| Supernatural Fiction posted March 17, 2019 |
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An exile returns to the land of his birth
Ireland Dear Ireland
by Lordinajamjar
The old bus lurched and swayed. It snaked its way along the narrow Irish country lanes, hugging the tight bends. Hedgerows stretched out to strike the motorized pest that fouled the air with its diesel fumes. The old bus brushed involuntarily against the defiant hedges. Branches were stripped violently from their life source and strewn along the winding country road.
A single passenger sat inside holding grimly on to the seat in front of him. The bus bounced along the broken road. The abused vehicle shuddered as its driver stomped his clumsy feet, between fits of acceleration and bouts of squealing brakes. In what seemed to be a deliberate act, the driver slammed into every single pothole lying in wait along the Airport road.
The worn highway stretched from Cork Airport to the little port town of Dungarvan situated in County Waterford. The passenger grimaced as every bone in his seventy year body seemed to rattle in synch with the windows that threatened to take leave of the old bus.
Just three miles from Dungarvan, almost at the peak of the final hill, the old bus decided to throw in the towel. It shuddered and shook, before finally coming to a stop. The old diesel engine gave out one final splutter, then backfired in one almighty bang. The sudden unexpected blast bade a host of startled birds to take to the air in flight. Black acrid smoke plumed high above the fields of freshly gathered haycocks.
The rotund bus driver, red faced and unshaven, burst into a rage and cursed in a native brogue.
"Yea fecking auld bitch just three miles more and I would have been home in time for me bleedin' tea".
He opened the cab door and jumped down from the bus. The driver surveyed the sad scene. Oil was leaking from the engine and black smoke continued to billow from under the hood. He rested his hands on his hips, realising the old bus was done. The driver then shook his head in frustration. He hurled a barrage of foul insults at the old bus.
The response from the bus seemed unreal. The radiator cap blew off just missing the driver's head. Then the radiator hissed, as if it was delivering a curse. The driver was livid. He lifted his right leg and aimed a sharp kick against the tire on the left front wheel. This was an action that he instantly regretted. He hopped in pain cursing in tongues. The bus reacted as if alive. The left front wheel -- many miles past timely maintenance -- folded under, as the old bus collapsed, setting off the horn in a series of hoots akin to laughter.
The driver's humiliation was still not quite complete. A large, grey, seagull swooped down and deposited a gift of warm wet guano. The festering white shite splattered across the defeated bus drivers reddened face. What a sight. It was not the first time he had been shitfaced but never like this. Flocks of circling birds, hooting and cawing, cheered on their nautical feathered hero.
Meanwhile, Michael Miles O'Flaherty stepped off the bus and traipsed up the hill without a backward glance. He strode forward on the country lane with his suitcase in tow, and a raincoat slung over his back. He was relieved to escape the old crate. He was unable to hold back his laughter however. Justice had been done and he had no pity for the bus driver, who deserved his stinking fate.
Michael kept chuckling to himself as he continued on his way. It was the first time he had allowed laughter to re-enter his life in over twelve months. It felt good. His sorrow now joined by a forgotten companion called joy. He stopped for a brief rest at the top of the hill. He stared down at the port town of Dungarvan that stretched out ahead. He could just make out the fishing boats in the harbour. The sea was calm. It appeared to be strewn with diamonds but it was only the waves reflecting the mid afternoon sun.
Looking around at the fields of golds, greens and shimmering yellows, Michael could make out the yellow barley fields. They were almost ready for harvesting. Also golden hay fields, freshly mowed, caught his twinkling eyes. Michael smiled. The sweet smell of freshly cut grass, rising in the air, brought childhood memories flooding back to his mind.
Straightening his back, he drew a deep breath and sucked gulps of fresh clean Irish air. His chest expanded with every new breath and he grew visibly refreshed. The holy ground of Ireland welcomed home its long lost son.
