Outburst Issue4

8/8/2019 Outburst Issue4

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Art, Design and Literature


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4Welcometo IssueT

his month we have a resh selectiono previously unseen short ctionand poetry or your readingpleasure. You will be warmed

and moved, chilled, and saddened by thismonths stories, Ong Phis Hostel, TheHorror and The Letter.

This months poetry issues rom thethemes o love, loss, hope, regret,trangression, and compromise. We hopethat you enjoy the selection and ask that

you join with us in welcoming newcomerCallum Philbin to the boundless realm ocreative writing.

2

One more thing. We are running a eatureon six word stories. Although hes nevercome good on the lotto numbers, our staharuspex insists that it will most likelyhappen in issue six. This is a call to pens!Send your six word stories to

[email protected]

See you next month.


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The HorrorTom Mc Guirk11

The Letter Daniel Kaye12

13 Poetry

Contributors biographies18

Ong Phis Hostel Peter Loftus4

Issue Four, November 2010

3

Callum Philbin

Elizabeth Reapy

Sally GamgeeThomas Newlove

Louise Nelson

Ger Feeney

Arthur Broomfield


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Ong Phi'sostelHPeter Loftus


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Hello, hello!

What now? Daves shoulders rose.

Through the lm o dirt on the window we

could vaguely make out the boyish gure

waving to us.

Dave, leave it. I put my hand on his arm.

Sometimes he needed that physical reminder

to cut through whatever Neanderthalalgorithm he was calling up.

Hello-o. The guy shufed around the

edge o the doorway and gave us a smile

that showed teeth made or a larger head.

Americans? he asked with a mixture

o optimism and that middle-o-nowhere

worldliness that one encountered in every

spot that a Westerner with a backpack could

reach. His moustache put him at about

teen, but his lined, wrinkled ace told us he

was at least orty.

Were Irish, said Dave, turning away rom

the guy in a way that said the conversation

was over.

Ah, Irish! Roy Keane!

Yeah, Roy Keane. Dave wasnt breaking

records or riendliness.

The guy didnt seem too put out, but stood

there, grinning like a castaway who saw a

ship on the horizon.

Dave took a swig o his beer.

So what can we do or you? I asked.

Sometimes, its better or me to do the public

relations work.

You have problem with hotel. It wasnt a

question. Anybody within a ty-oot radius

could have heard what Dave called the hotel

manager.

Yeah, they messed up our reservation. You

wouldnt know anywhere that takes in guests,

would you? It was worth a try.

The little guys chest swelled Ong Phi

Hostel! Best. Best in town.

Dave gave me a smile o encouragement.

How much does it cost? Can you tell us how

to get there?

Cheap, cheap. He waved his hand

in dismissal. I take you there now. He

motioned or us to nish our beer.

Im Sarah, and this is Dave.

Ong Phi, he said, with pride. He put a lot

o eort into the handshake.

Lets see the place anyway. Its better than

nothing, I said. Dave had that ace on him

again. I we dont like it, we can leave.

Hed better not try anything.

I didnt reply. I was having second thoughts

mysel. Ong Phi was across the road arguingwith the owner o a battered Toyota pickup.

There was much spitting and waving o arms

in the air, then, a bank note exchanged hands,

and Ong Phi hurried back to us.

Come, I take you. Beore either o us could

intervene, he snatched up both o our bags

and wobbled back towards the Toyota, his

arms trembling with the eort. It was like

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watching an event rom one o those Worlds

Strongest Man things that Dave always

insisted on recording, only Ong Phi had about

as much meat on his whole body as one o

those guys had on their necks.

He threw our bags into the back o the truck

and ran to open the passenger door or us.

I jumped in rst, so I got to push all o thealuminium ast ood containers onto the foor,

then Dave got in, and Ong Phi slammed the

door. I said nothing, but pointed out the layer

o white eathers that covered the dashboard.

