 
### The Rose Magazine

Issue Two

Copyright 2016 The Rose Magazine

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Editorial Notes – Lisa Egan

Secret Hairdo - John Verling

Foal - Gráinne Costello

Princess of Dagenham - Anthony Brophy

The Separation Ghost - Niall Finucane

Death of a Monkey - Ian Patterson

Depression Owl - Nicola Gallagher

Interview Day - Killian Glynn

Captain Ravioli - Amy Glover

What Do We Talk About - Lizann Gorman

A Lifting Of The Clouds - Clayton O'Driscoll

Ghosts in a Small Town - Nora Shychuk

Will Gompertz Brow - Billy King

Featured In This Issue
Editorial Notes

**Lisa Egan**

"Scribblers". That is how so many of our contributors referred to themselves. I love to imagine people tucked away at kitchen tables, in bedrooms, on trains, sitting on park benches, at desks, all scribbling and writing and creating. Then rereading, editing then finally sitting back and admiring their finished work.

Then they went and sent their work to this magazine. The word is out, the first issue has been read and downloaded over and over again and the number of submissions has soared. I spent the summer reading stories and poetry of great substance and quality. The process of choosing which pieces to include in the second issue was relatively simple. If we were still thinking or talking about a piece of work days after we had read it, then it had to be included in this issue.

Whether you are a seasoned artist or this is your first time seeing your work in print, thank you for sharing your work with us.

For all of our readers, we hope you enjoy this; the second issue of The Rose Magazine.

Lisa

A fellow scribbler and Co-editor

\---
Secret Hairdo

**John Verling**

The jeep slowed about half ways down the street, it was just gone ten on a Saturday morning and cars were still parked either side, making a narrow street even tighter. Not that Seanie noticed. Seanie never noticed much outside of his own world. It was up to you to notice Seanie not for Seanie to notice you.

"At least the bitch is open today," he said to himself as they came to the bar.

Some Saturdays Hannah mightn't open till two but on Mart days she was by ten. During the week she was always open at ten and there'd even be a few outside waiting, mart days would be no different that way. But again Seanie wouldn't notice or care. He stopped the jeep, jumped out leaving the door open and the engine running. Head down, knowing where he was going, he walked straight into the bar. The two smokers outside nodded without a return. As they watched, Paula came round from the passenger side, got in, closed the door and drove off.

"Poor woman putting up with that prick," one of the smokers said to the other, looking at the door first to make sure it was closed. The other nodded, left out a sigh along with his last drag and threw the butt in the drain.

That was the way with Seanie you didn't talk to him, he was as he was and never any different. Those who knew of him at school said he was the quiet type, the sort you didn't have anything to do with, apparently no different from his father before him. Never had any friends and never looked for any either. It took a woman from outside the county to marry him, how they met and married no one seemed to remember, they just were. People knew that it wasn't long after his mother died, no more than that. Speculation was that she was a cousin but no one dared ask and Paula didn't seem to have any friends to tell.

Seanie was a big man, not the conventional six foot six brickhouse but one of those fellows who was just a solid mass of maleness. He always seemed to wear the same clothes, trousers, half cut boots, cream round-neck jumper with the collar of a check shirt poking out the top, stretched round his thick neck. The presumption was that he had many changes of clothes, as despite his ways, he never stank, unlike others in town that neither washed nor changed. No doubt Paula saw to that, one of her jobs. An old green waxed jacket was worn during the winter but come spring you rarely saw him in it unless the rain was heavy. Today was fine so no jacket needed and strands of his fine black hair could be seen on the shoulders of the cream jumper. The tight hair cut had been done again, another Paula job.

The bar was empty except for the two regulars sitting at the tall table inside the door, full pints in front of them. The pints were being contemplated; the drinkers knew once the first sup was taken that would be it till going home time. They weren't in any hurry to start either, there was a whole day of drinking left and those last few moments of sober anticipation were special. Jackets belonging to the two smokers hung on the back of a couple of the six chairs that lined the length of the short bar. Seanie took the chair furthest away from them, pushing the back into the corner where the bar met the toilet walls. With his back against the wall and left elbow on the bar he spoke....

"Pint there Hannah."

Hannah started to draw a fresh one; she'd had the glass in her hand since he walked in. Leaving it to settle she turned to find something else to do. Like the others she never knew what to say to Seanie and the awkwardness of this drove most people off.

"Must go boil the kettle in case someone comes for a tea or coffee," she said heading out to the tiny back kitchen. If Seanie heard he didn't say, he just sat there facing the door, waiting for the first pint. The two smokers came in and took up their seats again.

"Selling much today Seanie?" one of them asked as he picked up the half drunk pint.

"I have a few of last year's lambs to move on, the young fella has them over there, won't need me for a while," his gaze on his pint behind the taps, not on the speaker. It was settled now and waiting for Hannah to finish it.

"Prices will be good today," the other man said.

"Fucking better be," Seanie snapped, looking behind the bar for Hannah.

"Hannah!"

"Sorry Seanie," Hannah said, drying her hands on an old tea towel before she picked up the glass. After topping off the creamy head she placed the pint in front of him. It wasn't on the bar a second before he picked it up. Unlike the men in the corner Seanie didn't stand on ceremony and a good third of the glass was gone by the time it was put back. Keeping his hand on the glass he leaned back into the wall, legs out in front of him, his day begun.....

Paula drove down to the junction with Pearce Street. She waited for a chance to cross as the traffic was heavy, the usual for mart days. Farmers from all around would be bringing their lambs today, Easter was coming and prices would be good. They'd dropped young Johnny with this year's lot before Seanie had gone to Hannah's.

Johnny, that was her name for him. Of course they'd christened him Sean after the father but he'd always be her Johnny. Not that she'd ever used Johnny on him. No he was Sean, Seanie Og or Sean Og as far as the world was concerned, it was only in her head that he was Johnny. Paula wanted to call him Johnny every time she saw him but hadn't done so since the last day at the hospital...

"We're going home now my little Johnny," she'd cooed at him, picking the little bundle out of the cot.

"Sean" Seanie had corrected her in a voice that was final.

A gap in the traffic opened up and Paula crossed over. There was a yard off the street about half ways up, perfect for parking and Paula needed to get in there. Yet another problem with the town, it was too small and if she parked on the street Seanie might see from the mart or the bar. She looked in the rear-view mirror in case Seanie was out for a cigarette already. Unlikely, as despite his likeness for an early pint he normally wouldn't have a smoke till after lunch. The fear that she'd be spotted out and about haunted her always, the terrible fear of what would happen when he'd be home that evening. There'd be the explaining to do, then the silence, then the questions and with it all fear, always the fear. Luckily the yard was nearly empty and she parked at the far end. Grabbing her phone and purse she jumped out, locking the jeep as she walked away. She'd have to cross the street to Joan's...another chance of a spotting. Unlikely but you never knew.

Dodging between the traffic she ran in the door of Joan's.

Joan was washing another lady's hair when Paula burst in.

"Hi Paula," Joan said turning from the sink, "you're early. Have a seat there."

Paula loved the hairdressers. Joan always treated her so well. The feeling of someone gently rubbing her head, washing the grime from her was just lovely. It was the one treat she allowed herself, a wash, cut and blow-dry about every six weeks, marts allowing. The sixty euro she kept back was full of guilt and sometimes it went on the kids instead. That happened more often than not as they got older. She never knew when she'd be asked for something and so a little back-up was kept in the cleaning cupboard behind the bleach.

Seanie didn't know about Joan's. She couldn't imagine him liking her going to the hairdressers. She just couldn't. Paula reckoned that if she got it done at regular intervals he wouldn't notice, especially if he'd been in the pub on the day. Not once in twenty years had he commented on her appearance and it was this that she counted on in keeping the secret of Joan's.

Paula thanked Joan and took a seat, the free one closest to the wall where nobody passing could see. It looked like the woman getting her hair washed was a stranger, at least to Paula.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Paula?" Joan asked, still rinsing the lady's hair.

"No thank you." Paula answered.

"Go on sure I'll be putting the kettle on anyway."

The lady lifted her head from the sink and Joan wrapped it in a towel as she spoke.

Paula looked at Joan as she passed. Dressed in those lovely clothes, always something different, always looking so well. _Not like me_ , she thought as she looked at her old clothes well worn and well faded from all the washes. "The uniform" as her Maire called it. When could she bring Maire in here? Not for a while probably, this was a secret yet to be shared.

"Kettle on," Joan said closing the door behind her, "and I'm ready for you now..."

Settled in the comfortable chair Paula leaned her head back into the sink and felt the warm water trickling over her scalp. Joan gently rubbed the shampoo in and Paula drifted off into her own world. Yes Maire, the eldest, the first born, the first of five. She was nearly seventeen now but Maire didn't have anytime for her mother, seemed to look down on her as if she was an embarrassment. All Paula wanted was for Maire to do better, to get away. She didn't know the truth and Paula didn't want her to either. From the day they came home from the hospital she'd been protecting her from the life they lived, she didn't want it for her.

Seanie had never raised a hand to Maire but the beatings for Paula had begun that very same night. He'd gone drinking to celebrate the birth and came home angry, angry with her for not giving him a boy. She'd pleaded with him to stop but he'd lain in to her, she promised and promised to give him a boy the next time but the blows kept coming. It was only Maire's crying from the kitchen that saved her, the hungry cries from the three day old stopped him, broke his anger, giving Paula the chance to escape. By the time Maire was settled he was asleep but the girl had saved her from who knows what. Not that she could ever tell her, it was another secret destined never to be shared.

Her time with Joan went too quickly as it always did. She'd even had a second cup of tea this time and it was delicious. Heading back out into the world she scurried over to the yard.

The phone rang as she sat back into the jeep.

"Collect me at the bar."

Paula froze.

"Why?"

\---
Foal

**Gráinne Costello**

Woodland floor beneath,

soft, connects to earth.

Comfort in the bird song,

Deep breath,

excruciating pain,

mystery, giving birth.

Breeze blows gentle,

raindrops on green leaf.

Alone, untouched perfection,

Stirring newborn,

magic,

Whispers in the branches,

daylight breaking through,

Master's voice,

delight,

Wonder at the creature,

life,

new.

\---
Princess of Dagenham

**Anthony Brophy**

(A Dublin pub)

The jacks smelled of piss. Obviously. But lethally so. It smelled like it had been freshly painted with piss. If Rosie didn't pull her knickers up fast and get out of the cubicle she'd pass out, face-plant the freshly mopped with piss floor. 'Goldy' was there when she got back to the table. Tight cunt. She reckoned the fat bastard waited outside the bar and watched her from the door 'til he saw her head to the jacks, then ran in and ordered his pints. Yeah, pints! Before she'd even sat down, or acknowledged his arrival, he was blabbing.

'Why does he just want to meet the two of us?...not the others?' he said, sinking half the first pint in one go.

'Evening 'Goldy'. How are you?'

He looked confused. She dispensed with the pleasantries.

'I dunno,'' she said '...Cos he knows we've both worked with Max Bacon I suppose....'

'I haven't!' smiled 'Goldy' guiltily 'I lied.'

'....What?'

'Never even met the fucker...I mean I've seen him!'

'Seen him?' she asked.

'Yeah...on telly...In....ehh...whatsit?....Coronation Street?'

'EastEnders'.

'Thank you. Knew it was something shit...Christ have you seen it lately? S'like a piss-take of itself.'

'Still better than Mrs Brown's Boys.'

'True. That is seriously retarded.'

'Yes it is.'

'Goldy' sank the rest of the pint in a second swallow, eager to continue-

'Six times I've auditioned for it now!' he spat, holding up five angry fingers.

But she got the point. He wasn't finished yet though.

'Now they've raped and pillaged every amateur dramatic society in the land, they're casting it with cunts on 'Jobs-Bridge' schemes and unclaimed individuals languishing long-term in mental health wards.'

'Unlikely' smiled Rosie 'People with actual mental issues might bring some drama to proceedings!.. Wouldn't want that.'

Rosie watched 'Goldy' laugh and swing his fat arse out from behind the table and head jacks-ward. His ill-judged low-rider jeans revealing way more of him than she was comfortable with. The bar was filling up now. Nine-ish. Friday night crowd. She was looking forward to seeing Dominic again, all things considered. It had been four years. Coulda' been four months.

'Who you playin' then?' said 'Goldy', back at the wobbly table already, and severely testing all three legs of the stool he had planted his arse on.

'Fuck that was fast.' thought Rosie. He pissed it out as quickly as he took it in.

'Rosencrantz.' she said, watching for his reaction.

'..Oh!....Yeah?...Good for you...Great'

He dunked his nose in the creamy top of the second pint.

'What?... You look shocked!' she said.

He swallowed, making a sound like a small whale breaking wind underwater.

'No, no... I ehh....didn't know he...or...she... could be...umm...'

'What?' she snapped 'Bigger than a size four?'

'NOOO!' boomed 'Goldy', trying hard to look offended 'I was gonna' say... played by a woman!'

She was self-conscious about her weight. She'd always been up and down, but the past four years were all up. She thought she'd put it to the back of her mind. Maybe not.

'Oh...right,' she said, feeling herself actually begin to blush 'but the part of Guildenstern's always played by a fat retarded actor isn't it?...So at least they've stayed traditional there!'

'Goldy' snorted and broke wind at the same time. He looked so comfortable with the event that she assumed that maybe that was how 'Goldy's arse worked. In physiological union with his nose.

'Ouch! Touché Turtle,' he said, grabbing the pint again. 'How did you know I was gonna be playing Guil'- he started.

'Cos I've always been lucky!'

He chuckled and sank the rest of his second pint in one disgusting gulp. He surfaced with a fully-grown Guinness ronnie, turning him from merely fat looking to stupid and fat looking. There was something about him Rosie couldn't help liking though.

'But what part do you really wanna play?' he said, spitting Guinness into her air space.

She swigged a mouthful of her non-alcoholic beer. She'd quit drinking years ago but still couldn't sit in a bar with a coffee or coke without feeling like a wanker.

'...What d'ya mean?' she asked 'I love the idea of playing Rozencr-'

'OHH FUCK OFF WILLYA?!!' shouted 'Goldy'

She laughed out loud, despite herself, and as she heard herself she realised how long it had been since she'd had a proper 'Stop or I'm gonna piss myself' laugh.

