Dave crawled on hands and knees to the fridge, It was a painfully slow affair but he didn’t care much for time in his current state. The cool white light of the refrigerator made his pupils shrink, He winced for a moment and pawed around until he produced yet another bottle. Dave reached up and placed the vodka on the counter and clumsily rose to his feet using it as support, He could barely see anymore as his vision was severely blurred, “Bed.” He said to himself like a Neanderthal, It seemed so far away yet it was only a few metres, He zig zagged out of the living room and into the hall which was pitch black, He considered finding the light switch but it seemed like too much effort at the time, he took three steps into the dark, while lamely trying to feel his way around he fell hard, forcefully hitting his head off the ground but the pain didn’t register, there was only a dull ringing in his ears. Dave had managed to make it to his bed, He lay still looking into the darkness and drank his vodka slowly, He closed his eyes and confronted his conscience, His arm’s dropped limp by his side spilling vodka on himself and soaking the mattress but he didn’t care, He was past that and all the pain of the day was dissipating, Dave felt so cold but there was no relief, He could feel his heart beat slowing and his breath was getting more shallow, His mouth opened slightly, “I love you.” He whispered, It was barely audible. Darkness consumed his head..

Saint Tropez, France. A champagne flute falls to the ground and fragments into pieces, Natalie Goldman lay still on a deck chair, Her right hand closed over her chest, there was a stand beside her, on it lay a magazine, It was open on the centre page which read as follows, “David West, R.I.P. 1983-2009. Last week world renowned actor David West passed away tragically in his luxury Hollywood apartment due to acute alcohol poisoning, police are treating the case as non suspicious, meanwhile hundred’s of fans have paid tribute by laying bouquets of flowers outside his apartment. On going tribute’s are being paid by his fellow colleagues and employers. This is a tragic case of a talented young man who didn’t deserve such a short life. Natalie Goldman has not been available to comment on the passing of her ex boyfriend, it is thought she is finalising wedding plans in France. Our deepest sympathies go out to all of David’s family.”. Beside the article stood an empty Ritalin container, underneath it was a scrap of paper, there was a messily written paragraph on it which said, “To Michael, I am so sorry. This was all a mistake that got out of hand and I wrongly involved you, what I have done is inexplicable and I cant live with it. Once again I am sorry, I hope you find happiness.”. In her right hand was another scrap of paper scrunched up in her palm which read, “ I didn’t mean it. I love you. I’ll be with you soon.”.

Tahiti, The South Pacific. Troy walked along the sun kissed beach feeling the warm sand between his toes with every step, He was in paradise and was relishing every minute of it. The reason Troy had been distant with Dave during the scandal was because he himself had also been in turmoil, He couldn’t bare to watch the media savaging his friend and found it very unnerving, after Dave and Natalie passed he decided it was time for an early retirement and relocation, the show business wasn’t all it cracked up to be after all. Troy found a nice spot on the fringe of the tropical forest and sat on the sand. He looked out at the blue sky and ocean, his phone began to ring which disrupted the tranquility, he pulled it from his pocket and answered; “Hello Troy this is Sarah here with star weekly magazine we..”, Troy hung up before she had time to finish, he looked out at the ocean once more and smiled, “this is for you Dave” the former agent said to himself before launching his phone into the ocean with all his might, he was at peace finally.

Spring Torrents by Westley Barnes

Are these tears of blundering laughter
Or heckles of contempt
That spirit on these haggard leaders
To rhapsodise our era's curtain calls?
The same who brought us mounting debt and conscientioussness
Which seems only to be healed in the appeasing flouescence
Of 24-hour supermarkets and the purgatory
of weekends spent at home?

Such stifling,nervous coughs
Are heard as responses of
Today's domestic questionnaires.
Gung-ho reformative advances
And calls to "pull up our socks"
Mingled with the state-sponsered fourtune-telling
Rationed out yo boys languishing on the dole.
All which falsely transpires of course,
Intimidatingly revealed as being
About as appealing as vaccum cleaners for the soul
Marketed at the resoulely bored to tears.

Despite our fears
The sun will come streaming again
Through Fir Trees
That decorate contemplative,sheltered lanes.
These last frostbitten years
Seek replacement with halcyon days
In order to suspend dogmatic disbelief.

But lets not get ahead of ourselves
Pessimism is sexy
Even in the most roaring of times
We remained despondent,stroppy and calculated.

