It Happens Between Stops

by Mattie Lennon

When ideas like this took hold of his thoughts he wondered not for the first time if he was actually mad.

  Trying to ignore them, they kept crawling insidiously back into his conscious mind, they become the tooth with the missing filling that no matter how hard you try you cannot seem to stop your tongue from prodding and probing until the jagged edges have left their mark, dozens of little tongue lacerations that proved once again that you should have stopped before you started. He had on a few occasions tried surreptitiously to question friends and family to see if they had similar thoughts, but he had always come up short of an answer. The working theory so far was that they did in fact have the same, if not worse, thoughts as him but were also as confused as he was, and like him failed to be as honest as he wished the rest of the world should be. So believing they are less than sane they kept their mental misgivings to themselves for fear that they were wrong and the world would see them for the nutters they were.

  He also sometimes imagined it would be fun in a mental institution; there would be an enormously liberating sense of freedom that you were no longer beholden to society’s mores. You could pick your nose in public, swear at the top of your voice, dance naked to an imagined song with that sense of freedom from embarrassment that only the very young have. Before they too are programmed by society as to what is or is not acceptable.

  In fact all round he guessed that an institute seems like a very sweet deal indeed. Three square meals a day, more happy pills than you could ever need and maybe even the occasional blanket bath from a pretty nurse dressed in pristine starched whites. However it was freedom that kept him from exploring that particular path. Freedom to have a cup of tea when he chose. Freedom to watch TV when he felt like it, and to watch what he wanted and not have his viewing screened, monitored and chosen for him. Real freedom, not imagined. Forget the nuthouse he told himself.

  The movie ran its course to its predictable ending and Dave felt thankful for its empty content. It was fun to just sit in silence every now and then, without the head doing what it normally did and making more out of things than they had any right to be. Switching the movie off and saying goodnight to his friend at the door he looked toward the kitchen door knowing that behind it she had spent the night sulking. Slightly guilty he looked up the hall and with a knowing nod to his friend quietly closed the door and crept upstairs. The upstairs landing posed another dilemma when indecision and a slight sense of guilt grabbed him, cursing himself for being so caught up in others, Dave took a deep breath. Knowing she would spend the night downstairs he ignored the voice in his head and headed toward the spare room whilst consciously ignoring the fact that he was passing his own room.

  The spare room door opened with a slight creak.

  ‘That looks comfy. Can I come in?’ he spoke a darkly whisper into the shadowy room.

  Creeping across the beige carpet he quickly shed his clothes dropping them in an untidy pile on the floor and slid under the covers.

  Reaching his hand across the bed he caressed and held, content. With pillows softness he spooned and quickly fell asleep to dream dreams of friends, crowds and laughter.

  Waking early the next morning he got up quickly and quietly. Then looked down at the bed with its crumpled memories and a slight remorse, the telltale lump of his presence morphed into an accusing finger pointing at him; he picked up his previously discarded clothes and fled naked from the room.

  When he entered the kitchen it seemed to be as silent as it had the night before. Stretching across the counter he switched on the radio, the smooth false voice of the faceless DJ filled the room promising some lucky listener a chance to win two tickets to a day spa filled the room. All they had to do was get on air and embarrass themselves vocally to the ears of thousands of listeners.

  The background noise of the radio seemed to warm the space a little, adding aural colour to the pots, pans and appliances.

  Looking over she still wore the same pout as she had the night before, inwardly Dave sighed, and he could feel that she was cold towards him this morning too. Bloody hell it seemed like she was cold every morning now. He had hoped that the silliness of last night would be over, it seemed that it wasn’t. Guess I’ll have to be the bigger man, he thought.

  “Morning Hun, how are you today?” he asked, not expecting a reply.

  Ignoring the silence, “Well I’m fine, thanks for asking.” he continued talking as if both were having the conversation. “Hmm, a cup of coffee would be lovely about now. Wake me up. Don’t you think?”