Dave nudged me. Will you look at that,

he said, motioning the rear view mirror. Ong

Phi, was struggling to single-handedly lit a

battered old moped into the back o the truck.

We sat there, shaking with silent laughter,

until, with an ominous crash, he succeeded. It

never even occurred to us to oer to help.

When the little Thai jumped into the cab, he

was shaking with exertion.

Hang onto your hats, guys and gals, he

called, and we were o . He drove like Michael

Schumacher on crack. In the ve minutes it

took us reach the outskirts o the village, at

least a dozen dierent people had to dive outo our way, one o them a tiny girl holding a

baby sister who was almost as big as her.

How ar is i t? asked Dave, as we swung

o the road and began to bounce along a dirt

road.

Two minutes, replied Ong Phi, then, No.

Ten minutes.

I squeezed Daves hand and heard him

exhale heavily.

In the end, it was only ten minutes, and in

that time we let the town behind and entered

a complete wilderness. It reminded me o an

enclosure rom the monkey house in Dublin

Zoo. That struck me as kind o sad, later on,

that the only thing I could compare the placeto was something articial.

The second that Ong Phi turned o the

engine, we were enveloped by a blanket

o exotic sounds. Birdcalls wove above the

steady contrapuntal chirruping o the insects.

It was as i the whole orest were breathing.

Dave gave me a quick smile and went to

recover our bags rom underneath the

moped.

Welcome riends, said Ong Phi. He

opened his arms as i to hug us, then, turned

and gestured towards the building in the

corner. His house was a bamboo aair,

resting on metre high stilts. All o the walls

were woven rom some thick green material,

and exotic fowers, none o which I could

name, graced the creepers that ramed the

porch. I was instantly jealous. I had expected

to eel pity or Ong Phi, and to endure hisattempted hospitality with a sti upper lip

and a good bitching session with my riends

when I got back to Dublin. But the guy lived

in a paradise. There was a small clearing

where a handul o chickens pecked, plucked

and perched. Beyond that was unspoiled rain

orest that was ancient when the builders o

Newgrange were still squinting at the heavens

and placing their rst stones.

Come, I will show you your room, he said,

shouldering Dave o our bags.

The inside o the house was surprisingly

cool and shady, although it looked like it

hadnt elt the benet o a womans touch

or quite a while. I had a sudden image o

Calamity Jane beating the dust out o rugs to

an audience o solemn-aced monkeys.

The foors were o bamboo strips covered

in rugs that were closer relatives o blankets

than they were o carpet. There were dirty

plates, o dull and dented metal, and I

was sure I saw the urtive scrabblings o

something rom the insect kingdom that could

have gone ve rounds with a mouse.

So sorry is dirty. It is maids day o. At

least he had the decency to look abashed.

Dont worry. I clean soon.

At the back o the sit ting room, our host

pulled a string and a woven mat crept up to

reveal what would be our room.

Nice, said Dave. The room had a long

thin window set high in the wall, making the

area look almost like one o those hides romwhich you watched wildlie and birds. The

two beds were nothing more than sleeping

mats, but they were clean, and I was tired.

Just the trick. I wanted to sink down right

away and sleep until the days heat abated,

but Ong Phi had more to show us.

Come, come. I will show you best garden

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you have ever seen.

It was the best garden we had ever seen.

Something in me wanted to walk into the

shady hollows between the boles o the trees

and never return.

Ong Phi pointed to a spot at the edge o the

clearing.

The toilet, he said grandly, Is over there.

Where, behind those bushes? I asked. It

seemed like a good question at the time.

Ha, ha! He laughed or a moment, then,

lowered his voice. But bring a stick.

What, you use a stick to wipe your arse?

muttered Dave out o the corner o his mouth.

Ong Phi caught the comment. Ha ha! Veryunny. Use stick to wipe ass! He was getting

great mileage out o us. Maybe we should

have been charging him. He wiped the tears

o laughter rom his eyes. No, no. Stick is to

kill snakes. Ok, now I must go back to town to

return truck. You relax. Enjoy.

