THE LAST HOURS OF MONTY O'CONNOR - A POEM

The bells rung out in the night.

A mist hung over the ghastly sight.

A man limped in the alley light,

Coughing as he fell to his right.

O'Rourke and the lads stood grimaced,

Overcoats coated the hearts on their sleeves.

They pressed for answers Monty hadn't the slimmest,

For the pack of vigilant thieves.

They pulled Monty up and punched him loose,

Those memories and years of useless abuse,

He wished he could take back.

He gulped but wouldn't crack,

Hoped he could see them again.

Then told himself it wasn't in vain.

There was his wife - Sinead McCann,

The lovely lass he met in the rain,

At a bus stop one night by the Quays.

Brushed her hair and kissed in the breeze,

Too many more frightful moons ago.

A love so foolish to hold loose and let go.

His son Liam was ten-years-old,

Took the brunt and left in the cold,

After nights of drinks and fury.

His daughter Aisling wiped her eyes,

Fifteen-years-old and often chastised.

How Monty wronged them so,

He realised after another blow.

He fell to his knees and spat out a tooth.

Blood ran down his chin and onto his shirt.

He looked up at his old mate, Johnny,

Recalling the fun bloom of youth.

He could tell on his face it hurt,

Johnny fought to keep dry eyes.

O'Rourke aggressively lifted him,

“No more of these lies, Monty.”

I won't give up 'til I have the truth.”

“I don't know what you mean,

I don't know a fucking thing.”

Monty was honest but knew,

The fate O'Rourke's eyes drew.

Green and weathered all through,

Left Monty feeling awfully blue.

They took him out into the crisp woods,

Threw him down into the slippery dirt.

Small wind let trees sit still and lifeless,

Timeless eyes idle and baring witness.

Monty looked up at O'Rourke's haunting figure,

A stoic silhouette formed out of headlights.

The lads stood behind him in the shadows.

“This is your last chance,”

O'Rourke reached into his trenchcoat,

The silver caught Monty's bloodshot glance.

“Did you help the man who slit the gaffer's throat?

Who stole from the unfortunate of little wealth?

What do you have to say of yourself?”

“I did nothing at all,”

Monty begged but didn't ball.

He didn't have the strength to stand,

But refused to die a cowardly man.

“Just tell my family I love them.”

O'Rourke lifted the gun and stepped forward,

A solemn scene of tragedy Monty saw before.

He was battered, bloodied, left in ruins,

Kicked in the ribs and shot in the head.

Dropping to his knees was Johnny McGuinn.

A man should never see a friend shot dead.

O'Rourke struggled with a single tear,

Wiped it off and turned around aware.

Men had shovels and flashlights in hand.

They held their head up and kept quiet,

Stepped silently and to dig they began.

They left dear old Monty in that dirt pit,

Then carried on without a heart's content.

IN THE CATACOMBS - A POEM

Dizzy, dazed, in the catacombs I wandered,

My aching being had been taken possessed.

I tripped on aborted fetuses and needles,

Discarded, faded, and worn-away postcards,

Of exotic lands, toxic smiles, then reminisced,

A time when I thought this was love.

Lost in the twists and turns of the catacombs,

Seeking the one who had me possessed,

Falling over skeletons and a mare's nest,

Broken bottles stuck shards in my flesh.

Lapsing, I screamed their screams enmeshed,

Clasping onto when I thought this was love.

My eyes gazed with deep amaze at the bones,

Which lined the walls of the catacombs,

Confined home of the one who possessed.

The skulls stared back with empty sockets,

Told me that I am what they once were,

They are what I will be if I don't leave,

The deplorable love I once believed.

A hectoring voice rattled the chambers,

Called my name from out of nowhere.

I jolted up and stood there in silence,

Then turned with a curious hesitance.

There I stood, toe-to-toe with the one,

The figure that had taken me possessed.

Their eyes took guise to my very own.

Facial features that resembled my own.

