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I slip on my dark jacket and my old dockers and slip out of the house to walk down old McFarley lane. I glance at my watch, illuminated by the moonlight, and see that it is quarter past 12. If I am fast I will I won’t miss anything.
I break into a run; sweat clings to my brow like glue as I sprint down to the corner, past the church and onto Bellows lane. I stop dead and look down the thin cobbled street at the scene I dread but secretly long for. The silhouettes of men, Catholic and Protestant, waging their own war outside the two busiest taverns in town; the Shamrock and the Arm and Hammer. Drunken men fighting with fists, blades and bar stools. Deep grunts and shrill screams pierce the night air and bring the familiar sickly feeling deep down in my stomach.
From the end of the street it is impossible to tell what I going on, this is a fight with clear-cut winners and losers. You are a winner if you escape with your life and a loser if you leave the scene in a hearse. I slowly pace down the thin street, walking uneasily on the uneven cobbles and getting closer to the formidable brawl. All at once I am in the middle of the fight, the epicentre of disaster, and I smell the ugly scent of stale whiskey and sour ale in the air.
My panic is broken when I hear a familiar voice shout to me, “Go home, lad.” As I turn to face the voice, I see my father’s angry and bloodied face glaring back at me. I stare back at him, my mouth nothing more than a small O in the centre of my young face. He yelled again, even angrier than before, “I said go home lad, what’s wrong with you?” I needed no further prompting and immediately began the long run through the cold night. I reached home with my muscles burning and heart pounding and I sat on the flimsy stone wall outside our home, waiting for my father to return.
I still sit on the wall sometimes, even today, knowing my father will never return but praying that he didn’t die ashamed of me.
I break into a run; sweat clings to my brow like glue as I sprint down to the corner, past the church and onto Bellows lane. I stop dead and look down the thin cobbled street at the scene I dread but secretly long for. The silhouettes of men, Catholic and Protestant, waging their own war outside the two busiest taverns in town; the Shamrock and the Arm and Hammer. Drunken men fighting with fists, blades and bar stools. Deep grunts and shrill screams pierce the night air and bring the familiar sickly feeling deep down in my stomach.
From the end of the street it is impossible to tell what I going on, this is a fight with clear-cut winners and losers. You are a winner if you escape with your life and a loser if you leave the scene in a hearse. I slowly pace down the thin street, walking uneasily on the uneven cobbles and getting closer to the formidable brawl. All at once I am in the middle of the fight, the epicentre of disaster, and I smell the ugly scent of stale whiskey and sour ale in the air.
My panic is broken when I hear a familiar voice shout to me, “Go home, lad.” As I turn to face the voice, I see my father’s angry and bloodied face glaring back at me. I stare back at him, my mouth nothing more than a small O in the centre of my young face. He yelled again, even angrier than before, “I said go home lad, what’s wrong with you?” I needed no further prompting and immediately began the long run through the cold night. I reached home with my muscles burning and heart pounding and I sat on the flimsy stone wall outside our home, waiting for my father to return.
I still sit on the wall sometimes, even today, knowing my father will never return but praying that he didn’t die ashamed of me.
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good first story, ill have to think of posting one sometime
'twas good.
Well done.
Well done.
I slip on my dark jacket and my old dockers and slip out of the house to walk down old McFarley lane. I glance at my watch, illuminated by the moonlight, and see that it is quarter past 12. If I am fast I will I won’t miss anything.
I break into a run; sweat clings to my brow like glue as I sprint down to the corner, past the church and onto Bellows lane. I stop dead and look down the thin cobbled street at the scene I dread but secretly long for. The silhouettes of men, Catholic and Protestant, waging their own war outside the two busiest taverns in town; the Shamrock and the Arm and Hammer. Drunken men fighting with fists, blades and bar stools. Deep grunts and shrill screams pierce the night air and bring the familiar sickly feeling deep down in my stomach.
From the end of the street it is impossible to tell what I going on, this is a fight with clear-cut winners and losers. You are a winner if you escape with your life and a loser if you leave the scene in a hearse. I slowly pace down the thin street, walking uneasily on the uneven cobbles and getting closer to the formidable brawl. All at once I am in the middle of the fight, the epicentre of disaster, and I smell the ugly scent of stale whiskey and sour ale in the air.
My panic is broken when I hear a familiar voice shout to me, “Go home, lad.” As I turn to face the voice, I see my father’s angry and bloodied face glaring back at me. I stare back at him, my mouth nothing more than a small O in the centre of my young face. He yelled again, even angrier than before, “I said go home lad, what’s wrong with you?” I needed no further prompting and immediately began the long run through the cold night. I reached home with my muscles burning and heart pounding and I sat on the flimsy stone wall outside our home, waiting for my father to return.
I still sit on the wall sometimes, even today, knowing my father will never return but praying that he didn’t die ashamed of me.
I break into a run; sweat clings to my brow like glue as I sprint down to the corner, past the church and onto Bellows lane. I stop dead and look down the thin cobbled street at the scene I dread but secretly long for. The silhouettes of men, Catholic and Protestant, waging their own war outside the two busiest taverns in town; the Shamrock and the Arm and Hammer. Drunken men fighting with fists, blades and bar stools. Deep grunts and shrill screams pierce the night air and bring the familiar sickly feeling deep down in my stomach.
From the end of the street it is impossible to tell what I going on, this is a fight with clear-cut winners and losers. You are a winner if you escape with your life and a loser if you leave the scene in a hearse. I slowly pace down the thin street, walking uneasily on the uneven cobbles and getting closer to the formidable brawl. All at once I am in the middle of the fight, the epicentre of disaster, and I smell the ugly scent of stale whiskey and sour ale in the air.
My panic is broken when I hear a familiar voice shout to me, “Go home, lad.” As I turn to face the voice, I see my father’s angry and bloodied face glaring back at me. I stare back at him, my mouth nothing more than a small O in the centre of my young face. He yelled again, even angrier than before, “I said go home lad, what’s wrong with you?” I needed no further prompting and immediately began the long run through the cold night. I reached home with my muscles burning and heart pounding and I sat on the flimsy stone wall outside our home, waiting for my father to return.
I still sit on the wall sometimes, even today, knowing my father will never return but praying that he didn’t die ashamed of me.
Page: