Tag Archives: Jason O’Rourke

No Laughing Matter

Nobody knew where it came from, or how it spread so far, so quickly. It appeared on three continents in the course of one day; a mark on the calendar that became portentously known as Day 1. It was soon … Continue reading

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Today’s Existentialist Rant

Driving back up the road after dropping my daughter off at school, I notice a middle-aged woman wrangling a blue wheelie bin into position outside her back gate. She looks miserable, the corners of her mouth turned down into a substantial, world-hating … Continue reading

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Cars, Ormeau Road, Part 2.

Black Maserati, revving; stuck in traffic.  

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The Sharp End

The pencils weren’t going to last. Even as she’d bunched them into the pot with their less-desirable, less-prestigious, workaday blue and red cousins, she knew it. They would walk when she was out of the room, borrowed never to be … Continue reading

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Belfast, from Cave Hill

Dreamers• schemers• bathroom cleaners• pipers• snipers• windscreen-wipers• typists• rascists• papists • rapists• spankers• bankers• wankers• outflankers• peace-makers• bakers• risk-takers• orgasm-fakers• fighters• writers• pillow-biters• shite-talkers• stalkers• hill-walkers• hawkers• porkers• growlers• prowlers• full-moon howlers• petty thieves• kickers of leaves• healers• peelers• drug-dealers• arse-feelers• dog-breeders• … Continue reading

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Cars, Ormeau Road, 1.

The roar of a high-performance engine and the squeal of tyres turns my head. A shining, beefed-up muscular mini, containing a skinny young man with short hair and wearing dark glasses, speeds down the hill towards town. The man’s tattooed right arm is hanging out … Continue reading

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A New Direction, Part 6.

Previous parts are here. If you haven’t been following the story, this episode won’t make any sense. Could be fun anyway though. *** “Is it just yourself for breakfast then?” The landlady looked Davy up and down with cool disapproval, eyebrows raised. … Continue reading

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One Moment

There’s a pink balloon blowing along beside the path in the Ormeau Park, left over from some charity event. The wee girl is delighted to find it, and lifting it runs along through the tall gates and onto the broad … Continue reading

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Word Up, Part 1.

Cunt. It’s sprayed in round childish letters about 4 feet in height on the wall in Wellwood Street, just off Sandy Row. The black paint has been applied with some skill: the lines are consistently of the same thickness, and … Continue reading

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Drama.

Loaded gun. Never fired. Sorry, Chekhov.

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