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Hi,
Time Out is a blog created for my family and friends who may enjoy browsing through bits and pieces that I've written over the years. I'll be updating it from time to time. Hope you enjoy it.
Frances Fahy
.....words .....words .....words
These voices in my head often mock me.
Sometimes they whisper sweet nothings.
Sometimes they become a torrent.
Sometimes they are downright stubborn and won't repeat a gem I've found mind-blowing.
And sometimes they are loudest when I have no way of recording what they're saying.
Cerca in questo Blog
Short Stories
- Burden of Memory
- Getting it Right
- Two Penny-Biscuits, Please.
- Communication Strategies
- The Symphony Parts I and II
- So cold this morning
- Standing Out
- We are family
- Pensioners' Pub Prattle
- Fire Works Wonders
- Birthright Parts I and II
- Thank you, Freddie
- The Candy Woman
Articles
-
Invitation (Horsemeat Scandal)
-
I don’t like complaining but…
-
ABRAKADASTRA
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Airing my inner self
-
The Reader
-
Environment Awareness Quiz
-
Maynooth University in its infancy
-
Padre Pio
Letters to VIPs
- Letter to Jane Austen
Menu
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| « The Symphony Part I | Horse Meat Scandal » |
So cold this morning
So Cold this Morning
Seven chimes of the Cathedral bell.
Faster!
She reaches High Bridge.
Nobody around.
She leaves bag and note near the Bridge Newsagent’s kiosk.
Mum’s souvenirs.
She grips the phone and climbs onto the bridge.
Tried telling you, Mum! You’re blind! Since he came.
It’s over! Fly! Away!
From silence, screaming, humiliation, shame, lying, hiding, his filthy leering.
Now!
Suddenly, there, beside her, out of nowhere, a soldier in uniform.
Where did…?
Oh God! He’s like someone from an old war film.
Hollow, penetrating, pleading whispers. “Don’t Greta. It’s not the answer.”
“What d’you want?”
“You know.”
“Go away!”
“Please!”
“No!”
“Greta! If you can face the water you can face anything.”
“No!”
“Don’t let him win. Tell her. Today.”
He drops behind. Dissolves. Somewhere.
Numbed by freezing sweat, she stumbles down and stoops beside the kiosk.
Go back!
Do it!
I can’t!
“Frank’s been annoying you?” The words barely register.
An elderly woman is opening the Newsagent’s.
“Who… is… he?”
“It's ok. Don't be afraid. Here, I’ll show you something.”
The old woman unwraps a crinkled newspaper cutting from its plastic wrapper.
Is she trembling, too?
A photo and underneath:
“Tragic jump ends soldier’s life, Christmas Day 1944.”
The man I saw!
She stares at the woman.
“Keeps coming back to discourage the jumpers.” The old lady's feigned jolliness brings the words out in whispers.
“You know him?”
She touches her cheek.
“He was my father, dear.”
Her brain succumbs to blackness…
She slurps tea.
“Go to Sister Angela.”
“Who?”
“At the Cathedral. She’ll know. You’re not alone anymore, dear.”
“He said my name!”
“And you heard it. It’s over. Come back soon. We’ll talk.”
“Why…?”
“Someday we’ll see your lovely face on the paper too but for something wonderful!”
“…must …go.”
"Do, go to Sister Angela."
The Cathedral?
A text message signal.
Happy 16h darling, Love U. Mum, Vic. Present later.
Noooo!
The dam of tears bursts.
Bastard! Bastard!
She hurls the phone over the bridge into the rushing water. The old woman watches her collapse under the agony of liberation and wraps the photo.
She would have to console this one too.
Would it never end?
And, like every time, it’s so cold this morning.
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