Mallow chronicle (2025)

24/01/2024

This mornings effort is based off a writing prompt from the Mallow Scribes. A selection of my writing can be viewed on Paul Murphy writing

The old house with its wildly overgrown garden was silent, secret. The kids from town often dared each other to go a little bit further into the decaying structure. It had been the tale of many a made up horror story throughout every kid's childhood in the town. One of the main protagonists of this legend was the bould Jessica who had hatched many a horror story to try and scare the younger kids in her estate. She took great satisfaction in scaring the younger kids away.

“You know that's where Weirdo Walters lived all his life”

shed cackle as the younger kids would look fearfully up at the ominous looking dwelling. There was something intimidating about a place that was left idle for so long. You’d be amazed at how when left alone nature would claim back what had been taken from it. The ivy bushes around the front that had been trimmed with routine regularity to halt their growth had enveloped the perimeter walls and a passerby would probably believe no walls even stood around the house. In his pomp Joe Walters took enormous pride in maintaining his homestead. Much like a Dickensian character he pictured his home as a sanctuary and would withdraw to his place of solitude every evening with an enormous sense of calm as he would lock out the outside world every evening after 7pm. His home was like a business. He would be back from his job as a Maths teacher every evening at 3;35. School finished at 3, he was always out the door for 10 past and he could casually walk the distance from town to his sanctuary in 20 to 25 minutes depending on how his hip was reacting to the weather. He loved routine and would make it his business to be home for 3:35. That would give him two hours and twenty five minutes to get his homestead in order, cook a proper dinner like his mother had always thought him he had to eat, and sort out his lesson plans for the next day. Routine had been everything to Joe, who was anything but mad, just disciplined and he took no heed of anyone who thought him strange. If anything he revelled in it. People don't come around “strange people”. This gave him incredible privacy and he adored it. Being seen as strange was a small price to pay for such liberating privacy. He wasn’t a total hermit but he guarded his privacy like a celebrity when in truth the only thing he had to hide were his lesson plans and maths textbooks. Nonetheless he didn't want to have any interaction more than necessary and would refuse to answer his phone or door after 7pm. Anyone who came knocking at that time was only looking for something. Nothing good ever would come from answering the door at unsociable hours. And so he didn't. Joe lived out his life with an unwavering discipline which many would consider mundane but he treasured and happily lived on his own all his life until he fell ill and died rather unexpectedly.

He had no immediate relatives and the house, his only worldly physical asset had become subject to probate whereby relatives would be involved in a legal wrangle to decide who had the claim to the land. During this time the house and its gardens had run into disrepair. Jessica still visited when her parents would argue, which they did frequently and she’d sit content upon the rickety garden chair out the back garden reading. Nobody bothered her. The other kids seemed to have never forgotten her old tale about the madman who used to live there and whose spirit still haunted the home.

One Halloween night a bunch of kids had dared each other to visit the property. They were all hesitant but a new member of the gang Jerry who had moved from the city with his parents was anxious to impress his new clique and produced a can of spray paint from his bag and proceeded to spray in huge letters on the cottages windows the word “WEIRDO”
The other kids, knowing no better, laughed and applauded this apparent fearless act.

The next day Jessica came after school and was horrified to see the destruction to the deceased man's property. What right had those kids to paint such a message on a man they'd never met property?. Then she remembered herself telling the younger kids about the “Mad” man who had lived there. Was she any better than the vandal who had smeared such a disgusting message upon his defenceless window?. She cried uncontrollably out of a combination of anger at the person who had done this and guilt at her inadvertent part that she had played in the tragedy.

At dinner that night her mother and father were talking about it.

Some delinquent spray painted Joe Walters house! It's a disgrace he uttered.

Her mother was busy preparing dinner and only absently replied with a knowing tut. Jessica broke down in tears and said

“It's all my fault!”

Her mother perplexed by the breakdown said

“Oh don't be silly you'd never do something so terrible I know this”

“No No No you don't understand” she persisted.

“I told the other kids all kinds of stories about him, said he was a weirdo who haunted the house and then this happened”. “I'm sorry I really am”.

Jessica's dad was torn between anger, at his daughter's omission of the tall tales she’d told and pride at the remorse she clearly felt for the act.

