u/elvisbusman

The portacabin was split in two divided by a small porch with two doors branching left and right. To the right Macca was administering the fleet of speedycabs one whattaboutye at a time, to the left the cutting edge of competitive compassionate camaraderie. Pure Grief Ltd.

"Hows the leg Kevin? Mending, good. Good. Have a seat there and we'll rattle through this.

Its about the McCloskey gig Kevin.

Now your conduct at the wake, second to none. Youve the respectful door knock perfect. I know youve been working on that and it shows. Your patter is getting better. I know this was a bit of a rush job and you didnt have much time to prepare so I can forgive the confusion over the name. Try to lock that in next time though. A quick glance into the box would have told you it was Brendan, not Brenda.

Respectful distance at the chapel, tick.

Attire.... no issues there, you look the part.

Then it all fell apart Kevin. What happened?

You know what, before you give your side of the story, hear me out. Eugene trained you, and in this business he's known to be one of the best..... And what did Eugene say was the first duty we have? Survey the space for the final act. And had you done that, you would have known that there was an overlapping booking and that four plots down there was an open staging area. And had you done that, you wouldn't have fallen into Margaret Hamiltons hole and your leg wouldnt be broken."

The knee pit of Kevins plastered leg began to itch. He leant down and blew sharply into the top of the cast.

"Eyes up here kevin, lets get through this.

It wouldnt have been so bad if thon slick prick from The Mourning Consortium hadn't been there. He recorded it on his phone too Kevin. Its all over social media."

Macca was having a full scale row next door about the meaning of the term "just around the corner."

"I was ready to pack all this in Kevin, but I’ve been reading the comments. ‘Awful sad about the big fella,’ one woman wrote. ‘Shows he was completely overcome with the sorrow.’ Someone else reckoned it was the most genuine display of raw empathy he’d ever seen at a burial.

The Consortium thinks they’ve ruined us, but they’ve given us an angle.

Id like to think of myself as a blue sky thinker Kevin. Make hay, rain or shine. Someone will buy soggy hay. We need to be agile. Lets own this.

We've one fresh off the slab. Murphy. When hes lowered, I want you out there with the big leg on display. Give in to the grief, trip over yourself and dive in with him.

We’ll have to build it into the risk assessment, obviously."

The CoCodamol was kicking in. Kevin looked at his blueish toes and wiped the dripping saliva from his chin.

The portacabin was split in two divided by a small porch with two doors branching left and right. To the right Macca was administering the fleet of speedycabs one whattaboutye at a time, to the left the cutting edge of competitive compassionate camaraderie. Pure Grief Ltd.

"Hows the leg Kevin? Mending, good. Good. Have a seat there and we'll rattle through this.

Its about the McCloskey gig Kevin.

Now your conduct at the wake, second to none. Youve the respectful door knock perfect. I know youve been working on that and it shows. Your patter is getting better. I know this was a bit of a rush job and you didnt have much time to prepare so I can forgive the confusion over the name. Try to lock that in next time though. A quick glance into the box would have told you it was Brendan, not Brenda.

Respectful distance at the chapel, tick.

Attire.... no issues there, you look the part.

Then it all fell apart Kevin. What happened?

You know what, before you give your side of the story, hear me out. Eugene trained you, and in this business he's known to be one of the best..... And what did Eugene say was the first duty we have? Survey the space for the final act. And had you done that, you would have known that there was an overlapping booking and that four plots down there was an open staging area. And had you done that, you wouldn't have fallen into Margaret Hamiltons hole and your leg wouldnt be broken."

The knee pit of Kevins plastered leg began to itch. He leant down and blew sharply into the top of the cast.

"Eyes up here kevin, lets get through this.

It wouldnt have been so bad if thon slick prick from The Mourning Consortium hadn't been there. He recorded it on his phone too Kevin. Its all over social media."

Macca was having a full scale row next door about the meaning of the term "just around the corner."