'....OK.OK....I'd love to play Ophelia.'

She'd almost whispered it, like a child uttering something naughty in the company of adults. 'Goldy' cracked a shit-eating grin.

'Good girl!' he winked, '...I wanna play 'The Dane'!'

He said the words 'The Dane' in the worst Olivier falsetto she'd ever heard.

'Course you do!' she said, trying to keep a straight face unsuccessfully.

'Three times I auditioned for this prick! THREE!'

This time he managed to hold up the correct number of digits.

'He even had me improvising!' he continued. 'As Hamlet!..It's Shakespeare for Christ's sake, not Mike fuckin' Leigh...What kinda' knob asks actors to improvise Shakespeare?'

A sudden image of 'Goldy', sweating furiously while trying to improvise in iambic pentameter came to her. She almost choked on the mouthful of fake-beer she was swallowing.

'...Then the prick offers me Guildenstern!'

She swallowed, put the glass back down on the table and looked sheepishly at

'Goldy'.

'....What?' he said, suspiciously.

'He just rang me from London. A straight offer!' she said.

'...You're just being a cunt now!'

Again, she laughed, this time even throwing in a little drum roll on the table with her knuckles. She was enjoying herself now.

'Sorry 'Goldy'. We worked together...four years ago. Before I moved to Dublin'.

A summer in Cornwall. Glorious. Playing one of Chekov's three sisters. When she remembered those times she smelled strawberries, sunshine and Dominic on her skin. When the play finished he had to leave immediately for a gig in Germany. She didn't want a scene, didn't want to appear needy. Time moved on, but part of her hadn't.

'Oh yeah?' smirked 'Goldy', 'A panto was it?'

'Chekov actually'.

'The dude from Star Trek?'

'....What?.....No. Anton Chekov.'

'Goldy's' expression could not be blanker.

'Russian playwright' she continued '...Short story writer... The Seagull?'

'...Was that not a kids' book?'

Rosie stared at him, waiting for the 'gotcha'....it wasn't coming.

'Let's move on', she suggested.

'Gladly', agreed 'Goldy'. 'Was he in that as well then? The 'Bacon' prick? That where you met him?'

She drained her glass and suddenly craved some of those awful scampi-flavoured snacks that only pubs seemed to sell anymore.

'Nahh....I worked with him before that...a regional tour'

'What's he really like?'

'Just that. A prick!'

'I knew it,' said 'Goldy', a little too triumphantly. 'You can see it on the screen can't ya?..When someone's a bell-end? Camera doesn't lie!'

'You were watching Coronation Street!'

'No, no,' protested 'Goldy' 'I caught a few episodes of that other shite he was in...whatsit?...ehh...Midsomer Murders?!'

'Miss Marple!'

'Thank you! ..Knew it was some pensioners'piss'.

'Yep, he's a prize tool' said Rosie....'I could tell you some stories.'

'Goldy' jolted upright like she'd just cattle-prodded his testicles, almost up-ending the table as he did.

'Could?..Are you new? Story me up lady!'

She was suddenly aware of how much louder they were speaking. The place was a lot noisier now, filling up quickly. Dominic was late, but that was nothing new.

'Ok' she grinned 'You want the Ralph Fiennes story or the-'

'Hold that thought' said 'Goldy' with a an almost spasm-like movement of his lower body 'I got one in the chamber!'

'...What?'

'Goldy' was already pulling at the waist band of his jeans with his thumbs, clearly in an effort to relieve the building pressure down there.

'I'm doing a drive-by on the way to the jacks' he said, voice an octave or three higher....'What's your pleasure?'

'WHAT??' she said, a little alarmed.

'Scoop-age!' he clarified.

'...OH!...Yeah, go on then!'

'Good girl!' he said, swiping the glass up 'What's that gay-ness in your glass called?'

'Alcohol-free Erdinger... thanks'

'Jesus wept!'

Remembering to avert her gaze this time as 'Goldy' leg-overed the table, Rosie ducked her head under it to her handbag to check her phone for messages or missed calls. She always put it on silent when she was with people. Couldn't stand fuckers taking six calls when they were meant to be with you, or insisting on showing you some "hilarious" YouTube moment involving a cat and shaving cream. Nothing made her want to fuck someone's phone out a window more.

'Hello again Rosie'

She jumped instinctively, smacking the top of her head noisily on the underside of the table, and sending a nice hot poker of pain and embarrassment to her already flushed cheeks. She breathed out slowly and went top-side. And there he was. Dominic. Looking better than he did four years ago. Fucker. He'd actually lost weight, tanned and greyed sexily at the temples. Any confidence or balance left her body in an instant, along with the nice giggle-buzz she was on from shooting the shit with 'Goldy', and her hand shot up to scooch back the hair behind her ears, as it always did when she was feeling nervous. Christ, she hated doing that. He wore a camel coloured linen suit and around his neck hung a stunning jade green scarf. Slung over his shoulder, the battered Gucci leather bag he was never without. He looked like George Clooney re-cast as Lawrence of Arabia. She couldn't take her eyes off him. Which was a shame, 'cos if she had, she may've clocked 'Goldy' heading their way, single-handedly hefting a tray laden with pints, while using his other hand to aim his phone at himself, in what looked like an effort to take a selfie.

'Watch your balls!..Comin' through.'

Dominic turned suddenly, his bag swinging wide, and caught 'Goldy' and his drink-laden tray off balance. The entire contents niagra-ed themselves spectacularly onto Dominic's back, and somewhere in the air you could hear ancient Italian craftsmen weep as three grand worth of bespoke tailoring met half a barrel of Irish stout. Dominic froze, somewhere between shock and awe, while 'Goldy' watched about twenty-five euro worth of booze vanish into the filthy carpet. Rosie waited, along with every other gaping jaw in the vicinity for the reaction of the handsome arrival in the once-beautiful suit.

'....JESUS CHRIST! YOU FUCKING MORON!!', Bawled Dominic, finally turning to face his attacker.

'Goldy' was still staring forlornly at the floor, but that got his attention.

'Eh, eh. Take it handy fuck-head!!' he said....I said watch your balls, didn't I??'

Dominic had swivelled around the full 180 degrees and the two men saw each other properly for the first time. As Rosie watched Goldie's expression move from Steven Seagal to Stan Laurel in the space of about three seconds, she thought she'd have to clamp down hard on a beer-mat not to piss herself laughing.

'..Dominic!??!...I'm soooo sorry man!!...FUCK!..I'm a clumsy bastard!....Here. ..here... let me help you-'

'Goldy' attempted to buttle Dominic out of his jacket, but he just glared at him silently, until 'Goldy' stopped, unhanded him immediately, and sat down like a stunned rabbit. Rosie stood up and gently peeled the drenched linen jacket from Dominic's back, and pointed him towards the gents.

'Go and clean yourself up. We'll get you a drink. Glenfiddich?'

Dominic scowled yes, and headed for the jacks, his aubergine hush puppies squelching nicely as he walked. Rosie looked to 'Goldy' to say something reassuring, but he was still semi-catatonic, rocking slightly back and forth on his stool and gazing into the middle distance with a Vietnam stare. She left him to it and continued to the bar to get the drinks. When the drinks came, she unconsciously reached into the inside pocket of Dominic's dripping jacket, which she was still holding, slipped out his slim calf-skin wallet, flipped it open and....stopped. What was she doing? Buying him a drink with his own money? She stole a glance back to 'Goldy' at the table who now looked like he was now praying, or maybe expecting a call from his agent at any second telling him he was fired (from a job he hadn't even begun).

She looked back to the wallet in her hand, felt its worn smoothness between her fingers and wondered sadly of all the places it had been with its owner; the theatres, museums, operas, green rooms and backstage areas that she may never get to see or fall in love with. She flipped it open. Smiling from inside were two beautiful boys, aged around six or seven, dark-haired and as deliciously edible as any children she'd ever seen. From behind the passport-sized photo of the boys she could make out part of another passport picture, peeking out at the side, and trestles of dark, curled hair were all that were visible, and before she'd even allowed her conscience to voice its unwanted opinion, she gently inserted her fingernails between the two phots and pinched the hidden one out. A woman. Although even by the standards of a fading wallet photo, Rosie instantly knew that describing this woman as merely a 'woman' was a bit like describing a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow as a 'motor'. This bitch was gorgeous. Sublime olive skin, deep sea-green eyes, and black wavy hair identical in colour and tone to the two beautiful boys who were clearly hers....and Dominics?

'Hello??..Eighteen euros please...when you're ready!?'

She wasn't hurt. Shit, how could she be, it was four years ago, but the feeling that was making her heart trip quicker by the second felt so much more raw than pain.

'Hellooooo??!'

She looked up into the hassled eyes of the teenager working behind the bar. He looked too young to get a drink in here, let alone serve one.

'Shit. Sorry'

She slipped a hundred euro note from the bill-section of the wallet and handed it to the young fella.

'Keep the change,' she said, wrapping her fingers around the chilled pint glasses.

'....You takin' the piss?' said the kid, holding the ton-note up to the light.

'No,' smiled Rosie '.....not any more'.

'Goldy' seemed to have re-joined the planet and he looked up at her, still somewhat dazed, as she handed him his pint.

'...Did I actually call him a "fuck-head"?' he said, sipping quietly.

'How badly do you wanna' play the 'Dane' 'Goldy'?'

'...What?'

'Answer the question. He'll be back soon!'

'....Well...hand on heart....Biff in 'Salesman' is my bucket-list role but Hammy- Hamlet's definitely up there....Why?'

'Would you settle for Laertes?'

'....I once played a piece of cheese at the RDS Food show...what do you think?'

'Done. Leave now and it's yours.'

'....Whaaaa?' said 'Goldy'.

She took the pint out of his hand and threw his denim jacket at him.

'Something happened didn't it-'

'One condition 'Goldy', Ok?'

'Of course...wha?' he said, struggling into his jacket.

'You wait outside for one hour-'

'Outside?...it's raining for fucks-'

'One hour 'Goldy'! You watch that door. If he comes out in one hour.. you trail him, yeah? I'll be out right behind him. But if he doesn't come out....'

'What?' said 'Goldy' throwing a nervy look to the jacks.

'I'll see you....and your tights....first day of rehearsals'

'....I am SO confused.'

'GO!!'

'Goldy' wobbled to his feet, hitched his low-riders up nice n' high around his forty-plus waist, and exited the saloon. This was her show now. She picked up what was left of 'Goldy's' pint and necked it in about ten seconds flat. Why was she nervous? Yes, okay, she was about to do something that, four years ago, maybe even four weeks ago, would've been unthinkable, but what did she really have to lose now anyway? She wasn't exactly setting the world on fire was she? And these days she felt like she was ageing five years a day, plus a daily diet of 'rags to bitches' stories of girls half her age, with none of her experience, getting West End leads and movie deals was beginning to make her vomit into her granola. It was 'shit or get off the pot' time. Be bold now and really stand to gain something or get out of this poxy business forever. She knew she was floundering. Hanging out in Dublin and going up for commercials or shitty day-player roles on Irish films that no-one would ever see.

Finally she saw him. He was pristine. What, did he have a team awaiting him in the toilet who groomed him back to perfection? He smiled at her. Sat down to his expensive scotch, which he swished around the glass, before sniffing it, like he'd distilled the fucking thing himself.

'Slaaaawn - Cha!' he said in a pathetic brogue.

'Cheers Dom!'

She took a long swallow of her beer and watched him as he looked around the pub, like he was missing something but couldn't quite put his finger on what.

'Oh!' he said suddenly '..What happened to...ummm...?'

'Goldy'?

'...Who?'

'Sorry. Gary. Everyone here calls him 'Goldy'.'

'Goldy'...right, yes, where is he?'

'How'd you forget his name Dominic? He says you auditioned him three times!'

'...I auditioned a lot of people Rosie. Not everyone gets the V.I.P treatment like you y'know?' he said, smiling.

'...Yeah. I'm blessed by the gods aren't I Dom?'

He sat back just a little on his stool.

'Why are you calling me Dom?'

She just stared at him, playing eye-chicken, until he looked away.

'...So how in heavens have you been?' he said, 'you look wonderful!'

'...Dublin obviously suits you!?'

He raised his glass to his lips again.

'Who's playing Ophelia?'

The question came out before she'd even realised it. It caught him mid - swallow. He brought the glass away from his lips a little sooner than he should have, and several drops of scotch rained down on the front of his white linen shirt. He was fast becoming a living, breathing distillery. She just stared at him, pretending not to notice.

'Sorry?..Ummm...Ophelia?'

'Yeah. Ophelia.'

'Well...strictly 'entre-nous' my love... Still not cast would you believe?'

He was clearly awaiting some excited reaction but she just eye-chickened him again.

'...Well, I say not cast,' he dribbled on 'what I obviously mean is it's out on offer, to our 'first-choice', with another actress on hold... y'know the way it works Rosie'.

She didn't. Her work pattern went more like; Audition- Rejection- Audition- Rejection. And no nice personal "We thought she was amazing but she's frankly too beautiful and talented for such a small shitty role" type rejection. Just a long slow painful wait for a call that never comes.

'Who are the lucky ladies?', she asked.

'Ahhh. Sorry darling. I can't say just yet, even if I wanted to...would be totally un-professional.'

'....Would it?...How's that?'

'What?'

'Why would that be un-professional?'

He began to roll up the sleeves of his blue linen shirt, then play with the metal strap of his expensive looking wristwatch, while studying her more closely.

'...Are you alright sweetheart?...you seem...a little-'

'What?'

'Well, to be honest......Pissed off?...or..I dunno'...emmm..'

'Lied to?'

'What?'

'LIED TO'.

'....Oh no??' he said, a little too theatrically '...Don't tell me your agent screwed up and said I'd offered you the role of Ophelia? Please don't tell me that-'

'No. My agent's rather honourable actually. As they come. Probably why every other fucker in this town hates her!'

'Oh...Okay...Rosie, look, I don't have to tell you Ophelia's wildly over-rated, any doe-eyed gym-bunny could play her, but you're going to be such a revelation as Rosiencrantz!...and I know we didn't get to chat to 'Goldy' properly, but.....where did he go by the way??'

'He forgot he had a weight-watchers meeting!'

