Knock Knock, Open Wide

by Neil Sharpson

Kate and Mairéad were as different as two people could be, except in one respect. They both held their grudges like misers held their gold, close to the chest and never to be traded or given away.

Normally she was a walking cacophony of worries and reminders and inner recriminations. A song her mother had taught her early on that she had never been able to get out of her head. But now, there was only peace.

Small talk with Father Fitt left you with the feeling that you were holding a dialogue with a tape recording that simply happened to neatly align with your conversation.

As he stood trembling by the side of the road, and tried to rebuild in his mind what had just happened, he found only jagged edges and blankness. He felt like his mind had been cut open, and left to bleed to death by the side of the road.

She caught a glimpse of the farmhouse, back up the hill, clinging like a damp scab on the landscape.

!!Chef's kiss!!

“Folklore,” as she soon learned, was not simply stories. It was, in essence, any information that was passed along verbally. Stories and songs, yes. But also vernacular architecture, superstitions, folk cures, fairy lore, recipes, marriage customs, and on and on. There were curses to be learned, such as the infamous Malacht Cromail: May you carry your child until its twentieth year,

“I did try,” she said wearily. “I tried to love you. But you weren’t made for loving, Ashling. You didn’t come from love.

The club spread out in front of her like a landfill of refuse to be picked through.

Wow

You have to get the devils drunk before you can hear the gossip in Hell.

“If I may offer some advice, I have always envied those who knew not the hour nor the day of their ending. Time is not stone. Days can be years if lived wisely. Years can be lifetimes. Find your joy where you can. Live now. Live well.