A journey through the Irish language with Des Bishop.
The weather is fine. Time to play Irish football. 500 Devine Rd., San Antonio, TX; come on out.
Domestic violence
“Don’t look at me,” he said.
“I’m not looking at you, I’m looking at the TV.”
“Whatever.” He shriveled into himself. She thought his face was melting.
“Listen, I don’t know what the deal is. I really want to know,” her voice was high, and she shook her head a little. She shifted forward and the couch creaked. He was like a cushion, or trying to be one. He said nothing. She leaned back. He clicked the TV on and turned it up. The voices honked and buzzed. She huffed.
“You don’t try,” he said then retreated. She glared at him through her bangs and he didn’t see. She dug her fingernails deep into the fibers of the couch.
“I’m going to kill you,” escaped her lips. Then she did.
The neighbors awoke to a dog barking.
“Ernest Hemingway is a minamalist,” my teacher said pacing the room, “when he writes, he doesn’t just come out and say things. You need to practice reading between the lines. It’s always about the small stuff.”
She was right. The small stuff is usually magnified ten fold. Haven’t you ever once…
Connect with me
If you enjoy RIVERCITYIRISH, please use the toolbar on the bottom of my page to “Like” me on Facebook and Twitter or subscribe to the RCI RSS feed. Also click “Tell me a story” on the RCI Tumblr page to connect with me directly. RIVERCITYIRISH stands behind everyone with links to an immigrant past; which covers pretty much everyone in America. Irish, German, Polish, Mexican, Italian, French, whatever blood you may have, be proud. We built this country and will continue to do so, one brick at a time. We all came from somewhere.
Séasán
(Source: facebook.com)