Between waves and the marram by Adam Power

The waves lap around my feet as I curl my toes into the sand. It's cold but soothing, relieving. I feel a mess of thoughts escape me, for what seems like hours, as I watch the symmetry of the water around my feet and the indentation they leave in the sand. There's something about these moments that I seem to value over anything else; feeling so much clarity, yet so detached from everything outside of my direct attention. Waves. Sand. I'm amazed at the sight of the movement of my toes, gripping the sand then releasing, like a lazy fist. It's as if I'm not inside my own body at all, but viewing it from the perspective of someone, or something, with no knowledge of how people function. I'm vaguely aware of the tide dragging me farther down the beach as I stand motionless in the wash. I haven't felt that drift since I was a child. It perplexed me then, but only startles me now. A gull calls out from above,drawing me out of my trance.

I remember why I came down here in the first place. The last of the evening sun looked beautiful over the ocean, dyeing the horizon an aggressive red. I felt the need to come see it, but she just sat there and smiled, the most genuine and sympathetic smile I've ever seen. With her bottle of wine clutched in two hands, she gave me that understanding look of hers :

"If you want to, go ahead; but I'm not getting up".

It felt slightly disheartening, but if our positions were reversed I can't say I'd have acted any differently. Besides, I know she'll be there when I return. I could tell how damned cold she was just by looking in her eyes, and that's not something she had ever been above complaining about before. She must have had as much flowing through her mind as I did, but we both understood they were things we couldn't discuss. Not yet.

Being alone, together. The thought seems both absurd and a little comforting. She needs to be up lying amongst the marram as much as I need to be here standing in the surf. That has to count for something, right?

I hear the wind rattling through the dunes as I stare out over the seemingly infinite waters. A sigh escapes my barely parted lips, born of a mind clouded with drink, nostalgia, thoughts. Only pushing into adulthood and already I feel weary of life. A lazy smirk graces my face, as I realise the dissonance of my thoughts. If something as simple as my feet in the sand can grip me so wholly, how can life seem so laborious? Just as the humour sinks in I hear her footsteps in the shallow waters behind me. Her arms wrap around my waist, her chin rests on my shoulder. My train of is lost as I sense her breath on my neck, her aroma in the air.

"You think too much", she says.

I can tell that she's smiling from the inflection in her voice.

"Yeah", I mutter, my mouth spreading into a smile of my own, "I think I do."

Poems by Nicola Fortune

It's Only You

I curl up and sleep on your grave
Soak up the self pollution that I've made
I cry myself to dream, if only you could have seen
What it was, that it was all meant to mean.

Your home is now my home for keeps
It's the only place my soul has any peace
Mine in full is printed there under your name
I decided i would try and join in the game
Only you could have known it would all end in such shame.

It's a wasted participation, amongst all these altercations
You should just own up and say you ruined the only creation.
My comfort is only in his space now
I turn and say 'it's only you, i solemnly vow.'

I'll curl up and sleep on his grave
Cry myself to dream, so bruised and betrayed
My teary dreams kick in and i slowly fade
Curled up on his grave is where Ive stayed.
My comfort is only in his space now
I turn and say 'It's only you i solely vow'
It's only you that i need now.

Tool

The aluminous green moths that swirl around my head
Or in my mind?
Without being told my shivering hand reaches to grab them
The pain of realising that I'm too far down
That their too far up
Like heaven, just out of my grasp.
Floating in my head, why green?
Why purple? Why orange?
Why the smoke?
When it's already hot enough.
Have to get liquid
So i get three, one for me
Then Paul, is that three?
Refreshing, it's refreshing me.
Noticing the rest think I don't fit this world
But I'll do and say as i please today.
A tattooed smile on my face
Wired to it all
Swaying back and forth
Honestly confused. Why Lakers?
How many faces in that picture?
A thousand eyes staring back at me
Without judgment.
I'm laughing...
So they easily approve of my temperment.
We were soilders, waiting
Just for a yellow BLX
Surrounded by people i recognise, but nobody i know
It will all be good, drop another purple one
Or red? Why red?
Why not blue and white like it was
Wired to the dangly-angly side on the moon
Don't think i'll be down anytime soon.

A tiny black rabbitt pushes by me - Alice?
Then a cat called Dick
Welcome to my party for a shiny green trick
So close to tears Maynard
When I hear that panting
Aemina is now waiting for me
Aemina is here for everybody.