'....Right...Ok...but as I was going to say...Already there tonight I could see an ease between you both, a.. camaraderie. I LOVED IT!'

'Oh goody Dom.'

'....Yeah. It's really exciting!'

She waited for him to bring the glass to his lips again.

'I want to play Ophelia'.

Bingo. Some more scotch splashed his shirt. Plus a little caught in his throat this time too, causing him to cough like a choking Jack Russell. A double whammy! He eventually recovered.

'....Oh darling,' he said, like he was talking to a distressed child. '...Rosie sweetheart!.... It's the eleventh hour my love ..and as I told you already... there's someone in the wings-'

'How old are your kids?'

'...What?'

'Your boys. They look around six or seven in the picture. But I don't know how old that is!'

He cleared his throat several times, before leaning in a little closer to the table.

'....What are you talking about? What picture?'

'Do you want me to take your wallet out and show it to you?'

She may have only imagined, or was played a trick of the darkening bar light, but Dominic's sun-kissed glow seemed to pale just a shade or two, and his eyes narrowed. For one ridiculous moment she began to feel sorry for him, and imagined herself running out past him into the night, and not stopping until she was in the chipper. She bade that pathetic shit goodbye.

'.........You've changed Rosie' he said, seriously '.....in a way I never would have expected'.

'Did I Dom? Fascinating.'

'Stop calling me Dom!'

'What's your wife's name?'

'Stop this shit right now Rosie!...this isn't a movie-'

'No it's not. It's real.....what's her fucking name?'

'.....Her name is Sophia.'

'Beautiful. It suits her. I want to play Ophelia'.

'You can't!'

'I can'.

'Look, Rosie, it's not that simple sweetheart. It's also Max. OK? He's the money on this, not me, I'm just the director, we're 'ten a fucking penny' sweetheart you know that.. Max has got to veto whomever I cast. He's got that right'.

'I don't think he'll mind'.

'What?'...why do you-'

'We fucked each other!'

He was staring at her, unsure whether she was telling the truth or not.

'..Yeah. That's right. It's ok though, we weren't married to anyone else at the time. No kids or anything!'

He kept looking at her, and actually began to break into a smile.

'Hold on a minute now...Did?....Did he put you up to this?...Max?. Is this a wind up?.....Getting 'Goldy' to drench me first off....then this shit?...you fuckers!...I didn't think he was flying in 'til Friday.....'

He actually started to look around the pub. To see if Max, or someone else was there. He continued to chuckle, taking in every corner of the crowded bar, before eventually looking back at her. She'd never wanted to hit another human being so badly in her life.

'... I'll make you a deal Rosie, ok? You can play Dublin. Then you step out for the 'West-End' run. Hmmm? Then we bring in the name..mmm?..Maybe you could even understudy her then...go on for matinees...hmmm?..I can't say fairer than that'

'What's your wife's number?' she said, taking out her phone.

'WHAT??'

'What?...Is this a bad time? Kids asleep?'

'...This isn't how it works Rosie!'

'Yes it is. This is exactly how it works. It's just usually the other way around isn't it?'

He began to shake his head, slowly.

'...Listen to me. I know you Rosie..I do. You have every right to be angry. I was married when...But you don't want something in this way Rosie, you know you don't?'

'No. That was the Rosie you used to know. Like you said yourself, Dom, I've changed. I still smell as sweet but my thorns are just a little sharper that's all.'

'...You're a truly gifted actress Rosie but-

'I know. That's why I'm going to play Ophelia. I'm going to play her here, and on the West-End, and Broadway too. I'm going to win every award there is and you're going to direct me! Lucky ol' you.'

CURTAIN

\---
The Separation Ghost

**Niall Finucane**

I am a ghost in this place now.

And all pass me by or tear right through.

Yet this is of my own creation.

Better unseen, yes this I knew,

Than tossed and turned, a lonely boat at sea,

By the tempest of scorn that rages and spits

From their displeasure at one another.

On the billowing fringes, I would wish to be free.

And so I stand watching and waiting.

Removed from it all by stubborn ignorance.

But alas this veil of protection shall not last

And the storm below is not abating.

\---
Death of a Monkey

**Ian Patterson**

Early August and we're heading downstream along the east bank of the Powder River. Shammy is talking about all the scalps we're gonna knot on our flag pole after we get to the Little Big Horn, about the tomahawks we're gonna bring back as trophies, but mostly he's happy to be just getting the hell out of Fort Callow. Stay put and they put you cleaning latrines, he says. Leave and the woman we call Mam will do the chores herself. We don't know why she prefers it that way but she does. Sometimes she can't even get out of bed in the morning she's so tired. We hardly saw her over Christmas and Easter she spent so much time sleeping. Daddy tells me and Shammy to stay out from under her feet. He says it quietly, with that patient smile of his, and that we're not to go worrying ourselves.

'Just mind the river,' he says with a wink. 'Or the callows will get you.'

Then he sends us off to find new names for the Shannon. Shammy won't answer to anything but Tex, and he won't call me anything but Ringo. He turns towns into forts and eyes the terrain for enemies we can never find.

'Well, Ringo,' he says, doing his best John Wayne, 'this time tomorrow I'll be branding cattle at the ranch.'

'Why won't Daddy let me go witcha?'

'Why? Coz you're a feckin-eejit.'

It's safer to take this than give him lip. The way he sees it, the three years between us gives him a right to say whatever he wants. There's a whole bunch of things he won't let me do, and you can just never tell when he's going to flip. One minute he's General Custer, the next he's tying you to a tree. Sometimes it's funny, except when he goes off looking for kindling to pile around your feet.

He lights a fag he's pinched from my mother's pack. 'You're staying because he needs someone to look after the women folk. Remember the Alamo and all that.'

'What's wrong with her?'

He spits and looks away. 'Nerves.'

That's what Dr Ford calls it. Shammy heard him speaking to her from upstairs. She shouldn't have any more children, he said. The twelve she had was enough.

'There's only eleven of us,' I say.

'There was one after.'

'Where is it?'

'Dead.'

He doesn't know when or how it happened. I can only say she hasn't been the same since we left Fermoy. None of us have. You could say we follow her moods. Feel what she feels. The funny thing is it's not even three miles from here, but it might as well be on the dark side of the moon. The house at St Anne's had room for the last six of us. Now Daddy's retired and we're not allowed to live there anymore because it's only for policemen. His thirty years of service only finished last Christmas. I think she was hoping he might become a sergeant instead of going to work in Bord na Mona at the age of fifty-three. She sure didn't want to leave St Anne's. The change is written all over her face.

Daddy drives Shammy down to the Arra Hills in the Vauxhall early next day, to help our uncle Pat with a week of harvesting. It's a relief in a way. Our fort becomes a house again once I'm alone with Mam. Small, dark, last in the row of the estate they call The Green. She gives me a few chores, and once they're done she lets me read Kid Colt in the kitchen. She spends the morning washing socks, ironing shirts, hanging out sheets. It's still a big wash, even with the few of us left in the house. The rest are away in London and Manchester. My brother John is in prison but nobody talks about that. I only know he ran away from the navy. You'd think he'd committed murder the way my parents went on. Mam especially. She almost died of shame. I suppose it was just one more worry. The slightest thing upsets her now, but she seems okay today. She's singing that radio hit Down by the Riverside in her shaky voice, only stopping to listen to some announcement. When the bells ring at midday we're on our knees. The forecast talks about the high pressure over Ireland. Temperatures of twenty-five degrees or more. She smokes a cigarette and gives me an apple, half listening to the Kennedys of Castleross.

'Is that any good?' she says.

'What?'

'The thing you're reading.'

'Good enough.'

I want to say things will get better. Ask if she's heard anything about John. Or if she knows when they'll let him out. I'll even talk about dead babies. There's a lot of things I feel like saying but never do.

'It's a good day for a swim,' she says, as if it's something she'd like to do herself. But I know she just wants me out of the way. 'A pity you've no-one to go down with.'

'I'm going over to Hanley's later.'

'Oh good. David's a nice boy.'

'He's okay.'

I'd go alone but she won't let me. It's always next year, next year. When you're eleven, she says, but she said the same thing when I was nine. I'd prefer to stay in and do nothing, even if the sun is splitting the rocks. I mean, Hanley really is okay, just a bit serious. Mam says it's because he's an only child, which sounds like a good deal to me. I'd prefer to hang around with Mark Donnelly, but he's away visiting his relatives in Galway. Another thing about Hanley is you can't just visit his house when you feel like it. You have to call first, if you can believe that. He must have got that one from his father. He says that when he grows up he's going to work in a bank too. I think his mother likes me. She smiles every time she sees me. I always go red, because she is kind of good-looking or whatever. Shammy says he'd ride her if she wasn't such a snobby bitch (Like she'd touch him with a bargepole!) and he takes this out on David any time he visits. Pokes him in the chest and tells him we don't like smart people in this house. Mam never hears any of this, but that's what Shammy says to him. There's a lot she doesn't see.

'Can he swim?' she says now.

'He has a medal.'

'Oh to be young again,' she says in a dreamy voice.

Her face goes strange when she talks like that. As if she can't make up her mind to be happy or sad. Most of the time she looks like she's thinking of some far off place. Connemara maybe. The place she calls home. Then something will bring her back. The phone, the door, a dog barking. This time it's the door. I put the book aside but she won't even let me get up to see who's there. She has to do it herself, like she's expecting some important news of her own. Instead it's Luke Costigan of all people. I can hear him calling for me. In a loud voice, as if he's come to arrest me.

'Come in, Luke, come in,' my mother says, and she sounds delighted with herself. 'Paul is inside.'

Sweet Jesus. I don't know why she makes me put up with this fool. When he arrives here it's like he's still blabbing behind the counter of his father's shop. He talks, talks, talks about nothing at all, and Mam just drops everything and sits there grinning. Seriously. Maybe it's because he looks like a monkey. When he smiles you can see his gums, with all the teeth stuck in them like pegs, just like his father. Even the mother looks like a monkey. But the worst is his sister Aisling. Sometimes she runs after me, trying to kiss me. In broad daylight! Doesn't care who sees. It's one of the few things that makes Mam laugh till she's sick.

Costigan follows her in, carrying a satchel, but I already know what's inside it. The first thing he does is clip the top of my head with the back of his hand when she's not looking.

'How's John Wayne?' he says, grinning from ear to ear, all gums. 'Still chasing Crazy Horse?'

I grunt and continue reading Kid Colt.

'Will you have a bun, Luke?' says Mam.

'I will, Mrs Keating. I will, I will, I will.'

Next thing he's eating one of her buns, dropping crumbs all over the kitchen floor because he's in such a hurry to give her all the gossip from the shop. I am doing my best not to listen but it's impossible. I hear him imitate one person after another and it's good stuff. It's strange, but the way he does it you would think the town was full of loons. He has them off to a tee. Mam just dies. It's amazing. I don't think it ever occurs to her that Costigan might know how to imitate her.

'Oh you're gas, Luke,' she says to him. 'Just gas now.'

I can't believe this. He's not gas, I want to say. He's a monkey!

And of course he has to have another bun. And another. She's literally stuffing his face. When he hears Shammy is gone he gets really giddy. That's because Shammy never lets him anywhere near us. Just calls Costigan a flat-nosed gombeen shite then tells him to fuck off back to his Daddy's shop. So he fucks off. Red in the face but still grinning somehow.

'Paul,' Mam says - and I hear the disapproval in her voice - 'Can you put your book aside for Luke, please? You're very rude now.'

'I think he's going to turn into a book, is he?' says Costigan with a wink, as if this was the smartest thing ever.

She doesn't laugh at this. Just looks at me with a sorry smile. But the monkey is still rattling on, still finishing the last of his bun. He's playing for a few final laughs, too thick to see he's lost her. I swear, he just doesn't know when to quit. Can't see that Mam has had her fill of local gossip. She's on her feet again, supporting her back with one hand, a look of pain on her face. I see Costigan watch her, like he's making notes.

'I'd better get on,' she says. 'Out ye go now. It's too fine a day for sitting around here.'

'I brought a towel,' says the monkey, swiping up his satchel. 'You on, Mr Wayne?'

'Don't feel like it,' I say.

'Go on, Paul,' says my mother. 'Go for a dip.'

'I told you. I'm going to David's house.'

'You can bring Luke with you.'

'Yeah,' says Costigan. 'Bring Luke with you.'

'No.'

'The more, the merrier. Isn't that right, Mrs Keating?'

'I'll get you a towel,' my mother says, ignoring him for once.

'No. I refuse.'

Costigan splutters a laugh. 'I refuuuse,' he says in some stupid accent that's supposed to sound English.

My mother smiles at me, as if she's pleasantly surprised at my choice of words. Not that it makes a difference. 'Go on,' she says gently. 'You can buy me some yeast on the way home.'

'And make sure you buy it in Costigan's!' says the monkey, hopping up on a chair, his eyes rolling like marbles. 'With a permit from Garda Mooney, mind!'

'We keep no poitin in this house, Luke Costigan,' Mam says, half serious. 'Now get down off that chair.'

She leaves for the back room to root for a towel. Costigan goes stock still when he hears her singing Down by the Riverside again. His mouth goes slack, like he's memorizing everything. Then he just as quickly snaps out of it, hops down and gives me another clip round the back of the head, grinning his monkey grin.

'I refuuuse,' he cries again. 'What are ya like!'

'Piss off.'

'Paul!' my mother calls from the hallway. 'Language.'

'Yes,' Costigan hisses, right in my ear. 'Language.'

So now I'm stuck with the monkey. I'm so fed up I can hardly speak. As we go along the street I'm picturing Shammy driving down the Arra Hills with trailer loads of fresh cut grass. The buzz of flies, the smell of cow shit, his back red raw from the heat. Free as a bird. Sitting in a field somewhere passing around a bottle of Auntie Mary's barley water. I want wings so I can cover the miles between us. Head south as the crow flies.

Costigan starts rapping the big brass knocker of Hanley's front door. He does this too hard and too long. Blackie starts barking in the hallway. We can see him leaping against the door through the stained glass panels. David Hanley opens up, holding him back by the collar.

'How's the gingerbread boy?' booms Costigan.

