Artvoice: Buffalo's #1 Newsweekly
Home Blogs Web Features Calendar Listings Artvoice TV Real Estate Classifieds Contact
Previous story: Jay Bartell Reads His New Book At Rust Belt Books
Next story: Literary Buffalo, Events Listings

Flash Fiction: Eternity By Word of Mouth

Eternity By Word of Mouth

The old farm hugged the ocean beneath the Sligo hills. Every green spoke of rain, soft Irish rain that misted my face and clung to the worry lines of my forehead. The air was fine this morning, and I awoke happy with the ache of home. This was Yeats’ country, my Ireland where the Sidhe rode out from Knocknaera under the midnight stars. This morning I pulled myself out of bed early, away from the warmth of your sleeping body: soft, inviting, familiar.

The field was wet with the eternal mist as I stepped off the front step barefoot. I fancied the Sidhe had concluded their nightly revels and marked their passing with the wind torn branches. The sheep stood stoic in the fields.

It was so good to be here at last. Even though I had never been to Ireland, I knew I was finally home. Every sound and smell from the call of the curlew to the sweetness of the burning turf was telegraphed by the genetic code of my ancestors. I really hadn’t known how real this was until I felt the cold Irish mud oozing between my toes. It was an honest sensation. All I could do was laugh, laugh loud among the lambs who continued about their business with a silent dedication that left me warm with envy.

Lost in reverie, I remembered the stories my grandmother had told me about her homeland. She had described every inch of Sligo so that I felt it in detail. I knew the sound of the wind. I knew the roar of the river Owenmore. And I knew the spell of the green hills, the dreamy spell that made the reason waver and drew me back to her bed chamber where she lay dying twenty years before.

Then your breath was on my neck. You had come up so quietly that I shivered in surprise.

“I’m old Queen Maeve, come to claim a mortal man.” you whispered. In the early light you could have passed for Maeve; your unruly hair and flashing eyes looked the part.

“O you’re a wild woman all right. But don’t mock the legends.”

“I know, Tommy, I know. Everything the poets say is true. And your grandmother’s tales are gospel.”

The sheep listened while that two modern Americans stood in their field speaking of faeires and magic.

“You’re scaring the flock with your talk, Meg.”

You laughed wickedly. “No dear, I’m scaring my husband. Perhaps I do feel a bit of Maeve’s power within me.”

Something restless stirred in my heart, like the swollen waters of the river below. I was swept along. The music of the stories came back out of my dead grandmother’s mouth. Peddlers, poets, fishermen and ripe country maids danced in her voice. Overhead, the thunder clapped and I knew in this timeless place, the stories would unfurl again and again. And even better, I knew that you would listen.

tom o’malley



In The Margins occasionally includes flash fiction alongside the poetry, features, interviews and book reviews. In The Margins seeks submissions of flash fiction, meaning complete stories running 500 words or less. Stories longer than 500 words will not be considered. Send submissions to flash fiction editor Forrest Roth at avflashfiction@yahoo.com or mail them to Flash Fiction Editor, Artvoice, 810 Main St., Buffalo, NY 14202. Please include SASE for return of manuscript.