In the Beginning - Musical Interlude

Part seven of the ongoing saga and I'm not sure where some of this is coming from. You can find the earlier bits down below.





Caught between the priest and the preacher, Jack wasn’t sure which side was right. His initial surveillance showed nothing technically illegal but the gaggle of girls in the house spoke of a possible cult. At the very least it seemed to be the type of commune the hippies used to set up.

He discreetly took the information to some of his old cop shop contacts. They agreed no action could be taken, yet. The intel and the work impressed his old boss though. He had a standing offer to return to active duty. A detective’s badge tempted him, the steady income even more so. He needed to think about it, so he ended up and McClarren’s, a cop bar. Wouldn’t you know it happened to be on karaoke night? He hoped his poor ears would forgive him.

As he considered, he drank.  As old friends swung by to shake his hand and urge him to take up the cause again, he drank. When women who enjoyed the rugged, slightly dangerous look about him flirted, he drank. Soon enough he was two and a half sheets to the wind. Not quite blitzed but getting there. He was out of his comfort zone, but with one, about to be two ways back in.

Normally Jack reserved his gruff voice for the shower, his only audience the bar of Irish Spring and dollar store bottle of shampoo. That night though, the music moved him almost as much as his maudlin mood did. He filled out a slip and waited for the nondescript man running the show to call his name.

As a tribe cops have depressing taste in music. So the song he chose fit nicely. An old love song with a tragic story. His favorite song because at his core, Jack was still a cop. With no shame he got up and growled out the lyrics in tones fit to do any honky-tonk bound country singer proud.

Somewhere in the middle of the song a voice joined his, harmonizing, adding a poetic beauty one voice alone could not create. Jack looked for his duet partner, falling in love with the voice alone. A distant smile graced his lips as his eyes continued to search. By the end of the song he knew his own mind.

As the last chords faded to nothing Jack finally found the source of the voice. Neither the priest, nor the preacher’s prophecy could accept a man like him. The force had a hard enough time with it, but they were coming around quicker than any church. He would take up that badge. That was for tomorrow though. Tonight he wanted to buy the owner of that shaggy black beard a drink and see if partner could describe them when singing was not prepended to it.

#shortstory #novel #author #love #religion #socialcommentary #author #writer

Mixed Signals

Stanley is a little bit psychic.

Most of the time that’s annoying. On rare occasions I wish it was full on. Once in a while it comes in handy. Like when he sets you up on a blind date. But you can’t count on it.

“Dude! You’ve been down in the dumps since that last ho-bag dumped you.”

“Stan, first, we dated for months so a little respect. Second, it’s not very nice to say things like that about your sister.”

“She broke your heart and my mom’s not around… bitch. Point is I’ve got a winner for you on Valentines.”

“I admit you’ve had some wins but my worst dates have been your idea too.”

“Like?”

“Lisa…”

“Dude! What was wrong with her?”

“She was a werewolf, you set us up on the full moon.”

“Granted…” Stan doesn’t normally look sheepish. “This one though.”

I made him run down her traits for me, and translated along.

Well rounded – Fat

Nice personality – Butter-face

Passionate – Psycho

Comfortable with herself – Twenty cats

Great cook – Really fat

Demure – Religious whack job

Loves her family – Daddy issues

He sweetened the pot, he thought she was a hero. Capes and tights? No, classic Greco-Roman hero. I agreed, reluctantly.

Stan was to call me at nine thirty, if all was well I would give him the code phrase. If not I would claim an emergency.

You can imagine how surprised I was when I showed up and the girl was gorgeous. I mean like Bridgette Bardot had lesbian sex with your favorite questionable actress and somehow had a baby who was voiced by Mae West beautiful. She smelled like roses, not like the crappy floral perfume your grandma wore too much of but like she rolled in petals until they bruised then came to meet me. Best of all? We hit it off instantly.

I almost didn’t answer the call when it came. Then, I picked it up and gave the code phrase, that’s taken care of. Stan’s response child me to the bone.

“No, dude, there’s a real emergency. She’s about to go crazy bitch on you. I don’t know what’s going to set her off, but you’re in danger.”

I looked at this lovely flower just in time to see her pulling a bow from her purse. She knocked a heart tipped arrows and I knew who’s daughter she was. Just a moment before she had been laughing and pleasant, now she glared at me with the wrath of… well… a god. Her voice was locked in a glacier.

“Let me guess, you have to go? I really liked you too. Why do men have to have the escape route and not just say, ‘this isn’t working’?”

“No…”

Too late. She launched the love arrow at me. My last free thought was more terrifying than it should have been. I wondered what that arrow would do to someone already in love with the woman he was looking at.

Then all I had was hers.