'You're supposed to call,' he says, staring back at us all pale and freckled. 'My father doesn't like people dropping in without calling first.'

'We're not people,' says the monkey, which almost makes me laugh. 'We're frog men today. Come on, will ya. Get your togs.'

Hanley keeps staring back. 'Is it just you two?'

'Sure can't you see it is.'

He glances past us, making sure Shammy's not with us. 'I'll ask,' he says then closes the door again.

He's probably wondering why I've brought the monkey along for company. He knows it's not something I would do unless I had to. But he's probably figured that out already. He's that quick.

I tell Costigan to take it easy on the front gate. He's swinging it hard, really testing the hinges. He's singing Down by the Riverside. Way out of key, over and over, with hints of my mother.

'A cat could sing better,' I say.

Gonna stick my sword in the golden sand

Down by the river side

Down by the river side

Down by the river side

'Shut up, Luke.'

Gonna swing all day on Hanley's gate

Down by the river side

Down by the river side

Down by the river side

'Shuddup!'

The door opens. Hanley appears with his mother. I can hardly look at her I'm so red in the face. She's all smiles, tells us to be careful. 'Mind the river now, won't you, dear?' she calls after David as we head off.

'Don't worry, Mrs Hanley!' Costigan hollers back. 'I'll look after him.' He turns to Hanley. 'Won't we, dear?'

On our way down the main street he's shite-talking nineteen to the dozen. He doesn't see the smirks Hanley and I are giving each other. Just talks and talks like we're hardly there. He decides to convert us into a cavalry unit. Says we're going after Crazy Horse. The Keating brothers have tried, but that this time the blue coats are going to have their scalps. I can see he's trying to take this seriously, the way Shammy and I would. It's kind of pathetic. We're in Callow, I want to say. It's not wild and it's not even west. It's the midlands. A place where everyone works on the bog. And even if we were in the Dakotas, you wouldn't be with us, Costigan. You'd be in the jungle eating bananas. Swinging from tree to tree. That's what I want to say. Instead I end up asking why he gets to be captain.

'Because it rhymes,' he grins.

'With what?'

'With Costigan, ya gom. Captain Costigan. It fits like a glove.'

Hanley only remarks that, in fact, this is not a rhyme but something called alliteration. But Costigan doesn't care what rhymes and what doesn't. He's the captain, end of story, whatever about allita-whatchamacallit. He gives Hanley the rank of sergeant but calls him Sergeant Dear. Me he calls Private Wayne, over and over. He says we have to salute him and call him Sir. Then he stops and shouts at us to line up.

'Luke?' I say.

'That's Captain Costigan to you, Private Wayne!' he says then clips me across the back of the head. 'Ten-shun!'

'Shuddup!' I yell, giving him a good shove. I can hear the shake in my voice. I've surprised myself even.

'Jesus,' says Costigan, the grin fading. 'I'm only messing, sure.'

'You're not captain. I'll tell Shammy you tried to take over. I swear to fuck I will.'

He looks at Hanley for support, smiles a new kind of thick smile. 'Jee-zus. Talk about serious.'

'I am serious.'

'Yeah. Way too serious. Fine, so,' he says. 'If that's how it's going to be, I'll just keep nice and quiet, so I will. I won't say another word. Not. Another. Word.'

There's something like peace as we start following the Shannon in the direction of Fermoy, though it takes me ages to calm down. The air is thick with heat, even with the cool river air. The sun is right over us, burning in a clear blue sky, and it isn't long before we start stripping down to our waists. Costigan starts yelping at the attentions of a wasp. He's hopping this way and that, swiping the air with the tail of his shirt. Jesus, if I could only get away. It's my mother's fault. If he wasn't with us, Hanley and I could keep walking. We'd reach St Anne's in an hour. Last thing I want to do is bring a monkey looking for pig nuts. He'd wreck the place. Shake the fruit off the orchard trees until they were bare. That's what monkeys do best. Then he'd trample on all those wild flowers my sisters used to gather for Mam. He'd make fun of the names - twayblade, eyebright, summer snowflakes - and then I'd get mad again. I'd pick a bunch for her if he wasn't around. There's not much along the river anyway. Nothing but clover. I spot some wild orchids after we ditch our gear on the bank, but I can't even go near them. Costigan would never let me hear the end of it.

His spirits are up now he's down to his jocks. He's singing again, sounding more like Mam this time. He even takes out his mickey and flaps it around.

Going to take out my big fat willy

Down by the river side

Down by the river side

Down by the river side

The river is low, but he's first in the water, leaving a trail of monkey tracks behind him in the muck. Poor Hanley is undressing slowly, like the whole world is watching. He's as thin as a bird. So thin and so white it's hard to believe he can swim as well as he does. He folds his shirt and pants into a neat little stack, talks nervously about this new book his father got called The Bridge over the River Kwai. He read bits of it, he says. Then his father took it away, said it was for grown-ups.

'Why?' I ask, grinning. 'Too dirty?'

'No,' Hanley frowns. 'It's because of what the Japs did. My father hates the Japs. He says they're evil.'

'So you don't know what happens in the end? That's shit.'

'No, no. He told me the end.'

It's so good I picture myself blowing up the railway bridge in Athlone. I see all the carriages from the Galway-Dublin train tumble into the Shannon and disappear. I'm shot trying to get away. It's a true hero's death.

Gonna duck Paul Keating's big thick head

Down by the river side

Down by the river side

Down by the river side

'I think they're going to make it...make it into a film,' Hanley says in a voice that starts to drift.

'What's wrong?'

'He's too far out.'

The monkey is splashing around in the current, yelling at us to catch him if we can. He's drifting towards an island of reeds in the middle of the river.

'Look at this!' he yells, and his voice echoes like he's miles away.

We watch as he rolls over and goes under. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand...

'Where is he?' I say.

Hanley doesn't answer me. He's breathing in a way that sounds a bit panicky. 'I dunno.'

Six one-thousand, seven one-thousand...

'Luke!'

'Looooke!'

'Luke!'

Nine one-thousand, ten one-thousand...

The surface explodes. Costigan comes up gasping. 'Chicken shits!'

'You're too far out!' Hanley cries.

'Chickens! Buck-buck-buck!'

'Come in!'

'Noooo, Private Wayne. I refuuuse! Ha ha! Buck-buck-buck-awk!'

'Tell him he has to come back,' Hanley says to me. 'Tell him.'

Costigan is struggling, but he's still too thick to admit he might be in trouble. His eyes start flashing as the current pushes him into the reeds. He manoeuvres round to see what they are. 'Ah!' he yelps then tries to laugh. He's grabbing on to them, clutching hard, but they bend and break like they're trying to shake him off. 'I can't...' He's swimming hard against the current and for a moment it looks like he's in the clear. We should be cheering him on but instead we're struck dumb when he shouts 'Cramp!' We watch as the river carries him back again. Back to the reeds. We see him try to sweep them off as they close in around him.

'You better go in,' I say to Hanley.

Hanley looks frozen, says nothing.

'I can't swim,' I tell him.

Costigan tries to shriek for help but the Shannon won't let him. It wants to get south and he's in the way. It's trying to swallow him up, force itself inside him and carry him off. He's clutching like mad at the reeds again, but they won't save him either. They lean over, whispering, watch the terror in his monkey face as it struggles to stay above the surface.

'Ya gotta go in,' I say to Hanley.

He stands there, hesitating like a man going over the top.

'Go!' I shout, giving him a shove. He takes a couple of timid steps then stops. 'I can't, Paul,' he says, tears in his eyes now.

'You have to! Look at him!'

Costigan is coughing his guts out. Making sounds we've never heard.

Hanley follows the monkey tracks down to the water's edge. He stops again, starts sobbing. 'I can't.'

I get my pants on, run like hell for the town. It's a good mile but I don't stop. I'm near the bridge when I fall and skin my knee, but I get right up and keep going, hardly feeling the pain. There's a distant rumble, like rocks breaking off the side of a cliff. It's the day starting to break. Rain coming. I race up the street, hear girls giggling behind me. Costigan's sister, running after me with some of her giggly friends. When I reach the station I burst in the door, gasping so much I drool on the counter. There's no-one around. Not a soul. Just the sound of a radio somewhere in the back. A crowd in Croke Park. I want to shout but I'm still out of breath. I hear the girls again, giggling outside the station door, waiting for me.

'Hello!' I shout.

A roar from the crowd. Mooney whooping.

'Garda Mooney!'

The volume drops. Mooney appears, stops chewing whatever he's got in his mouth, then starts again when he sees it's only me.

'Mr Keating,' he says, surprised at the state of me. 'What's up, young sir?'

He's quick to get us into the squad car. He goes capless, in shirt sleeves. The smile disappears from Aisling's face when we exit the station.

'What's wrong?' she says.

'Your brother's in trouble,' I say back. I feel a peculiar giddiness breaking the news. I don't know why but I almost want to laugh. I try to banish the small, mean part of me that wouldn't mind a tragedy.

'What did he do?' she asks.

'He's in the river.'

We can't drive far. Only to the end of the street where we'll have to park by the bridge. I don't know how, but before we get there we can see the word is already out across town. Kids are racing for the river bank, a few men trying to keep up with them. Costigan's loons, all coming to the rescue. I want to run with them but I'm afraid to leave Mooney now I've gone to the trouble of bringing him with me. I've already given him my version of the story. I told how we couldn't stop the monkey - except now I call him Luke - and that David Hanley tried to warn him.

'Stupid,' says Mooney. 'Pure stupid.'

The air is almost unbreathable as we go along the bank. So thick you'd be afraid to strike a match. Sweat patches are quick to spread on the blue of Mooney's shirt. He's swinging his arms, puffing like mad. I wonder what he can actually do when we get there. We're being overtaken by everyone else with half a pair of legs. I wonder if having Daddy with us would make any difference to the situation. He says he can swim but I've never seen it. Shammy could save the day. Begrudgingly. He'd sit on the bank with a fag, take his time so he could watch Costigan splutter and choke. Wait till the last minute then plunge in like a croc. It doesn't matter now. I've brought the cavalry with me. I expect to see Costigan and Hanley being clapped on the back by all the loons. See the monkey grin as we approach. Hear all the whooping that comes after that close a shave. Costigan will buck-buck-buck and cock a snook, but I won't mind that. No matter that Mooney will give us a bollocking and tell our dads. We'll be able to laugh about that in time. We'll look back on it.

Instead we find people gathered by the river. They're watching a boat out by the reeds. Two men in a little white boat, looking into the water. Another comes up with a splash, grabs the starboard side, takes some air. He shakes his head. 'No,' we hear him say then see him go down again. Mooney pushes through the small crowd and tells them to stand back, but he doesn't do anything accept watch. Just stands up front like some bully who's jumped the queue. I expect him to send everyone home. Declare that there's nothing for them to see here, like the cops do on the radio. Instead he turns and squints, searching for a face.

'Where's David Hanley?' he says, hands on his hips.

The faces gape back.

'Davy, boy?' he calls. 'Are you there?'

'He went in,' someone answers. 'He went in after Luke.'

For a second Mooney has the look of a man who doesn't understand. But only for a second. 'Jesus wept,' he says, rubbing his eyes.

I'm looking down to see if Hanley's clothes are still in their neat little pile. Someone has kicked them over, scattered them along with Costigan's. The diver comes wading out, goes to one side with Mooney speaking low. They both turn at the cry of a woman. Mrs Costigan comes pushing through the crowd.

'Where is he?!' she screams at Mooney. 'Where's our Luke!'

Mooney looks embarrassed, as if the question isn't fair. He comes up to her, rests a hand on her arm.

'We're still looking, Mary.'

Before he can say another word she doubles over and falls on the grass, so hysterical she's nearly tearing her hair out. She pushes people away, screaming at them. Aisling is wailing, trying to grab on to her, but her mother doesn't even notice she's there. I'm crying too. We all are. Even some of the men. I have to get away. I have to run. I race along the bank for home, barely noticing Dr Ford as I brush by. Hardly feeling the first rain drops. There's no-one in the street. I see my mother standing at the door of our house on The Green and go straight to her arms.

She says I've been calling their names. That's what she tells me next day. She rocks me back and forth on the bed, calls me darling, lies down beside me. Maybe it never happened. That's what I tell myself first. Maybe a thing can happen and not happen at the same time. Even dead they might still somehow be alive. But the radio doesn't agree. We hear the report hour after hour on the news, like gossip. Two bodies found on the banks of Lough Ree, the man says in his brassy voice, but he doesn't sound impressed. Two nameless bodies. He doesn't say how they got there either, only that they 'got into difficulties'. A third boy alerted the Gardai.

'People are talking about you,' Mam whispers as she strokes my hair.

'What are they saying?'

'How brave you are.'

'Why?'

'Sure why wouldn't you be?'

I suddenly get that I'm the only one who knows the full story. The radio might be short a few details but it's got the broad strokes. I already know what I'll say to Mooney. Luke got caught in the reeds, I'll tell him, but David was quick to take control of the situation. He told me to run and get the help, and I said okay but that he shouldn't go in after Luke by himself. I told him to wait because I knew the current was too strong. But he wouldn't listen, Garda Mooney. He said he had a medal for swimming and that there was no time to waste. So I ran as fast as I could and got you.

It's a better version all round.

'I've to do some baking,' my mother says in her tired way. 'Oh Lord above. I could stay here all day, so I could. I could just lie here forever.'

'What are you making?'

'A few loaves, a few buns. The usual fare.'

It's hard not to wonder if it was all her buns that gave Costigan his cramp. Or if it's something I should mention to Mooney, by the by. I wonder if she might be wondering the same thing. There's no flicker of a sign that she does. It might be better to say nothing. That wouldn't be lying either. Not exactly. Lord knows she has enough on her plate.

She climbs off the bed, groaning and holding her back. She's been lying on Kid Colt.

'I'm never going outside again,' I say, shoving the book off the bed. 'Never.'

'You'll feel different tomorrow, love.'

'No. I'll still hate the place. I don't care what they're saying about me.'

'Okay. You rest yourself now.'

I pick up the book and try to read again, but the words are dead on the page. There's a bit of grey sky showing through the drawn curtains of my room. Another day, less a few souls. I think of Mrs Hanley, see the ruin of her beauty, then drive her from my mind again. I feel the urge to get out and start running, but now I've promised not to I'm stuck here stewing in my own stupid juice.