Bóthar by Brian Kavanagh

Bóthar

A road?
Not just any road my dear…
This is the final road, the one with the big mysterious cathedral at the end. The resting place of many a good man. And now this place will be my tomb. Not because I was a better man than most, but simply because it’s the end of the road my friend.
Gawking eyes haunt me as I approach the main doors. Cawing and crowing fills the dark air at this late hour, fear suddenly hits me as I reach out for the old gothic styled handle. The smell of sulphur and putrid dead skin consumes me now as the door slowly creaks to a stop.
A dark silhouette stands before me, a trail of tears lead to its feet. Its eyes lit with a disturbingly blue glow, covered in a robe to hide its deformed body. This silhouette somehow looks strangely familiar. I look beyond the robe and make out wounds on its torso, blood still dripping.
I can’t take this anymore! I think to myself and I make a run towards the shadowy figure. Suddenly in a flash of bright green, the robe disappears and I’m left facing myself! Naked, I look myself up and down filling with shame. As I look closer I realise that the wounds have opened up completely. A gash that you could fit your hand inside, covers where my heart once was.
I start to cry uncontrollably. I have just realised that I was not dying of natural causes, nor overdosing on any substance. I wasn’t even killed by some trigger happy maniac.
No!
I have just died of a broken heart…

Starlight by Eamonn O'Neill

Starlight

            Everything fell out of his head and then we looked at each other. Heather screamed and David put his hand over her mouth. Then we looked at each other again. All I could hear was the noise of the river. I laughed a little thinking about how ridiculous it all was. Like an art house movie, the sound of nature playing over such a horrible image. The valley we were in didn’t help mute the laughing but no one said anything. No one even looked. A brass band could have marched past us. We wouldn’t have glimpsed.

             It had been raining earlier. The ground was wet and steep. Sludge. It made getting river side difficult. Nature didn’t want any visitors. Maybe it wanted to keep the ones it got. I don’t know. The valley was shadowed by trees. Moonlight hit the ground from gaps in the leaves. The floor looked like an ocean bed. 

            There were cans and bottles littered around the fire. Mark hiccupped and Stacey hugged her body. Mascara trailed her eyes like narrow bruising. David was still holding Heather by the mouth. I was thinking about opening another can. Timothy lay on the ground, he spasmed a little. It all seemed very natural. I walked over to the crate of beer, there were only three cans left.

             Timothy had fallen bringing it down the hill. He landed face first in the muddiest area of the ground. When he pulled himself up we all laughed. He soured pretty quick so Heather gave him a hug and kissed him. He looked at me and I looked back and he held her and I looked away. I didn’t enjoy drinking the first can. I thought a lot about going home. Stacey sat beside me. I didn’t look at her but she stayed there all the same. We sat in silence for a while until she whispered something in my ear, squeezed my shoulder and left me alone.

            “Anyone want a can? There’s three left. I’m getting one.”

            No one answered. I could hear Heather crying. Her tears weren’t helping anything. The ground was wet enough.

            “This is your fault you fucking prick! This is your fucking fault!”     

            I shivered for a second. Maybe, but we both knew she had a part to play. Then a memory. It seemed oddly appropriate. I was eight, trying to teach my kid sister to climb trees. She had learned how to get up. But it’s always harder to get down. Her foot slipped, she came down hard on the branch. Her body rotated upside down and hit the grass at a terrible angle. Dad beat the shit out of me over that.

            “This is all your fault, you jealous bastard!”

            “It’ll be okay Heather. My sister was only concussed, Timothy will probably be fine.”

            “What the fuck does that mean?!”

            “It’s just a concussion, I’d say.”

            “I can see his brain.”

            Timothy had hit me hard. Very hard and very fast. I wasn’t  nearly as big as him and I didn’t have that look in my eye.

             Two weeks beforehand Heather sticks her tongue into my ear and breaths heavy. I tell her I think I love her and she begins unbuttoning my shirt.

            “Timothy stop!” Heather screamed. I must have looked afraid. My eyes give everything away.

             “I don’t love him, it meant nothing, I love you!”

            The last thing I remember is Heather looking frightened. I could feel my eyes change colour.

            Mark hiccupped again.

            You know when you watch those Kung Fu films. Those pressure points. Prod someone in the back their heart stops. Jam your thumb in someone’s throat they can’t move. It happens like that. I pick up a rock from the mud. It hits him once. Side of the head. Ever seen a melon split?

            “You alright David, you’re real quiet?” I asked looking at Timothy’s uneven face. I couldn’t see his pupils.

            “I... I’m, is he alive, we should call someone right? Let’s call someone. I think we should call someone.”

            “Yeah, is there any signal here?” Stacey said with folded arms before she started shivering again.

            Everyone checked their phones. No signal.

            “I’m going to get to a road, call someone, maybe stop a car. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

            “Yeah, okay someone stay here. Stay with him.” David said. Mark nodded to signify that he was going to go with David and Stacey and then hiccupped again.

            “I’m not staying here with that killer. I won’t, I...I...oh God it’s my fault if I hadn’t slept with you...oh God! It’s me, I...I killed him I...” 