“You shouldn't have told stories that weren't true Jessica but it's not your fault that some kid painted those windows.

“Tell you what we’ll do, we will go up to the house tomorrow and clean up those windows”.” I'll even bring my new strimmers and give the garden and that creepy bush out the front a nice trim”.

She dried her tears and muttered thank you to her father even though she knew this meant her weekend plans to hang around with friends were now destroyed. She chastised herself for feeling self pity and said “That's what you get for being silly”.

The following day after painstakingly scrubbing the graffiti off the windows Jessica sat on the seat out the back garden while her father finished trimming the gardens.

“Looks well doesn't it” her dad said cheerfully.

Jessica admired her efforts, hers and her fathers. The house had never looked so well, in her memory anyway.

“It wasn't your fault by the way”.” But next time you want to tell a tall tale maybe write it down instead of telling a group of impressionable kids” he said sternly.

“Yes dad” Jessica said sheepishly, still clearly embarrassed and guilt ridden at the part she played in this whole mess.

Her dad could sense her remorse and was proud of how she had done her best to remedy her error.

Come on let's get packed up, I'm starving, we might even order a takeaway tonight.

Her eyes lit up as she suddenly realised how hungry she was.

“You pick the takeaway and I'll choose Netflix," she said cheerfully.

You drive a hard bargain Jessica. You've got a deal, he said.

17/01/2024

Eveeeeening eeeeeeeecccchhhhooo .... featuring exist by yours truly

07/01/2024

Morning writing effort entitled "Nana's Tea"

I boiled the kettle. Not because anyone asked me to. Nobody had asked for a cuppa. The house was deathly quiet. Nana had just passed, gone to her eternal reward as the priest so eloquently put it. At least the priest was with her to give her the last rites. That would have been important to Nana, who as a devout catholic all her life would have feared not getting the last rites more than death itself. Rosary beads were an ever present accessory for nana. She carried them everywhere and would recite a decade of the rosary for each of her children every night. She was robotic in her delivery, silently reciting the hail mary while her fingers passed each bead to help her keep count. I was envious of her faith. Whatever would happen in life good or bad she would pray and it seemed to bring a calmness upon her. For all the modern day mindfulness and meditation techniques I tried to use to help me keep my head “nana bridgestreet” to distinguish her from my mothers mother who was referred to as nana ballybane which had been her home place as she was known to everyone in our house, my mother and father included seemed to have the whole keeping your head challenge sussed out. Yet another thing I admired and envied about my amazing nana.

We had known the time was near for quite some time and my brothers, all six took their turn to sleep overnight in nanas bridge street home as we awaited the inevitable yet still heart breaking passing of a woman who had been a constant in all our childhoods. I have so many memories of her, all fond ones. She would come visit us every afternoon after “lessons' ' as she called them, homework to you and me were completed and would sit on the front porch - conservatory she would call it and she'd love the warmth from the glass and the comfort of the wicker seat. Sipping her small tea cup slowly she ask about my day and if I'd read the ladybird book she'd brought me the week before. I used to get one from her every Sunday without fail. To her reading was an essential skill every kid needed to master. She always brought me a book, never sweets much to my sweet tooth's disappointment despite the fact that she owned a newsagent which had pots upon pots of delicious treats. Not out of a lack of charity, she was an extremely kind lady but she believed that a book served as a far better treat than a possible cavity causing treat. With the benefit of hindsight I see she was right. Nana was always right. An extremely clever lady.

My favourite ladybird book was the wizard of oz. To me it was a magical tale about an unlikely band of heroes with unsuspecting character flaws. Imagine having the body of a lion and no courage to back it up. Or the physique of a tin man yet no heart to actually feel anything, or the appearance of the scarecrow with the ability to frighten any foe but lacking a brain to use it to his advantage. it was a magical tale to me and I would sit and read it aloud to my nana with great gusto. She appreciated my efforts even if she would have no doubt tired of me constantly selecting it. I read other ones to her too of course but none with the regularity of Dorothy toto and the gang. I never read her rumpelstiltskin. That guy gave me the creeps.