Their body took a shape like my own.

Their hair could compare to my own.

In a voice that sounded like my own,

They proclaimed forcibly to be mine.

We screamed our screams enmeshed,

Lost forever in the catacombs.

THE DEVIL'S NEST – AN EXCERPT

Here is Robert Creighton talking to Pete Schreiber in a Minneapolis pub that the story is named after.

“Doesn't sound worth it.”

Pete scoffed. “You fucking think?” He quickly downed the final quarter of his pint. “I didn't feel any better after attacking Todd. I didn't get anything out of my system. I got my hand cut open and still haven't washed the blood out of that coat. I lost my knife and spent too much on beer that night.”

“Couldn't they do a DNA test on the knife?” I stepped towards him, checked around quickly, then spoke softly. “I know he didn't recognize you, but still...”

“I'm sure they could. If they catch me, then fuck it. I have nothing to live for. But anyway, I got off at 38th. Instead of turning left to walk home, I turned right, went into the Cardinal and drank until they closed. I lied and told the barman that I cut my hand on some ice after a fall. I don't think they bought it. I threw up on a snowman while walking back home. I should have stayed in like every other night. Just watch shitty films on SyFy and jack myself off into a coma when those Girls Gone Wild infomercials come on.”

“You shouldn't go out by yourself,” I said. “You've never been good with that.”

“I try to have nice, easy-going, and calm nights out by myself.” Pete stared fondly at his empty glass. “It worked more often than not with Carey. We were like a team. She was the diplomat. I was the one who told people to fuck off if they overstepped their boundaries. It worked. I've always been a mess by myself and I can't help it. Things happen.” He put his glass back on the table and made a quick order to get us some Furious. “Anyway... Things such as trying to cope with losing a job. Things such as getting around the idea that maybe I'm not a very good fiction writer. I hear the conversations around me. There's nothing to be optimistic about in this country. Everyone thinks the politicians are clueless when they actually just hate us commoners. The music is shit. What we see on film and television is terrible. The kids get more fat, more stupid, more lazy, and more greedy. We're being killed slowly by every meal we consume. There's nothing we can do besides drink until we're numb. I'll open my notebook and add another line of thought to an already impressive, yet valueless, compilation of rotten ideas, hopes, and past desires. Somebody asks me what's in the notebook, and I don't know what else to do other than tell them to mind their fucking own. More problems arise when whiskey takes me over. Sometimes, things happen.”

“You either stab them or go on a long rant,” I said with a smile. “That's not fair. They can't win.” Pete pretended like he wasn't going to pass me my pint. “So you come to The Devil's Nest of all places?”

SCHOLARS AND SCOUNDRELS - AN INTRODUCTION

I'm Ryan Pollard, an upcoming writer in the Twin Cities. I'm working on a novel called The Devil's Nest. It will come out whenever I feel it's fit for the eyes of a wicked public.

The idea for this blog has been kicking around my mind for about a month. It will be pretty open, but the main focus will be how we create and react to art, and what it says about our society. I'll talk about my process for writing, show a few excerpts of my developing work, go on about films or albums that I have come across, and probably rant like a fucking lunatic. We don't have enough of that on the internet.

Honestly, I went through with creating this blog so I can have an instant release for my writing. Crafting my novel is like having sex with a gorgeous woman that I deeply love – start with the foreplay, go a little bit slow here, speed it up there, maybe switch to a new position, and build up to a glorious climax. There's a few fanny farts and funny faces along the way. One gets the beauty, irreverence, and imperfection of humanity.

Writing for this blog will be the masturbation equivalent to writing my novel. Self-serving, fast and furious, intriguing to whoever is peeking through the window, and hopefully it won't take too long for me to bust a nut. It would also be nice if I don't get anything on the rug.

I don't want to jump the gun, but I'm also experimenting with the idea of a podcast. I would get some of my dumbass friends together and shoot the shit about a topic or two. That will only come once I have established some organisation to this chaos.