            Heather started making weird sounds, breathing in weird ways. I expected her to laugh but she didn’t she just stared at the ground. I thought that was what was supposed to happen when you cracked. I remember agreeing with her.

            “It’s my fault. I’ll stay here, wait for the police or whatever, it was self defence anyway so they probably...”

            Heather seemed to calm down she even tried to smile at me. What came out was a crooked smirk. I felt the fear flow through me. Everyone left and began to scramble up the hill. Clumps of wet dirt rolled under their shoes. Mark slipped several times between hiccups and Heather laughed out loud. It started a kind of Mexican wave reaction. Mark smiled and slurred.

             “I’m some drunk though.”

            And then everyone was gone.

            I knelt down beside Timothy and tried to find a pulse. I couldn’t feel anything. Then again I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. I walked to the cans and opened another. I stood over  Timothy and held the can upside down splashing beer against the ground.

            “One for my homie.”

             I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a whatever jangle I had.         

            “Fucking Euros.”

            I held the change in my palm and moved the coins around. Wouldn’t have had this problem if we still had the pound. I took up a two Euro coin. The one with the most silver on it and then sat down beside Timothy. I placed the coin into his already open mouth and moved his eyelids down.

            “Just in case” I said, “Just in case the Vikings were right.”

            Sometimes, sitting here after dark, I envy the clarity I had that night.

            “Just in case.”

            Something in the back of my mind told me to take the coin out.

            “No” I whispered “Just in case”.

            I lay down beside Timothy and grasped his hand.

            “I want you to know I’m sorry and it was an accident. You can have her. Me, I couldn’t handle her. Firecracker man. If we’re all ever, I don’t know, together again, then she’s yours. No hard feelings okay?”

            I looked at Timothy and moved his eyelids back open. I wanted him to see the sky. It could have been minutes, hours. I don’t know. At first I thought it was God. Bright lights flashing through the trees. Shadows creeping. Then I heard the voices. Men, guards. I poured what was left of the can into my mouth and looked up. The trees framed the sky. It was like a moth had gotten at a black sheet. Little white perforations. Then in the middle of it all this huge hole. White as bone and twice as chipped.

            The tears filled my eyes but didn’t drip. The flashlight found me before it moved on to Timothy. It didn’t move back. “Mother of God”, “Jesus” and “Fucking Hell”. All God fearing guards. I looked back at the moon and the felt salt on my lips. The tears were loose. I couldn’t help it. Everything was so alive. So vibrant. I squeezed Timothy’s hand.

            “I know” I coughed “it’s so fucking beautiful.”  

             

Poems by Kevin Kavanagh

SOMETHING SHARED

Silently screaming at the walls,within which we are bound.
Nobody makes me feel like you do.
I've lived here for too long,dragging my heels in the hope of something,anything.

Yet blind abandon prevails,and the walls cave in a little more.

And it races through my mind,slipping between my heart and my tongue in an instant.
Never to pass my lips. Nobody makes me feel like I do.



THE SNOW

All day,I manned the window.
The hills ascend,to a whiteness
A new coat of paint,fickle
and temporary.

How a child must marvel,
in the simplest of abnormalities.
Snowmen assemble,garden by garden
as if to defend their whitened lawns.

Face to face,in a terrible place.
Soon to bring their doom.
When the sun comes out,destroys the white,
and light again will flood my room.

How You Can End Just As You Begin By Westley Barnes.

 The lilies were released in bud swiftly as the spring came, and soon the pathways were pillowed with their innocent white extractions. Thomas Williams, approaching what seemed like the last year of his gladly irresponsible youth, the final year of his college bachelor degree, stood for a moment on his way to his penultimate lecture. With a smirk rising across his lips which felt as sour to him as it might have looked sweet, he remarked silently to himself how the spilled seeds of the flowers laying vanquished on the ground seemed to act as a reminder of the earnest naivety of the person he was the year before: of an attempt at some kind of pure achievement, now leaving only a shell with its echo scattering away from it, both inert beings left cold in an uncomfortable place.

Thomas always saw the funny side to situations that most people would consider tragic. It was just the way that life had an indominantable knack in being able to beat you down, no matter how hard anyone tries or even how innocently people just try to get on with things, yet they always seem to become magnetised towards some other upcoming cathasthrophe.There’s a woman who raised five kids on her own, gets mugged by smack addicts one night, breaks her hip, dies of pneumonia in a nursing home. You manage to put your kids through college, you get throat cancer. You think you’ve found the love of your life; she’s not really that into, she moves on only to have her confidence crushed by some guy who was never really that into her. The great human comedy replays the same tawdry scenes, using the same basic motifs, only nowadays the furniture is a little cosier and the lights are a little brighter. Shockingly bright, you might say. All this Thomas pondered as he strode towards the lecture hall, the anonymous kind, it could have well been any lecture hall in any college in the world, bar the language differences, the results of what went on inside would have developed in mostly the same way, given the state of mind that Thomas found himself in. The fact that a philosophy lecture would be the silent curtain call of his college career could have raised a smirk to anyone’s lips without the threat of moralistic reproach.