I awoke to the sound o Ong Phis tinny

moped and walked out to the porch to greet

him. He was carrying a string bag that heldstill-dripping prawns. Dave was out or the

count with his mouth wide open, probably

dreaming o chasing rabbits or stealing

sausages rom a butcher.

My host invited me to help him prepare

dinner. This involved rounding up the hens

and locking them into their t iny wicker

enclosures. Then, I was given a papaya to cut

into strips. Ong Phi got to work preparing a

re. He went into the house and returned with

a hal dozen bamboo containers o spices,

which he began to ry.

Flavour the oil, he grinned. Good. You

will see.

The smell o resh lemongrass and the

peppery aroma o coriander and chilli inused

the small garden with an otherworldly air,

almost like the incense we had breathed in

the temples. I sat there mesmerised as he

worked, wondering why he wasnt head che

in some grand hotel. What was he doing here,

waiting on us?

When the spices had nicely favoured the

oil, he added the strips o papaya, then, with

no sign o a fourish, he lopped a coconutin hal, and added some o the milk to the

concoction. The rest o the milk, he set aside.

Last o all, he plucked the prawns up rom

where theyd been grilling and rested them on

the top o the dish.

Call your man, he said, garnishing the dish

with resh red chillies and coriander leaves.

Now he will taste real Thai ood.

Jesus! Dave shook his head in disbelie,

juggling a hot prawn in his mouth. Thats

incredible! Where did you learn to cook like

that?

Ong Phi rewarded us with a toothy smile

rom across the re. Night had allen

unnoticed while we cooked, and Ong Phis

cheekbones were orange triangles beneath

his twinkling eyes.

I was che one time, he answered.

I thought o the scores o people wed seen

since wed arrived, boiling noodles in huge

vats, or turning over skewers o chicken on an

oil drum barbeque.

In town? asked Dave.

No. Setting his plate down, Ong Phi

walked to the porch and extracted a bottle o

some clear liquid. This, he handed to Dave.

Then, he picked three enamel cups o the

porch and ficked the rainwater out o them.

Catching the look I gave him, he laughed.

Dont worry. Alcohol will kill what is in cups.

A smell like turpentine wated over to me

when Dave opened the bottle. We each took

a cup, hal lled it with coconut milk, then

topped it o with a slug o the clear spirit.

Dave snied his. Wooh! What is this stu?

Some people call it Kill-me-Quick. I call it

Mothers Tears. Try. You will like. He took a

deep swig and smacked his lips theatrically.

It tasted like something you would use to

strip paint. Perect.

So, you are married?

Just last week, I replied. This is our

honeymoon.

Congratulations! Ong Phi raised his cup.

You are beautiul couple.

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We downed our drinks.

I will buy you another, called our host.

His voice was sounding a bit wobbly already.

Waitress! He clicked his ngers and made

a show o looking around or his imaginary

waitress. Mmph! I orgot. Is her day o .

We held out our cups or a rell.

So, do you oten have guests here? asked

Dave.

Normally, I sh, but everybody lost their

boats in the tsunami. Here, I am trying to

make home or my amily. He stopped and

looked around. Maybe he expected his amily

to step rom the shadows. But it is your

night. You were married last week, not Ong

Phi. He slurped rom his mug. When did you

meet?

We met in college, I said. Twelve years

ago. It took us a while to get round to tying

the knot.

We wanted to be sure we liked each other,

added Dave. It was his usual joke at this point.

And you are happy?

I looked at Dave beore answering. Ocourse. But its a bit strange or us. Things

have changed or us, and were not yet sure

how. Its dicult to explain.

Were stuck with each other now, said

Dave. He was trying to be unny, but his

words ell fat. They hurt. Because they were

true. He took a guilty sip rom his cup and

smiled apologetically.

