The Moth and the Candle

Brendan Behan. Writer. Drinker. Raconteur. Republican. Ex-convict. Bon Vivant. Irish. Dubliner. What is left over after pouring him into all those categories? How much of the man, of the person could there be to breathe free of the constraints he walked and talked himself into and which were placed upon him? My father was a doctor from north county Dublin. He was the son of a doctor and grew up in a solidly middle class background albeit living a peripatetic life as his father moved from post to post before finally ending up in a practice in the seaside village of Clontarf on the north shore of Dublin Bay. (For more click on the title)

Aisling fiddled with the contents of the car boot. After several moments she extracted a garden shears from the mass of canvas bags, plastic containers and the other detritus

The asphalt radiated heat, the warmth of the day being stored in the ground beneath her feet for use later on

The artillery bombardment had stopped. Now the tank crews and the infantry waited for the bombers to being their runs on the enemy positions. At the sound of approaching aero engines they all ducked for cover, the infantry into foxholes the crews into their tanks

The balance of life was struck in moments like these, he thought. My life in any case. No one else knows how to approach them, they require a level of detail and an instant decision and prompt two emotions primarily....relief and regret

The parish church of St. Sepulchre Without looked even older than its three hundred years as the scaffolding went up around the exterior walls

Water ran through the bars of the drain, piling twigs and bunches of leaves at its edge. The water was a brackish muddy brown, its sediment load added to by the cloacae of the cityscape. The boy carefully shaped a tiny paper boat as he sat on the edge of the gutter.

The river glistened as it sometimes should in the sun. Little wavelets broke on its surface as the evening settled over the city. The water slopped against the mossy green walls which bounded its course and made the painters holding the small craft to their rusted iron rings creak and groan. Felix walked down the newly built boardwalk which ran parallel to Bachelor’s Walk. The planks of the boardwalk were already starting to weather even though they were only a year or two old.

Tuesday is the day they come. Always. Rain, wind, snow, traffic, power failures. None of those things stopped them. They never failed. They always delivered. Sarah sat by the side of the road, dangling her feet over the edge of the wall as she waited for the truck to arrive.

Journey time has shortened, have you noticed? Of course you have. The distances which were formerly daunting and adventurous are now routine and tedious. Communications have ceased to be of the importance they once were. Time was, see, people were careful in how they communicated with one another. Not any longer.

Scrupulous daydreams of wistful intent linger throughout my consciousness. Peaceful memories of times which will never exist predominate in my thoughts. This dallying in the groves of time serves little purpose other than to highlight how divergent my idealised dreamworld is from my mundane and sordid reality.

A small man stood, slouched against the wall of the train station entrance one St. Valentine’s evening. He is dressed unfashionably, not mention slightly untidily. I say untidily event though there are signs of some care being given to his appearance, though it is the clumsy attention of one who does not often gaze into the mirror at length, for fear of what he might see there.

A small boy walked beside his mother down the busy main street, his left hand shyly clasping a new toy, newly purchased in a cheap shop. It was a bucket and spade, made of stout plastic and bright, cheerful colours. He did not look at it but simply held it tight, as if afraid that it would be snatched away at any minute. She stared out of the café window at him, something approaching a sad smile in her eyes which she could not raise on her face. He stared back.

The fading flames of the fire listed heavily to the right of the grate. The left was a pile of accumulated ash, white and dove-brown, crumbling into fragments at the merest pressure. Little dancing lights popped loudly at the sparks flew off the bitumen. Pale, half-visible smoke streamed slowly upwards, the curling tendrils bubbling lazily.