A Saturday night abduction

 Lily Murphy

Letting go Awakening by Deana Plymale

Bud Sweeney was a rare one. Not originally from Cork city, Bud came from the midlands many years ago when he married a seamstress from here but he quickly became a fixed face in the many pubs dotted around the south side of the city. As I already stated, Bud Sweeney was a rare one and let me entertain you with just one of many tales about him.

                                          One Septembers day many years ago the rain punished the street outside while a grand blast of heat came from the hearth in the corner of the pub. Myself and my drinking companions sipped away in the warm confines of Bradley’s pub and it being Monday evening the place was quite, the only buzz was coming from outside as cars and pedestrians were rushing up and down Barrack street on their way home from work, school, college and all such places alike. As the rain hit hard on anyone unfortunate enough to be caught out under it, a small paunchy figure appeared in the doorway of the pub, it was Bud Sweeney.

 In came Bud all wet and sour looking with the rain that had spat its load on him. He immediately made his way to our table when he spotted us with his tired blue eyes. He passed the bar and I knew that Bud had something very grave to announce to us, for surely he wouldn’t have passed the bar otherwise.

 ‘Rotten evening to be out in it Bud’ I greeted him as he sat his drenched frame on the one free stool that was at our rickety old table. ‘Oh I have an unbelievable story to tell you all’ he said in a very serious tone. ‘I am sure you do’ said the ancient Mrs Crotty from across the table, ‘sure you weren’t seen at all yesterday’ she said while bringing her glass of stout nearer and nearer to her old narrow mouth. ‘Oh I must tell you all why’ Bud replied and then he set about telling the tale of his Saturday night abduction.

                                      Bud took a deep breath before launching into his bizarre tale, ‘To begin the story it was Saturday evening and after my dinner I was going to spend the rest of my Saturday on the couch watching TV but instead of doing that I decided to go out for some postprandial drinks. So off I sauntered down to the Southside inn as it being nearer to my abode and I only had one and two pints of stout in mind. I went there anyway and I had two pints but I had found myself in buoyant mood with some good company and sure you know drinking is like the world of the dead, there is always room for more. So my two pints of stout were doubled and trebled by ten o’ clock and by midnight I had quadruple that. When the time came for last call I had my throat nearly worn out singing songs, some out of tune others I just didn’t know the words to but by an hour or so after midnight the barman had no other choice but forcibly exit me out of the public house but he got some fine festering curses in his ear for doing so. As I staggered and stumbled my way up the road going home, I heard something coming from behind me. It was a low purring noise coming nearer and nearer so I swung myself around to plant my eyes on what it was but instead my eyes were blinded by two bright lights. The next thing that happened was the appearance of two big figures who handled me in the most discourteous manner and before I knew what was happening to me I had found myself locked into a room. Oh it was a cold place all grey and gloomy and I thought to myself that this is it, I‘m done for! I thought what would the wife at home be thinking!? She would probably think that I had run off when in fact I had been abducted while I was making my drunk walk home to her. Yes my friends I was abducted by these strong characters and believe me they were strong because I tried putting up a fight but alas with me being so over the top intoxicated sure I had no hope against them. So anyway I panned my body out on the floor of this room because I had destroyed myself with tiredness as I howled and kicked at the door for what seemed hours without end. Some time later I was awoken by the big steel door that swung open and I was told to get out. By then I had the most horrendous hangover tearing shreds out of my mind and not to mention tearing shreds out of my stomach but by noon on Sunday I had eventually made it home where the wife tore strips out of me, worse than any horrible hangover let me tell you!’

 Bud finished his story which had us all sitting in stunned silence until I spoke up. ‘So Bud are you telling us that aliens abducted you last Saturday night and took you aboard their space ship??’ Bud, still wearing a very serious expression on his face shook his head, ‘Ah no not all!’ he stated, ‘It was the police that picked me up and threw me into a cell to sober up!’ Yes as I already told you, Bud Sweeney was a rare one indeed.

 The author: Lily Murphy is 24 and comes from Cork city, Ireland. She is a B.A graduate of University College Cork. Lily has had some pieces of fiction appear in publications such as Hulltown 360 journal, The Delinquent, The Toucan, Pot Luck magazine, Pom Pom Pomeranian from Bank Heavy press and Ephiany magazine. She also contributes articles on culture and politics to Monthly review, New Politics magazine, 4Q magazine, Ceasefire magazine and the writing disorder.

Email: lilymurphycork@gmail.com

In the middle of changing the website formally known as “section8web” into SECTION 8 MAGAZINE .com , a few photos, poems and stories got lost in the shuffle.  We apoligize to our diehard subscribers who missed out on the 2010 edition but …….shit happens.

 But sometimes we get lucky and so it is our pleasure to (re)present “June Bugs ( or something like that)” by Award winning writer Lindsey Walker. 

…enjoy an except from her up coming book.