  Dave reached out, picked up the Kettle and filled it from the tap. Switching it on he started gathering together the bits and bobs necessary for a cuppa. Milk, coffee, sugar, spoon etc. Looking back at her he saw that she had started to warm up.

  About time, he thought.

  Out loud. “Yep. I think it’s going to be a nice day. Don’t you?”

  He picked up the kettle and began pouring. Distracted, waiting for an answer to his query, his attention was drawn away from what he was doing.

  Suddenly a sharp, liquid scream ran up the nerves of his left hand, this message - help I’m being cooked - was a slow second to his dropping the cup and even slower third to slamming the kettle down on the counter top to free that hand to nurse the scalded other.

  The dropped cup threw out a hot fan of pain across Dave’s torso. Sprinkled stings combined in a synergy of agony. Visions of skin grafts and blisters hit his mind like a lightning flash view, instant and fleeting.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!.. You mother fu… Aaaaoooowwwcchhh!!!”

  Storming over to the other side of the kitchen Dave glared back at her whilst clutching his clawed left hand to his freshly burned chest with his sympathetic right.

  “ You… did... that... on purpose! You BITCH!” he screamed.

  The scream, the pain and the moment all seemed to gel and clarify that instant.

  He realised what had been happening. How he was being made a fool of. In fact, how he was making a fool of himself. Moments of happiness slipped through his mind, memories laughing on the sofa, washing dishes, sitting bolt upright from a dream with a smile. God how could he have been so stupid, how had he let things get this far.

  Taking a deep breath he stood straight, faced her while still clutching his injured hand, and said, “I realise that this situation cannot go on any longer…” a deep breath, calming himself, bracing for the truth, the obvious, the necessary.

  “In fact it seems to me that it’s nuts, it’s no good for me and as you can see it is actually causing harm.” He waved his burnt and scalded hand to emphasise this point.

  “Besides…” he continued, feeling nasty. “You’re nothing but…” he paused for effect and to wonder if he should admit it...

  “A FUCKING KETTLE! A KITCHEN APPLIANCE! Why do I even give you my time?”

  He stormed out of the kitchen slamming the door behind him. Leaving the kettle sat on the worktop amidst the cooling liquid shrapnel.

  In the living room he sat down heavily on the sofa holding his wounded limb with a care normally reserved for mothers and nurses. Across the room his friend sat quietly in the corner.

  “I guess you’ve heard...” he pointed his injured hand toward his friend emulating a wince to show the pain he was in. “So what do you think?” he asked.

  His friend sat silent, still, waiting.

  “What am I asking you for?” The television, his supposed friend, sat oblivious to this new drama unfolding, its dead grey eye looked upon the room with a complete lack of caring, a reflection of the sitting room stretched fish eyed across the screen. Showing the room with its armchairs, bad wallpaper and only Dave, sat clutching his arm close while looking at the floor with a haunted, worried look on his face.

  Imagining the bed upstairs in the spare room having a good laugh at his expense from all of his romantic gestures and pillow talk was all he could take. Slowly putting his face into his hands the sobs began. With elbows on knees a slow keening began to issue from hi
m, each sob breaking the constancy of this quiet wail. With understanding the pain eventually became a full-blown cry, the choking blubbers catching themselves, until only a hiccupped broken silence was all that remained to fill the room.

  When you are a child with a new pair of runners you are convinced that they can make you run faster. What happens when you realise that you were wrong all along? Do you stop even trying to run? Or does disappointment crush you and all your hopes so even walking seems an effort?

  The rocking began and hands slid down from the face to clutch around his body in an attempt to stop from coming apart.

  ‘Am I mad?’ His head screamed at him.

  The silence of an empty house screamed back.

  MR. MACTIGHT

  Thomas Carroll

  Mr MacTight sat at his desk till all hours of the night writing diddly, fiddly doodles which were usually misspelt and if these ditties were vocalised they would sound like a walrus belching while trying to clamber onto the rocks which adjoined the beach at Ballyheigue, County Kerry. But if there was one thing which Mr MacTight always got right it was his love of growing plants and pottering about in his glass house; in rain and shine you would see him with his orange wellies carrying container plants in and out of the glass house. But sometimes during a very wet summer more than likely he’d be shovelling muck and cursing the rain as it washed his garden soil clean away and with all the recent flooding his garden had now become a lake!

