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Alison Marr

Flash fiction, poetry and other musings.


February 17, 2020 | Fiction

Was it a coincidence that he was sitting in the lounge of the Europa hotel in Belfast, a hotel infamous for being the most bombed hotel in Europe as it was the hostelry of choice for the lovey BBC journalists and other media whores who were its main customers during the turbulent years of the ‘Troubles’. I had once witnessed journalists paying children to throw stones at each other in a period of calm but that is another story. There he was, Sheridan my first love, looking plump and affluent in the glassy foyer. We stared at each other and he called me over. ‘You’ll never believe this in a month of Sundays,’ he said, ‘but I was just thinking about you and the night we stole the Galway Hooker and sailed to Castle Island’. I just looked at him. I hadn’t seen him for twenty years but I remembered that night vividly, the lough like a looking glass, the moon a sallow sickle and the wild lovemaking in the cabin. ‘Sit down and have a glass of wine,’ he said pushing the other glass over the table towards me. ‘I knew you were coming, don’t ask me how but I knew, you see I have this gift or it could be a curse that when I think of someone they appear, just out of the blue, like you. I said nothing just continued looking at him. He looked nervous, ‘Don’t be taking offence now but you looked awful, your skin is grey,’ he said. I smiled at him and said, ‘That’s because I’ve been dead for a week now.’