Splash by Mpowering

                 Sight is the most overrated of all the human senses; mankind as a whole puts too much stock in vision.  Heedless of the warning Looks can be deceiving, those fools who trust their eyes say Seeing is believing.  Oftentimes like a desert wanderer, parched and famished, running headlong and open-armed toward an incorporeal mirage, we project our own desires onto others, and seeing only what we wish to be true, wind up with a mouthful of sand instead of that sumptuous feast.  Over again a million times a comely lass pulls the guilty knife out from between her lover’s shoulder blades with the batting of her Hollywood lashes and the pouting of her rosebud lips.  So many times, live, wistful, beating hearts have been crushed under the boot heels of beautiful men for a coy smile and a wink.  Mostly to our own detriment, our eyes feed images of beauty to our brains, and we fools in love believe we can trap it in a jar, holes poked in the lid, fireflies to brighten up our lonely hearts, flashbulb dancing.
            Smells, conversely, cannot lie.  Odors are always true.  Animals of all known species, spanning every known phylum, base their entire existence on fragrance.  Olfactory system abuzz, they sniff out dominance and fear alike; every undulating scent rolling about their snouts inform them who is ready for mating or whom among the herd is sick.  Behold, also, the flower, erotic petals sprawling, tossing her lusty aroma into the atmosphere, tantalizing bees into pollination.
            Even in humans, though are noses are both underdeveloped and underestimated, smells are the most potent triggers for remembering and recognition.  Under our nostrils, memory unfolds its secrets like a Chinese fortune teller, each perfumed flap of paper pulling us powerless into its folding embrace back to childhood outdoor play or a stabbing, sorrowful scene.  And who doesn’t know the scent of his or her own lover under the velvet dome of night’s black licorice?  Their fragrance conjures up carnal desires on a primal level in our brains.  Through scent we regain our animal instinct long lost to us through the advance of technology.  Scent is physical, tangible, real.  No, sir, smells cannot lie.  Yes, ma’am, odors are always true.
            Myrtle Belle sat on the edge of her bed and sniffed the air around her.  At eighteen years old, she didn’t understand the science of smell; science of any sort was as foreign to her as Turkish coffee.  She did, however, understand the poetry of fragrance.  Sunday morning scents crept in through the crack under her door.  Lazy bacon simmering slow and popping loud in the years-seasoned iron skillet.  Buttery biscuits, soft as down on a cherub’s butt and swollen with air, baking warm and gold over embers colored orange as a jack-o-lantern’s snaggletooth grin.  The scent of green grass and growing garden snuck in through the open window in lambskin moccasins to caress her nostrils.
            Her own skin smelled clean, like homemade soap and well-water; that’s what she noticed as she wiggled like electric spaghetti into her dress.  The dress itself smelled like the wind that whipped long willow branches, that rustled through corn, that rushed through cotton; it was still stiff from hanging all day on the line.  She felt as if she could sing, but knew she had to keep quiet.  Instead she brushed her hair quickly and neatly.  Boy!  She was busting to tell Edgar!  He would never have guessed what she was up to!
            Approached the sound of hoofs, carriage wheels kicking gravel.  Her hammer-heart pounded the levy – she could hear her blood as if crashing through broken dam walls, churning frothy in her ears.  Composing herself, she straightened her hemline, checked the mirror one last time, the hurried toward the door.
            “I’m ridin’ to church with Albert!” she hollered, and it wasn’t completely a lie, she reasoned.  They were going to see a minister; prayers

London Car by Mpowering

            And there was her man, waiting outside.  Albert, dark hair center-parted.  Albert, ruddy-complected, moustache groomed.  Albert, all in white, color of sun-bleached bone, color of the rising moon.  Albert, dismounting to help Myrtle Belle into the carriage.  Albert, kissing her sweet on the cheek.  Reins in hand he smiled, and they were off, flying fast past cash crops and confounding them drivers of electric cars.
            All around the lovers in the hurriedly unfolding landscape was saturated passion.  Springtime was undressing herself; her panties were wet with dewdrops and bee pollen.  She shed her emerald satin lingerie, all kudzu and grass blades, exposing her tulip lips, pink petal nips, her shimmering hips dip and fuzzy bees buzzing get dizzy.  Springtime danced the buttercup burlesque, nubile and nude, laughing all along like champagne bubbles popping.  Springtime was impossible to ignore; she wore ladybug sequins and apple-blossom perfume.
            In the springtime there was no time for cold feet – wedding day jitters be damned!  Albert and Myrtle Belle rode further and faster on that old familiar trail, speeding by that ivory canvas revival rent, just as the last of the devoted were filing in, clapping hands and jangling tambourines.   As they rode alongside the railroad tracks, a locomotive roared past, banging and clanging, spouting steam and smoke that trailed behind the engine colored gunmetal grey, snaking down, winding round, at least a thousand cars long, whistle whining and a little red caboose pinned on the tail.
            The two youths clad in white, color of spilt milk and dandelion fuzz, neared town.  There were less farms as they drew closer, and under the wide, blue sky, homes and businesses crouched tightly together.  Riding by, Myrtle Belle marvelled at them loud, goose-honking electric cars with their grumble-sputter engines dominating the streets; in the city they had most completely replaced the horse and cart.  There was a small church in town just wrapping up service.  They met the minister there, and after a simple prayer and brief ceremony, they were married.  Just like that.  Faster’n all get out.
            The ride home seemed unreal, the dark horse panting in the midday sun, pulling the wagon at a trot down the road, which the further out they got, became more of a path.  Two long, deep ruts sliced into the ground, two bullet streaks of red clay and brown earth, with illuminated green grass sprouting all alongside and right up the center hump.  The farms on either side of the road had fresh shoots, too, sprouting forth from their perfect furrows like Athena springing from the skull of Zeus.  The breeze blowing through her hair felt cool and refreshing, and every cell in her body tingled alive with excitement, bursting at the seams! 

…You can check out more fiction, non-fiction and poetry from Lindsy Walker on www.lindseywalker.wordpress.com