I have to wait till Mark Donnelly comes knocking. He's back from Galway. It's the tomorrow I'm supposed to feel different about, and I do. I hear him ask Mam if I want to play football with the lads. I peek through the curtains to see who he's brought. Half the town. I don't even answer when she calls up the stairs. I just jump off the bed and go.

\---
Depression Owl

**Nicola Gallagher**

Everybody feels sad once in a while.

But Depression feels sad most of the time.

Depression can feel drained and just want to sleep,

Or put its head under the covers to weep.

Depression can find it hard to focus,

On school, work or family making it feel hopeless.

Depression can feel lonely and isolated,

And at times irritable and frustrated.

However, there are ways to make depression feel better,

Like wrapping love around it like a warm, fluffy sweater.

When Depression takes special medicine it helps it feel happy,

So it can have lots more fun with its friends and family!

_This poem is from a selection of poetry explaining mental health to children_.

\---
Interview Day

**Killian Glynn**

Suit on.

Tie. Fastened.

Smile? Yes. Always.

Smile.

Smiling and hand-shaking and answering questions.

Why do you want to work here?

I value your multi-billion corporation and all it represents.

What would you bring to the team?

Oh, what wouldn't I? Honesty, hard work, a smile. Always a smile.

But.

Wait.

The voice inside me screams.

I don't want your work.

I just need it.

What I want?

Colour, inspiration.

Too-big woolly jumpers and comfy shoes in a big theatre.

Warm berry tea in a bright flat.

Horoscopes in the afternoon.

Not right. Right?

Because I should get a

Proper Job!

I should let the inevitable, sullen grey of routine steal

Me.

Yeah, right.

\---
Captain Ravioli

**Amy Glover**

"Shit."

Captain Ravioli is not a hero. She swears and she smokes and her hair's dyed funny.

"No, for real. Shihihit."

A cursory inhale, two polite coughs. Her lower jaw sags and buckles and she's too whacked or too lazy to smile. She is in the bathtub.

"No way, Jam. Ten inches is, like, that's too much. You know? I met this one guy in Oslo, he was like, not a giant, but you know, he was something, right? And just halfway through he tells me he's never been measured before, so I bring out this tape measure, and it's maybe eleven inches..."

No you didn't, Captain.

"You brought a tape measure to a fucking sex den?"

There. Told her so.

"Fuck you, Jam. I make clothes, you know that."

Weak, Captain. The opposition can smell your bullshit, even over the phone while you're burning your ethically sourced incense.

"Anyway. Point is, that guy will ruin you. Do what's right."

I'll try not to snigger. Ravioli has sold sweaty handjobs and uncoordinated oral to drooping professors and lifeless stockbrokers, twice. Daddy's friends. She has since lectured her an almost unfeasibly large number of times on the ethics of best sexual practice.

Like I said, Captain is no hero. Her arms are turning pink and mottled in the steam and haze of bathwater and musty blue marijuana smoke, arms which are untoned, passive; directionless.

She stomped her slick iPhone on the cool ceramic lake of a cistern, and rolled a scrub of insipid misery into twoskin whitepaper order.

"Keep it clean, Jammy D, you're on speaker. Dad's got the ears of a fucking bat and the eyes of a cyclops or something."

"A cyclops only has one eye, Rav."

"Well yeah, but it's freaking massive, right?"

Stop talking now, Captain.

Good.

There is some shuffling on the other end of the line. Captain looks down at her blanched stomach, her ballooning breasts, her dimpled knees. She took up too much space to fit in at boarding school, and has been spreading herself around ever since.

Ravioli ripped the pubelike hair from the head of her joint, then twisted the stump of its sickly white neck. There was an almost inaudible crackle as she singed its maimed remains.

"Anyway, that's cool R. You know I can do discreet. So like I said, that's what I've been at. Boyfriends and college and all that jazz. What about you, Captain? It's been too fucking long."

Jam is an 18 yearold Arts student, with a vegan haircut and the imagination of a poached egg. She is not usually the provider of astute statements or correct assessments. And yet, reader; yet, this time, she was right. Ravioli has been living with her father since a schizophrenic episode last year had rendered her 'unfit for independent living', by both the state and all who know her. As is always the case when the need for care is recognized, the deliverance of it soon dwindled, and Ravioli's few friends disappeared.

Jam has not spoken to Ravioli in ten months. She is calling because her mother is Still Concerned.

Captain is taking a while to respond to Jam's hackneyed questioning. She is doing this for three reasons;

1. She had finished her second joint in thirtyseven minutes. She is barely able to recognize what questions are.

2. There is a rubber duck in the bathtub which has been attempting to peck Ravioli's phalanges off for the past fortythree seconds. This is understandably disconcerting.

3. Captain has been living in a drugfuelled chasm of loneliness and despair, desperately trying to try and wanting to want something, anything, in her life. She has been drowning under the numb ebb and flow of selfpity and fury, and sometimes does not leave her room for days. She is scared of automatic doors and has become terrified of extremes of noise, movement, or emotion, and has therefore just slit her pale wrists. The bite of the glinting silver blade, the pulling and clouding of scarlet blood in the steam and clamour of bathwater, are allconsuming and beautiful. She does not want to talk.

Ravioli's father is a very rich man. He owns shares in an international pharmaceutical company, and has two different degrees in corporate asslicking. The tap of his brogue against dark wooden floors has just become audible.

"Rav, your dinner's ready. Fucking pasta. Every fucking day. Can't you ask Lolita for something different?"

"Fuck off, Dad."

Captain had never been a polite child.

"I'm on the phone, man, anyway. I'll come out when I'm good and ready, right?"

"To who? The man in the fucking moon? Your imaginary friends? The Gestapo?"

Ravioli feels like vomiting. She does not reply.

"Yo Rav. You still there?"

"Eleanor! Dinner. Is. READY."

The white walls smudge and bleed to a shimmering pink, steam and wooziness merging crisp white and screaming red into a conservative, palatable, everyday pink. I have always hated fucking pink.

This is how her mother had died, Captain knew. Not the razor, not the bathtub, granted; a coiled-up rope, a sturdy pipe, a chair. But, potato potahto.

"Not hungry, Dad. Go do your homework."

Captain was beginning to feel faint.

I want to help her, reader. I do. The curse of the narrator is to deliver what you've created, no matter how much you want to undo it.

"Rav? I'm hanging up now. Enjoy your bath, man. Peace out. I say that now, but it's ironic, you know? Like when I watch The Notebook with Lee?"

Silence, at least from Ravioli. I am screaming. I am wailing and writhing and shouting until my red raw throat bleeds that fucking pink away. I am telling Jam to call the police, the ambulance, a nurse, Captain's dad, anyone. But I am not heard. The storyteller lives behind a glass pane, and her fists are too weak to punch it through.

"So yeah, adios, I guess."

"If your fucking pasta is left on the fucking table for one more fucking moment, I swear I will break that door down."

I want the pasta. I want to reach for her phone and dial 911. I want to unchain myself from the keyboard and pull her out, stem the bloodflow, staunch the bleeding. I want my hands back, my knees, my stupid yellow hair. Captain doesn't even look like me anymore. She hasn't spoken to me. I have been behind the monitor of her mind, pressing buttons, watching, waiting, no control over what I press or what it means to press them, but an immutable desire to keep doing so. The Eleanor fucking Parable.

Ravioli is weak. She can't breathe properly, ragged gasps balooning from her quivering mouth like drunken jellyfish.

Speak to me, Rav. Stop being the captain for one second.

"Last chance, Ellie."

Don't I know it. Captain sputters and slumps, her arms limp and white. Every corridor in her mind is closing, yellow lights whirring and spinning, the hum of a generator reduced to her sharpened gravel cough. I can't speak I can't see I can't move I need to break out.

"Eleanor, I'm leaving, and you should know that there will be no more food for you tonight. Hear that? Zip. Nada. Nothing."

His taptapping footsteps tick their way to silence, a clock in a bell jar. Captain's phone whirrs and beeps, the vacant digital shout of the terminally unengaged. She is shuddering, her body convulsing. I can feel her heartbeat like a steam train, the heat in her head like a rising cloud of orange dust.

She left me enough time to hang her bleeding arm across the side of the bathtub, so that the white mirror of clean ceramic was sullied with a vibrant, furious red.

That bathroom already had too much pink.

\---
What Do We Talk About

**Lizann Gorman**

i.m. Raymond Carver

For me, you need to be

pocket sized or enough

just to fit under my tongue.

I could let you melt,

dissolve and fill my mouth

with your language.

I would like to keep you

Here, in this little room

with me, making me-

think of different ways to

say, nothing is important,

except love.

\---
A Lifting Of The Clouds

**Clayton O'Driscoll**

Saturday evening.

They stepped in out of the sun and for a moment he couldn't see. Louis blinked and felt his father's warm hand on his shoulder guiding him through the tables to one in the corner. The smell of fried fish and garlic filled his nostrils as his eyes adjusted to the shade inside Sylvie's Restaurant.

"Finally!" said his father, beaming. "I thought we'd never get here."

"There you go Louis," said his mother, putting her sunglasses on her head and handing him a menu. "First meal of our holiday. Isn't this lovely? Right, what will I have?"

"I'm having a steak anyway," said his father closing the menu and slapping it down on the table with a flourish. "And a cold beer!"

"Steak, what a surprise." said his mother not looking up. "Louis?"

"Don't know yet."

He looked around. It was nice. Only eight or nine tables, close together. They'd got the last one. Blue and white check tablecloths, red and yellow squeezy things of ketchup and mustard. Shiny silver salts and peppers. He liked it. He had been nervous walking down the street after checking into the hotel. He was always nervous in new places. But the little bubble of butterflies inside him had settled now and he was hungry.

He studied the kids menu. Chicken & Chips, Sausage & Chips, Burger & Chips....

He looked at the regular menu. He was almost thirteen now and he longed to order an adult meal but nothing ever appealed to him. Either that or he was never brave enough. Steak? He'd probably need help cutting it. Fish? Ugh.

His mother was talking.

"....and they have fish, lovely. We're beside the sea, why not? A glass of wine too I think. Louis?"

"Chicken and chips."

"Good man." said his father. "And a Coke?"

Louis nodded.

The family at the next table were getting up to leave. Mother, father, two girls, younger than him he guessed, but they were just as tall. All four of them had the rosy pink faces of people not used to hot sun. Their chairs made loud scraping noises on the floor and they spoke at each other without listening. They continued their wall of conversation as they left. Another family, this one with three children, was waiting to take their place.

Louis wondered what the week was going to be like.

The thought of making friends with other kids in the hotel made him feel sick. It's not that he didn't like other kids. Of course he did. But the shyness, the awful shyness that enveloped him made it so hard. It gripped him with such venom sometimes it made him weep. Weep with sadness, with frustration, with loneliness.

He loved his Mam & Dad dearly. He knew that they knew he was a quiet boy and they never pushed him into situations he didn't want to be in. But they didn't know, nor could he bring himself to tell them how much it upset him. How much it gnawed at his heart until it hurt. How much it felt like a cold, tight fist in his stomach.

"I was thinking..." said his father, "...after this we could take a walk around town, see what it's like, I don't think there's much of it, then maybe go down and have a look at the beach?"

His mother was nodding. "Sounds good. What do you think Louis?"

He nodded back.

A waiter came over, smiling. His shirt was too big for him. The sleeves bunched up at his wrists. He had a pen behind his ear and another one in his hand. His name tag said Ivan.

"Hi folks! Ready to order?"

"Yep! I'll have the steak please and a bottle of beer."

"How would you like that cooked?"

"Well done."

His mother sighed.

"Well... done... And for you madam?"

"What's the fish?" his mother said in her restaurant voice. It was similar to her on-the-phone-to-a-stranger voice.

"Plaice"

"Lovely. I'll have that please and a glass of chardonnay."

"Char... donn... ay..... and for you little man?"

"He'll have chicken and chips..." his mother said. "...and a Coke."

"No problem!" said Ivan still smiling and gathering up the menus.

His shirt hung out at the back.

Outside, the air was rippling in the heat.

Six days of weather no one could quite believe had gone by and it wasn't loosening its grip. Footpaths baked, tar softened capturing shoe prints and tyre marks, women wore summer dresses and men dug out khaki shorts last worn for some rain soaked barbeque.

Across the street a man was standing in the shade of a shop doorway holding an ice cream. He had on a red Hawaiian shirt with huge yellow sunflowers, dark baggy shorts that almost reached his ankles and green trainers with no socks. His long black hair fell in shiny wet curls on to his shoulders and his eyes were hidden by a huge pair of mirror lens sunglasses. He appeared to be staring straight into the restaurant. In the two minutes that Louis watched him he hadn't moved a muscle and he hadn't tasted the ice cream.

Louis was vaguely aware of his Coke arriving when there was a sudden flurry of movement behind the man. The shop door opened and a large woman in a huge straw hat came out. The man burst to life, handed the ice cream to the woman and they disappeared off down the street.

"Louis!" his mother was saying. "The girl is talking to you!"

"Sorry." he said. "What?"

"So..." the girl said. "We've just run out of chicken. Really busy today! But we still have burgers or sausages?"

Louis looked up.

And his heart almost fell through the floor.

Her name tag said Emma.

She was standing, smiling at him.

The most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

The restaurant seemed suddenly quiet and empty.

She was 17 or 18 and wore the white shirt/black jeans uniform like Ivan did but Louis hardly noticed. She had bright blue eyes that sparkled like the sea behind glasses with purple frames. Her strawberry blonde hair was loosely held up with... was that a pen? It stuck out like a Japanese hair stick he'd seen in a book once.

She was still smiling at him.

He had no idea what to say. His breath caught in his throat. Something fizzed behind his eyes.

He heard his father's voice come from somewhere.

"Louis buddy? Would you prefer a burger or sausages?"

For a long, long moment he said nothing.

Finally he said... "Burger."

It came out as a whisper.

Emma's smile broadened. She reached up and took the pen out of her hair. It didn't tumble down as Louis would have expected. It stayed perfectly where it was.

"Pardon Louis? What was that?" she said, bending closer to him.

Jesus... she said my name!

