Short story

Tue, 30 Dec 2008 12:50:07 GMT

Martina De Bruin by David Clarke

Martina De Bruin liked to follow her name with the qualifications she had accrued over her fifty years on every document she wrote, even on her students’ homework: Martina De Bruin FETAC B.A. M.Ed. Sometimes she would write them on the detention notes she had to sign for her son’s teacher to let her know Martina wasn’t like the other mothers. No, Martina De Bruin was not to be fucked with – she had an MA, BA, and post secondary qualification for that pretty little school teacher to contend with; and she was researching her proposal for a PhD thesis: Towards an Evolutionary Understanding of Pedagogy and the Working Classes. She’s desperate to follow her name with PHD; she might even call herself Doctor De Bruin, and if anybody thinks she’s a real doctor then she’s not to blame. People are just stupid. She thinks she will embolden it on typed documents to remind the masses. She can type fifty words a second and reminds her students of that unusual fact everyday.

It’s 9am on a Monday morning and clear enough to see the steeple from the church break the smog and remind the city who used to be lord in town. Martina’s husband Bruno dropped her to work over an hour ago. She teaches IT at a local community college to disadvantaged youths from the local housing estates. She’s doing it until she can get tenure at a university. She reminds herself repeatedly: “O, please publish my paper Journal of Irish Studies or I’ll be stuck with these decrepit knackers for eternity”. That was her mantra. Sometimes she’d forget to do anything else but repeat it in her head all day while most of her students looked at porn or chatted to their online friends. She didn’t care about them. She knew they’d pass and her job would be safe.

“Okay, class. Today we’re going to create an email. Do you all know how to open Explorer?” She said from her desk like she was teaching Montessori to three year old autistic children. “Obviously, Martina. Do you think we’ve had our synapses surgically removed by the Eastern Health Board?” quipped Helen, the youngest, from her seat.

Helen has a twin brother and has always had to fight for her half. She believes most twins dislike each other and proved it in an essay she wrote for a reputable magazine when she was only sixteen. But she doesn’t like to talk about it. She marches with the student’s union and has even marched with the farmers, but she’s a vegan and hasn’t been on a farm since primary school.

“Synapses? Yes, I do”, Martina reddened as she opened Google to search its definition. “I thought as much”, said Helen. “O, I didn’t see your fabulous new tracksuit. Is it new?” Martina said trying to change the subject. “O, God. You’re so patronising, and I’m not sure if you even realise. Who the hell do you think you are? I’ve had enough of you. What did we learn last Tuesday?” said Helen as she rose from her seat.

Martina closed her eyes and repeated her mantra in her head: “O, please publish my paper Journal of Irish Studies or I’ll be stuck with these decrepit knackers for eternity.”

“I taught you IT, silly. Now calm down and we’ll get on with today’s lesson”, replied Martina. “I will not calm down. Tell me what you taught us last Tuesday, or Wednesday even, or even Friday if you’re memory is failing you. I’ll understand. The evergreen isn’t green for ever,” replied Helen with a smug grin widening her face and pushing her heavy earrings back into her thick blonde hair. “O, it’s not that silly. I have important things on my mind. My husband is seriously ill in hospital. He might not make it. You know, things like that can affect a lady,” said Martina with tears in her eyes. “That’s awful. I had no idea, Martina. I’m terribly sorry. Would you not take some time off? That’s what I’d do,” said Helen.

“O, I’m not like you lot though. I like to keep my chin up high and move on; let nothing cloud the day”, said Martina as she painted her lips cherry and repeated her mantra in her head: “O, please publish my paper Journal of Irish Studies or I’ll be stuck with these decrepit knackers for eternity….”

Tue, 08 Jan 2008 19:50:01 GMT

LORENZO PLANA

HUCKLEBERRY FINN

One day I escaped from our flat,
a thousand windows searching for me.
I know time has passed:
and they tell me nobody created the sea.
And what does it matter if you have
an instant after every instant,
and there are a thousand broken windows,
a universe out of shape,
a sea without creating?

translated from the Spanish by David Immanuel Clarke

Writer's Block: My Favorite Shot

Mon, 07 Jan 2008 18:01:12 GMT

My favourite photographs are the ones I've yet to take, or that will never be taken; or memories which, to me, are photographs, visual sketches of what's been or what you've imagined has been.
There is no truth in an image, just a snapshot left for you to interpret and form part of your subjectivity.

Letterbox

Short story

Writer's Block: My Favorite Shot