On the days I'd visit her by myself my mother would leave me with her while she did her weekly shop and I'd sit with a cup of tea by my side as she would listen to me read to her. It was always a cup of Mcgraths tea. Cheaper than lyons or barrys yet still tasting the same according to her. I didn't mind what I drank. Nana was a frugal lady and would no doubt would have calculated the savings she had made from this purchase based on the endless pots of tea she'd go through. My mother and father were far from careless with their money but both preferred lyons tea (today my personal favourite also) but I used to savour the offering given to me in bridge street although looking back now I firmly believe that was because of the company it was drank in rather than the contents of the dainty cup.

After we had all gathered around nana to say the rosary with the priest we all went down to the kitchen except for my parents who remained to have some private time with nana. Everyone was silent. There were no words to say. The undertakers were already on their way and we all knew this was the last time we’d be in the bridgestreet home with nana. I'll make some tea, I said. Ma and da will have some for sure. We all drank a cup of nana's tea that day. A fitting farewell to a wonderful woman who would have no doubt looked down upon us with love as we all sat silently remembering her. I hope the tea in heaven is as nice as yours nana. Make a cup for grandad too.

05/01/2024

Late night effort

Bacon and Cabbage

I'm a born and reared Irish man. Typical Irish plain pallet. My favourite dinner is Bacon and Cabbage. From my earliest memories it was one of two dinners I ever finished. I was a notorious bad grubber as my mother would put it. Hard to believe if you were to look at the size of me now but it's the truth. My parents, moreso my mother as was the case in most Irish families of the time, agonised over my apparent poor appetite and I remember numerous trips to doctors and dieticians in my formative years to try to get to the root of the problem. I had loads of allergy tests done to see if something I was eating didn't agree with my system. I had my blood and other bodily fluids tested to see if anything was a miss. Turns out no i wasn't allergic to anything. I was just a fussy eater. There were only two dinners I would ever finish on my plate, chicken stew and bacon and cabbage. On the days these were served to me it felt like a day off as I could relax knowing I'd be able to eat enough to placate my ever diligent mother and less patient father by eating a substantial amount off my plate. Other days id gag trying to swallow something i didn't like and push various items around my plate making a space in the centre of my plate in an attempt to deceive my mother with a

“Oh look at the big space in the middle of my plate I've eaten loads”.

My mother was far too in tune with me to be fooled and I would often meet her glare as I could see her eyes piercing at the edge of the plate to where I pushed as much of my dinner in an attempt to make it look like I'd eaten more than I actually had.

“You're fooling nobody pushing them spuds out to the edge paul” she’d scold. I can still hear her tone clear as day in my head. I tell my kids the exact same thing when I'm serving up dinner and watching them take more time than someone judging master chef savouring a dish to eat a couple of scoops of mince with their bolognese that they'd requested I make in the first place. God almighty parenting is a thankless endeavour sometimes.

My three kids surprisingly have three different favourite dinners. Orla loves chicken marylands, doesn't matter if it's with spuds, or chips, or rice and curry, if the protein offering is to her satisfaction she will gobble the plate's contents and even scavenge any leftovers from anyones plate. Aussie loves bolognese and would eat it twice a day seven days a week if he could. He equally enjoys the preparation side of things and will “help” with the pasta and mince whilst i wince at him being under my already clumsy feet as I cook over a hot cooker with bubbling pot of fine italian seasoned mince and a boiling cauldron of spaghetti or pasta whichever takes my fancy on a particular day.

Lilie's favourite dinner is a shared top prize with myself. She loves bacon and cabbage. She will watch in near awe as I scoop the boiled bacon out of the pot and place it on a plate to cut. I'd like to think I'm a decent cook, and I cook bacon and cabbage the exact same way my mother does. I watched her do it enough times when I still lived at home. When I moved into my own house it needed a new cooker and I splurged on an expensive one the exact same as the one my mother had served up so many delicious dinners on down through the years, criminally underappreciated by fussy old me, which ironically was the young me.

One day at work one of the girls who worked at the deli asked me how things were going with the settling into the new home. I told her that we'd gotten the same cooker as we had in my parents home and I purchased the same quality meat and spuds and veg as my mother would do but I just couldn't seem to replicate the end product irrespective of having mammy's hand written instructions about the time to do every single part of the cooking process.

“I just can't get my head around it” I exclaimed to her on one of our shared tea breaks. She smiled a beautiful genuine smile.