Ireland's lost son continued his walk with a renewed vigour. He tried to make out the coloured houses newly built at the edge of the town. The road narrowed into a fork. Michael hesitated, unsure which path to take. However, his mind was very quickly made up for him. A small herd of cattle lumbered from the right fork, forcing him to branch to the left to avoid being trampled.
"Awisht! Awisht!"
The old herder called, as he switched at two heifers at the back of the twenty head.
Michael stared at the old man in his flat cap. He was wearing torn old clothes soiled with splattered slurry from the bovine waste. There was something familiar about the old man's gait. Michael recognised the unusual limp. It was the result of a shortened left leg that had been shattered in a farm accident when the old herder was a boy.
Michael felt a lump in his throat as he called out.
"Dermot! Dermot O'Malley!"
The old herder turned and stopped. He squinted through wizened eyes at the stranger who had called out his name.
"It's me. Michael Miles O'Flaherty. Do you not remember me Dermot?"
Dermot's old eyes lit up, as he moved forward to greet his old friend. He had not set eyes on him for more years than he could remember. It had in fact been 40 years since Michael had left Ireland to pursue a new life in America.
The two old friends shook hands. Dermot pulled back apologising for his soiled hands. Michael leaned forward and hugged Dermot, caring nothing for the cow shite that attached itself to his clean clothing.
Dermot finally spoke with a hint of laughter in his voice.
"So you finally came home for a visit Michael O'Flaherty. It's about time! I thought you had forgotten the land of your birth. How is that beautiful American girl you married? I heard she was quite a catch. Or was it she that caught you and wouldn't let you back?"
Michael smiled as he replied.
"I'm back home for good Dermot. I want to spend the last years of my life here now as there is nothing left for me in the States. My poor dear wife Karen passed away last year. We had no children so nothing to hang around there for now and I am retired. So I bought a little cottage at the edge of town".
Dermot cocked his head to one side.
"It's not that yellow one is it by the inlet? They said some Yanks had it built and painted like the Yellow Rose of Texas. No one could miss it. It's the only yellow house in the whole of County Waterford".
"Yes that is the one. That's mine Dermot. The bright yellow one in memory of Karen. She was a beauty queen you know. She was crowned Miss Yellow Rose of Texas before I met her", said Michael proudly.
"Well I guess you'll have no problem finding it then. Especially if you were headed home rolling drunk from the pub", Dermot replied with a mischievous grin.
"I suppose not", laughed Michael.
"You will come with me now won't you, Michael? We are almost at the farm. I'll clean myself up and then I'll drive you down to the town. But first you will stay for a cup of tea and a few small drops of the cratur won't you now?" Said, Dermot, almost pleading.
"I will of course" said Michael.
The two old friends chatted and talked of things long gone as if they had taken place only yesterday. Their laughter was lost amidst the sounds of lowing cattle.
Soft whispers from the welcoming sea breeze spread the word that the Prodigal Son had come home.
The old bus lurched and swayed. It snaked its way along the narrow Irish country lanes, hugging the tight bends. Hedgerows stretched out to strike the motorized pest that fouled the air with its diesel fumes. The old bus brushed involuntarily against the defiant hedges. Branches were stripped violently from their life source and strewn along the winding country road.
A single passenger sat inside holding grimly on to the seat in front of him. The bus bounced along the broken road. The abused vehicle shuddered as its driver stomped his clumsy feet, between fits of acceleration and bouts of squealing brakes. In what seemed to be a deliberate act, the driver slammed into every single pothole lying in wait along the Airport road.
The worn highway stretched from Cork Airport to the little port town of Dungarvan situated in County Waterford. The passenger grimaced as every bone in his seventy year body seemed to rattle in synch with the windows that threatened to take leave of the old bus.
Just three miles from Dungarvan, almost at the peak of the final hill, the old bus decided to throw in the towel. It shuddered and shook, before finally coming to a stop. The old diesel engine gave out one final splutter, then backfired in one almighty bang. The sudden unexpected blast bade a host of startled birds to take to the air in flight. Black acrid smoke plumed high above the fields of freshly gathered haycocks.
