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    Papyrus Comic Hobo
    Papyrus Comic Hobo
    Papyrus Comic Hobo
    Ebook92 pages1 hour

    Papyrus Comic Hobo

    By James Dargan

    ()

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    About this ebook

    PAPYRUS COMIC HOBO is an eclectic collection of four short stories and a novella. The stories are THE MIRACLE AT O'HARE'S PUB, an Irish fantasy-comic tale, GOD AND THE LONELY EMPEROR, a magical realism story about an emperor who's lost it all, IN THE DOLE-DRUMS, a description of life on the dole in 1990's Britain, PORTRAIT OF LOVE LOST AND FOUND IN UKRAINIAN CORNFIELD, a story of love, and OUT OF THE CAGE, a satiric black comedy tale of a man released from prison into the world with a dark secret.

    Each of these stories is available individually, but are now priced in a bundle for an amazing 99c/77p To buy these stories separately would cost you $4.95c/£3.85p!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDanny Boy Books
    Release dateJul 31, 2014
    ISBN9781501444128
    Papyrus Comic Hobo
    Author

    James Dargan

    James Dargan was born in Birmingham, England, in 1974. Coming from an Irish background, he frequently writes about that experience. As well as England, he has also lived in the United States, Ireland, and - for the best part of fifteen years - in Warsaw, Poland, his home from home from home.

    Read more from James Dargan

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      Book preview

      Papyrus Comic Hobo - James Dargan

      THE MIRACLE AT O'HARE'S PUB

      Far from the town, many, many miles away, down the long and spiralling road that goes past Darcy’s farm on the right-hand side, across the bridge which is over the stream that flows into Lough Corrib; further then - more a distance than the place at the fence with the field of sheep and the megalithic stone - is O’Hare’s pub. It is here - when somebody in the parish dies and a celebration of their life is in order – that wakes occur. And it is true, there are many other localities where mourning of the here-no-more can be arranged – and in fine style, too, but in O’Hare’s, on these occasions, though sadness has a way with them, and though whispers and tears climb and fall as the sing-song does, things are always different.

      My name is Sean and I am walking the wilds of Galway to get there, to see them, to make their sadness happy again. It is raining and I am wet, but that does not matter at this time, because I have a job to do, to see them all right, to repair the damage of their psychological torment.

      It takes me some time to reach the pub, and when I do get there I am welcomed by the landlord, a fine fella by the name of Emmet Glass. We know each other well, and have journeyed with our minds and voices on vast occasions with a pint o’ plain at hand, speaking of the days not yet arrived nostalgically and the ones already behind us with reverent anticipation.

      We shake hands and he smiles at me. Yet I know it is a false one, for my pleasure only.

      What this time, Emmet? I ask, walking through the door.

      Tis not good, Sean – it’s a young one, Glass replies.

      The children are always the most difficult: the families - meaning the parents – find it hard to accept the death, and their anger to the Big Man becomes legendary. When an older person passes - say someone over sixty - the loved ones’ attitude is usually conciliatory.

      How old? I say moodily.

      Six.

      You’ve got to be joking, man, I say.

      We walk in together. Around – seated and dressed darkly - are the women submitting to their grief in sobs and the menfolk in crusty silence. I acknowledge them and head for the bar and the door which leads to Glass’s living quarters.

      I haven’t had one like this since the O’Malley boy, I say.

      I know, and it will be hard, to be sure, Glass replies.

      I’ll have to be on my best form today, and there will be no room for error.

      I know you can do it, Sean, Glass says confidently.

      Thanks, I reply.

      Are you ready to go back in there?

      I am, yes.

      I take a deep breath and head back into the lounge area.

      Dear people gathered here today, I begin like my priest at St. Vincent’s, shaking inwardly from the waist down. I know the occasion at hand is a sad one for us all with the passing of the young fella, and at such a time words can seem vacuous and sloppy, but I must use them if I am to do my job-

      And what is your job, sir? a big and burly grey-haired fella shouts at me in an angry voice, and I can only presume he is a grandfather of the dead boy.

      I am here – in the flesh – to assist you in healing your grief, sir.

      And what if, sir, I, or my fellow mourners, are in need of it not?

      I look at him with an empty voice full of words that won’t introduce themselves - which, I have to say, is a rarity for me, and has not occurred since the O’Malley boy episode.

      But I think, sir, if you would just give me a moment, that you will, I add.

      He’s annoyed. He says nothing to my retort, and I can tell he wants to thump me a good punch.

      Stop it, Samuel, the old woman next to him hisses." I suppose she’s his wife. At her side, sitting close to each other with hands together, their wrinkled and worn faces expressing clearly their sorrow, are the dead boy’s parents.

      They are silent: they seem to contain no fight for a fight with me at all, which I am happy about speaking honestly. I walk up to them respectfully, offering my hand and condolences. The woman smiles; the man looks down at the floor.

      If you give me the chance, I will heal your pain, I say.

      Is that so? the father says, his eyes still gazing at his shiny, black funeral shoes.

      It is, yes.

      Then show me, he says.

      I look behind to Glass, and all I see from him is the fear in his eyes and I know he wants to shatter into a million little pieces. His doubt is my anxiety. What now? I ask myself knowing these next words could make or break my attempt to alleviate in the people before me the agony they are suffering from.

      And so I shall show you, sir, I begin in unbridled emotion. I take a deep breath, then start: People before me, here at this sad time to say farewell to a beloved young boy, a spring of youth, a youthful tree, a tree done in, its end of day. And I must say, right here, right now, I see a cow up on that tree – the boy there too, he’s hanging down, like a clown, a clown... They are looking at me as I go on with my jocular interior externalizing itself, and I don’t know if I am winning them over or not. I glance an eye at Glass: his emotions are so transparent I can hardly tell it’s him. I know I have to go on, as now, more so than in the O’Malley case, my abilities will be stretched beyond even a poor and quare Irishman’s torso on the rack as in Medieval times on the behest of Edward Longshanks. The pause is long, too long, and I must continue if I am to save them from sadness. I smile, scan their faces and begin once more: But that was just a joke, tasteless... yes, but I was only trying to help you contain the grief for the small fella gone to the man upstairs...

      They are still looking at me like I have escaped from the local hospital for mad people, which, if I were on their side of the room, I would have the same opinion of myself – yet I continue: ...upstairs, to be with him and, not discounting it, His love – for God’s love is the love of all loves, and stronger, I say, stronger by more than I can describe. And when... I stop myself and lean into the mother’s ear: ...what was the young fella’s name? I ask in a whisper.

      Kevin Michael Flynn, she says, sobbing.

      ...and when Kevin Michael Flynn is there, with our Man, in His arms as they say, there will be no pain for you-

      The father stands up, infuriated, breaking me from my poetic flow. I’m in shock; Glass is breaking from it. The father walks up to me, moving in strident motion, and I can only

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