bahern7

                                                    She thought: I dunno what’s gonna happen, or how it’s gonna happen, all I know is it sure as hell will happen! It was fuckers like you who locked up Oscar Wilde. Terry Sick was known for his song God Bless the Civil Service . There’s a homeless man about my age sitting on the church’s stone window ledge. She got off the bus in Stoneybatter with her torn tights and handbag of leather. On Verschoyle Court he wept, quietly, in the surprisingly mild November afternoon. Her mind travelled to a house on Carlingford Parade where on winter evenings in 1993 she went to drink whiskey and get caned. Every pulse in him beat at double time. How’d I ever know anything b4 I cud look up stuff at my fingertips the livelong day? Just fucking google it! JFGI: A shadowy expectation of a ...

                                                                      I suppose you could call it a practical joke but it wasn’t funny. Adam Twain’s so-called friends were wetting themselves. It was a status update that did it—nigh on ruined Adam’s life. “I killed Jemima Dukes” they’d posted on his Facebook page, gaining access when he’d left his screen unattended to go to the college loo. That’s what he got for wasting time on social media. He should have had a science website open. If not that, then he certainly should have logged off Facebook before going to relieve himself. He had always been an absent-minded fellow, his head in the clouds on higher things. That’s why the “friends” hated him, mocked him, and bullied him. He should have been more careful knowing them.  Shoulda, coulda, woul...

Are you all set for the Christmas Ready for that great day, Spend time with the family Everyone has their say, By the evening it's decided To the nuthouse you're bound, Are you all set for the Christmas And all those sorrows to be drowned? Are you all set for the Christmas For gifts and for cheer, Tense family gatherings, It’s that time of the year When you’ll open your wallet To buy a big round, Are you all set for the Christmas And to spend the few pound? Are you all set for the Christmas, For the turkey and the ham, Though you’re not feeling festive, It’s a bit of a sham, Your head’s in a mess, There’s tinsel and tat all around, Are you all set for the Christmas And to spend the few pound? Are you all set for the Christmas A time of miracles and joy, Eat tons of treats Hope the taste doesn't cloy, By Stephen’s Day you're well settled In the new quarters you've found, Are you all set for the Christmas And al...

His breakfast made, Blake sat down to eat it at the rickety table—it was like something from a Van Gogh painting—and found his mind drifting back to that accursed day and the appalling event that had seen poor Paul Pubb get put away. Blake recalled a gusty, chilly afternoon with billowing clouds, grey and massive, rolling in from the eastern horizon. He was down on Mint Street sitting with Paul on some dilapidated street furniture: a vandalized bench, as he remembered it, that gave off a horrid tramp stench. As far as leading a normal life and partaking in everyday society went, both men were feeling decidedly out of the frame as the town clock struck three and leaves and litter blew about their feet. Disaffected is probably the word that best describes their state. Also, both felt a deep urge to escape themselves through drugs and were scanning the street in the hope that a dealer would  appear to do some business. The minutes dragged on and, in a loud voice aimed direct...

Through the walls Dr. Burroughs continued to be heard shouting at poor, nervous Amy. Paul was sure that everyone in the building could hear the man’s murderous cries and he kind of hoped that Dr. Anxious would have a crack at some of this shouting lark as well. It would certainly liven up the proceedings. Still, they can try anything they want on me, Paul felt, my depression will never dispel. Out in the reception area Blake was thinking the same thing about Hope Street ’s therapy methods. Unquestionably tough stuff—bloody violent! Amy’s keening sobs coming through the walls had set him right on edge. It was his turn to gnaw at a forefinger. In Room 6 Ben Anxious was eager to wrap things up and end his first session with Paul Pubb. Throughout their brief consultation, he’d deliberately avoided mentioning Paul’s egregious act of self-harm—the destruction of the index finger. Ben decided he might broach the subject in the third or fourth session if he felt the therapy was pro...

Me and the mot and the mot’s mother spent a few days in Kerry at the end of September, staycationing being de rigueur nowadays. On the first morning there, getting into the car for a drive, our first port of call was Portmagee. I wanted to see the town Luke Skywalker and his crew launched their boats from when filming on Skellig Michael in July.  The Jedi knight would be in another part of the galaxy by now, but I hoped to pick up some residue of the force. I imagined, with the Hollywooders gone, that the Skellig birds would be back to breeding and screeching, and village life in Portmagee would be back to normal. And what a pleasant normal it was. In a café on the main drag we each bought an exquisite open crab sandwich on fresh brown bread for a not unreasonable €7 a pop. The café had large windows facing the bay and we sat gazing at the water. The weather was clement. A fishing boat with seagulls following was like a painting. I was almost moved to formulate an ...