He coughed a little cough and said... "Burger." Louder this time. More like his normal voice thank God but still small and timid. "A burger please."

She wrote it quickly on her pad, looked at him and winked.

"Burger it is!"

Then she spun on her heels and went in through the kitchen door.

Louis thought his heart had jumped up into his mouth. He looked at his parents. They were carrying on as if nothing had happened. His father was taking a big gulp out of a beer that had appeared from nowhere and his mother was looking at her phone.

How could they act so normally?

How could they not see that his world had just fallen on its side?

He looked down. He could actually see his heartbeat through his T-shirt.

His Batman T-shirt.

God!

He stood up.

"I'm going to the bathroom."

They didn't hear him.

He looked around, spotted a Gents sign and headed for it in a daze.

The toilet was like a steam room.

He wiped condensation off the mirror and looked at himself. His cheeks had turned a deep, apple red. He could feel them burning. His heart was still thumping so loudly he could hear it. He wanted to go. Just leave now and never come back. He considered telling his parents he felt sick but something held him back.

Something was telling him no. Stay.

Grow up.

He splashed cold water on his face to try and douse the flames.

It didn't work. If anything they grew hotter. His eyes fell to his T-shirt. There was nothing he could do about that now.

He dried his face with paper towels and took a deep breath. And another.

And another.

Then he did the bravest thing he had ever done.

He went back out to his parents and sat down.

Sunday morning.

The dawn heat was already enough to wake him. He opened his eyes and looked around. A shaft of pale gold sunlight shone through the gap in the curtains and sliced across his bed like a light sabre. He could see dust particles floating almost pure white inside it like they were being prevented from spreading to the rest of the hotel room.

His hotel room.

His first ever all to himself. Well, almost. His parents had booked adjoining rooms with a connecting door. There was no way out from his side except through theirs but still... a wall separated them, he had his own space, his own TV and that was certainly a positive sign that they were aware he was growing up.

He got out of bed, walked across the soft carpet to the bathroom and felt another little bang of pride knowing this was his own too. He lifted the lid and sat down.

Sitting down to pee, there was something he'd have to work on. But for now, what the hell, no one could see him. He looked at the toiletries he had neatly laid out beside the sink. All of them new, specially bought for the holiday by his Nan. Toothpaste, facecloth, comb, hair gel, toothbrush. His toothbrush was a Batman one, same as his T-shirt....

And then there she was. Like a tap on the shoulder, appearing in his thoughts like a vision.

Emma...

His heart burst like a firework and then quickly sank.

She didn't come back to their table after that last night. Every time she walked by he held his breath, then let it out with relief when she didn't stop. Ivan brought their meals and Ivan brought the bill. Emma had been at the pay desk when they stood up from their table but by the time they got there, she had moved again and someone else took their money.

There was however one moment.

One electric moment that even now, made him want to scream out into the empty room and jump up and down on the bed.

As they were leaving he heard her voice.

"Bye now, thank you!"

It sounded like music.

He turned.

She was standing by the desk, holding a small silver tray down by her side and blowing a strand of hair out from behind her glasses. His father was already outside and didn't hear her. His mother turned at the door and said thank you back.

He just stared.

Emma then looked straight at him and smiled. When their eyes met he couldn't breathe.

"Bye Louis!" she said.

He was absolutely certain the whole room could hear his heart roaring. It was deafening. He opened his mouth to say something. Anything. But nothing came out. All he did was raise his hand and wave.

He couldn't remember much of the next hour or two. He recalled walking along the beach. He remembered passing things like shops and other restaurants, his parents taking note and saying things like "Oooh we must go there." and "That looks nice!"

Then they were back in the hotel.

He said he was tired. He was going to bed. They kissed him goodnight. He went in to his room and closed the door. He undressed and slipped in under the cool, white sheets. Then he closed his eyes and dreamed of the most beautiful girl in the world.

In his bathroom he stood up, splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth. Then he went out to the wardrobe and chose a plain red T-shirt, combat style shorts with pockets and his blue trainers. Back in the bathroom he put gel in his hair and combed it as best he could. He checked himself in the mirror. For a moment, a young man looked back at him. Then he thought of Emma. She was so much older. She had a job, probably a boyfriend too. A big guy more than likely, with a car and money. He pictured her racing along with him in that car with the windows down and the wind blowing her hair.

His heart sank.

His reflection was a little boy again. A little boy he knew deep down would never have the courage to talk to a girl like her. He checked the time. Still early. He lay on the bed, turned on the TV and waited for his parents to get up.

Sunday afternoon.

They sat at a table outside a pub they had found at the far end of town from the hotel. They'd had lunch inside and then came out to sit and watch he wasn't sure what. His father was fanning himself with a menu while his mother wrote postcards. Louis had a huge, bright orange drink with umbrellas and other things sticking out of it. He said he just wanted a Coke but his mother ordered it anyway saying something about When in Rome!

"We're not in Rome." Louis had said. "We're not even that far from home." But the ridiculous drink arrived and his mother took pictures telling him to smile, which he did. Several times.

One picture of him holding the drink, one of him not holding the drink, one of him hiding behind the drink. His mother was loving it and his father just sat there fanning and smiling.

Louis was actually trying.

He liked being on holiday and he knew how much his parents had been looking forward to this week. It was a nice hotel. Expensive. He knew that because he'd heard them discussing whether they could afford it or not. He loved his room and he supposed it was a nice enough town too. It had a beach and a fairground and stuff. Plenty to do. No, he wasn't going to ruin this for them by being miserable. They were good parents. They chose this place for him and he was going to enjoy it.

But how could he have known she would appear?

How could he have expected to be knocked sideways like that?

Sylvie's was just around the corner from where they sat. He'd suggested, casually, that they should go there again for lunch but they said they should try somewhere else. He left it. He didn't want them knowing what he didn't know himself. Why was he feeling like this? Why could he not stop thinking about her? Her hair, her smile, her eyes. The deepest blue he had ever seen behind the purple of her glasses. A blue so deep he felt he could fall into them. And why did it feel so bad? Why did it hurt so much? Every time he thought about her he felt exhilarated and then, almost at once, heartbroken knowing that he was probably just a child to her.

He raised his mouth to a straw and took a sip.

Sadness threatened to overwhelm him.

He fought away the tears.

Wednesday afternoon.

The heat seemed to drip from everything like blobs of honey.

He sat on the windowsill of a post office eating an ice cream. His parents were inside buying more postcards and more stamps. His clothes clung to him and he couldn't remember the last time he felt a cool breeze. But he was getting a tan now and he liked it. He wondered if Emma would like it. If it would make him look older.

If....

His chest fluttered violently like a trapped bird.

There she was!

Looking in the window of a small gift shop across the street.

Oh God she's lovely. She's so lovely.

She wore her hair down and he could see now how long it was. It poured over her shoulders and fell halfway down her back like burnt gold. She had on a denim shirt and jeans that stopped at her knees. A small yellow bag hung over her shoulder. She was bending, looking closely at something in the corner of the window. She straightened, looked in her bag, then bent and looked in the window again. Louis could feel the blood pounding in his head. His heart was in his throat trying to get out. She looked as if she was going in to the shop. She was moving towards the door. He stood up. What was he doing? He was about to cross the street when he heard a car horn beep twice.

He stopped.

She stopped.

She turned to face the street and for a second he thought she looked at him.

He felt dizzy.

A red car was pulled up at the footpath beside her. She was talking to the driver.

He felt his heart dissolve as she opened the passenger door and got in.

Louis stood and watched the car drive away from him. He watched until it was just a red speck at the end of the street.

Then it was gone.

He crossed over and looked in the corner of the window.

He saw it.

It was beautiful like her.

A little blue box, no bigger than a matchbox. It was the colour of the sky after a storm and when he looked closer he could see twinklings of silver dust peeking through the blue. On the front was a tiny silver clasp holding it shut. He looked at the price tag hanging from it on a piece of string.

Six euro.

Wednesday night.

He switched off the television and lay on the bed looking at the ceiling. He could hear his parents' TV on low behind the door.

Emma filled his head.

He thought of her standing there at the shop window. He had never seen anything so wonderful in his life. He pictured the moment, the fleeting moment he thought she was looking in his direction. He pictured her face and then remembered something he was too thunderstruck at the time to realise.

She looked sad.

Friday afternoon. Last full day.

"So... what do you think Louis? Want to give it a go?"

They were on the beach, his father and him, watching an older boy with a white pony. For three euro you could sit up on the pony while the boy walked him a hundred yards or so along the strand and back again. Louis had never been on a horse and he was desperate to try it. But fear had its hold on him. He watched as boys and girls half his age sat up and laughed as they bounced up and down on the animal's back. How come other kids never seemed to be afraid of stuff?

He watched as a little girl no more than five or six was taken off the pony by the boy with a loud Wahoo! He wanted so much to try it.

"Now's your chance." said his father. "Your mother will be back from the shop any minute and you know she won't much like the idea."

He was going to do it. He was going to be brave for once.

"OK!" he said.

"Good lad!" said his father rummaging in the pocket of his Bermuda shorts. "Here."

Louis took the money and felt showered with heat as he walked.

The boy was much bigger up close. He was stroking the pony's ear and staring off out into the sea. Louis thought he looked like a boxer. He wore a pair of jeans that were ripped off just below the knee and that was it. His bare feet looked like leather and his body was tanned and rippled with muscles. When he turned and looked down, Louis realised he was staring with his mouth open.

"Wanna get up on him?" said the boy. "Three euro." His eyes were the colour of rainclouds.

Louis forgot to answer. He simply handed up the coins. The boy took them and put them in a small leather purse that was tied to his belt loop. He then grabbed Louis by the waist with hands that felt like shovels and plopped him into the saddle as if he weighed nothing. He pointed to a thing that stuck up between Louis' legs like a handle.

"Hold on to that. Put your two hands on it." He took Louis' left foot and slid it into the stirrup. Then he walked around by the pony's head and did the same with his right.

"Now. Here we go."

He grabbed the reins and started walking, making clicking sounds as he went. The pony responded by blowing air out through his nostrils so loud it took Louis completely by surprise. He gripped the handle white knuckled. It was much rougher than Louis had imagined. It felt like the pony was trying to buck him off but surely not. The other kids didn't look as if they were uncomfortable. Just be a man! he thought. Just be a man and stick it out!

He held on and stared at the back of the boy's head. The bouncing up out of the saddle became almost uncontrollable. By the time they turned and started heading back, he was terrified he was going to fall off.

"Slow down..." he managed.

"I'm not going fast." the boy said, looking straight ahead. Louis glanced at his father who was still standing where he left him with his hands on his hips. He was smiling broadly.

Louis closed his eyes...

...and then they were back.

And he was off and standing in front of his still smiling, proud father. Louis breathed a huge sigh of relief. He did it. He did something brave and he felt a gush of pride.

When his mother arrived he told her all about it in one long rush of words and she was thrilled to see him so happy.

And he was.

He was happy.

****

He was looking for crabs in a rock pool a little way up the beach when he heard a raised voice behind him. He turned.

For a second or two he was sure his heart stopped beating.

Emma!

And she wasn't alone.

She was standing on a raised footpath about twenty yards away wearing her uniform from Sylvie's. She was with a tall, tanned guy in dark glasses and a green and white hooped football shirt. Something on his neck caught the sun. A gold chain. Louis knew immediately this was the owner of the red car.

He sat absolutely still. He knew they probably couldn't see him and even if they could, why would they care about some stupid kid?

Her's was the raised voice he had heard. The guy didn't seem to be saying anything. He was just standing there grinning.

He couldn't make out their words but Louis was certain she was crying.

The guy was standing arms folded, legs apart. He looked like he was sneering now. His lips were moving but Louis still heard nothing. Emma was moving constantly. Emotion was pouring from her. She kept taking a step towards him. Then she would turn away and put her head in her hands. Louis felt his insides melt.

The guy reached into his pocket and took something out. A phone. He looked at it and yawned while Emma seemed to crumble in front of him. Louis heard clear words for the first time.

"Please." she was saying. "Please don't." She tried to take the phone from his hand but he snatched it away. His head shot up. He took off the glasses and glared at her. He leaned in close until their noses were almost touching. His lips moved again. What he said took no more than a few seconds but it seemed to suck the life out of her. He turned and walked away.

Emma sank to the kerb and sobbed.

Louis felt like he was in a dream. He was frozen to the spot and his head was whirling. Should he go to her? The idea frightened him out of his mind but surely this moment was made for him to step in and comfort her? What would he say? How would she react? Would he startle her? Would she scream at him to leave her alone? Would she know who he was?

No... of course not. She doesn't even know I exist.

In the end, he did nothing.

He couldn't.

He sat there, tears burning his cheeks as she sat there broken. More than once he tried to find the courage to approach her but each time the fear consumed him.

Eventually she stood, dried her eyes and left him.

The first cool breeze in almost two weeks floated across his damp face.

And he watched her disappear.

Saturday morning. Check out day.

The lady in the gift shop was nice.

She smiled and said "Hello" when he entered. She smiled again when he knew exactly what he wanted from the window.

She waited patiently as he counted out the change from his pocket. She didn't mind when he went wrong, whispered "sorry" and started again. She noticed his hands were shaking. She took them in hers and softly said "Let me pet." She only took five euro and said he could keep the last one. She showed him the different coloured paper bags and asked him which one he would like. He chose purple. Then she smiled again and said "Bye bye darling."

When he stepped outside a single drop of rain touched his nose.

He ran all the way back to the hotel.

****

He was packed and ready to leave. His parents were still busy gathering things together on their side. He had carefully chosen his best clothes to wear this day. His most grown up. Red trainers, charcoal grey jeans, red check shirt. He'd put just the right amount of gel in his hair and combed it perfectly. He went to the locker beside his bed and picked up the purple bag. He delicately opened it, reached inside and took out the little blue box. The tiny silver clasp clicked as he lifted the lid. He read the note again.

And again.

Then he folded it, slipped it inside the box and gently returned it to the bag.

He felt sick. His stomach was a cold knot.

But he wasn't stopping now.

He simply couldn't.

He put the bag in the breast pocket of his shirt and walked out past his parents.

"Hey buddy, where you off to?" said his father.

His mother was in the bathroom.

"Just a walk around before we go."

"OK but we're checking out in twenty minutes. Don't make me come look for you Louis."