  In no time at all ducks and fish and seals and otters moved in to Mr MacTight’s flooded garden. The poor man felt like drowning himself; he was at his wits end! What could he do? Then he remembered a self-help CD by Anthony Robbins called ‘Master Your Time’. If this could not help he didn’t know what he would do!

  So each day he would listen to the CD and try to implement all the good sound advice contained therein. But alas Mr Mac-Tight realised he had lived a very bad life indeed! What with his predilection for the cursed ‘drink’ and chasing young comely maidens about town and further afield too, his life he now could see quite clearly was a big fat lie! Self-deception was indeed very cruel when he confronted himself in the damp stained mirror which hung in his bathroom wall.

  Which is all the more reason why portly Mr MacTight opted to live with the pigs in the pigsty! At least that way he would never feel above his own station in life. So now every day he grovelled and rolled around in the mud quite happy along with all the pigs!

  When last anyone saw or heard of Mr MacTight it was reported by the local gossip merchants he had sold up and gone on retreat to live with Tibetan monks in Ulan Bater situated in Outer Mongolia. Some say he mentioned that the move would help him find his ‘true-self’. The only correspondence that ever appeared after he had been gone for more than five years was this hand printed sentence on the back of a post card with a Tibetan stamp:

  ‘You must be the change you wish to see in the world.’ (Mohandas Gandhi)

  BE MY VALENTINE

  Declan Gowran

  As long as Love endures, St. Valentine’s Day will always be celebrated like those other great milestones of Life such as births and marriages, deaths and divorces. But unlike these other emotional events governed by formal procedure, St. Valentine’s Day is marked as the triumph of Hope over reality, sense over sentimentality, affection over infatuation, and above all: pure Love over base desire.

  The modern St. Valentine might be regarded as the patron of prurience and misguided sincerity taken seriously. Red becomes the King of Colours, in fact it is the only colour permitted on the day. Hearts are the only suit on show in the deck of playing cards. A hundred-thousand silly rhymes record flippant feelings on often smutty and garishly cushioned greeting cards. Mysterious messages are written in disguised hands and signed off with the classic cliché: ‘Roses are red, violets are blue; sugar is sweet and so are you: Guess Who?’

  We can blame the Duke of Orleans for the introduction of St. Valentine Doggerel. When he was locked up in the Tower of London after the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, awaiting ransom, and missing his beautiful wife, he regularly wrote her love poems- valentines –to proclaim his undying devotion while keeping her on-side. History doesn’t record if the Duchess was impressed enough to raise her husband’s ransom in double-quick time.

  Making your own Valentine Cards is a very popular pursuit for younger children bitten by the bug of cottage craftsman-ship. The cards are made in all shapes and sizes, decorated with a myriad of floral designs that pop-up and pop-out, fitted into baskets, filled with crepe tissue hearts and ribbons, and topped off by a crown in the style of a leftover Christmas cracker.

  For highly strung teenagers a card that is smutty or funny or downright unintelligible is demanded, adorned with Stream of Consciousness thoughts spelling ciphers as ‘Cool’ in code. The more daring sender may even hint at their identity, by text, and suggest a lover’s tryst in their den.

  Even supposedly grounded grown-ups become wrapped up in the whole kitsch charade. Some become aspiring Poet Laureates overnight by proclaiming their fidelity forever in the small ads section of newspapers and magazines. Up market columnists conspire in the set-up by touting tips to star crossed suitors short on ideas, and less financially challenged, suggesting a romantic trip to Paris, a proposal on top of the Empire State Building, dinner with oysters and champagne or that very ultimate declaration of eternal love; a swim in the blue lagoon on that Greek island where Venus was created from a seashell.