“My m**s cooking always tasted better to me too Paul” she said. She was looking at me but her gaze was a million miles away. I believe she was gazing into a distant memory of her beloved mother not long deceased cooking dinner in her pomp serving it up to the family with a pride and care that only an Irish mammy could.

I told her id the same cooker, bought the exact same ingredients and cooked it like mammy taught me.

“Maybe she's a secret ingredient she's not telling me about,” I said sarcastically.

She nodded in agreement while still clearly lost in the memories I brought up to her. She seemed to be in a happy place so I didn't want to disturb her. She almost frightened me when she je**ed back to the present and I could see she was pondering her next words.

“You know what it is?....... She trailed off like a gameshow host willing me to give her the correct answer.

Foolishly I replied, “something to do with the parsley sauce over the bacon I reckon”.

She sniggered but not in a mocking way, it was nostalgic, almost sympathetic.

“No Paul, Love, your mam like my mam and loads of others mammy and daddies for that matter, made every meal for their families with love. That's why it tastes different.

I laughed out loud thinking she was joking but her stare was firm and her face serious. She meant it. Looking back I think maybe now I even agree with her.

The Beatles had a song called “all you need is love”.

Maybe there could be an Irish less catchy version - all you need is mammys love, well and maybe some nice parsley sauce.

14/12/2023

Sticking with yesterdays Irish theme, today I take you back to 2002 when Mike danign o shea was force fed to us all.

“Don't fall on me” seems like a harmless throwaway phrase to some. When translated to Irish however “A thig ná tit orm” takes on a whole new level. It's the title of the much used Irish prose book for leaving cert higher level Irish. I can still picture the bold mike with his music box (bosca ceoil if ya know ya know) perched upon his lap looking content as he no doubt belted out an irish tune. The book centred around him and his musical exploits with his magic box which coincidentally my brother also played with much gusto. It probably would have been a readable exercise to me in my everyday tongue but as he flipped from aimsir caite to modh cannioladh with no warning or reason to do so it left me and many of fellow classmates aghast as our ever enthusiastic teacher Catherine Burke scanned our faces simultaneously to her flying through the book at the front of the classroom to see if we were paying attention or if we'd been lost in the sea of rarely used Irish and were drowning above the trap door which led to gnathleibhel or ordinary level irish in the classroom across the Patrician Academy hall.

I've no doubt mike was a colourful sort, someone I might have even got along with if we’d been of the same age but I felt a great level of disdain toward this man as I was force fed his take on 1950s and 1960s Ireland which if his story was to be believed simply involved school, mass and the search for cigarette butts with still enough left to have a drag. As we often got exercises to complete, I would sit at the desk in my bedroom with my English into Irish dictionary and begin to doubt my own intelligence as I seemed to be forever leafing through my dictionary to find out what such and such a word meant. For those of you unfamiliar or long since removed from the secondary school level education system in Ireland I should explain that the higher level paper is broken into three sections.

A listening test where you would hear a clearly elderly woman claim to be going to a disco with her friend named brid, an oral exam where an outside examiner or cigera would quiz you on the spoken word and a written exam where over two papers you would be tested on your poetry and reading comprehension an irish essay, as well as the dreaded book section where Mikes motives for playing his box would be quizzed about much like our english teacher would ask us to explain why shakespeare's sonnets were a masterpiece of both literature and maths based on the apparently amazing format all his sonnets took. The years haven't changed my views on either of these issues and I'll die on the hill with anyone who claims either were worth the effort they seemed to demand of a secondary school student trying to get enough points to do something he was actually interested in. For all the time it took to decipher the many tenses of mike and the rhyming couplet of william, both only offered 15% of the overall papers and William might even get a year off at the time of your test. Imagine having all your rhyming couplets and comparative arguments lined up to see that William wasn't at the party! Not all monsters look like villains. Some set the papers for leaving cert students.