"I was ready to pack all this in Kevin, but I’ve been reading the comments. ‘Awful sad about the big fella,’ one woman wrote. ‘Shows he was completely overcome with the sorrow.’ Someone else reckoned it was the most genuine display of raw empathy he’d ever seen at a burial.

The Consortium thinks they’ve ruined us, but they’ve given us an angle.

Id like to think of myself as a blue sky thinker Kevin. Make hay, rain or shine. Someone will buy soggy hay. We need to be agile. Lets own this.

We've one fresh off the slab. Murphy. When hes lowered, I want you out there with the big leg on display. Give in to the grief, trip over yourself and dive in with him.

We’ll have to build it into the risk assessment, obviously."

The CoCodamol was kicking in. Kevin looked at his blueish toes and wiped the dripping saliva from his chin.

The portacabin was split in two divided by a small porch with two doors branching left and right. To the right Macca was administering the fleet of speedycabs one whattaboutye at a time, to the left the cutting edge of competitive compassionate camaraderie. Pure Grief Inc.

"Hows the leg Kevin? Mending, good. Good. Have a seat there and we'll rattle through this.

Its about the McCloskey gig Kevin.

Now your conduct at the wake, second to none. Youve the respectful door knock perfect. I know youve been working on that and it shows. Your patter is getting better. I know this was a bit of a rush job and you didnt have much time to prepare so I can forgive the confusion over the name. Try to lock that in next time though. A quick glance into the box would have told you it was Brendan, not Brenda.

Respectful distance at the chapel, tick.

Attire.... no issues there, you look the part.

Then it all fell apart Kevin. What happened?

You know what, before you give your side of the story, hear me out. Eugene trained you, and in this business he's known to be one of the best..... And what did Eugene say was the first duty we have? Survey the space for the final act. And had you done that, you would have known that there was an overlapping booking and that four plots down there was an open staging area. And had you done that, you wouldn't have fallen into Margaret Hamiltons hole and your leg wouldnt be broken."

The knee pit of Kevins plastered leg began to itch. He leant down and blew sharply into the top of the cast.

"Eyes up here kevin, lets get through this.

It wouldnt have been so bad if thon slick prick from The Mourning Consortium hadn't been there. He recorded it on his phone too Kevin. Its all over social media."

Macca was having a full scale row next door about the meaning of the term "just around the corner."

"I was ready to pack all this in Kevin, but I’ve been reading the comments. ‘Awful sad about the big fella,’ one woman wrote. ‘Shows he was completely overcome with the sorrow.’ Someone else reckoned it was the most genuine display of raw empathy he’d ever seen at a burial.

The Consortium thinks they’ve ruined us, but they’ve given us an angle.

Id like to think of myself as a blue sky thinker Kevin. Make hay, rain or shine. Someone will buy soggy hay. We need to be agile. Lets own this.

We've one fresh off the slab. Murphy. When hes lowered, I want you out there with the big leg on display. Give in to the grief, trip over yourself and dive in with him.

We’ll have to build it into the risk assessment, obviously."

The CoCodamol was kicking in. Kevin looked at his blueish toes and wiped the dripping saliva from his chin.

The portacabin was split in two divided by a small porch with two doors branching left and right. To the right Macca was administering the fleet of speedycabs one whattaboutye at a time, to the left the cutting edge of competitive compassionate camaraderie. Pure Grief Ltd.

"Hows the leg Kevin? Mending, good. Good. Have a seat there and we'll rattle through this.

Its about the McCloskey gig Kevin.

Now your conduct at the wake, second to none. Youve the respectful door knock perfect. I know youve been working on that and it shows. Your patter is getting better. I know this was a bit of a rush job and you didnt have much time to prepare so I can forgive the confusion over the name. Try to lock that in next time though. A quick glance into the box would have told you it was Brendan, not Brenda.

Respectful distance at the chapel, tick.

Attire.... no issues there, you look the part.

Then it all fell apart Kevin. What happened?