She mustn’t have been wearing any perfume this morning. When that thought arose in his head as the lecturer babbled on about some notion that was supposedly incredibly serious and would feature heavily in the exam, Thomas might as well have laughed out loud. The panic she creates in me, she does not know. Another self-concious, although self-mocking would be a more aptly descriptive term, smirk emerged, as it if were smacked, across his lips. This sense of mild hysteria didn’t last long, however, as he recalled how their talk had gone earlier. They were just different people now, she was going to go her way and  he was going to  go his, to either sail away into the sunset or sink.Well, neither of them had actually said anything  as harsh about it as that. It had gone quite well really, as well as it could have gone. After all, he had, though he coughed himself dry to admit it, loved her. Loved as far as the dictionary definition found under ‘young’ states. But all sweet things must come to an end, even the lilies had to fall off the branch and die before you could really  appreciate them.

He thought about the effect she had on him as he watched sceptically as the ducks fought for the scraps of food that were tossed at them on the lake. It wasn’t just emotional, it definitely wasn’t as if she had done him over or anything, and there definitely wasn’t a change in his fashion sense, he had managed to keep wearing most of what he wanted to wear throughout their acquaintence.Oh yes, he would manage to survive without her. Maybe that it was more along the lines that she made him think more considerately, to think twice before he spoke, to actually give a shit for a change. That life wasn’t just some big rat race where the rules are made by idiots, although the immeadiate sight of  ducks tearing themselves apart over sandwich leftovers was probably not the best example of these new revelations. Summer would be coming soon, a time for homecomings, goodbyes and life changing decisions. As Thomas Williams sat on the bench observing a now silent lake, he decided that he should let the past disappear with the lilies.

My Creation By Rob Billington

My eyes strained to take in my surroundings, the view was one I have seen millions of times, one bright light forever burning my face and complete darkness surrounding that ever scorching light. I cant escape it and yet I have tried so many times. Where I am has no sound, only faint groans which come and go. It is complete solitude and I crave company, “too much thinking” “I’m so lonely” “please help me” these are the thought’s I’ve uttered to myself over and over again and even though I decided years ago that I couldn’t go on I am still here. “why is that?” I hear you ask, Well the reason is because my self inflicted exile has allowed life to flourish and create absolutely beautiful things beyond my wildest dreams. There where great times, when I was in harmony with my body as well as my mind, but gradually those times have disappeared.


I have tried multiple times to end my life, and my body carries the scars. I can feel them every day and they mock me, why? Because I have never done it right, they mock my immense failure. I am being so selfish but I don’t care anymore, I have spent what seems like centuries creating a cancer to kill myself, one that will slowly strip me of my flesh from the inside out and drain me of my very life force. It is beautiful, almost perfect, it will spread quicker than plagues of locust and consume everything healthy in my body until it has taken all my life, once it has finished it’s task it will fade without a trace or a memory, a scream or a sigh.


The cancer has begun to spread, I feel myself growing ever weaker, It is now almost absolute. Quite poetic in a way, As I get weaker it gets stronger yet when I die it die’s too. As I have grown older my sadism has grown more wicked. I’ve often laughed to myself thinking about my cancer consuming me, Growing more and more confident with every space it takes over, probing into new unknown territories with great satisfaction at the ripe pastures it see’s. Little does it know that this will end, It’s conquest will be over before it has time to rejoice over it’s spoils, The stupid thing. It can be clever at times I must say, It targets and desecrates my organs with pinpoint accuracy and lets no good go to waste, I feel it everyday. What a beautiful creation.


“A name, That’s it! I need a name for this magnificent disease….“ Ok I’ve got one, One that is as twisted as my mind But allow me to introduce myself first, I have been so rude. My name is Mother Earth and I shall call my disease Mankind.

Spider Eggs by Eamonn O'Neill

Spider Eggs

            I wave to Finnegan on the way in. God only knows what he’s doing on the marina at half eight in the morning. In the rain too, mad bastard. I’d say something to him but I’d only get drowned. Besides I’m nearly late.

            By the time I get there Joe’s already in a bad mood. From a distance his fat looks like muscle. Must be his low centre of gravity. If not for the auburn hair and rounded features he might look Russian. Maybe Polish or Slovakian. One of those countries anyway.