Ong Phi bristled like a scandalised vicar.

Never stuck! he hissed. Like the birds are

stuck with the tree? Like the bees are stuck

with the honey? He snorted long and hard

and spat in the re. You are not stuck.

We sat, chastised, and let the balmy night

air all silent or a while. Each o us drank on,

alone with our thoughts. Eventually, I becameaware o Ong Phi scanning our aces.

You are man and wie, but you are also like

brother and sister. You are best, best riends.

I will show you re dance. He jumped up

with manic energy and grasped a stick rom

the re. Taking a swig o the mothers tears,

he brought the glowing ember o the stick to

his mouth and sent a plume o roiling fame

heavenward.

The spell was broken. We clapped and

cheered as the tiny Thai ran the faming end

o the stick up his arms and over his chest. I

was sure I smelt burning hair. Then, lighting

both ends o the stick, he proceeded to twirl

it around like some mad majorette. All the

while, he cackled and pranced like a madman.

By the time we went to bed, our sides were

sore rom laughing, and our aces burning

rom the relight.

When I got up the next day, my head was

pounding. I went out on the back porch,

where Dave was lounging in a hammock.

I didnt see Ong Phi.

Where is he? I asked, scratching my head.

Dave grinned and pointed to a ar corner o

the clearing. All we could see was a skinny

backside pointing out rom under a bush.

What are you doing? called Dave. Did you

lose your mastercard?

Making breakast, came the reply. Ong

Phi backed out o the oliage holding an egg

to his eye the way a jeweller examines a

diamond.

He jumped up onto the porch and set the

egg down beside six others.

Er, do you have any orange juice or

anything like that? I asked. I knew it was a

long shot, but he nodded immediately.

Orange juice, he said. It sounded like the

name o a long lost riend. O course. You

wait here.

He disappeared into the house. A ew

seconds later, we heard the whine o his

moped, and my heart hit the foor. Dave didnt

say anything. He didnt have to. He just shook

his head and looked the other way.

Fiteen minutes later, and our host was

back, swinging a buxom bag o oranges. He

wasnt put out by the errand, nor was he hung

over. He looked chirpy as a cricket as he set

about strangling the innocent ruit into a bowl.

Dave leaned across. Have you been to the

toilet yet?

No, I said. Why?

You might ask him now to go back into

town to get you some toilet roll.

We reached the waterall at about one

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oclock, sticky rom the climb. I sat on a

rock and surveyed the canopy below us and

waited or my legs to stop shaking.

Give us the water, said Dave.

You have your own water, I snapped. We

hadnt spoken much since his comment about

the toilet roll.

I drank all mine.

Tough shit.

Aw, cmon. He made a gooy attempt grab

me in a bear hug.

I turned to ace him. I mean it, Dave. Im not

your mother.

Ok.

I mean it. He tried to grab me again. He

gave me his Im-not-listening-because-Im-

too-busy-trying-to-annoy-you smile.

Yeah, I know. This time he succeeded in

grabbing me.

Get o! I started to giggle.

Ooh ooh! He picked an imaginary nit out

o my hair and ate it.

Get o!

Lets go or a swim. The gorilla was gone

now, and Dave was back.

Beore I could even answer, Dave had ripped

o his shorts and was running towards the

plunge pool. His arse was shockingly white

a halved boiled egg. I tugged my vest over

my head, fung my knickers in the dust and

dived right in.

We made love in the water or over an hour,

stroking each other as the tension o the last

ew days and the build up to the weddingebbed. As I came, we heard the ning-ning o

Ong Phis moped rom back on the trail and

gave ourselves in to the laughter.

When we walked back through the trees we

were holding hands.

That night Ong Phi cooked again, and the

ood was, i anything, even better than the

night beore.

Ater the meal, we drew close to the re.

Dave had lled the rain barrel with bottles o

Tiger Beer, and we took one each. Night ell,

and the ancient orest closed in around us like

black velvet.

