Uncommon Boundaries: Tales and Verse

By Sherry Marie Gallagher

A triptych of the human canvas: longing - journey - reckoning in compilations of bitter-sweet and humorous short stories, songs, poetry, travelogues and reflections of an author who struggles through and overcomes personal addiction to lead a successful life.
'Uncommon Boundaries' is a collection of rich imagery that will stay with you for awhile -- its evocative thoughts are like musical rhythms to the mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447887355

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Uncommon Boundaries: Tales and Verse

Uncommon Boundaries: Tales and Verse

– by Sherry Marie Gallagher

By the same author….

Murder On The Rocks!

Death by Chopstick

The Poisoned Tree

Dancing Spoons and Khachapuri

Boulder Blues

Copyright © 2012 by Sherry Marie Gallagher.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

These writings are entire works of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Gallagher, Sherry Marie

Uncommon Boundaries: tales and verse

© Sherry Marie Gallagher 2012

ISBN 978-1-4478-8735-5

eBook Edition 2013

Dedication

To all those who have loved and learned and are still lighting candles rather than cursing the darkness

Part One – Longing

Part Two – Journey

Part Three – Reckoning

Author Bio

Part One – Longing

Night in Lodo

©Shers Gallagher

Raw joy, raw as rain splashes in puddles at my feet

as I shed the burdensome cloak of adulthood.

I slip into a bar, shadowed by my own clock ticking,

unwinding in the aftermath of Flander’s lace

and forgotten fragments of stimulators now suitable only for church mice.

The music drones youth, but I am not annoyed.

For youth itself sings its own painful dance, powerful as bees.

As for me, my queen is dead and I toast to her pleasant dreams.

The silver evening proceeds in vaporous solitude,

rain drenched,

as innocent as a child’s breath.

My friend and I, we stroll as shadows

innocent unto ourselves in streetwise streams of conscious hubbub.

The sky etches into thunder,

the beauty of nature’s nuance in momentary lightning cascade.

We stop as an encore rising for more.

She does not disappoint us.

Neither does she recognize the audience she is playing to in such commanding performance. We continue our walk, the silent sojourners with smiling faces.

The only ones, we note, queer enough to be out enjoying the rain.

Armoured with our umbrellas, as alien citizens we move on.

We stop for steaming oysters and black beer.

Enjoying the ruse of other’s flirtatious wisdom, a device for coupling,

we eavesdrop across the tables while willingly ignoring our own.

We do not struggle in perfect wisdom: it cannot be bought, nor does it couple.

It simply exists. And ours is the most profound,

an evening spent in appetizers of indifference,

good company and cheap beer.

* Flander's lace is the pattern left inside a glass from the head of a beer.

This poem is in memory of Larry Lee Barnhart

(01 Sept 1952 - 09 April 2004)

Abandoned Mother the Soul Leaves Behind

©Shers Gallagher

I long for the shores

Of a land not distant from her people,

An abandoned mother the soul leaves behind.

Her black-green Cliffs of Moher

with mewing gulls circling round and round.

Walk-whistling lads of golden tongue

tramp about the heather and weathered gorse.

The devil take their Gaelic mother's soul

though they’ll toast her when the workday's done.

Come court me with another round, boys,

While we still have our heads about us.

Crests of creamy stout and peat brown ale,

where neither craic nor creol will drown us.

I long for the shores

Of a land not distant from her people,

An abandoned mother the soul leaves behind.

Her black-green Cliffs of Moher

with mewing gulls circling round and round.

Angel in Distress

©Shers Gallagher

She glides across the ceaseless din

of crowding streets

to seek out crumpled wings

she's seen meshed between all

the bumping, burping, hurling bodies

timed to salutations of feeding frenzy

between cracks of blackened hues.

And she’s grown blind by bedazzlement.

Her wings are lost and she cannot fly.

Groping through distortions

are strange words that do not fit.

She feels their textures,

hears their rhythms,

senses structure

of what sensate nature knows but cannot tell.

She is made drunk by urbanity,

sucked in by humanity

in her quest to know a rainbow’s touch.

That is her goal

while capturing shadows

to wield into light.

Though it is only memory

she finds to mount on moonbeams

and project into refracted night.

Does feeling take on voice?

she asks a passing star-fly.

It flutters back an answer and vibrates in repose.

Searching negatives of soul’s imprinting,

she queries: What images do they make?

The darkroom only answers most bleakly

by displaying no sign of her.

Through hidden shades of what is and what isn’t

she finds no future in what should be,

as wind is only breath,

she gathers.

And so is she, abandoned by her wings.

Thus, what might have been,

yet will not be,

are mere whispers of words

that are nothing more or nothing less

than what sweeps and flows

and billows and blows across the sea.

