Oisin Kelly Writes

Tag: New content

  • The Animal Classes

    Suki and I sat on the bank, staring at the swans. She shifted stances, her head tilting, ears pricking to attention, tracking their movements. I wondered for a moment, if she considered these creatures almost like a social elite. It was clear she held for them a great curiosity, matched only by her animosity. Dogs it seemed could almost fit the title of the working classes in the kingdom. Modern thought is that sheep are blind followers, a lower class of thinkers, allowing others to guide their actions, and their thought. Suki and her kind are independent thinkers yet hold to a certain respect the opinions and directions of their people. If that makes them the working-class animal, it would come to wonder why we pit them against sheep, having them herd and control. Do sheep not contribute to society with their wool, with their tending to fields, with their docile nature.

    The swan in its majesty glides on water and through air, with ease. Often you will find their herd surrounded by ducks, like followers, admirers, sticking close. To a dogs knowledge the swan does nothing, merely known for its looks and its fickle nature. Many a dog have been wounded in their attempts to interact with this royal bird. To harm a swan would bring the wrath of society itself to a doorstep, they live beneath the protection of kings and queens. Yet Suki herself knows the harsh reality of nature and its betrayal, and the cruelty of people. Where was society and all its protection when she was at the mercy of an abusive hand. Dogs live on the reliance of people willing to take them in, to make space, to find space, for love and protection.

    I doubt that most animals ever find their place in the kingdom. They move from day to day following paths laid out before them, confining themselves to their herds, their packs, their gaggles. Dogs have found their place, in our homes, in our hearts and let their nature guide them. They go to work everyday, bringing joy, companionship, empathy, responsibility and innocence to their people. They’re not the only ones in the kingdom to do this, to become pets to people, there are many others. Yet dogs are in their own space in society, as protectors, companions, dependents. The very people they rely on would be lost without them, and lesser for never having met them.

    I don’t know what Suki thinks of swans, I wish I  knew, not that it changes a thing. It is doubtful that animals will ever debate the nuances of the class system among them. Perception of their place, and their worth in the kingdom is often considered in view of their strength, their aggression, their willingness to survive. Still, it is not the killer instinct, the speed or their ferocity that earned dogs their place amongst us. They teach us about redemption, forgiveness, love, and loss. Within all that we become better people, more rounded, more softened, more willing, to find our own place, to make our own differences.

    We got up and walked on, leaving the swans to perform for the ducks and the dogless.

  • Jagged Little Page

    Jagged torn page from a book

    Never to be whole again

    Pressed it to my chest, in pain

    As if to absorb the words

     

    To change the narrative

     

    If the writer only knew

    How they affected me

    If they only knew

    How I defiled their work

     

    I wear the shame

     

    It was too late, it was not enough

    I viciously wrote it all down

    Every vowel, noun, consonant

    Until I could no more

     

    Then with the light of a match

    Burned the book to oblivion

     

    So that the words could feel

    All of the pain they caused

     

    Another story returned to nothing

     

  • Shaking To The Core

    Two plates unbalanced
    Grinding, growing, straining
    Until Tectonic Failure
    Emotional fracking
    Exposing our faults

    Series of tremors
    Until a strike-slip
    Rupturing surfaces
    Motion sickness
    Against seismic waves

    Above an epicenter
    Deeply focused below
    Suddenly Liquefied
    Between the cracks
    Towards its interior

    Awaiting aftershocks
    In transition zones
    Seeking seismologists
    Explaining scales
    Of unmeasurable Magnitude

  • Me & The Borstal Boy

    THE GRAND CANAL MIDDAY – SUNNY

     

    Enter SEAMUS walking along the canal, at pace. We are following from behind; he is shifting his bag onto the opposite shoulder as he approaches a bench and takes a seat.

     

    SEAMUS

    (Seated, rummaging through his bag)

    Listen, I need to talk to you again, I changed some of the points around, but I just can’t get the story flowing at all.

     

    Seamus pulls a tattered manuscript from his bag and flicks through it, creasing it along the edge. He turns to show it to the statue of Brendan Behan. The statue does not reply.

     

    SEAMUS

    (Sitting back and running his pencil along the pages, occasionally looking up towards the statue)

    Why do you always look at me so interested? I haven’t written an interesting thing in this silly little book since I put the pencil to the paper.                                        I know we talked about pushing through and trusting the process but that’s easy for you to say, isn’t it?

     

    He runs his hands over his face and back through his hair. A swan is leaving the water in front of him as he speaks.

     

    SEAMUS

    (Occasionally biting on his pencil and jotting on a fresh page)

    This bit here ‘Big Troubles in Little Derry.’ Do ya really think they’ll take me seriously? I am all for a bit of humor but                                                                               that’s close to taking the piss. How did you do it, they talk about you like you weren’t half cut most of the time, and                                                                                   laughing at the world. I mean no disrespect, of course, I’m just trying to get it right. Take your man here for instance,                                                                             he’s some fella on the water but he looks a right eejit running along the path with those feet.