            “Who cleaned the coffee machine last night?”

            Sometimes it’s difficult to understand his Northern Irish accent. Even if he had spoken in Arabic I’d still know what he was asking. This is the Monday morning ritual. Lets you know what you’re in for over the next five days.

            “I did. What’s wrong with it?”

            “You didn’t soak the steam wand.”

            “It was already clean.”

            “You have to soak it.”

            “Right.”

            I shuffle past him and try not to give away that last night was a late one. I walk by the till towards the prep area. The smell of baking scones mixes with the smells of tuna and mayonnaise. I feel my stomach quiver but manage to keep everything down. Inside Beata is chopping meat and veg. I smile at her on the way to my locker. She smiles back. This is the extent of our conversation. The only Polish words I know are cześć and dzień dobry. Beata doesn’t know much English. It’s difficult to maintain a conversation using only hello and good morning. Everything is said with her facial gestures and blue-green eyes. My apron hasn’t been washed. It’s creased and stained. This will be Joe’s next observation.

            The fan buzzes into existence as I sit on the toilet. My face is warm but my eyelids feel cold. Wet almost. I look at my hand and it’s trembling. The noise of last night’s kebab hitting the porcelain is unsettling but ultimately makes my stomach settle. In the mirror all I have are pale and stubble. The guy who drank his way through two years of an English degree before dropping out looks back at me. Retrospect is a terrible thing.

            I pick up the triple shot basket and turn on the grinder. The ground Arabica beans fall peacefully into the basket. It slots into the coffee machine and the brown water starts filling the mug. I take a sip of the Americano as Joe flips the ‘open’ sign. Generally coffee tastes better with sugar but I can’t be bothered walking to the take-out station to pick up a few sachets. When Joe goes into the back I steal a doughnut. Drinking a triple shot Americano without eating is for coffee amateurs. By the time I’m down to the end of the mug our first customer walks in.

            It goes against human nature to act like you care about people for eight hours a day. This really isn’t a problem until you work in a coffee shop but it’s something you have to get used to. Our first customer is wearing a pinstriped navy suit with a white shirt, salmon tie combination. He walks up to the counter. He’s tall. If he wasn’t I wouldn’t see it. The small white residue behind the hair and mucus on the inside of his nose.

            “Cappuccino please Rob.”

            I look at him again. Do I know this guy? Then I remember the badge. Gets me every time. ‘Hi I’m (insert name here) I’ll be your Barista for the day!” I stick on a double shot and start frothing the milk. The first time I managed to ‘leaf’ a cappuccino I was pretty proud of myself. I pour the milk over the espresso and keep the jug close to the lip of the take-out cup. When it’s half full I flick my wrist and pour the remainder out. I zig-zag my hand towards one side of the cup and then keep it straight as I bring it back to the other side. It’s an anatomic response. Every customer is impressed by it. I feel like one of those depressed comedians. I hand him the cup.

            “Sugar, lids and serviettes are over on the take-out station.”

            “Wow that’s like art.”

            “You should blow your nose too.”

            “What?”

            I pretend to snort something off the back of my hand.

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah.”

            He leaves his coffee at the station and walks into the customer toilets. I steal another doughnut. He comes back out and throws some change into the tip jar.

            “Thanks Rob, sound man.”

            I nod to him as I pick some pink icing off my top lip and put it into my mouth. Joe comes back out and I swallow hard. He doesn’t notice anything. He looks at the rain falling onto the street and shakes his head. Light catches the scar on the side of his face. It looks like a lightning bolt. I once asked him how he got it and in a roundabout way he explained it had nothing to do with football hooliganism. Joe used to be a builder. Had his own little company, three man team.

            “It’s going to be dead again today.”

            “Mm.”

            He stands beside me for a few minutes and then walks back into the prep area. Beata will be inside all day. She’s here a few weeks, wouldn’t be able to manage the till with only her Polish. She brings coffee or sandwiches or whatever to tables when were busy. We’ve taught her how to say thank you. This used to be good for a laugh when someone messed up an order.

            “I ordered the Caesar salad, NO parmesan.”

            “Thank you.”

            It was funny until it became stressful. She’s generally able to figure out what’s going on based on body language, tone and facial gestures. The basics like hello and good morning are there so it doesn’t happen too often.