You know what, before you give your side of the story, hear me out. Eugene trained you, and in this business he's known to be one of the best..... And what did Eugene say was the first duty we have? Survey the space for the final act. And had you done that, you would have known that there was an overlapping booking and that four plots down there was an open staging area. And had you done that, you wouldn't have fallen into Margaret Hamiltons hole and your leg wouldnt be broken."

The knee pit of Kevins plastered leg began to itch. He leant down and blew sharply into the top of the cast.

"Eyes up here kevin, lets get through this.

It wouldnt have been so bad if thon slick prick from The Mourning Consortium hadn't been there. He recorded it on his phone too Kevin. Its all over social media."

Macca was having a full scale row next door about the meaning of the term "just around the corner."

"I was ready to pack all this in Kevin, but I’ve been reading the comments. ‘Awful sad about the big fella,’ one woman wrote. ‘Shows he was completely overcome with the sorrow.’ Someone else reckoned it was the most genuine display of raw empathy he’d ever seen at a burial.

The Consortium thinks they’ve ruined us, but they’ve given us an angle.

Id like to think of myself as a blue sky thinker Kevin. Make hay, rain or shine. Someone will buy soggy hay. We need to be agile. Lets own this.

We've one fresh off the slab. Murphy. When hes lowered, I want you out there with the big leg on display. Give in to the grief, trip over yourself and dive in with him.

We’ll have to build it into the risk assessment, obviously."

The CoCodamol was kicking in. Kevin looked at his blueish toes and wiped the dripping saliva from his chin.

This mentions places in Derry so I feel like I can legitimately post here. Another short story.....

The pipers were elsewhere. No drum beat was required. George was a one-man band and Greencastle would vibrate to the beat of his size 9s. He had stepped out the door of the caravan the moment he saw the national news; he was only two sips into his coffee when he noticed the date on screen and realized someone at the BBC would be fired for getting the Twelfth wrong. If the broadcasters thought the big day had passed, George would march regardless.

He had never been one to ignore a challenge. He couldn't remember exactly where he was back in the 90s when he heard John Hume say you can't eat a flag, but he knew he would answer it. When he had got home he pulled himself into the loft and dug out a tricolour that was destined for the boney on the 11th night.

He had rearranged the kitchen. All the chairs save one were pushed against the wall so that he had space. Stephanie would produce the flag from the oven, set it on one of the Sunday plates and tuck a union jack napkin into his shirt before making herself scarce.

What happened next has been wiped from history save for a few screen grabs from the political documentary George had been making at the time on his Sony hi8. The cultural commentators have described George as having shifted quickly from determined to in fear and then to ultimately clawing at Stephanie's face as the breath went from him.

The surgeons had done a remarkable job untwisting the guts from the flag, though not before critical sections had been starved of oxygen. Stephanie couldn't handle the fallout from the video, her clerk job in Spencer Road credit union suffered and she decided she wanted nothing more to do with George and his gallantry.

He took ill health retirement and used the lump sum to buy a mobile home in the south. His logic was sound. He was the vanguard, behind enemy lines promoting the faith. Also, if he had bought a place in Benone across the water, he would have to look at the enemy territory every day. The way George engineered it, he could wake up and look lovingly towards home.

Today was another day to further the reach of the crown. Why couldn't the twelfth be two days. He looked around for a union flag, sure he had one somewhere, but came up short.

He looked down, carefully emptied the bag, cleaned his stoma and reattached. He looked at the medical plastic, completely clear, completely blank. It lacked imagination. It lacked loyalty. It lacked design. He went out to the 2004 Vauxhall Meriva, reached into the glove box past a melted pack of mints, and found a permanent marker. With a steady hand, he drew the crosses of St. George, St. Andrew, and St. Patrick across the front.

He was ready. The bowler hat, sash, and blazer were on hand, a white shirt and black trousers donned. He buttoned the shirt from neck to sternum and then tucked one front shirt tail into the lowermost fastened button. In this way, the union flag would not be obscured. He searched for The Sash on youtube, pressed play and put it into his blazer pocket. A defiant defender of the faith, he began to march.