#shortstory #love #magic #mythology #author #writer

Now The Letter

So no editing on this one either. I'm becoming a masochist with writing these damn things. I hate posting real shit when it's not an insane socio-political rant. But I actually did the prompt. Have fun with it, I guess.

Dear Granddad,

What I remember most is the fishing. At your funeral I remember the phrase, we don’t miss the years we miss the minutes. I remember thinking how catchy that bullshit was but I still miss you every day. I still hated the fishing though. Up before the sun because that was when the worms woke up. You told me that, remember? Then we went down to a river and stood in cold water. I never caught a damn thing. All I wanted to do was talk to you because I loved you but I had to stand there and be quiet to not scare off the fish. Later I decided you wanted to spend time with me when I was quiet since that was rare. Later still I realized you were teaching me patience and the value of quiet time with your loved ones. You taught me a lot and I didn’t even realize it.

I don’t want to tell you my life, you know it. You know I am okay because you made sure I would be. As one of the two oldest grandkids I was more like your child than grandchild. For a long time I envied that but now I know the rest of them envy the strong connection I had with you.

I want to say two things.

Thank you for being there. When I tried that stupid door to door sales job and you let me come and do the pitch for you even though I wasn’t really talking to you then. That you didn’t think you needed it but you wanted to buy it to help me out meant the world to me. That you always knew I was busy and asked about me even when that wasn’t why I didn’t come by… You were a better man than I can hope to be. Your faith in me kept, hell keeps me going. Thank you for everything.

The second is I’m sorry. The years I stayed away because in the middle of my parent’s divorce grandma said something nasty about my father. She was defending her daughter but I didn’t see that. I know you didn’t like my dad but I also know you understand I love him. That was part of who you were. I’m sorry I let my petty anger rob me of years with both of you. The year before you died when you hurt yourself you talked to me more deeply and openly than you ever had. Even when you didn’t know who I was you were there for me. I’m sorry I took so much of that away from us.

Mostly I’m sorry about the fishing. I had this plan to get two licenses and borrow some gear. I planned to do it the next summer. I wanted that time with you and to give you the gift of memory. Then you died and I’m sorry I didn’t do it the year before.

I love you always.

#author #writer #shortstory #love #nonfiction #aboutme

Ionuin An Bhais Go Bragh

So I was challenged multiple times to post a love story. I resisted but in the end I cam up with this. It is one of my favorites, but then I do have a soft spot for anything I can set in Ireland. Hope you enjoy and one of these days I will figure out how to make the colors work when I copy paste. Again any advice would be appreciated.

Thump, whish; sounds of life supported in misty country from the shadowed corner behind Seth Shamus O’Ceallachain. The elderly man peered into an antiquated basinet. Wiping a single tear with a palsied hand he spoke to the infant.

“It’s a mercy of fate that I remember the names of Caelan and your ma, Mary; the good I have wrought. Yet the evils I have committed run together.

“There are no Irishmen in heaven.  The church urges us to kill for Ireland but does not forgive our actions. A story I have told a million times I will tell you only once. Perhaps it is time to put old stories away with the bombs.”

 _____________________________________________________________________________

Dublin, July 18, 1982, I had two jobs. For money I sheared sheep for a prottie bastard. The job I loved, with the IRA, was the reason I had two bombs in the car. I was on my way to plant those explosives in an Anglican hospital.

Imagining the impending aftermath is why I bumped the car in front of me. Anger filled me from twin valves of worry an officer would find my explosives and annoyance at the delay. Clenching my fist I stepped to the offending vehicle, the urge to strike grew upon seeing my bastard boss.

My hand rose, ready to shout. As I glanced to the passenger seat my fist lost the power of speech. I had never seen a lass so beautiful. I was not a young man even then. While the boss’s daughter was younger she was no spring chicken but rather burned with the beauty of summer. I asked in a near whisper.

“How do I get your daughter’s hand?”

“Earn it and keep the peace.” With those simple words he drove away.

I sold those bombs. Two days later they were used in London to begin the death of the IRA. I put death behind me to become a semi-respectable member of the Sinn Fein and eventually convinced Siobhan to date me.

On our first date she showed me how much devil the protties can have in them. That was not the reason for our love. She did for me what the church could not. She heard everything I had ever done and she forgave me. She loved the man and did not see the monster. In her arms I was always safe.

 ______________________________________________________________________________

Seth jumped as warm arms wrapped around him. “Gra, do you have to fill their heads with sex and violence?”

Leaning into his wife he looked over his shoulder. “You look twenty.”

“You’re still here”

“Making amends.”

“They will all forgive you for passing the day after they announced she was coming. You need your rest.”

“They expected you to follow the day after me. We were one of those couples. You held on though.”

“I promised that I would meet our granddaughter.”

“You have, but now we must go.”

“Where?”

“Not heaven, there are no Irishmen there but anywhere in your arms will be paradise.”

#shortstory #irish #love