The rotund bus driver, red faced and unshaven, burst into a rage and cursed in a native brogue.
"Yea fecking auld bitch just three miles more and I would have been home in time for me bleedin' tea".
He opened the cab door and jumped down from the bus. The driver surveyed the sad scene. Oil was leaking from the engine and black smoke continued to billow from under the hood. He rested his hands on his hips, realising the old bus was done. The driver then shook his head in frustration. He hurled a barrage of foul insults at the old bus.
The response from the bus seemed unreal. The radiator cap blew off just missing the driver's head. Then the radiator hissed, as if it was delivering a curse. The driver was livid. He lifted his right leg and aimed a sharp kick against the tire on the left front wheel. This was an action that he instantly regretted. He hopped in pain cursing in tongues. The bus reacted as if alive. The left front wheel -- many miles past timely maintenance -- folded under, as the old bus collapsed, setting off the horn in a series of hoots akin to laughter.
The driver's humiliation was still not quite complete. A large, grey, seagull swooped down and deposited a gift of warm wet guano. The festering white shite splattered across the defeated bus drivers reddened face. What a sight. It was not the first time he had been shitfaced but never like this. Flocks of circling birds, hooting and cawing, cheered on their nautical feathered hero.
Meanwhile, Michael Miles O'Flaherty stepped off the bus and traipsed up the hill without a backward glance. He strode forward on the country lane with his suitcase in tow, and a raincoat slung over his back. He was relieved to escape the old crate. He was unable to hold back his laughter however. Justice had been done and he had no pity for the bus driver, who deserved his stinking fate.
Michael kept chuckling to himself as he continued on his way. It was the first time he had allowed laughter to re-enter his life in over twelve months. It felt good. His sorrow now joined by a forgotten companion called joy. He stopped for a brief rest at the top of the hill. He stared down at the port town of Dungarvan that stretched out ahead. He could just make out the fishing boats in the harbour. The sea was calm. It appeared to be strewn with diamonds but it was only the waves reflecting the mid afternoon sun.
Looking around at the fields of golds, greens and shimmering yellows, Michael could make out the yellow barley fields. They were almost ready for harvesting. Also golden hay fields, freshly mowed, caught his twinkling eyes. Michael smiled. The sweet smell of freshly cut grass, rising in the air, brought childhood memories flooding back to his mind.
Straightening his back, he drew a deep breath and sucked gulps of fresh clean Irish air. His chest expanded with every new breath and he grew visibly refreshed. The holy ground of Ireland welcomed home its long lost son.
Ireland's lost son continued his walk with a renewed vigour. He tried to make out the coloured houses newly built at the edge of the town. The road narrowed into a fork. Michael hesitated, unsure which path to take. However, his mind was very quickly made up for him. A small herd of cattle lumbered from the right fork, forcing him to branch to the left to avoid being trampled.
"Awisht! Awisht!"
The old herder called, as he switched at two heifers at the back of the twenty head.
Michael stared at the old man in his flat cap. He was wearing torn old clothes soiled with splattered slurry from the bovine waste. There was something familiar about the old man's gait. Michael recognised the unusual limp. It was the result of a shortened left leg that had been shattered in a farm accident when the old herder was a boy.
Michael felt a lump in his throat as he called out.
"Dermot! Dermot O'Malley!"
The old herder turned and stopped. He squinted through wizened eyes at the stranger who had called out his name.
"It's me. Michael Miles O'Flaherty. Do you not remember me Dermot?"
Dermot's old eyes lit up, as he moved forward to greet his old friend. He had not set eyes on him for more years than he could remember. It had in fact been 40 years since Michael had left Ireland to pursue a new life in America.
The two old friends shook hands. Dermot pulled back apologising for his soiled hands. Michael leaned forward and hugged Dermot, caring nothing for the cow shite that attached itself to his clean clothing.
Dermot finally spoke with a hint of laughter in his voice.
