Yellow Yellow Strings
by Oisín Breen
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Not rated by the Author.
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Old Mrs. Rigsby sits at home at the kitchen table.
The fireplace is lit. Still it’s cold.
She dreams about a new room and red paint and a new garage door and one-day Petér will come home.
There’s a knock on the door.
She makes tea, “come in Father Murphy,” she says laughing in an Irish voice.
She throws tea and biscuits like hand grenades.
She treats tradition like she’s paintballing with nineteen-fourty.
On the streets of Dublin Mrs Rigsby, you had petals in your hair.
You had petals in your hair because it was summer and all those gentlemen had that long umbrella that looked ever so bold.
Mrs. Rigsby reminisces cooking stew in her last pot.
The meat is chopped so small, hiding the fact the portions aren’t so large anymore.
She stares down on a stairwell by a clean kitchen floor.
Mrs. Rigsby’s loneliness and sadness are her dreams.
Angelina Rigsby she looked like a pearl till she went all snow white.
Like a white line tornado on an autumn morning she got out of bed.
She made toast with jam and whipped cream mixed into a big bowl of blueberries.
She was terrified that day she woke up and realised there were no guardian fairies.
A bad man made you feel so bad, he was a bad man.
That’s why you upped and ran from yourself to the stairwell in nineteen-fourty-five where you saw young Petér staggering.
He went to war, you loved him, you kissed him but he collapsed on a stairwell back in fourty-five.
Mrs. Rigsby, you never forgave yourself.
You cry when you eat porridge and you still eat it every night so you can cry.
Angelina Rigsby wore diamonds in her hair then stopped one morning at a stairwell when the diamonds fell and she never picked them up.
Upwardly mobile she was until the light fell coldly on a banister somewhere in nineteen-fourty-five
Angelina Rigsby sits by the kitchen table and finds a photo of Petér.
She is old and tired.
She feels like a child with diamonds in her hair and she rolls in the grass and stares at the yellow yellow sun.
Copyright © 2004 Oisín Breen. No reprints or distribution of any kind sort in any form in this or any other known universe or dimension or medium without my express permission.
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|Reviewed by A PAX
|Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
|Beautiful outstanding work Oisin!!
This kinda made me sad!!
|Reviewed by Jane Rodway
|Wow, you are amazing. This is unreal- you must write novels and short stories, it would be a crime for you not to, your characters are so real and make you want to hear more about them. Perfection.|
|Reviewed by Erin Kelly-Moen
|Oisin! Well, well, what off-shore breeze blew you into AD? :) Good to see you! I was mesmerized at the beginning of this piece, your writing is distinct and trenchant, an unwaxing of the exterior which gives me what I crave, a view into another's life. I thought it was a bit jumbly towards the end but thoroughly enjoyed, and felt I was watching a movie which, if I let it, could help change me into a better person...all lives are snowflakes, similar but different. I want them all. Show me more of your sight, Oisin.|
|Reviewed by Floria Kelderhouse (Reader)
|You know Oisin...this was delightful...I could
hear her in her Irish voice speaking here..
"She throws tea and biscuits like hand grenades."
Love your lines....
"She stares down on a stairwell by a clean kitchen floor.
Mrs. Rigsby’s loneliness and sadness are her dreams. "
and then we get a bit sad here...
and continues with sadness and lonliness...
A very well told tale...well done POet...floria
|Reviewed by Lady Peg (Reader)
|So felt and so emotive. In true expressions.|
|Reviewed by Sandie Angel
|A heartfelt sad write; but captured my attention from beginning to end.
~ Sandie Angel a.k.a. May Lu ~
|Reviewed by Retta (Reindeer) Mckenzie
|Wow..This was outstanding, beautifully written,