Ong, why dont you go into the city and get

a job in the kitchens o one o the big hotels?

asked Dave.

Ong spat between his teeth, but didnt

answer.

No, really. You must be as good as any o

their ches. Dave never could take a hint and

let things lie.

I was che, beore. Long time, now. Ong

Phi took a swig o beer. In London, he said,

ater a while.

London London? said Dave.

Ong Phi laughed. London London! Yes.

Long ago.

So why did you come back? I had to

admit, even I wanted to know his story now.

Too bad or me. People, cars, excuse me

please, sorry please. No. I live here. Hegestured at the silent trees around us. The

ull moon had risen, grey lace on sepia. I am

as much this orest as a monkey or tree. Fish

cant leave the sea, I cant leave the orest.

So you came back, said Dave.

How long were you there? I asked.

Eight years.

Eight years? Did you have amily overthere? Dave was doing pretty well on the

questions, now.

I was with amily. He looked up and his

eyes twinkled blackly in the relight. My

amily.

What, some o your brothers went with

you?

9

My eyes were suddenlyburning, and I coughedto cover a sob that wasfighting its way up frommy chest. They would

never come.


10/20

No. My amily. My wie, my daughter, myson, and my son that died.

The hairs stood on the back o my neck.

And where are they now? I asked.

They are in London. My wie has good

job there. She is not o jungle like me. He

pointed back at his little house. But they will

come here to me. My wie, and my children

who have never seen the orest.

I heard Dave swallow hard, and avoided

looking at him. My eyes were suddenly

burning, and I coughed to cover a sob that

was ghting its way up rom my chest. They

would never come.

We were silent then, around the re, each

o us in our own little world o gratitude and

loss. Ater a while, Ong Phi pattered o into

the house. When he returned, he was holdinga homemade wooden fute.

I play every time mister moon is ull,

he said. And he carries the music to my

children. Maybe he will help them nd their

way back to me.

Neither o us spoke as he brought the fute

up to his lips. The lonely notes rose through

the moonlight trees. I stared into the re andthought about my new lie with Dave. Wed

had each other or so long, wed orgotten

how lucky we were.

When Ong Phi nished, his eyes were

glittering with unshed tears.

That was beautiul, I said, and saw Dave

nodding. There was nothing more to be said.

I kissed his tanned cheek and we bade him

good night.

The next day, Ong Phi was up early to

borrow his riends truck. Breakast was ull o

orced cheer. Our host bustled about, juggling

eggs and shouting Hurry up ladies! at the

chickens. Dave sat picking at the sole o

his runner.

Ater breakast, we clambered into the

battered white truck and took o along the

rutted road or the second leg o the Thai

rally championship. Fiteen minutes later we

arrived at the bus stop. My legs were shaking

as I got out o the truck.

The ticket oce was a peeling shack with a

roo o corrugated metal.

Bus is late! barked the ticket seller. His

teeth made me think o apples and tennis

rackets.

How late? asked Dave.

I will wait with you, said Ong Phi.

Not as late as it was yesterday, snickered

the man, tearing what looked like two rafe

tickets rom a book.

An hour late, the hulking crate that was to

carry us all the way to Vietnam lumbered

around the corner. Ong Phi insisted on

loading all o our gear. Then, we hugged, and

it reminded me o when my ather saw me o

to college that rst time.

You be careul and good to your wie, he

said to Dave.

Thanks, Ong.

Then he turned to me. Listen to him. He is

good man.

I will. Thanks or everything.

He stood looking at us or a moment

with his birdlike black eyes, as i he were

committing us to memory. Then, he jumped

into his truck and was gone in a swirl o dust.

I play every time mister moon is full, he said.And he carries the music to my children. Maybe he

will help them find their way back to me.