The An Post van made its way around the corner and lazily towards him. George would not relent for this symbol of a rebel state. The 19-year-old driver gave way and steered around him.

George smiled under the brim of his hat. They still fear the crown. A tear welled in his eye. He marched on, looked down towards his belly and saluted the flag.

The Giant

Graveyard shift commuters noticed it first. In the darkness of early morning it was just something out of the corner of an eye.

Dawn turned shapes to features. Now a big eye in the corner of an eye.

Joggers slowed. Taxi men filed it into their shite to talk about today folder.

A big pink head with a rictus grin staring inland from the river.

The radio intern producer had walked past it on the way to the studio and excitedly reported his big scoop.

A man with a mic was dispatched down the hill.

Stu Leonard, ever the canny businessman had worked out that if he parked the poke van down the quay he'd make enough from the crowds to cover the fine from the council for operating without a permit.

Eithnes phone hadn't stopped.

"No this isn't a council initiative and we are actively working to identify the artist, though anything which brings families into the city centre is a welcome surprise"

The crowds ebbed and flowed in the days after he appeared.

Art students, it turned out, had descended in the dead of night and swiftly dumped the big man in.

Gulliver.

Made of flour paste, The journal and paint, his 30 foot frame became a landmark, however brief his dip would turn out to be.

It rained last night. The crowds continued to pass by though he was looking worse for wear.

Mick and Bobby had just parked their council pickup a ways away and Bobby began unpotting the established seedlings and tucking them into the exposed bed.

Mick leant his hands on the brush and his chin on his hands, his eyes locked on the sagging pink jaw of the giant.

"Think about Jackson Pollock," Mick said, his voice carrying over the wet scrape of Bobby’s trowel. "His art was messy, but I’d dare say he tidied up after himself. Picasso was by all reports a horrible wee man, but there was an economy to the way he used the paint. That thing there, looks the part now, but what happens when it falls apart in a few days? Are the ones who put it in there going to wade in and clear it up? I doubt it, it’ll be left to us."

Bobby was half listening.

"Unless you tell them cod, when you ask for a fish supper now its pollock they give you. Its sneaky."

The chest burst first. Soggy death notices spliced with local football fixtures bealed from the trunk before the section mooring it to the quayside gave way. The nose had collapsed into the face, the lips sheered off in the wind. Mick and Bobby stood at the riverside as it bobbed downstream. A syphilitic 18th century playboy knocked around by the currents.

Mick wished it a safe onward journey, at least until it got to Culmore Point. Then it was the Ports problem.

Graveyard shift commuters noticed it first. In the darkness of early morning it was just something out of the corner of an eye.

Dawn turned shapes to features. Now a big eye in the corner of an eye.

Joggers slowed. Taxi men filed it into their shite to talk about today folder.

A big pink head with a rictus grin staring inland from the river.

The radio intern producer had walked past it on the way to the studio and excitedly reported his big scoop.

A man with a mic was dispatched down the hill.

Stu Leonard, ever the canny businessman had worked out that if he parked the poke van down the quay he'd make enough from the crowds to cover the fine from the council for operating without a permit.

Eithnes phone hadn't stopped.

"No this isn't a council initiative and we are actively working to identify the artist, though anything which brings families into the city centre is a welcome surprise"

The crowds ebbed and flowed in the days after he appeared.

Art students, it turned out, had descended in the dead of night and swiftly dumped the big man in.

Gulliver.

Made of flour paste, The journal and paint, his 30 foot frame became a landmark, however brief his dip would turn out to be.

It rained last night. The crowds continued to pass by though he was looking worse for wear.

Mick and Bobby had just parked their council pickup a ways away and Bobby began unpotting the established seedlings and tucking them into the exposed bed.

Mick leant his hands on the brush and his chin on his hands, his eyes locked on the sagging pink jaw of the giant.