"So you finally came home for a visit Michael O'Flaherty. It's about time! I thought you had forgotten the land of your birth. How is that beautiful American girl you married? I heard she was quite a catch. Or was it she that caught you and wouldn't let you back?"
Michael smiled as he replied.
"I'm back home for good Dermot. I want to spend the last years of my life here now as there is nothing left for me in the States. My poor dear wife Karen passed away last year. We had no children so nothing to hang around there for now and I am retired. So I bought a little cottage at the edge of town".
Dermot cocked his head to one side.
"It's not that yellow one is it by the inlet? They said some Yanks had it built and painted like the Yellow Rose of Texas. No one could miss it. It's the only yellow house in the whole of County Waterford".
"Yes that is the one. That's mine Dermot. The bright yellow one in memory of Karen. She was a beauty queen you know. She was crowned Miss Yellow Rose of Texas before I met her", said Michael proudly.
"Well I guess you'll have no problem finding it then. Especially if you were headed home rolling drunk from the pub", Dermot replied with a mischievous grin.
"I suppose not", laughed Michael.
"You will come with me now won't you, Michael? We are almost at the farm. I'll clean myself up and then I'll drive you down to the town. But first you will stay for a cup of tea and a few small drops of the cratur won't you now?" Said, Dermot, almost pleading.
"I will of course" said Michael.
The two old friends chatted and talked of things long gone as if they had taken place only yesterday. Their laughter was lost amidst the sounds of lowing cattle.
Soft whispers from the welcoming sea breeze spread the word that the Prodigal Son had come home.
A single passenger sat inside holding grimly on to the seat in front of him. The bus bounced along the broken road. The abused vehicle shuddered as its driver stomped his clumsy feet, between fits of acceleration and bouts of squealing brakes. In what seemed to be a deliberate act, the driver slammed into every single pothole lying in wait along the Airport road.
The worn highway stretched from Cork Airport to the little port town of Dungarvan situated in County Waterford. The passenger grimaced as every bone in his seventy year body seemed to rattle in synch with the windows that threatened to take leave of the old bus.
Just three miles from Dungarvan, almost at the peak of the final hill, the old bus decided to throw in the towel. It shuddered and shook, before finally coming to a stop. The old diesel engine gave out one final splutter, then backfired in one almighty bang. The sudden unexpected blast bade a host of startled birds to take to the air in flight. Black acrid smoke plumed high above the fields of freshly gathered haycocks.
The rotund bus driver, red faced and unshaven, burst into a rage and cursed in a native brogue.
"Yea fecking auld bitch just three miles more and I would have been home in time for me bleedin' tea".
He opened the cab door and jumped down from the bus. The driver surveyed the sad scene. Oil was leaking from the engine and black smoke continued to billow from under the hood. He rested his hands on his hips, realising the old bus was done. The driver then shook his head in frustration. He hurled a barrage of foul insults at the old bus.
The response from the bus seemed unreal. The radiator cap blew off just missing the driver's head. Then the radiator hissed, as if it was delivering a curse. The driver was livid. He lifted his right leg and aimed a sharp kick against the tire on the left front wheel. This was an action that he instantly regretted. He hopped in pain cursing in tongues. The bus reacted as if alive. The left front wheel -- many miles past timely maintenance -- folded under, as the old bus collapsed, setting off the horn in a series of hoots akin to laughter.
The driver's humiliation was still not quite complete. A large, grey, seagull swooped down and deposited a gift of warm wet guano. The festering white shite splattered across the defeated bus drivers reddened face. What a sight. It was not the first time he had been shitfaced but never like this. Flocks of circling birds, hooting and cawing, cheered on their nautical feathered hero.
Meanwhile, Michael Miles O'Flaherty stepped off the bus and traipsed up the hill without a backward glance. He strode forward on the country lane with his suitcase in tow, and a raincoat slung over his back. He was relieved to escape the old crate. He was unable to hold back his laughter however. Justice had been done and he had no pity for the bus driver, who deserved his stinking fate.