I was in my local bookstore recently and absently wandered into the education section unknown to myself. Perhaps the draw was from Mike himself trying to make up with me after I apparently hated him for no reason. Imagine my shock as when I finally gathered my thoughts, Mike's happy face was in front of me for the first time since 2002. I sniggered to myself as I recognised the cover and couldn't help but pick it up. It felt a lot smaller than I remembered it to be. But yes indeed it was the very same book that had my heart broken or mo chroi briste on many a night. The blurb described the book as an entertaining memoir of Ireland of the past. I laughed out loud when I read it. My son was browsing the nearby kids section and ran enthusiastically toward me with a book he was hoping I would purchase for him. Not a book of the bould mike, I wouldn't have put him through such a torture in his formative years anyways. There would be plenty of time for secondary school to do that to him without any of my interference. As he scampered over to me he took a bit of a wobble with his balance. Like father, like son I thought. Bí curamach i said to him without thinking. Aussie asked me what that meant. It means be careful son. I can honestly say that in my head as plain as day i could hear catherine burke or Aine carrol my two secondary school irish teachers whisper to me - Maith an fear Pól. Maybe just maybe all the time I spent looking at Mike wasn't a total waste of time after all.

13/12/2023

Look at me writing a spin off of my own work :P following on from the micro fiction effort this morning this short poem is simply called Brón

In irish when speaking of emotions,
They say you are not the feeling,
The emotion is upon you,
You wear it only fleetingly
Tá brón orm sadness is on me,
But on me it wont forever stay,
And when it goes hang up that coat,
If possible far far away,
You can keep it in cold storage,
A reminder of all that you had to do,
When Brón is replaced by áthas,
You can remember all you've been through

13/12/2023

This mornings effort is a micro fiction 300 word exercise. Tá brón orm. Loads of my stuff can be viewed on my writing page Paul Murphy Writing. Be sure to check out my Holly Bough printed effort Elf on the Shelf appearing in this weeks mallow star too :D

In Irish the phrase to be sad Tá brón form literally translates as sadness is on me. The inference being that while you are in fact feeling sad at that moment, you are not a sad person more accurately you are just going through a sad time. It's a magnificent way to look at things when taken literally. Yes, bad things have happened. Yes, life can be incredibly cruel and feel almost heartless at any given time or day. But when you really examine things you are still you. You are not the emotion that has you in despair or distress. The sadness is on you, like a coat and although it may seem impossible in the moment there will come a time when you can unbutton this fictional coat and drop it, and its burden from yourself. Think of this day when emotions seem to be getting the better of you. Picture yourself with shoulders back and standing tall having conquered yet another once seemingly unconquerable task or situation. Others may well be there to support you, and that is great but it's on you. All on you like the coat of sadness we all sometimes unfortunately have to bare due to bad luck in love, work or whatever the situation may be when you find yourself wearing this unwanted coat. Remember it if you must. Keep it on a fictional hanger in your wardrobe to remind you of the task you faced but remember you have the power to control it. While an event of great sadness isn't as simple as taking off a coat, remember how you react to it is all on you. You have the control to view the world whatever way you please afterward. Sadness is on you, you are not the sadness.

11/12/2023

It's a christmas party with a difference,
For there is no overpaid disinterested dj,
The entertainment is of the original kind,
Everyone listens till all have had their say,
It's a party of the Mallow Scribes,
Lanzarote in december has returned,
During last weeks class she left the volcano,
Thankfully this year no ash in the clouds burned,
I thought of wearing my christmas hat,
Or maybe something akin to the grinch,
Instead i composed this christmas rhyme,
Journalistically measuring each column inch.
I dont think theres any booze here,
Or perhaps there's a hidden homemade brew,
I've always been suspicious of outside flasks,
There's always some floating around one or two,
Me il make due with a nice hot cup of tea,
The kettle might be boiled by new years,
Before taking my seat il serve the thirsty ones,
You don't normally toast with tea but it's christmas, cheers.
Clink with the mug grab a biscuit,
To dunk or munch with your tea,
As we take turns reading round the table,
Looks like this week is starting with me.

07/12/2023

Late night effort -

“Do you think she knew I loved her Dad”?

Gerry was seated at the foot of his mothers bed. His father was standing at the entrance to the room, just after discovering his youngest son, who he had been unaware was even in the house. Matthew's hearing hadn't been the best for quite some time and despite his son announcing his arrival, loudly by most people's standards he hadn't been heard by his father.

He had been in his study when his son had dropped in to check on his recently bereaved dad who seemed to be taking everything in his stride although questions remained as to whether he was actually coping or if he was still in shock and the grieving process hadn't even begun yet. Most people were leaning towards the latter.

