“Gombeen,” she hisses into the dull-black kitchen, “is it a healthy floggin’ you’re chasing? You and your high and feckin’ mighty opinions about the comings and goings of an innocent colleen like myself.”Brigid Whoriskey is agitated with Fergus McGinley but that much was not uncommon in the quotidian affairs of Gortacarragh. What pushed this episode into the folklore of that craggy parish is the verity that the sole corporeal presence that Fergus McGinley maintained at that juncture in history, was in the tragic form of three pounds of desiccated ash occupying a cloudy biscuit jar on his mother’s mantlepiece.
by Bart Elbey
From: Friday Flash Fiction