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Brand new stories from authors Ken Bruen, Sean Black, Colin Bateman, Stella Duffy, Shelley Silas, Nikki Magennis and many others are collected here to celebrate ...
Brand new stories from authors Ken Bruen, Sean Black, Colin Bateman, Stella Duffy, Shelley Silas, Nikki Magennis and many others are collected here to celebrate and eroticise Dublin.
Cities are not just about monuments and museums and iconic places, they are also about people at love and play in unique surroundings.
IF THERE'S ONE THING I know to be true about Molly Malone, it's that she was not sweet. Not sweet at all. She was wild and funny and exhausting to be with, she could be cruel too, had a mean temper and a hard jealous streak. But God she was good, to watch, to drink alongside, to play, to laugh, to fuck. And definitely more salt than sweet. Alive, alive oh.
I was sixteen when we met, she was already a grown woman of twenty-eight. Other women her age, the girls she'd been at school with - just for the few years before she started the business, set up her stall - the girls from her catechism class, dull, virginal girls all, she said, were long-married and on to their fourth or fifth babies by now. They spent their mornings shopping and cooking, their afternoons washing and cleaning, and their evenings moaning about mewling brats and stupid or nasty or lazy or boring husbands and interfering mothers-in-law; blaming the woes of their lives, not on the evil English as their husbands did, or on the lazy Irish as their landlords did, but on the priest that wouldn't let up when they dared brave the confessional. Not Molly. She had no quarrel with the Church, it didn't touch her and she didn't touch it, not since she was fourteen years old and Father Paul, on the other side of the confessional grille, had asked her to recount, blow by literal blow, the exact details of her afternoon down by the river with Patrick Michael Fisher. By the time I met her, Molly Malone went to church only on her favourite saints' days and no Sundays, and she had no intention of tying herself to a man, to a ring, to a child. No intention of tying herself to a woman either. More's the pity.
There's something about a woman whose hands are always a little wet, red from the cold and the wind and her own hard work. Her skin flushed with standing outside in all weathers, from morning after morning waiting for the fishing boats to come in, her hair pulled right back, scraped away from her neck, from her face, tied tight, held in, held away. Molly's hands smelled of the sea, of broken shells, what else could they do? But her hair, fat handfuls of thick, rich, dark brown hair, smelled of Molly alone. Of nutmeg grated on to warm milk, of the whisky added for a top-up, of the fresh pillow case - old linen, always ironed, no matter how hard her week - and of the warmth of her bed. Our bed. Her bed.
There was a song before there was Molly, my Molly. But afte