[Segment from one of the chapters of the fictional book I am writing - Would really appreaciate feedback from FB friends - too descriptive, not enough, too flowery etc etc.... Thanks Heaps] Splat-Cat 1 “Fear Is Bequeathed By Those Who Come Before Us...” I see it all clearly now as if it really is… …the barely audible clamour of muffled clattering echoing up from the kitchen; it should be a sound associated with warm family gatherings, but in our house it is a lonely sound, not quite as forlorn as the sound of some distant foghorn drifting inland from somewhere lost out in the deep or a prisoner alone in his cell after lights out playing some heartfelt tune on a harmonica or anything like that, but a lonely sound nonetheless… Paddy’s side of the mattress is empty but still slightly warm to the touch; he hasn’t been up long; after Big Paddy, he is usually the first one up; Maggie stays in bed until later in the day. We share the same small bedroom us three boys, the girls have the other room at the end of the landing, next to the bathroom; our parents occupy the bigger bedroom in the middle to the left of the staircase leading down to the front door of our double storied house. All the houses here are identical, red bricked; flat roofed boxes filled with secrets; devoid of character, like someone had shares in the Lego Company and let it go to their heads. Compared to what lurks within these walls, I’m sure the outside looks to be in pristine condition. The front gardens are small, with even smaller fences made of black painted iron; the backyards are slightly larger, boxed in on all sides with plain walls. Our backyard has a wall about five foot tall, at least on the outside, inside we have created such a tip all that’s left of the wall is about a foot and a half; the rest is taken up with all the junk we cannot burn or use, rusting cans, twisted bit and pieces of metal not worth anything in the scrap-yard, garbage no good for anything or to anyone; the home of more rats and cockroaches than we care to envision. You can smell the Magill stench from at least a couple of hundred yards away; it’s the smell we carry on ourselves, the smell others mock us for; the whiff of neglect. At the top of our street squat blocks of flats called the Dover Garden Estate, more red bricks, more flat roofs, more silent despair, just higher than the double storied houses surrounding them; it is a place we like to play, especially in the wood fenced areas fashioned as places to hang washing. Overall, the place we inhabit is dreary, a place mostly forgotten by the outside world; with housing so bad one half expects the rodents themselves to march on down to the Derry council building in order to complain about having to scurry about in cramped housing conditions; I’m sure the cockroaches themselves are mocked by healthier, wealthier creepy-crawlies from across the river. A few years later someone would write a popular song called The Town I Loved So Well, and to be honest, I have yet to meet a Bogsider who thinks anything of the song but a load of old sentimental twaddle; you see love does not reside in this place we unwillingly call home; let alone a love of having had to exist here. It is a place of profound sorrow; laced with hardships, the hardship of abject poverty; the hardship of occupation; the hardship of having been defeated and forsaken by all but ourselves alone… Tony shifts slightly, a stifled whimper escaping his lips. He is still half asleep, caught up in a lingering nightmare about the dead child from the night before; he can see him standing behind the television, like something half hidden behind misted glass; slightly distorted about the edges; his long, wet, rat-tail hair plastered like a big black glove to his head. The boy is looking straight at him, huge soulful eyes staring; beseeching almost. He is dressed in tattered raggedy clothing a few sizes too big for his elfin frame, old fashioned garments, a long, stained dark shirt with puffy sleeves and a grey woollen vest with no buttons. He has no shoes on his blackened feet. His face is gaunt; a glistening sheen about his skeletal-like cheek bones; he looks ancient about the eyes, but he can be no more than seven or eight, given his size and emaciated build. Suddenly, Tony is not the only one who sees him...
Posted on: Sun, 25 Aug 2013 10:54:39 +0000
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