10


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Who are you and whats your

story? These are the questions

they want to ask, not in so many

words, but I understand. They

see me walking, pushing and they stare,

smiling or rowning. Sometimes I smile

back; sometimes I pretend I havent noticed,

yet I always keep walking. Sometimes they

laugh and shout ater me, but I never stop.

How could I? I would have to answer their

questions and this is not possible. Not

yet anyway, although questions will, in all

probability, have to be answered at some

stage, just not yet. You see, they are my

memories and not or sharing, not with

them anyway. Head is hurting now. Need

some pills. But I will tell him, I will answer hisquestions, when the time comes.

I will tell him that what he has brought to

my lie is, in many respects, immeasurable.

I will recount moments o sheer joy and

happiness. And, o course, there is the

horror, though I try not to think o that. It is,

however, the subtle inner changes that are

more dicult to dene and articulate. The

more rounded eelings o peace and well-

being and completeness. I will tell him that

I can still vividly recall the moment when he

rst took a breath and uttered a small, almost

imperceptible cry. The ne, black hair wet and

matted with blood and placenta; the puzzled

look, the blue eyes, unusually bright and

alert, scanning his new environment; the tiny

ngers grabbing at the world. I will tell him I

held him close and asked that he be blessed

and kept always, despite all I knew o the

world, even then. I was happy, no doubt.

Who wouldnt be?

I

will tell him o the long rst nights,

the white powder, the bottles and the

measuring spoon; how the task was not

complete without the very human soundo wind escaping rom both ends. He will

laugh at that, I think. Indeed, I could tell him

hundreds o white cotton stories, but in the

end, even I know these will not be enough. It

will inevitably come back to the horror. He will

want to know about this above all else. And

who would blame him?

Head still hurts. Always hurts when I think

o the horror, or maybe I think o the horror

when it starts to hurt; Im not sure. Need

some pills. I bend down and pull the blanket

over the empty space. It makes me eel better,

calms me down. They are staring again.

Pay no attention: keep on walking, pushing.

The chestnut trees are almost ull; soon the

kids will search or giant conkers among the

green spikes. Wonder will these games stillbe played when it comes his turn; probably

not, unless kids tire o the virtual world and

go back to the old games. It is getting a little

chilly, must hurry back. Go the long way

round, by the canal, to avoid the aces.

Wonder when the right time will be. Perhaps

its now, though it doesnt eel like it. How will

I know anyway? Its not as i its written down

anywhere or I can ask anybody. Head stillhurts. Need some pills, though I think I took

some earlier on, not sure. Take them anyway.

Perhaps I should tell him some more stories;

how the work always seemed to develop a

sense o urgency when the little hand was

pointing towards ve, and him waiting,

waiting; how the trac always seemed

to conspire against, and him still waiting,

waiting, a handul o i -only, and all the time,

him waiting, waiting. I still cant remember theexact moment. They told me it was sudden

and noisy and dramatic, a long dark shadow

with multiple wheels on either side. They said

we didnt stand a chance. They were partially

wrong, or at least only partially right. But I do

remember the tears and the dull grey sky and

the awul horror o black clay on a small

white box.

The HorrorTom Mc Guirk

11


12/20

TheLette

rDaniel Kaye

12

Aweek had passed since

my wie and I received

the telegram that

destroyed our

lives orever.

We sat in silence most o the

time ater the crying and the

accusations that I was to blame.

I had orced our son, our only

child to go. I didnt need to hear it

and I knew it was my ault; I had

pressured our son into joining

the army. I was ex orces mysel

and I had seen action overseas.

I thought it gave me backbone,

made me the man I am today.

The man my wie ell in love with,the man she can no longer bear

to look at, or robbing her o her

only child.

I ound mysel in the same

situation, standing in the hallway

looking at the letter in my hand,

which bore a military postage

mark rom overseas. For a brie

moment, I wondered i it mighthave been a last letter rom our

son beore he had been killed.

The writing on the envelope was

not his. I let out a sigh. I couldnt

bear to read his words, knowing

he was already gone rom us.