Michael kept chuckling to himself as he continued on his way. It was the first time he had allowed laughter to re-enter his life in over twelve months. It felt good. His sorrow now joined by a forgotten companion called joy. He stopped for a brief rest at the top of the hill. He stared down at the port town of Dungarvan that stretched out ahead. He could just make out the fishing boats in the harbour. The sea was calm. It appeared to be strewn with diamonds but it was only the waves reflecting the mid afternoon sun.
Looking around at the fields of golds, greens and shimmering yellows, Michael could make out the yellow barley fields. They were almost ready for harvesting. Also golden hay fields, freshly mowed, caught his twinkling eyes. Michael smiled. The sweet smell of freshly cut grass, rising in the air, brought childhood memories flooding back to his mind.
Straightening his back, he drew a deep breath and sucked gulps of fresh clean Irish air. His chest expanded with every new breath and he grew visibly refreshed. The holy ground of Ireland welcomed home its long lost son.
Ireland's lost son continued his walk with a renewed vigour. He tried to make out the coloured houses newly built at the edge of the town. The road narrowed into a fork. Michael hesitated, unsure which path to take. However, his mind was very quickly made up for him. A small herd of cattle lumbered from the right fork, forcing him to branch to the left to avoid being trampled.
"Awisht! Awisht!"
The old herder called, as he switched at two heifers at the back of the twenty head.
Michael stared at the old man in his flat cap. He was wearing torn old clothes soiled with splattered slurry from the bovine waste. There was something familiar about the old man's gait. Michael recognised the unusual limp. It was the result of a shortened left leg that had been shattered in a farm accident when the old herder was a boy.
Michael felt a lump in his throat as he called out.
"Dermot! Dermot O'Malley!"
The old herder turned and stopped. He squinted through wizened eyes at the stranger who had called out his name.
"It's me. Michael Miles O'Flaherty. Do you not remember me Dermot?"
Dermot's old eyes lit up, as he moved forward to greet his old friend. He had not set eyes on him for more years than he could remember. It had in fact been 40 years since Michael had left Ireland to pursue a new life in America.
The two old friends shook hands. Dermot pulled back apologising for his soiled hands. Michael leaned forward and hugged Dermot, caring nothing for the cow shite that attached itself to his clean clothing.
Dermot finally spoke with a hint of laughter in his voice.
"So you finally came home for a visit Michael O'Flaherty. It's about time! I thought you had forgotten the land of your birth. How is that beautiful American girl you married? I heard she was quite a catch. Or was it she that caught you and wouldn't let you back?"
Michael smiled as he replied.
"I'm back home for good Dermot. I want to spend the last years of my life here now as there is nothing left for me in the States. My poor dear wife Karen passed away last year. We had no children so nothing to hang around there for now and I am retired. So I bought a little cottage at the edge of town".
Dermot cocked his head to one side.
"It's not that yellow one is it by the inlet? They said some Yanks had it built and painted like the Yellow Rose of Texas. No one could miss it. It's the only yellow house in the whole of County Waterford".
"Yes that is the one. That's mine Dermot. The bright yellow one in memory of Karen. She was a beauty queen you know. She was crowned Miss Yellow Rose of Texas before I met her", said Michael proudly.
"Well I guess you'll have no problem finding it then. Especially if you were headed home rolling drunk from the pub", Dermot replied with a mischievous grin.
"I suppose not", laughed Michael.
"You will come with me now won't you, Michael? We are almost at the farm. I'll clean myself up and then I'll drive you down to the town. But first you will stay for a cup of tea and a few small drops of the cratur won't you now?" Said, Dermot, almost pleading.
"I will of course" said Michael.
The two old friends chatted and talked of things long gone as if they had taken place only yesterday. Their laughter was lost amidst the sounds of lowing cattle.
Soft whispers from the welcoming sea breeze spread the word that the Prodigal Son had come home.
 Recognized |
#284 2019 |
Illustration by Avril Noonan
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