            It’s a slo-mo day. I look at the clock expecting hours to have passed but it’s barely forty five minutes since I got here. I’ve sold a couple of coffees to a couple of regulars, that’s about it. Joe’s in his office gambling. This means he’s either going to come out smiling and playful or feral and angry. He plays Texas Hold ‘em. The only reason I know is because every now and then I have to go into the office to switch C.D.’s. I see him scratching his head and looking at his digital hand like he’s got too many chromosomes. I read somewhere that there was a serious rise in online gambling addiction and online pornography addiction. Hopefully he’ll stick to the gambling. Catching him mid stroke would make voluntary lobotomy appealing.

            Outside Finnegan bends down and picks up some stones. He inspects them for a few second before putting them in his pockets. The rain doesn’t seem to bother him at all. He walks through the door and wipes down his long greying beard. His curly hair is matted to his face. No jacket, just a wet, green cardigan and blue jeans that have begun to tear at the knee. He’s one of the town celebrities. This town has loads of them. They all have stories. There’s the Druid; his parents were some sort of Jesus freaks and used to beat Satan out of him. He’s schizophrenic or something. Likes green tea with strawberry syrup. There’s Dirty Jane. She’s had several kids for her father. They all got taken away by social services. Every time I serve her she asks me if I’m a good man. I tell her I am, keeps her calm. Sometimes she comes in screaming and crying and we have to kick her out. Red tea, no sugar. Jim-Jim walks in from the country every day. He’ll sit down at a table until we close and order 7-Up and fruit cake every few hours. No matter how you start a conversation it always ends with him saying “Those horses would only cod you”. He got attacked a few years back, messed his brain up. He doesn’t do hot drinks. Franny-Maggie isn’t allowed in after stealing that woman’s bag. Burned down her house when she was a kid. She got out alone. Drinks flat whites.

            Finnegan’s not as far gone as the rest. I’ve had some mad conversations with him, always interesting though. Rumour is he took an acid tab a few years back and never came down properly. But you never know what the truth is with the celebrities. People need stories. Something that separates ‘normal’ from ‘mental’, gives an explanation. Something tragic, something unthinkable. So they think it up.

            “Finnegan, what’s the craic?”

            “Not much brother.”

            “Usual yeah?”

            He used to drink tea. One day I asked him if he’d like to try anything else. He didn’t seem up for it but I told him it’d be on the house. He asked was I a pusher and then laughed. The first time you hear Finnegan laugh is an experience. It’s a cackle coming from the deep of his belly. It’s the kind of laugh a western president could not afford to produce. I made him a latte and he’s stuck by it since. He wears the frothed milk on his moustache until some unknown urge makes him wipe his mouth. I bring the drink down to him. He’s holding a worn piece of copy book paper with blue biro sentences.

            “What’s that?”

            “A poem I wrote.”

            “What’s it about?”

            “You tell me.”

            There are scribbles, crossed out lines and blatant spelling mistakes. It doesn’t rhyme so I immediately think it must be good. I’m not really sure what it’s about.

            “How the cycle of life works in weird ways?”

            This is what I always say if I don’t understand something. Like the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

            “If that’s what you think.”

            “You just write it yeah?”

            “No it’s from ages back. Trying to look at it as often as I can. I’ll probably lose it soon.”

            “Why?”

            “Just a feeling.”

            “It’s pretty dead in here today. I could probably type it and print it out for you so you have a spare.”

            Finnegan looks at me like I’ve offered him a kidney.

            “You serious?”

            “Yeah, no bother.”

            “Ah that’d be deadly.”

            “Joe’s at the computer now but I could do it later.”

            “I can’t stay here all day though.”

            “Where’ll you be at about half six.”

            “Fishing off the quay.”

            “I’m not going down there in the rain though.”

            “It won’t be raining.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Trust me brother.”

            “Alright if it’s not raining I’ll bring it down to you but if it is I’ll leave it here for you until tomorrow.”              

            “Again; it won’t be raining.”

            Finnegan shoots the rest of his latte back and hands me the paper.

            “Take care of that won’t you?”

            “Thought you were going to lose it?”

            “I am.”

            Finnegan doesn’t wipe his mouth and walks out into the rain. I put the paper into my pocket and pick up his empty glass. I walk past the prep station and Beata’s crying. She’s wiping the tears from her eyes. When she looks at me I notice the mix of green and blue. The green is like the red of an explosion. It speckles the blue. I’m a bit confused about what I should do so I put my hand on her shoulder.

            “Dobry?”

            That means good. I’m hoping my worried expression will say the rest. She turns to me and starts laughing like she’s just heard something funny. My immediate thought is that she’s having some sort of breakdown. It makes sense. Eight hours a day everyday unable to understanding anything. That’d be enough to send anyone off the edge. I get this image of her going into a shop to get a coffee and everyone being wary of her because she’s one of the celebrities. She can’t even speak English. The girl won’t stand a chance.

            “Cebula.”