I decided not to tell my wie;

she was heartbroken and seeing

a letter rom them would have

been the last straw or her. I

entered the sitting room and sat

alone at the amily dining table,

the letter placed beore me. I

dont know how long it took me

to build up the courage beore I

could open it.

Dear Mr & Mrs Johnson,

My name is Derek Morgan; I

had the pleasure o knowing your

son, David. He was my riend.

I wanted you to know that

although we have orders not to

give many details, your son was a

brave man who gave everything

or the people around him.

On the unortunate day, we

were under heavy fre rom

the enemy; many were injured

and we were all scared. There

seemed to be nowhere to turn

and Im ashamed at how scared

I was. I along with many others

didnt know what to do. Davidstarted to shout orders, his

training took over. He was in

control o his ear and through

him we regained our composure.

He was very brave and because

o his actions, many lives were

saved, my own included. We

were being evacuated rom the

hot spot when the enemy decided

to launch a fnal attack on ourretreating position. Your son

stayed to give covering fre to

ensure the sae recovery o the

injured. The order to retreat was

given; David reused choosing

to remain until everyone else

was sae. That was the last time

I set eyes on him; he gave up

his lie or the sake o others. I

know sir, that you are o military

background, as David oten spoke

o this; you would have been

proud o him.

This war against terrorism is ull

o good intentions but I eel it is

one we cannot win. People aregetting injured or dying every day

here and we seem to be no better

o or it; we are living in hell.

God willing it will be over soon so

no more brave men, like David,

will have given up their lives in

the name o reedom.

Yours Sincerely,

Derek Morgan.

Tears blurred the remaining

lines o the letter; I sobbed into

my hands. My son was dead.

I cried as my heart nally tore

itsel into bits. The pain was an

uncontrollable wave through

my body.

I elt someone touch my

shoulder I looked up rom myhands and saw my wie staring

at me. I never knew she had been

there all along while I had been

reading. Standing I pulled her

close to me, and nally together

we both cried.


13/20

o

try


14/20

The sun diamonds,

Chemtrails rom a plane

a white train

In the pastel blue o sky

Brickens is a Spring green

Boggy elds sheltered

By old stone walls, proud

A lone crowFlaps and glides overhead

The mourners chant

Silencing the Ballyhaunis trac

Burring past

My eet ring with the cold

As uneral incense smokes

14

Then rustles,

Shufes

The path is cleared or the con

Carried by suited six ooters

With swollen eyes

My beautiul riend

Links arms with her mother

They stand tall togetherAs they go to bury

Their good man

In the Mayo earth

Church bells sing out

To the March

procession

Their Good ManFor Tracey

Elizabeth Reapy


15/20

I sit here and look out over Donegal Bay,

The place o my childhood,

Where I can no longer stay.

The sounds o careree youth,

Are all long gone,

The eel o the sur,

No longer touches me the same.

The time I spent on the strand,

Playing risbee and catching up on my tan,

Are now distant memories,

14

Then and NowBy Louise Nelson

O a time well spent.

Going down to Tullan or that sneaky beer,

Telling your mum,

Ill be back beore 12

She knew ull well what was going on.

I dont eel bitter,

Just a little sad,

I know that things have to change,

Why else would I be sitting here,

I things had not gone to plan.


16/20

Venus, down to earth,

looks a dierent way,

sexy, unctional, tailored to suit

the demands o the market,

to the be yond

in the uss unnoticed

by the human orm that she,

or the moment, mimics.

She will celebrate in time

this triumph

the kings

back to beyond

certain

in the here and now

o ragged troops

ood and shelter,

will do or the cause

ingloriously.