  Just to prove that our Valentine excess is genuine: wholesale pairs of caged love-birds are set free from the pet shops. Soft and cuddly toys are usurped by the ubiquitous Teddy Bear donning a sash bearing the invitation: ‘Be my Valentine’. Diets are discarded over the scoffing of designer chocolates. Blood red roses are air-freighted by the dozens to sate the appetites of besotted fathers, sons and lovers, regardless of the weight of the carbon footprint left in their slipstream. Passion Fruit, of late has exacerbated this particular problem. But would we really have it any other way?

  We can reliably fete the Romans for all this razzamatazz connected with the day. On February 15 th the Festival of Lupercalia was celebrated in Ancient Rome to honour Faunus, the God of Flocks and Fertility. Like an embryonic form of Blind Date, the names of girls were placed in an urn and these were picked out by the young men who would pin the girl’s name on the sleeve of their tunics, hopefully to be affixed permanently by Cupid’s arrow. This gave rise to the saying: ‘Wearing you heart on your sleeve’. In this Rite of Spring it was meant that smitten couples would pair-off and mate for life just like the birds.

  With the legalising of Christianity under Constantine the Great many of the pagan festivals were abandoned or adapted. In the reign of the Emperor Claudius the Goth, an edict was proclaimed forbidding his legionnaires to wed as he considered single men without commitments made for fearless fighters. In defiance of the Emperor, St. Valentine, a priest and physician secretly married his soldiers. The saint was eventually exposed, imprisoned and beheaded and buried on the Flaminian Way in Rome on 14th February 269 AD. A basilica was subsequently erected on the site in 350 AD. On the very same day another St. Valentine was martyred at Terni, some 60 miles from Rome. This saint had been imprisoned for the seditious denouncing of Jupiter and Mercury as: ‘Shameless, contemptible characters’. He had befriended his jailer’s blind daughter, cured her and converted them to Christianity. It is now believed that both are the same St. Valentine imprisoned in Terni and martyred in Rome. February 14th was an auspicious date for the feast day as the Roman’s celebrated the Festival of Juno, Goddess of Women and Marriage, and the wife of Jupiter on the same day.

  St. Valentine’s Relics have found a permanent home in the Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel in Whitefriar Street in Dublin. Donated by Pope Gregory XVI to the Carmelite Fr. Spratt in 1835, the remains arrived in a steel casket on 10th November 1836 to be entombed with much ceremony. It is now a special place of pilgrimage for all those who seek their true love.
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br />   SWERVO'S RETURN

  Michael Henry

  The ship’s fog horn was not long rousing our man from his slumbers. He stretched and yawned and wished he had had a few hours more and in a proper bed at that. He admitted to himself that he had often slept in worse conditions; indeed in a great deal worse, but then he said to himself this was enough of the bad talk; for this weekend was to see a new beginning; things were going to change and for the better at that. The big clock over the shuttered bar told him that they would soon be docking.

  As he watched most of the other passengers bustling away getting luggage and children and documents together, pressing up against the exit doors, ready to burst out when they were to be opened, he couldn’t help thinking of greyhounds in traps waiting for the hare. Indeed he said it to a few but they didn’t seem to appreciate his humorous observations. But his wry smile continued to attempt to burst past his three or four day stubble. He did not share the others concerns for he was travelling light - very light. Over the years, on occasion he would engineer a conversation around to that very point - travelling light.

  “This way I can’t lose or forget anything or have to worry about my things being stolen from me,” he would tell those who would bother to listen, but there seemed to be less and less of those anymore. Fewer people seemed to bother about him as the years slipped by; they were too busy in their own little world. “They do not realise who I am” he sometimes muttered in frustration.

  An elderly voice caught him off guard. “Are you not getting your belongings ready?” an old man enquired of him.

  “Belongings, what belongings?” he snarled back and then he added “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that,” but the man had already turned his head and leaned away. “That’s what ye all do anymore....I don’t bite.” He was the last one off when the doors did finally open, with his only words uttered, “What time do the bars open?”