First published in the Fish Anthology 2016
I’ll never forget that night Jack Devlin came into the shop. There were dark bruises on his face and neck, right down to where his shirt buttons opened. He was big for his age, but then his father was a big man too.
‘Hello Jack,’ I said.
‘Can I have a loaf of bread and a quarter pound of tea?’ he asked, and started to pick up imaginary crumbs from the counter. He was twelve years old, and in the year above me in school.
I measured out the tea leaves using the shop scale as he stood waiting.
‘That’ll be sixpence,’ I said and began to wrap the bread for him.
‘My Mam says that you’ll give us credit.’ His voice was quiet.
My mother had never given credit to the Devlins because she knew they never paid. But I couldn’t bear that if I called her down, she might start shouting at him. So I nodded my head, and handed him the tea and bread over the counter.
‘Molly, who is down there?’ Mammy asked from upstairs.
‘No-one Mam. I was just going to look out at the sky.’ I walked to the door and shuffled him outside.
‘You and that bloody sky,’ she said, ‘lock up now before any of those Devlin boys come down.’
‘Yes Mam,’ I said. I smiled at him then and locked the door behind me.
© Vivienne Kearns
It’s early September and the plane touches down in Colombian heat. Humidity is high as Xavier walks down the small flight of steps, trying to cope with the midday sun as it blazes hard in the sky. The ground shimmers beneath.
His agent has telephoned ahead to let the media know that he is coming. Xavier thinks of his wife and daughter back home, wondering if he has done the right thing, spending this time away from them. He continues to sweat in the blissful AC coolness of the airport terminal building. His friend Miguel smiles. Miguel has travelled back with him, as support for this one last visit to Colombia before he retires. They peer into the brilliant light of the afternoon before heading out.
Two reporters show, one young, the other an old hack, his suit crumpled in the heat. Xavier attempts to walk past them. He does not want this scrutiny, but the young reporter coughs for attention.
Continue reading “Short Story: Gamine”
© Vivienne Kearns
I wander through the grounds, a rag doll swinging in my hand. Her hair trails on the soft rolling slopes of the green lawn below. There is nothing to do here in summer. My private tutor Magali has left, deserting me to my mother and grandmother. The low fog of daylight obscures the castle behind.
The giant round stone structure blocks my view of the sea. I hear horses pulling their cargo on the highway, farmers travelling to trade their produce in the village, and families passing by with echoes of laughter on their way to the fair. Continue reading “Short Story: Hidden”
© Vivienne Kearns
I awake in his house. Ice melts and crackles on the inside pane as it slides down to a sill full of stagnant water. Fully clothed, I lift myself off the floor and walk stiffly to the bedroom window, hugging my arms for warmth. The sky holds snow.
I turn to watch my two sons sleeping on the bed at the other side of the room, not wanting to wake them, but we have to leave soon. A sharp sound comes from outside and I see dogs nuzzling at the metal dustbins for food. I shake the boys awake. Ardan, the eldest, dresses hastily, but Liam turns slowly and I have to drag him from beneath the covers. When they are ready I open the bedroom door. The house is silent so we venture out and creep down the worn carpeted stairway and into the grey winter’s light. Continue reading “Short Story: Escape”