The Goddess drops inArthur Broomfield

15

I was always too busy

being normal Da

to deal with all this

Artane Industrial School baggage

too busy hiding under the bed

rom the demons fying about your head

ater youd swallowed

your ll o whiskey

Christ , it used to righten the shit out o me

to hear those demons roar

I was always too busy

being normal Da

to allow your demons enter my daylight

running to school with all the normal people

NormalBy Ger Feeney


17/20


18/2017

Here I lived

Protected rom all.

Independent and condent.

No one else here.

No one else let in.

Then I let

To take a chance.

Exposed and vulnerable.

Crack! He broke it.

Tortured and tearul.

Alone again.

Now here I am.

Unfinished?By Sally Gamgee

Longing to leave.

Scared to step-out.

Quietly and cautiously

I tip-toe outside

Careully,

Hopeully,

Happily,

I go back in

But leave a key

For someone else

To ollow me


19/20

Abo

ut

ourcon

trib

uto

rs

18

Dr Arthur Broomfield is a Beckett scholar and poet. His poetry has been published inSalmon, Cyphers, The Honest Ulsterman and Sunday Tribune, among others. He is writing a book

on the works of Samuel Beckett at present, which he hopes to have published in early 2011. Arthur

teaches with County Offaly VEC.

Ger Feeney was born in Waterford but has lived in County Wexford for over 20 years. Gerhas previously had work published in a number of magazines in Ireland and the UK including

The Stinging Fly, Inclement, Quantum Leap, Tandem, Poetry Nottingham, The Limerick PoetryBroadsheet, The Waterford Review and Cobweb amongst others.

Sally Gamgee is a 22 year old UCD graduate of Irish and German. Having performed on stagefrom the age of 6, she is now focusing on writing and producing for the theatre.

Daniel Kaye lives and works in Charleville, Co Cork. He is a relative newcomer to the world ofwriting and has been working on a novel for a number of months. Daniel also writes short stories;

his rst published story is Guilt.

Peter Loftuss short stories have appeared in Focus Magazine, Visionary Tongue, MidnightStreet, Alienskin, Byzarium and Monomyth, among others, and have been longlisted for both the

Fish and Aeon short ction competitions. He is a regular reviewer for Interzone (UK) and Imhotep

(Nor). He is the main writer for the Irish Longstone Comics and Co-Editor of Albedo 1, Irelandsleading science ction magazine.

Tom McGuirk is a Dublin native currently living and working in the Mid West, Ireland notAmerica. Writing has been a passion for 25 years, but to date its impact on his nancial solvency

has been minimal. He often likens it to pissing in the bed just an illusion of warmth.

Louise Nelson was born and bred on the outskirts of Bundoran in Co. Donegal. She waseducated at NUI Maynooth and TCD. She is currently a secondary school teacher working in

Dublin. In her spare time she enjoys writing, horseriding and surng. She is working on her debut

novel but it is a work in progress.

Thomas Newlove is a 17 year old who has just sat his Leaving Cert. He has been published

once before in the literary journal Revival and gets a lot of his inspiration from his time spent livingin the Cayman Islands. He is a big Leeds United fan!

E.M. Reapy is a Mayo writer who recently completed an M.A. in Creative Writing at QueensUniversity, Belfast. She is founder and editor of wordlegs.com. Her work has been published in

Ireland and the UK. In 2009, she was shortlisted in Over the Edge New Writer of the Year Award.

Callum Philbin is currently entering into his nal year of a BA in History and English at NUIMaynooth. His favourite poets range from WB Yeats to Leonard Cohen. He has only recently

embarked upon writing and hopes his work will offer meaning to a confused world.


20/20

Thank youfor readingIssue Four of

OutburstMagazine

O

utburst magazine is

currently accepting

submissions for thefth edition. Our focus is on

short stories (up to 2,500

words) and poetry (up to 40

lines); if you have written

a longer piece, we may be

willing to publish it in serial

form. We like to keep an open

mind, so we may publisharticles/works beyond what

has been mentioned. Feel

free to get in touch, or send

in your work to:

[email protected]

19

Outburst Issue4

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