“Gerry!” his father exclaimed in a happily surprised tone. “I must have been in the bathroom when you arrived”. He smiled sympathetically at his father. The loss of his mother had been tough for Gerry no doubt. But it paled in insignificance to the level of loss his dad must have been feeling. Whilst Gerry had a partner and a young child to turn to Matthew now lived in a two storey four bedroom house all alone. The house had seemed crammed when they were growing up but that was when Matthew, Rose, and their three kids had all lived under the same roof. With times inevitable passing the kids had predictably flown the nest to start their own families and the once lively and never quiet home had turned to a deafeningly quiet homestead, more like a religious retreat given the dozens of religious pictures and statues Rose had collected from her numerous trips to lourdes. She had thrown herself back into her faith in her later years, Matthew joked that she must have had a secret life of evil she was trying to balance against given her almost clergy-like devotion to the faith of her youth. The truth was far more mundane however as she had always had a strong draw to the sanctuary of the church and more specifically the adoration chapel which she had donated so much of her time, especially in the years after her kids had been raised and she had lots of free time, and a sizeable chunk of it solo given her husbands love of golf. Each day he'd hit the course or driving range or putting green she would be somewhere on the church grounds, rosary beads in hand, prayer book in her handbag.

I'll fix that smoke alarm today dad, I brought my step ladder so there's no need for that rickety thing you insist on holding onto. Matthew smiled at his son. He knew he was just checking up on him, the smoke alarm had been changed the day before his wife's death. He remembered specifically the beep of the alarm as the undertaker had removed his wifes lifeless body from the front bedroom. Gerry remembered it beeped 8 times while the undertakers were tentatively carrying his mother out of the house. He’d come the very next day and done it.

He was glad of the company though. His life since roses passing had become a mindless routine, which he had made himself follow in an attempt to regain some level of normality. He set his alarm for 8am. Hed shower in the main bathroom have a light breakfast whilst reading the morning paper and then take a short walk. After a second glance at the rest of the paper it would nearly be time for the news and in the afternoon hed either head to the golf course or call to Gerrys to say hello. It was a repetitive routine but one that had kept him relatively active and occupied.

There was a voice message on gerrys phone. It was from Caroline. He played the message on loudspeaker whilst examining his fathers alarm clock which apparently had failed to buzz at 8am like he'd sworn it had been set to.

“Hi babe, please bring home some mince, the bag in the fridge smells and has been given to the dog!

Jesus! Gerry muttered under his breath, clearly annoyed and this drew his fathers angry looking gaze.

“Watch your mouth son, I brought you up better than that”.

An embarrassed heat spread across Jerry's face. He should have known better than to take the lord's name in vain. In Front of his father too who by chance was now positioned by the sacred heart picture.

“Il go there once ive this sorted”

“Go get the mince son, I know you're trying to mind me, hard and all as that is for me to accept”. “But life is for the living, go be with your family”.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay dad”

He seemed desperate to stay with his father but he was adamant he needed to go.

It's nearly 12. I know Caroline likes to have dinner on the table for 1. He snapped the phone out of his son's hand and after turning off the call that had been on hold to the internet provider Gerry was trying to sort for his father whilst trying to fix the alarm clock he hung up on the call which had been playing annoying hold music for the past 4 minutes.

“Go get the mince son” “the alarm and the internet can wait till tomorrow.

Gerry understood this wasn't about mince meat, it was about being with loved ones and doing the run of the mill jobs with love. He hugged his father and said he’d return tomorrow and sort out the remaining loose ends with the clock and his internet connection. Matthew practically pushed his son out the door.

He stood at the kitchen sink momentarily lost in his own thoughts when he felt a warm embrace behind his back. His son had returned to give him a farewell hug.

“I'll see you tomorrow dad, i've a new alarm clock still in the box il bring it”.

“You're a good lad, gerry his father said with a wholesome tone”.

He called after his son as he scurried out the door.

“GERRY, he shouted, don't forget the mince!.

Gerry wouldn't forget the mince. He'd been raised by a man who always tried to mind his wife…… just like his father.

Mallow chronicle

24/01/2024

17/01/2024

07/01/2024

05/01/2024

14/12/2023

13/12/2023

13/12/2023

11/12/2023

07/12/2023

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