"I won't."

He didn't like the idea of getting into the lift on his own so he went down the stairs, past reception and out on to the street. His heart felt like it was squeezed into a ball as he headed towards Sylvie's. A sudden, awful thought struck him. What if she wasn't there? What if she was off today? Or on a break?

Too late to worry about that now.

He walked on.

He didn't notice the rain start to fall, gently at first, then bigger drops. He barely heard the sky crack open and the heavens tumble down. He was running. But not for the same reason as everybody else. He was running because he was afraid if he didn't get there right now, he'd be overtaken by terror, the tears would come and he would just turn around, go home and never do this. Never have this moment that would be the biggest of his life.

He reached the corner and there was Sylvie's.

He could see her standing inside with her back to the door.

Relief flooded through him.

He walked in and stopped in the middle of the floor, rain dripping from his hair, shirt stuck to his skin. It felt like a storm was roaring in his head. His mouth was dry and sticky. She hadn't heard him come in and she still had her back to him.

For a long moment he didn't know what to do. Then from somewhere he found it. He swallowed hard and said... "Emma."

It came out as strangled silence.

He straightened himself, took the bag out of his pocket and said clearly....

"Emma...."

She turned.

She looked tired. He could see the sadness in her eyes. Like a shadow had passed through her light.

"Hi there." she said.

For a full five seconds, Louis had no idea what to say.

When she spoke again, he thought he would burst.

"Louis isn't it?"

He felt like the sun had risen inside him. He was sure he was glowing.

She knows me!

Then, nerves fading, heart thumping wildly, he did something neither of them were expecting. He reached out and handed her the little lilac bag and said...

"This is for you Emma. I have to go now. Goodbye."

She took it.

He stepped forward. He was just inches from her now. Her perfume completely filled his senses. He got up on his toes as high as he could make himself... and kissed her lightly on her cheek. It felt warm and soft on his lips. Electricity flew through him but he turned and walked calmly out into the downpour before she could say a word. He didn't want to hear anything that could ruin his perfect moment.

He walked past the window like a man until he was sure he was out of sight.

Then he ran.

****

In Sylvie's Restaurant, waitress Emma Stanley had no idea what had just happened. A boy, Louis his name was, had just been standing there soaked to the skin. She remembered him because he had been in recently with his parents and she was good with names. He had handed her a little bag, kissed her on the cheek and ran. Just... ran!

She sat down at the nearest table and opened the pretty purple bag. She frowned, puzzled at what she saw. The little blue box! The gorgeous little box from the gift shop. She had seen it in the window only the other day. But how....? Why?

She took it out and clicked open the little clasp. A small piece of paper lay folded inside. A note? She put down the box and unfolded the paper.

It was written in a child's handwriting and it was short.

But the words...

The words touched her so gently she almost melted.

Emma.

Everything will be alright.

I know it will.

Love, Louis.

Her heart warmed.

And for the first time in quite a while, she felt the clouds lift.

\---
Ghosts in a Small Town

**Nora Shychuk**

Our neighborhood is sandwiched between Fairvale Cemetery and the local middle school filled with about six-hundred students at a time, give or take. We have known our next door neighbors, the Simons, for over ten years, and I can judge the time of morning by Kent Simon's appearance on the front porch. Always with a cup of coffee in hand, he comes out in striped pajamas. Yawns. Stretches. Bends over and picks up the paper. He will stare up at the sky for a moment or two, then head back inside. He does this at seven AM, every single morning, when the pale light itself is just waking up. The darkness still clings to the tips of houses, but the first rays of sun come soon enough-illuminating the fresh cut grass, then the leaves, then the high tree branches.

Fairvale is, almost always, uniquely unsurprising, timed, regular.

Our town's population never reaches over three-thousand residents at a time-and it is mostly made up of folks fifty-plus in age. Old men walk up and down tree-lined streets, kicking acorns as their dogs on leashes trot ahead. Grandmothers meet for coffee at the single cafe on Main Street, cleverly named The Main Perk Coffee House. It's busiest on Saturdays and the entire street smells of Elizabeth Taylor perfume and expensive hand creams, rose or lilac or sweet pea or honey almond. I find myself going there more often lately.

Every once in a while, there will be an empty chair outside The Main Perk Coffee House. Mrs. Sanderson died in her sleep. Mr. McGraw's pneumonia finally got the best of him. I'll find their obituaries in the paper and cut them out. Seventy-four years old. Eighty-eight years old. Ninety-two years old. Full lives, long careers, big families. Every last one of them.

Almost.

Our only daughter, Annette, died on prom night. After the dance, after she broke curfew and got drunk with Jeremy out at Gudgeon Bridge. Trains don't come around there too often anymore, but sometimes they do. Late at night.

Annette and Jeremy were standing too close to the tracks as the train approached from the dark tunnel. She tripped. Jeremy was too wasted to react quickly. Her classmates, her friends, were sitting on the hoods of their cars getting high and laughing. Laughing even as the train came rushing down the tracks like a bat from a cave.

Some of the kids said they saw her head spin all the way around before popping off like a cap on a bottle of soda after you shake it. They didn't say this to us, but we heard the whispers, overheard the low, secretive conversations when we walked by. Fairvale is like that, so small everyone knows everything as soon as it happens. The stories of her final moments varied greatly depending on who was talking, but there was one unwavering detail: she didn't scream. Before it happened, when the train's whistle was shrieking in the dark, the wheels scraping on the rail, the smoke billowing out of the stack, she stayed quiet. Even right before impact. She just lifted her head and watched it charge toward her. Everyone said the same thing.

And then the crunch of bones, the enamel pounded to dust. Her thoughts, her ideas, her soul, dashed and obliterated as her skin tore and blood smeared and her brain popped on the greasy metal. The coroner said it must have been a nasty fall - that it might have knocked her out for a moment or two, leaving her with no time to move out of the way. Later, when we looked at what was left of her, I noticed there was a rip in the fluffy, tulle fabric of her yellow dress. I imagined she snagged it on a rusty nail.

She got a page in the back of the senior class yearbook. A big, blown up picture of her smiling in her cheerleading uniform with Jeremy's Letterman Jacket draped over her shoulders. She sat beneath the football scoreboard, frozen in time, with wild, red hair blowing all over the place. It was windy that day, and cold. _R.I.P Annette Hughes_ , the text beneath the photo said. _Only the good die young_. And then some quote from a song Kate and I didn't know. Her eyes stared out at us from the page and I told Kate if I looked really hard, I could tell what Annette would have looked like when she got older. She just had one of those faces. Kate started crying and left the room and I ripped the goddamn page out of the book and threw it into the fireplace.

"You could go see someone," Kate said, one morning over tea.

"Like who?"

"Dr. Remus."

"Dr. Remus? You're joking."

I brought my hand up to my face and studied my fingernails. I noticed the dirt caked beneath each nail, the deep-set wrinkles in my skin.

"I need a nail file."

"He's the best therapist in town," she said.

"No," I said. "He's the _only_ damn therapist in town."

I glared at her. She flinched at the rising animosity in my tone and brought her cup to her lips with shaking hands. I heard her gulp, watched the skin of her throat rise and fall as she swallowed. I forced a smile then, thought of reaching my arm across the table and taking her hand in mine. But I couldn't, I couldn't because Annette was sitting at the table too. Somehow, she was still there, a constant, invisible presence.

"I'm just worried about you," Kate said.

Her voice shook and her eyes filled with tears and she looked so small and old in that chair that I wanted to comfort her.

"I'm okay, Annette," I finally said.

Kate's expression froze, her breath caught. I only heard a light breeze rattle the kitchen window frame, sending the cream curtain whipping side to side in the wind.

"What did you call me?"

"What?"

"It's me. My name is Kate. Your _wife_ , Kate."

She got up quickly, knocked the wooden table with her knee, and walked out the door. Tea splattered over the rim of her cup and onto the table.

That's how it always went. Stilted, half conversations, followed by heavy silences.

Kate dropped all the counseling talk after that. She ignored the fact that I was barely sleeping, had stopped eating. Sure, it was worrisome, but Kate couldn't even go into Annette's room, couldn't even wash her sheets, yet _I_ was the one with all the issues. The one unable to adjust. The troubled partner. Kate never wanted to talk about it, but she had nightmares almost every night. At two or three in the morning, she would wake screaming and crying and shaking, gasping for air and curling up into a ball on her side of the bed.

It was around this time when I started going into Annette's room, to escape Kate's screams and her relentless nightmares; I needed peace and quiet-and my wife didn't seem to mind having the bed to herself.

I'd go in and sit on the edge of our daughter's bed and let myself cry. On her dusty, unused desk sat photo albums; I looked at them and fingered through old pictures and opened desk drawers and closet doors-even picked open her diary with my pocket knife. That's how I found out she was sleeping with Jeremy. Deep down I always knew, but this was proof. I saw the way she looked at him, noticed the way he rubbed her back and touched her face before he kissed her. She admitted in the pages that there were condoms under her bed, beneath old magazines and her volleyball gym bag. When I looked I was relieved to see that they were the normal size and not the freakishly extra-large kind.

The first thing I noticed about Jeremy was the way he smacked his lips when he ate our food at the dinner table, all teeth and spit and grunts of approval. He never offered to help clean up or give Kate a hand with the dishes. Some evenings I'd pop into Annette's room to say goodnight and find her crying. Phone in hand, bloodshot eyes. He'd forgotten to call again. Probably busy jacking off or blowing off his school work. I knew the type; I knew him like I knew Fairvale. No surprises. He had a low GPA and only got into state college on a sports scholarship. There was a write-up about it in the town newspaper, as if he was some sort of hero. He knew how to throw a ball-good for him.

Jeremy lives twenty-three minutes from our house, walking. In a car, it takes only eight. His family owns a bit of farm land, so their one-level, ranch-style house sits back on a couple acres with the smell of horse and cow shit heavy in the air. We went over for a barbeque one night last summer and had Coronas with his parents, Tim and Shelly, while the kids swam in the pool. Everything smelled of sunscreen and citronella. Tim made ribs even though he knew Kate was a vegetarian and offered her a strawberry salad and a baked potato and I noticed, with disapproval, that he licked his fingers clean after he teethed the soft meat off the bone. It was easy to see where Jeremy's bad habits came from. Skewers sat to the right of the grill and I suddenly felt the urge to take one and shove it down Tim's throat. Shelly at least used a napkin to clean her chubby, red hands.

Shallow woods line the back of Jeremy's house with a place for chopping firewood at the entrance, right in the middle of the gap in the trees. The night of the cookout Tim and I took a walk there and he mentioned how Annette was such a pretty little thing and that Jeremy was just bat-shit crazy for her. He handed me another Corona and the label was sticky from his barbecued fingers.

Annette told me once that deer came out in the evenings and munched on the grass there. She and Jeremy watched from the back window, his bedroom. Shelly brought them cocoa and let them borrow her telescope on clear nights so they could see the deer better-and look up at the stars.

How many times had I dropped Annette off there? How many times had I waited at the end of the long, winding driveway to make sure she got into the house okay? How many times did she turn back and wave at me? Three-hundred? Four? How many times did I drive to pick her up, her cheeks rosy, her face alive with her smile, her lips red from her cherry lip gloss-

Cherry lip gloss. That's how this started.

I went into Annette's room one night and cried into my hands, then fell onto the bed and sobbed into her pillow. After months of going in there, her bed had become the only place in the house I could relax, the only place where I had any chance of catching some sleep, even if it was just an hour or so. This pillow had cradled her head and brought her to her dreams and, unlike Kate, I found comfort in being in her old space, in using her abandoned things. And then I heard it. The lip gloss. Dislodged from somewhere under the bed, knocked loose by my weight on the mattress. I got up and swung my legs over the side of the bed just in time to see the tube roll to a stop underneath my feet. I picked it up, smelled it. Sweet and fruity. She had worn it on prom night. I remembered the scent immediately. Her image came to me easily then, untouched and real. I saw her smile, her reddened lips, her bright eyes, her big, vibrant dress.

I took the lip gloss in my hand and walked to the closet and started rooting through her clothes, attempting to find anything that would keep that image close and clear. I went through her old sweatshirts and winter hats and scarves and nightgowns. I found her grey cotton bathrobe and nuzzled into the fleecy hood. And then, sparkling towards the back of the closet, I found the black shawl she had worn with her dress. We took pictures of her and Jeremy out in our backyard, recorded him giving her a corsage and sliding it onto her wrist, snapped a few of them holding hands and standing by the weeping willow tree. Kate had helped with Annette's hair, zipped up her dress, painted her nails in that shimmery gold shade, I opened the door for her, held her steady as she walked out into the back yard to meet Jeremy. Her heels dug into the side of her feet, she told me. Birds chirped, fireflies blinked off and on, off and on. I could smell the flowers from Kate's garden. We took more pictures, moved Annette and Jeremy around the yard, she hugged us goodbye, kissed me on the cheek. It was all fast-forwarded now. Jumbled. Like film sped-up. And that's the way it went. Her life.

It had been unseasonably warm that night, so Annette left her black shawl at home with us, so Kate hung it back up in her closet where, of course, it would always stay.

The shawl hung in front of me, dead and unused and sagging. I sniffed it and smelled her cotton candy perfume, still clinging, somehow still there. Then I grabbed it and without thinking wrapped it elegantly around my neck. I rubbed my hands on the smooth fabric and tried to imagine Annette's little shoulders, the way her hair had been pinned up glamorously; the way a few fire red strands hung down around her ears and grazed the shawl. I thought about turning the light on, about inspecting the cloth for stray hairs, but I couldn't stomach the thought of actually finding one.

I took the cap off the lip gloss and rubbed the cherry flavor into my lips, spreading the sweetness over every inch of them.

After that night, I hid the lip gloss at the back of the medicine cabinet. When I left the house, I kept it in my pants pocket. Kate never found it-she never saw-and I kept going back into Annette's room night after night. I went through her things and took out the shawl and draped it over my shoulders. The softness reminded me of her and that comforted me more than anything else. For a moment, she was there.

And then I found Jeremy's gold and red Letterman Jacket.