Friends, Here's some footage I shot in Kerry recently. Looking at it these lines of W.B. Yeats come to mind: ' I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore...' Hope you like it. Here's the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=apRLEQlwB54 Humbly, BA

                                                Miranda Lambe had been on the receiving end of pestering phone calls for several weeks now. They had started in late September and continued, on an almost nightly basis, until now: early November. As the time went on the calls had grown increasingly sinister in their nature. The days were short and the weather was as cold as Miranda’s feelings towards the caller—a fellow by the name of Gary Grunt. Strangely, Miranda hadn’t yet reported Grunt even though it was an open-and-shut case that he was pestering her—she was certain that, if the need arose, she could prove it in any court. Gary Grunt would not have seen it like that, however. As far as he was concerned he had scored (albeit illegally) with this bird, Miranda Lambe, and was now in with an excellent chance of having his way with her again. She was out of ...

At that time—two decades earlier—Marcus Leavy was dating a girl, Majella Skelly, with whom he was far from enamoured. His reason: her friend, the aforementioned, Claribel Barrington. Claribel was from the school of high sublime: pronounced cheekbones, a tall, slender frame and a face that could easily grace the cover of any of the world’s top fashion magazines. By contrast, Majella was plainer than a Rich Tea biscuit; her wit duller than the leftovers from last night’s dinner; though, it must be said, her body was taut as a gymnast’s and eminently pleasurable for Marcus to ravage. He was twenty-five at the time and in need of daily lovemaking. The thing was, though, the girls were inseparable. You never got one without the other. Therefore, Marcus was happy enough to play the role of Majella’s beau, affording him as it did his daily contact with the sublime Claribel. He had first met the pair at a party one night in a crumbling old house off the East Circular Road , Blud...

Viktor Fagerström spoke the international language of Mall. He was just another tourist with a gut; or was he? He walked the streets of the old city looking up at the apartment buildings and imagining the lives therein. Down at the beach twentysomethings gathered at evening to sing songs and smoke around campfires. A steady stream wandered away to make love in the dunes offside. As the momentum of his life hurtled ever faster towards old age, Viktor wondered about these young people: who they were, and where they came from? He knew that the gap between him and youth was unbridgeable. In his heart there lived a savage songbird with an anguished anthem to sing. Ó Brian Ahern 2014

Readers (or possibly reader) of my blog, Here's a link to some brief footage I shot last month outside the Prince's Palace of Monaco. Please enjoy. Humbly as always, Brian The link:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5qr16aw6RI

Readers of my blog (all two of you), I shot the following footage (linked below) on my descent into Dublin yesterday afternoon on a flight from Nice. I think it turned out rather well (if I do say so myself). Best, BA The link:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgSCkrYZlIQ

                                             A brief tale of spiritual smoking… There comes a time in certain people’s lives when they are called to a level of celestial awareness far higher than anything they have known before; for Randolph Piazza that time came one cold afternoon in February when he was twenty-six years old. Randolph had had, to put it mildly, a difficult past. His parents and only sister had been killed in a car crash several years earlier—an inebriated, numbskulled politician ploughed into them as he drove the wrong way down a motorway following a race meeting. Most unjustly, the charmed politico survived the smash. Randolph’s grandmother, Rosetta—a gentle soul, not strict at all—genuinely loved her grandson and had welcomed him into her home in his hour of need. Her address had become Randolph ’s permanent domicile in the period s...

152 reads for this little ditty. I guess it was better than keeping it in a drawer. #NowReading 'Dublin Castle Haiku' on #Movellas Humbly,            Brian

                                                          Monday, seven p.m. Grudge was anxious and alert but far from terrified. His recent blog post on drunkards in the postal service had garnered a lot of angry attention. He had been tracked to the rathole by the vice-president of the postal workers’ union and some of the man’s cohorts. They were banging on the front door of the building asking—most aggressively—of anyone who would listen whether or not Grudge Galmount was at home. The said Mr. Galmount had chosen, at this fraught juncture, silence as his best mode of defence—and, as two extra precautions, he had switched off the lights and bolted the door. These bastards are preying on the weak, he moaned to himself, and to no one else in particular—having lately given up on God. He lay still, listening to the hubbub of the mini...

Friends, Dubliners, Men (& Women) from the Country, I grabbed this footage recently 'way down in the County Kerry, in a place they call Rossbeigh'. Placid methinks is the word, okay. Please enjoy. Here's the link:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmR39S5qkYA With an overwhelming sense of humility, Brian

                                                                 Saturday, seven a.m. After a squally night the rain had finally stopped. The departure had to be an early one. Not to catch a plane or pick up the keys to a new apartment; nothing as exciting as that. No, Grudge Galmount had to clear out into the morning mist simply for the fact that the ‘Notice of Eviction’ was due to expire in two hours’ time. He didn’t want a messy scene and knew that the landlord would be here at nine sharp—with a goon or two in tow. He accepted that he could not blame anyone but himself for his present predicament. It was, after all, a core principle of capitalism that rent had to be paid. Grudge knew in his heart of hearts that the drink trouble that followed him constantly would have to be addressed. Not just yet, though. ...