I Have Drunk in the Living

©Shers Gallagher

I have drunk in the living,

perhaps too much,

as it is a fine elixir and noble aperitif.

The shadows are always my own undoing

after all the costumes come off

and hang worn and wrinkled on lean and wiry props.

Lone wolf am I and doomed to wander

the depths of inner chasms

with their damp smells and empty chests.

I would despair if I had not been fated to the light.

And so I say a fleeting prayer to the rising sun

and thank the simple sparrow that,

along with my flighty friend,

I am today counted among the living.

The Question

©Shers Gallagher

You are beautiful as a summer day

that sets softly upon the horizon

and so pleasing to the eye.

Yet such beauty is of a fleeting moment.

The eye blinks and then it's gone.

I am beautiful like the autumn chill

coated in many colours.

Who now will look upon me

and see treasures deep within the folds?

Only wizards, perhaps, or unearthly sprites.

For isn't it more a mortal pleasantry

to enjoy the teasing scent a flower brings

before it ripens, withers and fades

than to look where sunsets cast only longing shadows?

Autumn Musing

©Shers Gallagher

Strong shadows mark the walls

and make them gleam like counting stones

on these lazy Indian summer days. 

I watch the sky as autumn takes wing 

in vivid patterns of migration.

And I'm alive, so alive

to sing in the refrain.

Ardy’s Plight at the Privy

©Shers Gallagher

A large Irish family filled up two of the long pinewood bench tables at the Hare and Hunter - the small medieval fairground restaurant that had a larger than average terrace, catering to the sit-down crowds of wandering festival goers. This particular family appeared to be drinking more than eating, which wasn’t uncommon in the sweltering heat of a midsummer’s day in the shire.

I sat at the table’s far end, furthest from the congested masses, as it was my short pause from working the lanes as a paid entertainer in fantasy costume, blowing stardust on delighted children, getting into mischief with the locals, and tickling tin whistles and whatnot – all the things one could imagine of a proper fairy of a local shire. During my pause, however, I didn’t want to be bothered for fairy wishes and the like. Instead, I ordered a pint, hoping for a frosty mug of very cold beer while watching the family celebrate what looked to be a birthday party with all the ‘for he’s a jolly good’ rounds they were singing. It didn’t take long for one of the men to eye another and smile at me. I was used to the attention, mostly because of my unusually feathered fairy wings made for me be a festival friend named Tailor Taylor the swatch and waistcoat maker. But I just called him Ty for short, as most of the rest of the shire did. And it was a brilliantly crafted set of wings that curved and flowed to allow all the soft, white feathers to flutter in the occasional breeze. Oh, thank God for those breezes.

I lifted my glass to the man and took a relished gulp that temporarily cooled my very human body. He moved down a slat or two in hearing distance of me and asked; ‘So’s, you hear the one about the old couple married for 35 years?"

I shook my head that was covered in a wreath of berries and flowers. One of the petals detached and alighted on his face. He blew at it and looked to the eldest members of the group. ‘Like me mum and dad there, they were celebrating their sixtieth birthdays."

Congrats then! I lifted my half-emptied glass to the couple, both with grey twinkling eyes. And they did the same back at me, draining their own.

The man went on with his story, saying: Suddenly a fairy joined the party.

Now where have I heard that one before?

Ah, he told me. Now, this fairy said: ‘Because you’ve been such a loving couple over all these years, I’ll grant you each one wish.’ The wife told the fairy herself wanted to get away from her dish-washing machine and travel round the world. The fairy waved her wand and BOOM! The tickets were in the old woman’s hand.

I raised a brow that had been pencilled in to look like an alien’s if I weren’t the festival fairy. I wish I could do that trick.

Don’t we all, me darlin’ fairy. At least you’ve got wings…and a nice pair of them at that.

Mind yourself, I said with a smile, or I’ll be turning you into a frog.

Eavesdropping on our conversation, the rest of the party broke into ribald laughter. He’s a royal toad already! called out one of the other men.

And the one by me eyed the other with glee, turning back to finish his story. Yet, the man paused for a minute before confessing to the fairy. ‘Well, d'you know,’ he said, ‘I'd like to have a woman 30 years younger than myself!’ At that the fairy picked up her wand and BOOM! If he wasn’t a day over 90.

I laughed and drank up. My break was not all that long and I needed to find the loo, or ‘privy’ as we shire folk have learnt to call it during festival hours. I waved goodbye to the jolly partiers and left for the southwest corner of the site and one where a makeshift row of hutch-like covered toilets decorated the outlying area for all not wanting to go ‘wee, wee, wee all the way home’. It’s difficult for a fairy-costumed actor to actually take time off from entertaining the crowds without being disturbed. After relieving myself I’d planned to hide out in one of the quiet nooks and crannies I’d found early on in the season. Other entertainers soon found them too. And they often joined me there for a bit solace, picnicking and jocularity. It was all in good fun, and we’d nicknamed these areas our outdoor ‘greenrooms’.