     

    CUT TO:

    CANAL BANK

     

    Swan running along the water’s edge towards a pile of crumbs, flapping its wings as it waddles closer. Taking the bread, enters the water and glides away into the distance.

     

    CUT TO:

     

    BENCH

     

    Seamus still seated and fidgeting with his pencil.

     

    SEAMUS

    (Getting animated, occasionally standing, and pacing while he points with his pencil)

    Off he goes there, swanning around, eh? Look, how am I supposed to talk about the political landscape when I                                                                                           wasn’t even there, it’s hardly a biography now is it. There’s something to say about it all, even now, with years                                                                                            gone by, but who am I to tell that story. It just — It keeps me up, thinking about it all and feeling like there                                                                                                were so many voices, silenced or screaming into the void, for no one to hear. I hear them, I see them, they’re                                                                                               real to me.

     

    Seamus, seated now, puts his book on the ground, taking out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lighting one up.

     

    SEAMUS

    (Agitated, speaking in broken sentences, aggressively puffing on a cigarette)

    THE BORSTAL BOY. You knew how, to write it, to capture it. It wasn’t about us and them, was it. The                                                                                                         enemy, there’s one, the enemy, just people. What for, who for, people died, what about them. I’m not the                                                                                                     guy, I cant be, how do I begin, how does it end? It never will, it never will.

     

    Seamus looking resigned pulls his pack from his pocket, extinguishing the cigarette and placing it back inside of the packet and into his pocket.

     

    SEAMUS

    (leaning back, hands rested on the back of his head, looking into distance)

    We couldn’t have been romance writers, could we? Although, you weren’t too bad at making this                                                                                                                    place seem like the jewel at the centre of the world. I think the stories we tell, when they’re so full of                                                                                                              truth, are simply unpalatable. So, we soften them with prose, humor, and levity until it becomes less                                                                                                            about fact, and more about feeling right?

     

    Seamus picks up the manuscript and flicks through it making different faces at sections of writing.

     

    SEAMUS

    (Shifting in his seat, showing parts of his writing to Brendan)

    See this, well you’re lucky actually, you never did. There were ideals in your time, a battle against                                                                                                                  the system, the culture, the history. It got nasty when you left, when the voices of reason were                                                                                                                        drowned out by the undying taste for blood. It wasn’t just the enemy anymore, it was their own,                                                                                                                    it was ordinary people, it was anybody, and it was all the time. Bombs, bodies, secrets and blood,                                                                                                                  some would say for nothing.

     

    Seamus folds the manuscript over and takes a picture from the back page to examine it.

     

    SEAMUS

    (Looking at the picture and speaking softly)

    Aunty Eileen, what a woman, you’d have liked her. She’d a fierce sense of humor, the most beautiful                                                                                                             singer and she’d likely to be the first to the fight. This was the summer, the last one, before she                                                                                                                       disappeared. I was only a boy, but I know loved her, cause I feel it, I feel like I did, like I would, ya                                                                                                                 know. Sometimes, I can’t remember a thing about her, I forget her, like everyone else did. I don’t                                                                                                                   want to forget her, I don’t want to lose her, I want to find her.

     

    Seamus puts the picture back in the manuscript and folds a leg over to lean the book on it, and begins to write.

     

    SEAMUS

    (Looking down and speaking as he writes)

    What do you think justice is? Is it about payback, revenge, closure, I don’t know what I want.                                                                                                                          Guess, I just want answers, but I don’t even know the questions, or the person to ask. The thing                                                                                                                      about telling a story with a clear ending is figuring out where it all began, and I’m not so sure I                                                                                                                      know where that is. Maybe — the last time I saw her face, yeah — in the morning before the last                                                                                                                  day of school, before the darkest summer of my life.

     

    Seamus sits for some time writing. Time passes, light changes.

     

    SEAMUS

    (Packing away his things into his bag and beginning to leave)

    Well fella, we did good today, don’t ya think? I know what it’s about now, what I’m about.                                                                                                                                Her, it was always her, it had to be. Thanks for that, you’ve still got it. Now don’t go                                                                                                                                            anywhere will ya, I’ll be back.

     

    Seamus rises, stopping to smile down on Brendan before walking away.

     

     

     

    CUT TO:

     

    REAR OF SEAMUS WALKING AWAY IN EVENING LIGHT

     

    SEAMUS

    (Narrating)

    Chapter 1, Come Home Eileen.

    She stood holding court in the kitchen, in the morning, I remember it was warm, she was warm. I felt safe, I felt loved, I feel like she deserved that too, she still does.