In an unflinching formation that featured a hint of pugnacity, spotted sea birds carefully maneuvered above a clandestine, rock-ribbed island located almost twenty miles northwest of Skellig Michael.
Lost amid the ferocity of a continuously raging ocean and unknown to even the most detailed nautical charts, decades of maritime vox populi commonly dismiss the tiny island as an eerie myth.
(Written by Edward Roads)
This time the quiet air seemed to focus her scattered thoughts, instead of transporting them to muddled longitudes and convoluted cerebral precincts that constantly flickered from just beyond arm’s length.
Allie backed up two or three steps, knelt down, and picked up a fairly hefty, discharged syringe with dried blood on the outside… but the disturbing crimson color was also on the inside.
(Written by Edward Roads)
As she stared into the turbid, wavering mass… her arm, now tingling with apparent recovery, briefly diverted her attention to the right, where she noticed a small tube on the ground.
{..what happened to my…nothing …there…why am I…} It was at that moment the air got quiet.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Her milky white midriff was thinly drawn, ribby, perhaps even emaciated… but Allie Carraig was experiencing a physical and introspective resurgence of soul, that in all likelihood would unshade the mystic margin between life and death.
As a black and comfortless sky was developing over Dock 19, actually a wasteland tagged Dock 19, the encroaching mass, now more amoeba than hominid, drifted up to the very tip of Allie’s nose.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Besides the tight rope cable around her neck, Allie wore nothing but faded black jeans, a thick cotton T-shirt, and scuffed work boots whose untied laces hung stiffly askew.
She pulled at the base of her cinereal shirt, tore a 5″ swath all the way around, and twisted up an effective tourniquet for her right arm, which was now completely numb.
(Written by Edward Roads)
The cloudless sky, that had been an umbrella of guidance since she left the bad place, was surreptitiously morphing into a grotesque endlessness of sooty, damp grey.
{why can’t I stop thinking about those damn sea birds} She instinctively closed her eyes to collect her conscience, suppress overwhelming pain, and rediscover the necessary fortitude to stand and face a massive dark form that knew her name.
(Photo by Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
As Allie gingerly rolled left to better assess the agony in her right arm, she suddenly winced when the brobdingnagian form, which was now too close to ignore, blustered something.
There was a tender, bruised knurl on the upper half of her arm that felt punctured and clotted.. still oozing… “ARE YOU ALLIE CARRAIG!?!”
(Photo by Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
A murky haze with an unusual motion, like wobbly air in the abyss of a scorching desert, finally began to dissipate underneath Allie’s fluttering eyelids.
As a towering and rotund silhouette came into focus above her, Allie quickly realized she was not only flat on her back, but her right arm was in excruciating pain.
(Photo by Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
The air is quiet… spotted gray sea birds dangerously race up and down the deep and jagged cliff lines that stoically fringe emerald green rolling landscapes.
An endless and vibrant blue sky seems to govern the soft tidal splash which tickles tiny round stones lying near the top of the pristine berm… Wait, where.. is it.. going…
(Photo: Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
“Mam, you need to have your papers ready, and please, if you don’t mind, remove your hand from my table.”
Allie, who was noticeably ripe and well past exhausted, slammed her other hand down and clamored, “Help me, for christ sake, please”… then her bloodshot blues rolled up to all white, and she collapsed.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
Shill, the loyal man who worked this seaside immigration seat for more than 30 years as part of what you might call a welcoming committee, looked at yet another girl, with another story, with another…
“Hi, my name is Allie… I just got off that rickety damned boat and I need someone to show me a quiet place where I can think.”
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
Allie, who hadn’t known a blip of happiness in more than 6 years, crept towards the poorly shaved attendant that was seated and staring at all of the new arrivals.
She walked up to a monstrous, scarred oak table, slammed her soft left hand down on dirt and despair, and figured she’d ask what she needed to do to be a citizen. {my God, I just don’t know, was that what I needed to do}
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
She found herself looking about as if she did something wrong, yet the not so timid Irish expatriate stepped onto American soil with a subtle, eyes down hopefulness.
Back… there, was a well made stone and sweat ziggurat that housed an intimidating hulk, a true Skellig Michael man, who neglected at the last possible minute to inform Allie that her daughter might not be dead.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
She arrived at the shores of her last chance, after what local papers would one day describe as ‘the unknowing victim of a deep sea and dead run’.
The pier was lonely at Dock 19, her child, who she would never see again, lay lifeless somewhere back in Ireland as wretched memories misted New York Harbor.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
With eyes closed and a slightly slumped lean, Gia’s furrowed hands became a simple brace on the kin marble of her second floor kitchen counter.
She thought of her late father, his devotion to that blasted quarry, and his strange fondness for a rosebush, that seemed to bloom every damn year on their parched Italian countryside.
Photo: Edward Roads
Written by Edward Roads
Mytwosentences 