"Think about Jackson Pollock," Mick said, his voice carrying over the wet scrape of Bobby’s trowel. "His art was messy, but I’d dare say he tidied up after himself. Picasso was by all reports a horrible wee man, but there was an economy to the way he used the paint. That thing there, looks the part now, but what happens when it falls apart in a few days? Are the ones who put it in there going to wade in and clear it up? I doubt it, it’ll be left to us."

Bobby was half listening.

"Unless you tell them cod, when you ask for a fish supper now its pollock they give you. Its sneaky."

The chest burst first. Soggy death notices spliced with local football fixtures bealed from the trunk before the section mooring it to the quayside gave way. The nose had collapsed into the face, the lips sheered off in the wind. Mick and Bobby stood at the riverside as it bobbed downstream. A syphilitic 18th century playboy knocked around by the currents.

Mick wished it a safe onward journey, at least until it got to Culmore Point. Then it was the Ports problem.

​We were thirty or so twelve-year-old boys on a school trip to France, shepherded by two self-declared wine aficionados and a man who despised children. The overnight journey from Rosslare to Cherbourg was a brutal crossing; as we docked the next morning, only the sadist was of sound mind.

​The journey inland gave last night’s sommeliers an opportunity to recharge their critical instruments, while the Sturmbannführer glared at us in the rear view mirror. When we arrived at the lodgings, we were marched off the bus by said horrible fucker, the two lushes spilling out last.

​Gathered in the dingy corridor, we were assigned our rooms and instructed that, under no circumstances, should we dare turn the televisions to Channel 9.

​We dutifully disobeyed. That night, thirty pairs of saucer-like eyes marvelled in the dark at Rubenesque mademoiselles and their frantic dalliances with each other.

​At breakfast, the Sturmbannführer slammed the trap shut. The original directive had been bait.

​"Before we leave, there are bills to settle," he announced to the silent dining room. "Channel 9 is a premium service, charged at three euros per minute. The hotel manager is currently drawing up the invoices."

​At the back of the room, a boy called James began to sob.

​"Sir," he choked out, "I fell asleep and forgot to turn it off."

John’s brow was smooth like a cheese grater on account of his constant worrying.

​That is, before Barry McCafferty had spent a few hours working on him. Like a baby’s arse it was now, as John lay in his dining room, full dead in his coffin.

​"Barry is some operator," Frank Duffy said awkwardly to John’s widow, Mary. "He should have started the undertakers years ago. I told him that when he skimmed my downstairs toilet after we had the leak."

​"Aye," said Mary. "The only thing is that because John died on the Friday, Barry wanted to lift half the money that night and then the other half when he delivered him this morning."

​"Well," Frank sighed, looking down at the job on John’s forehead. "The only saving grace is you won't need to pay Father Mahon for the heat in the chapel, since he owes you for the brick through your front window."

Mary looked at John, or through him. She reached into the satin lining, her thumb working a smudge of dust from the dead man's temple with the dull, rhythmic stroke of a woman cleaning a sideboard.

​"Aye," she said, her voice flat.

"Every cloud, Frank.

Every cloud."

John’s brow was smooth like a cheese grater on account of his constant worrying.

​That is, before Barry McCafferty had spent a few hours working on him. Like a baby’s arse it was now, as John lay in his dining room, full dead in his coffin.

​"Barry is some operator," Frank Duffy said awkwardly to John’s widow, Mary. "He should have started the undertakers years ago. I told him that when he skimmed my downstairs toilet after we had the leak."

​"Aye," said Mary. "The only thing is that because John died on the Friday, Barry wanted to lift half the money that night and then the other half when he delivered him this morning."

​"Well," Frank sighed, looking down at the job on John’s forehead. "The only saving grace is you won't need to pay Father Mahon for the heat in the chapel, since he owes you for the brick through your front window."

Mary looked at John, or through him. She reached into the satin lining, her thumb working a smudge of dust from the dead man's temple with the dull, rhythmic stroke of a woman cleaning a sideboard.

​"Aye," she said, her voice flat.

"Every cloud, Frank.

Every cloud."