Arthur Brain
Bio
North American ex-pat who emigrated to Belfast in the north of Ireland. Its people and history are my muse. I find inspiration in the streets and villages.
Stories (5)
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Sunday Bloody Sunday
They came from far and wide. Many walking, many sharing cars, others just finding a way forward. Mothers, sons, daughters, fathers, grandparents all. The outrage, the witnessed horror, the wounding and excruciating pain to the national soul on display. They marched to a place to mourn for their nation, to mourn for the fallen, they marched to Marrion Square Dublin. They were not alone, the outrage and anger everywhere: Cork, Galway, Sligo, Dundalk, Letterkenny, and over forty cities and towns large and small. The Irish soul was wounded that day, the love of a nation, the love of the fallen would be heard through an outpouring of love, anger, and patriotism.
By Arthur Brain4 years ago in Journal
The Killing Fields of Derby
The Killing Fields of Derby I arrived at the house in the dead of a rainy night. It was the first time I had been to Scotland. My loud knock brought the landlord. He was of African descent, mysterious, and talked in circles. “Welcome, I’ll show you around,” he said. “Would you like the money for rent?” I asked. He looked at me and beyond me, “No, perhaps tomorrow we can talk about that.” “How many live here, “I asked. “We invite many guests, a community.” His thick accent proved difficult to my ear.
By Arthur Brain4 years ago in Humans
Lifted
Belfast, Aug 9, 1971–4 am It was the crash of the tumbling front door that woke her. Mairé sat up, two silhouettes are in the bedroom doorway. The hall light beams around them, her breathing shallow and panicky. Patrick, Patrick, PATRICK! Waking, eyes rubbed, Patrick looks at Mairé. “What is it?” The two silhouettes moved quickly towards the bed revealing large automatic rifles. At top voice, a British Soldier is yelling “Put your hands on your heads, put your hands on your heads!” A third soldier — the leader — is now in the room. “Are you Patrick Ó Dowd? Are you Patrick Ó Dowd? “Yes, yes! what is this about, tá cearta agam, ba mhaith liom mo dhlíodóir, I have rights, I want my lawyer!” Patrick says shakily. He reaches out and pushes aside the gun barrel pointed at his wife. The soldier hovering over him laughs. “You have no rights you Fenian scum,” striking him across the head with the butt of the rifle. Blood pours out of Patrick’s nose; his eyes swelling. “Get up, get dressed.” shouts a soldier. Mairé hears the screams and cries of her five children. She rises to help as a mother must. A soldier grabs her by the hair and pulls her to the floor kicking her on the way down. Patrick is up managing a pair of trousers and a white undershirt: now quickly blood-covered. Barefooted, the soldiers leapfrog Patrick down the stairs and out to a waiting Saracen. The extraction took 5 minutes.
By Arthur Brain4 years ago in Fiction
The Killing Fields of Derby
I arrived at the house in the dead of a rainy night. It was the first time I had been to Scotland. My loud knock brought the landlord. He was of African descent, mysterious, and talked in circles. “Welcome, I’ll show you around,” he said. “Would you like the money for rent?” I asked. He looked at me and beyond me, “No, perhaps tomorrow we can talk about that.” “How many live here, “I asked. “We invite many guests, a community.” His thick accent proved difficult to my ear.
By Arthur Brain4 years ago in Humans
I Woke up and Died
I opened my eyes. She leaned in. “You had a heart attack” Staring, unable to speak, I looked at my wife blankly. I realized I heard words, I realized who she was. I recognized each word, but I could not comprehend the sentence, or for that matter, the situation. What seemed like an eternity later, my mind had hung on the last word: heart attack. It was a dreamy consciousness.
By Arthur Brain4 years ago in Confessions