            I try to space my words out and speak slowly knowing that it won’t matter.

            “I don’t understand. Are you O.K.?”

            She points to the half chopped red-onion on the green board and starts laughing again.

            “Cebula!”

            “Oh, onion.”

            We both start laughing. She puts her hand on my cheek to say I’m nice to care. I think that’s what it means. I can’t believe I never noticed her eyes before. Joe comes out of his office.

            “What am I paying you for?!”

            Beata looks confused.

            “It was just that I thought...”

            He cuts me off. His face is boiling.

            “Get back to work or get out of my shop!”

            I bring the latte glass to the dishwasher. In my head I call him a degenerate gambler and throw the glass at his already scarred face.

            “I have to go out on business. I’ll be checking the camera when I get back so no arsing around!”

            I put the latte glass into the dishwasher and go into Joe’s office. There’s a monitor hooked up to a camera on the main floor. I start typing up Finnegan’s poem and occasionally check the monitor to see if anyone’s come into the shop. It’s about a spider checking on her eggs. They’re mounded on one another so she can’t see if the ones on the bottom are okay. Eventually they hatch but nothing comes out. The spider tears through the eggs eventually getting to the bottom. There’s a baby spider there. She picks it up feeling waves of relief and love. Turns out the kid is stillborn. Man, this is grim. This is the reason I dropped college. Well, not really, there was the too hung over to go to lectures thing as well. Why can’t people just say what they mean? “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet” is something an arse hole says. “Wish Romeo wasn’t a Montague. He’s a ride” is something a normal person says.   

            Joe comes back in at quarter past six. I’m closing the shop for the night and have already sent Beata home. She stayed late and helped me with some of the lock up. He walks past me without saying anything, presses a few buttons on the till and takes the receipt that comes out. It’s the read for the day. It can’t be more than three hundred. You take my and Beata’s wages out of that, add electricity, rent and product. Joe will be lucky if he’s cut even today. I fill a jug with water, put the steam wand in and say goodbye. Joe doesn’t say anything.

            Finnegan was right the rain has let up. The quays are on my way home otherwise he’d be waiting until tomorrow. If you shaved him up and taught him how to laugh he wouldn’t stick out the way he does. What was he like before he took that acid tab? I wonder how the Finnegan I know would get on with a Finnegan who never took drugs. The arm of the marina curves around the quay. He’s sitting on the rocks that separate the marina from the water. It loos weird, speed boats, trawlers, buoys and Finnegan. I can’t see his fishing rod. His hair and beard are caught in the wind. He’s skinny enough to look like he might get caught up in the breeze. He throws pebbles into the sky. Above him seagulls circle and follow the stones into the water.

            “Finnegan!”

            He turns around and looks at me. It becomes clear he expects me to go out to him. It’s easy enough. It isn’t so long ago that I used to drink on these rocks in the summer.

            “Well brother.”

            “Not too bad. I got your poem printed up.”

            “Thanks for that Rob. Appreciate it.”

            There’s a packet of rashers and a small pile of stones beside him. He wraps one of the stones in a piece of bacon and throws it into the air. The seagulls fly for the pebble until one of them manages to catch it in its beak and swallow. The bird immediately falls out of the sky into the river. Finnegan lets out his belly laugh and then sighs.

            “Did I ever tell you about my daughter Rob?”

            “No. Didn’t know you had one.”

            “She drowned.”

            “Jesus. I’m sorry Finnegan. I didn’t know.”

            “It was a long time ago.”

            Finnegan throws another stone into the air and another bird goes down. I haven’t seen the first one come up yet. He laughs again.  

            “Some party out at the beach. It’s her birthday today.”

            I’m not sure what to say. It doesn’t seem like Finnegan expects me to say anything.

            “She had some eyes. Green bursting into brown.”

            He throws another stone up. It’s kind of frightening when the seagulls clash above us. They really battle it out for those stones. There’s a load of feathers around us. Finnegan must been here since I saw him this morning.

            A bird goes under. Finnegan laughs.

            “They found her dead on the rocks with all the gulls. Her eyes were gone.”

            I put my hand into my pocket and pull out the copy book poem and the printed poem. I hold them out. Finnegan smiles at me.

            “This’ll come around brother.”

            He takes the copy book page and wraps it around one of the stones. He wraps the stone in a piece of bacon and throws it. The seagulls bounce off each other, eyes fixed on the meat. Their grey and white wings battle one another like a dull kaleidoscope. One of the gulls catches the stone wrapped in art and bacon. It’s going to drown like a memory. The thrill of catching that meat is going to kill it.

            I hear the splash and wait for Finnegan’s manic laugh.

            It never comes.