http://slow.writerscafe.org/PatrickMacGill The original writings of author Patrick MacGill Synan en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776051852 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 She could sing of murderwith a bright smile like the ghostof child who doesn’t know she’s deadand plays hopscotch and jumps ropealone in a dusty attic.She said she believed in melody,that it was a line drawn over a mapin black ink, connecting.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/1026808/ As a child, Madeline dropped her feetin the swimming pool and sent wavesin two directions, bent herself at every joint and became a paper boat.Diving in as the waves returnedto each other, she was liftedon a sudden geyser rendered lost in atmosphere.An.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/1026805/ Were they to have written her out of the willshe would have walked all the way to the far side of the estate,where the stone wall still ends, and wherethe rest of us imagine her leaving her sandalsand galloping one minute, trotting the nextfalling deliberate.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/1026803/ While we were eating dal and riceout of bowls made from dried leavesthe servers shoed awaythe children who were beggingoutside the wall.Surely, you would have had them inbut you didn’t see.I’d like to imagine that the manin the black an.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/1026801/ I wouldwrite about the sun again. I would write about the juniper,turning brown. I would write about the orchard, or the shedwhere you’ve been keeping shovelsand grade rakes, where you builta set of shelves for gas cansand gloves, where I will neve.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/1026799/ If I am still, the flieswill not stay.They will not waitfor me to lose patience,nor will they lick their lipsand whistle at my sister.They are the leastof savages.I have a bag of empty beer cansleft open at one cornerof the yard. Cold as it getsin June at dusk,a gruesomely hot steamissues from it, s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/987370/ Nobody picks on the ivyfor slouching, or for creepingover the edge of the plastic potfor tapping one tentacle along the silland finding the window lever.It's only when it finds a gripon the arrow back chairthat Ma gets up and finds the shears.You'll find no man's land on either sideof any border, a .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/987367/ I would like to diveinto a sea of dead lettersand let myself turn paper thin,to wait alone in a taxifor a lady heading home.And as she stumbles by, left foot slipping on the sleek curb of the sidewalk,I'll not only stare.I will give my eyesa pair of legsa long armand a rubber han.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/987362/ She won’t make it today; she knowsbut still scratches in the consolefor quartersbackhands the little b***hin the backseat. Her buckle won’tcome loose.Death, vending loosiesin the entrance says, babea dime’ll doI didn’t make it today neither, and .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/977034/ I am here alone, arranging to be more sowith legal separation forms and financial affidavits, rememberingan inside joke or an empty visionof our thirties, forties and so on. What did we know?A little room on the east side, no papers then. High on the hoodof a station wagon, wha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/977031/ I remember a stretch of Route 4, on the wayto Kennebago, Maine. After the superstoreshad vanished, along with the Kittery shores, summer homes, fishing boats and red clay, we drove deep into the pines. The morning airwas full of their scent. The sunlight speckledthe pavement, and f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/977028/ Your memory was a reel offilmspliced by agein places.Your gait was timid as a pup's, but stillyou wouldn't trip. And they wouldn't let you, buying steel handrails and bathtub chairs, rentingthe hospital bed, which is all you need now. And still, they guide you along through your st.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/977026/ She was born an asteroidin Jehovah’s solar system,where Ma kept her cool with Sunday brunches, and Pa with the paper, sitting in his wooden chair. But her ambitions were thoseof the Apollos; her staminathat of a rocket. And whenthe family scoffed at herdreams to trave.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/977023/ We were studying Chopin when the plane flew over us, and I imagined a spotted owl quiet in the cavity of a redwood until a chainsaw revved through.And the air clotted with grit and tremors, wide eyes and whisperssweat, spittle and dander.Our professor tossed his hairscattered.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/974178/ We backed up to the open bay, jumpedout of the cab, zipped our jackets and took our places between two massesof rock salt left over from the storm,one in the truck, one in the shed.Wordlessly and dutifully, we emptied out the spreader, listenedto its engine shudder against the ta.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/PatrickMacGill/974176/