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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
submissions@outburstmagazine.com
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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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o
try
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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Abo
ut
ourcon
trib
uto
rs
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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.
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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:
submissions@outburstmagazine.com
19
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