It wasn't hung up; instead, the jacket was folded neatly at the bottom of a big plastic tub, full of old notes and cards and pictures and movie ticket stubs and dead flowers. Their memory box. Their keepsakes. Annette kept every single thing that squinty-eyed shit gave her, including the Letterman Jacket. It was decorated with football pins and soccer clips and little metal baseballs.

It fit almost perfectly. I'm not a big guy, and Letterman Jackets always run a bit large. I wrapped the shawl around my neck and, suddenly, I felt Annette there in the room with me. She leaned into me and I remembered her soft skin and the way she used to nudge me when I embarrassed her. I think she sat next to me then; I think Annette put an arm around me and whispered that it was okay. It was okay I was there, touching and wearing her things, because I just wanted to feel close again. I thanked her and remembered her eyes again and the way she sang when she set the table and how her skinny, awkward legs hung over the porch swing when she read her books. How her favorite time to be out there was when it was raining.

But enough of that. Annette's body was rotting away in Fairvale Cemetery and those eyes were the first things to go, the first things the bugs devoured, the juices falling down her lifeless cheeks, down onto her neck they had to sew back together to support her crushed, detached skull.

The easy thing to do would be to drag Jeremy's lanky, scrawny body to the edges of his family's woods. To put his head on that tree stump and slice it off in one, fast blow the way they cut up their firewood. The easy thing to do would be to yank him down to the tracks, past the recently added WARNING! sign, to where Annette died, and throw him in front of a train.

Jeremy had taken the light from Annette's eyes by fucking her in the Mustang that his parents gave him as an early graduation present; he killed her by giving her drinks and making her laugh and cry and grow up and want and yearn and disobey. He did it. He snuffed her out.

It was not enough to desperately miss my daughter.

It was Mrs. Graham at Momma Graham's Bakery who told me that Tim and Shelly were going away for a month-long vacation, a summer trip to Miami, Florida. She handed over my croissants, still warm and soft through the brown bag, and I smiled and thanked her as I left the bakery just a few stores down from the coffee shop and the post office and the library and everything else in Fairvale. The bell overhead chimed at my departure and I left with a plan.

There wasn't much time, only a few weeks, so I studied intensively. I watched the ladies at The Main Perk Coffee House and noticed how they applied their lipsticks and blush and curled their hair. I took down jumbled notes in my phone while I observed their painted nails and inhaled their musty scents and glanced at their lacy bras underneath their flimsy, sheer shirts. Some of them would come up to me and ask how I was doing; they'd offer condolences and comfort and home-cooked meals and I got a better look at the way they applied their concealer and bronzers.

I drove out of town and browsed through magazines in gas stations and convenience shop aisles, committing these printed women to memory. The shape of their bodies, their lips, their eyes, their outfits, even the way they struck their poses. They were so uniquely feminine, so soft and so glamorous. I avoided research in department stores and anywhere semi-respectable. Then, after I studied, I'd buy something else. A bag of blueberry bagels. Laundry detergent. Gum. Butter. Some soda for the house. Chips. Beer. Toilet cleaner and bristle brushes.

I drove up to the flea market over in West Ridge and found a red wig. The wrapping crackled under my fingers as I held it up to the owner of the booth, a thin lady with worry lines around her eyes and forehead. I asked how much and she dragged on a cigarette as she looked me up and down. I asked again and she said five bucks and her voice was gruff and I smelled smoke on her breath. I handed over the bill quickly and stuck the wig inside my jacket. As I walked away, I felt her looking at me, wondering, but she never asked and I never turned back.

Time passed. I waited.

The night comes.

I'm in Annette's room and I find more old make-up she will never use, mascara and eyeliner and foundation and powders. I remove the wavy, red wig out of its packaging and take the shawl and the Letterman Jacket from the closet. The cherry lip gloss is clutched in my sweaty palm. I shave my stubble and touch my clean, smooth chin, pleased with my expertise, my close, careful trim. When I apply the liner and rub the grey eye shadow on my left lid to create a smoky-eyed look, I see Annette in the mirror staring back at me. Our eyes are the same. Big and expressive and intense. Like father, like daughter. Then comes the powder to help combat oily, shiny skin, then the hint of bronzer, then some blush. I think back to how she looked that night and do my best with fading memories.

Under the harsh, fluorescent glare of the bathroom light my skin appears sallow, my eyes bloodshot. But the rippled wig works wonders and my transformation startles even me. I take the Letterman Jacket and put it on and drape the shawl over the top, spraying a hint of Annette's old, sticky candy perfume on my pulse points to finish the job.

It is true that we have kept all of Annette's belongings, down to the souring perfume, in case our daughter decides to come back for them. A sadness surges through my heart and I nearly falter, I nearly take off the wig. But I refocus. I remember him. And the train.

Kate sleeps soundly in our bed tonight. I check on her before I leave and her breathing is slow and even. She holds a couple of crumpled, wet tissues in her hand. I hope she will not wake.

I wait until it's late enough and I creep out through the front door and lock it behind me. It is just past eleven thirty and Fairvale has gone to sleep. The air is earthy from some light rain hours before and the grass glimmers with raindrops. When I look up at the sky I am pleased to see the weather report was correct. Cloudy. Intense coverage. Barely a moon tonight. My face feels heavy under the weight of make-up and little horse flies buzz and stick to my cherried lips. Luckily I brought the tube with me for reapplication if needed.

Distant thunder rumbles. It will rain again, soon. I can feel the electricity in the air and know, from the way my hair stands up on my arms and neck, that the temperature will drop and make way for another cool, late summer shower. Then the pitter-patter of rain will fall on our windows, on our old roof. Tapping, tapping. After this is all over, I will fall asleep to the sound.

My feet crunch quietly on the graveled road. I walk off to the side in case of any traffic. Most of the roads in Fairvale are surrounded by trees, bushes, and shrubs to hide behind. I have all I need, even a coat in my backpack in case I have to cover up quickly.

As if on cue, a car turns down the street. I dive behind a rose bush in front of the McConnell's. I wait. The car passes and I watch its fading lights dim on the slick road as the tires spit back water. I rise and stand perfectly, rigidly still next to an old oak tree and try to imagine what would happen if the lights hit me like a spotlight. The driver, maybe even one of my neighbors, would see a woman walking alone in the dark with a glittering shawl, tangled red hair, and a face plastered in make-up. At first, they might think I'm a prostitute but, if they got closer, they might think that Annette Hughes has come back from the dead.

The porch light is on when I reach Jeremy's, so I drop down and army-crawl around the side of the house, careful not to get my shawl or Letterman Jacket muddy and even more careful not to alert the two dogs.

It really is dark and I can barely see a thing. Everything is shadowed. I feel with my hands, I dig my toes into the dirt and wriggle my way to the back of the house. Jeremy's bedroom light is on and I can see him, through half-opened blinds, as he sits at his desk with his laptop open. Headphones on. I rise and retreat back into the cover of trees and hear the leaves whoosh back and forth in the light, after-rain wind. The chopping block is dusted with wood guts from fresh cuts and I smell sawdust on the air.

The deer pop into my head and maybe, somewhere, they are watching. I wonder if they remember Annette and the way she stared out from that window just ahead. I hear a twig snap and whirl my head around, but nothing and nobody is there.

I watch Jeremy at his desk. He rubs his temples, then along his eyebrows and I feel my heart drop. I reconsider. He looks old and tired-like he's lost weight, his eyes sunken, slit-like.

I nearly turn around and walk away, but then I see it. Jeremy laughs at something on his computer screen, his shoulders shuddering and shaking. My head suddenly throbs and I bite down on my tongue and taste the blood.

I stay calm. I wait until Jeremy stops laughing; I wait until he takes off his headphones. Then, in one, swift movement, I remove a rock the size of my balled fist from the backpack. I bring it up to eye-level, squint, and aim. I breathe, I focus. Then I wind up and let the rock soar.

It crashes through Jeremy's window. He jumps and runs to the broken glass and stares out at nothing. It is too dark to see me now, but still I plant a smile on my polished lips. The dogs bark and run into his room and Jeremy tells them to calm down. They whine and sniff and yelp. He pats their heads and shushes them and looks back out my way towards the window. His eyes dart around and I can hear him kick the glass with his foot, useless and unsure and pathetically small. He reaches for his phone, considers it. Considers calling mommy or daddy or the police, but he puts it back down and puffs out his chest. I know this is an act of fear. Every man knows it. Simple bravado. He is trying to be fearless. He is trying to handle it. In that moment he remembers who he is: Jeremy. Athlete. Team captain. An early decision, college-bound _adult_. Mustang driver. Annette fucker. So, he leaves the room with his brow creased and fists clenched.

I hear his footsteps and in seconds he appears on the back porch. He turns on the light and I am there, bathed in a golden glow and grinning right at him, front and center.

Jeremy lets out a high screech and jumps backward, covering his eyes. I have startled him. Good.

"Look, I don't know who you are-"

At first, the initial plan was to run off the second he saw me, but grand performances should allow for magic. For spontaneous invention. I decide I want Annette to be seen, so I take another step closer, say nothing, and wait for him. He looks up again and finally sees me- _her_ -and then he sees himself. His Letterman Jacket. The shawl he held in his hands in one of the photos from prom night. I see his eyes scan my hair and it all comes back. Tears in his eyes. His shoulders creep up to his ears.

"Mr. Hughes?" he asks, his voice shaky.

I just stare at him and keep on smiling.

\---
Will Gompertz Brow

**Billy King**

Pulled up my deckchair and unfolded

It upon Will Gompertz crown

Built castles of dandruffed skin and

Furrowed toey patterns upon his scalp

Hollered Tarzan call and swung

Primate from flowing lock to lock

A trapezing midget in

Jungled mullet, a sight to shock

Up lobed ladder, climbed aback my perch

Gripping rugged rungs of cartilaged ear

Rolled up my trouser legs and

Paddled feet in wavy brow

Picnicked upon brightly coloured frames

Panoramic vistas, could only wow

Kaleidoscope of cultured spaces

Serpentine, Barbican, Tate views

Opera, theatre, latest book review

Hot nights of ballet, concert, jazz

Wonderful! Original! Y.B.A.'s!

Hirst, Emin. All one big play

Canapés and ducking dive from

Flying champagne corks

When that door closed and

He bolted it shut

I laughed with Good Will

Sighed his day complete

And muttered

"What utter bollix"

\---
Featured In This Issue

**John Verling** is a native of Cobh, Co. Cork, Ireland. In 2012 he made the career change that had been bugging him all his life: to try and make a living from writing. Now he is a writer, broadcaster and a freelance journalist. His featured work has appeared in many national newspapers and his radio documentaries on Irish radio stations. A father of three he lives with his wife Lisa and family in Tralee, Co. Kerry. John writes on all subjects and specialises in long form creative non-fiction. A portfolio of John's work is available at <https://clippings.me/johnverling>

A native of Co. Galway, **Gráinne Costello** returned from New York in 1995 to live in a quiet country village to raise her two children. While working full time Grainne likes to find time to write, encouraged by her daughter Claire, she enrolled in a creative writing evening class with Kevin Higgins in Galway City. Encouraged by Mr. Higgins three poems were sent to _The Rose Magazine_ , her first ever poem to be published will be _Foal_.

**Anthony Brophy** is an actor and writer. Recent acting work includes; _Tudors_ , _Vikings_ , _Trial of the Century_ and an Oscar winning short film _The Shore_. He can currently be seen on TV screens playing Liam Reid in _Red Rock_. Later this month he will begin filming _The Professor and the Madman_ with Mel Gibson and Sean Penn. As a writer, his first two novels; _Summer of Stan_ and _The Vasectomy Kid Rides Again!_ were both shortlisted for the Irish Writers Centre's Novel Fair and as a playwright, his first play _Chicane_ was shortlisted for the Stewart Parker award. He is currently working on his fourth novel, and he is absolutely delighted to have his short story _Princess of Dagenham_ included in this issue of _The Rose_.

**Niall Finucane** is a twenty year old student. His two passions are writing short stories and music production but he also enjoys writing poetry from time to time.

**Ian Patterson** is an actor and playwright. He founded Hourglass Theatre Company in 2010 and is the author of the plays _Zed's Erroneous Zones_ , _Red Handed_ , _Leda Come Home_ and _Loose Change_. He lives in Galway.

**Nicola Gallagher** is a recent graphic design graduate and illustrator from Dublin. She recently featured on RTE Nationwide showcasing her graduate project 'Bloom'. She hopes to work in branding and to write and illustrate her own children's books. You can find more of her work on her website: www.nicolagallagher.com

A born-and-bred Mayo boy, **Killian Glynn** is currently based in Sligo. An avid reader and writer all his life, it was only in the past year that he managed to muster up the courage to put forward his own work for publication. His recent undergraduate thesis on masculinity in Irish theatre was shortlisted for an Undergraduate Award and he can almost always be found scribbling a new idea onto the nearest piece of paper or typing away manically at his computer.

**Amy Glover** is a twenty year old student of English in Dublin and not usually as gloomy as _Captain Ravioli_ might suggest. She has tried to have a few blogs but having run them with the consistency of terrible porridge they're barely worth a mention :)

**Lizann Gorman** lives in the West of Ireland and has a Master's in Poetry Studies. She has been published in a number of journals both in print and online.

**Clayton O'Driscoll** is Kilkenny born and bred. Hurling, words and music are the first things that gave him goose bumps. In the early nineties he moved west where he met and married Christina. They live near Loughrea, County Galway with their two children Emmet and Rosie. Clayton's piece _1979_ was broadcast on RTE Radio One's Sunday Miscellany. His short story _The Phone Call_ was shortlisted for the 2016 Fish Publishing Flash Fiction Award and his short story _In A Wildflower Garden_ was published in the first edition of _The Rose Magazine_.

**Nora Shychuk** grew up in a tiny town in Pennsylvania and now lives in Ireland. Telling stories is her favorite thing to do and drinking coffee is a close second. Nora's short story, _Winter Green Gorge_ , was published in The Quarryman Literary Journal and she was invited to read another short story, _Colors_ , at K-Fest in Killorglin, Ireland. Nora's writing blog can be found at www.thinkbreathewrite.wordpress.com

**Billy King** is from Tuam in County Galway. He lives in Galway City with his wife, two kids and dog. He writes poetry and prose (tries). He has been longlisted for the _Over The Edge_ new writer of the year.

\---
