Knock Knock, Open Wide

by Neil Sharpson

life is cruel and arbitrary and awful and you have to seize your happiness and hold on until your fingernails bite your palms and draw blood?

Like any city-dweller newly alone in the dark countryside, Etain realized that she suddenly believed in ghosts.

It didn’t matter that neither Feidhlim nor his neighbors could remember the details of his great-grandfather’s transgression. Memory was ephemeral. Hatred was a rock.

She hated giving condolences. It always felt like adding to someone’s suffering, not taking away. Forcing them to acknowledge you. To thank you for the gift of useless, meaningless words.

“Ah, but this is Ireland,” said the jeweler softly. “There’s more of the pagan in us than we might like to admit, isn’t that right?”