Fiction

With God, the dirty ould bodach, running around in ditches spying on us, my childhood was a very watched event. The concept of privacy didn’t hit me (and it was a good schkelp across the face) until much later, and when it did hit (in my early adulthood) I was able to identify those scratchy doubts I’d had as a kid as privacy’s absence. A bodach in every step, God was one helluvanopponent. He was the demon that I battled right from the beginning, right from when I was able to form a memorable thought. Think Jam. Lovely. Suffer. The basics.

Food.

Thwart.

Fiction

An extract from a novel-in-progress by Aoife Casby: The house needs her. As if the rooms want her help. Her presence makes their purpose but there is something about the way the rooms are that make you feel as if they know this. Peculiar. How can the spaces know her. Or maybe they don’t. That the place needs her help to be, to remember its function as kitchen, as hallway, as threshold, as a necessity between rooms, just is.