Festival planners, if they’re good ones, attempt to modify the facilities needed to manage the large amount of people participating in the fair – be they paying customers, caterers, craftspeople or entertainers – to be in keeping with the medieval décor. Yet the fantasy world isn’t always as easy to maintain as one might believe, and the results are sometimes laughable at best. Shire privies were always set discretely out of the way, and their wood-covered construction was rustic yet functional. Entering the privy area meant going through a gate marked ‘Ye Old Privies’, of course. And the first thing one saw was a big cauldron-like washbasin that ran water out of a hidden spigot, resembling a natural spring. Hanging to the left and the right of the cauldron were huge soap and towel dispensers. Obvious solecisms such as these were allowed for hygienic purposes.

It always takes a fairy a bit of finagling to readjust her tights and wings, but I was feeling much better when I exited, heading for the fountain. And it was there I saw a little boy I recognised from the Irish party at the Hare and Hunter. He couldn’t have been much older than six, but he was in an obviously drunken state as he rolled the dispenser of towels round and round.

Well, well, I said, coming up to him. ‘What fairies’ mischief have you got yourself into, young lad?"

He glimpsed me with a vacant grin but kept on rolling the dispenser of towels.

I looked around for a parental figure but saw none. And where are your mother and father?

His grin held as well as his vacant stare.

Take my hand then and I’ll lead you back to your people.

He suddenly paled and eyed me more harshly. I never go nowhere with fairies.

I sighed. That’s a good idea on its own, but you shouldn’t have been drinking either!

I, I….

"Come with me now, it’s back to the family with you.’

But the little boy took off running.

I could think of nothing better to do than follow after him. And with my wings all a flutter, I looked like one fairy creature ready to take flight.

Winged fairy or not, running through the shire was no easy feat without bumping into an unsuspecting troll or two. There were also the increasing numbers of summer festival goers to contend with who continued non-stop to pay their fees and flow in through the front gates. Dodging around all these bodies as I wove in and out of the lanes, I soon lost site of the boy who was, after all, quite small and lithe.

I reached the Hare and Hunter out of breath and a bit frayed around the wingtips. Thankfully the party of Irish merrymakers were still there. I looked around, hoping to catch sight of the little lad. My heart sank when I didn’t see him anywhere. So, I caught my breath and described the situation to the family. One of the female members rose, offering to go with me if I’d retrace my steps. Another left for ‘Ye old information booth’, a stall constructed by the front gate to take care of such emergencies. The others made up their minds to fan out in search of the missing child, though half of them followed me and the woman back to the loo.

Those accompanying us to ‘Ye old privies’ soon got in front of me and rushed to the gates of the small facility, elbowing others who were tumbling out. What a fiasco! I would have laughed at all the drunken debauchery if the situation hadn’t turned serious, for the numbers were growing too large for the makeshift building. Suddenly, a side-section collapsed from the sheer weight and volume of all the milling bodies wanting to relieve themselves from drinking too much ale.

I rushed in and pulled a few unsuspecting customers from the rubble. Luckily no one was hurt more than a few minor cuts and scrapes. And there he was, the little Irish lad whose name I later learnt was Ardy, named after Ardan, the legendary son of Usna who helped Deirdre escape to Scotland to as not be forced into marrying King Conchobhar MacNessa. But that’s another story! Now Ardy of the partying merrymakers was again where I’d left him before he’d run away from me. He was standing once more, staring wide-eyed beside the towel dispenser.

I was bumped into and left blinking at the one I assumed was his mother who was grabbing him and clutching him to her bosom, clucking out a passion of love and fury.

He looked up at her, this wild-eyed, dark-haired lioness holding him tightly. And, in a thick Northern brogue, he said: Jeez, mammy, I was just going to the loo!

But why did you run from me? I asked.

And be a changeling? he coughed out.

Oh, Ardy, son, you li’l eejit! His mother squeezed him all the more.

You’re not angry with me then, I mean, for drinking Uncle Connor’s beer?

I’m dearly sore, I am that, son. But you’re right, she said with a grin. You’re right about not wanting to go off with the fairies.

The End

Joie de vivre

©Shers Gallagher

Let us colour up our lives now

            with more than just the toil of our days.

            For what is more of living life than to love

and be loved, to enjoy what is around us,

            as we our only momentary visitors after all....

The Claw

©Shers Gallagher

When my brothers and I were young and my sister still in diapers, my parents had difficulty finding sitters for us on the rare occasion they would plan