We thought it would be interesting to put up a different kind of post to our usual academic analysis and commentaries, but which also tried to say something reflexive and useful about Ireland after NAMA; to capture something of the times and places in which we live.   Our first go at this is to create a set of ‘postcards from the edge’, which we’re calling ‘Postcards to NAMA’ using the format of a drabble.  A drabble is a story that is exactly one hundred words long.  The kind of length a note would be when scribbled on the back of a postcard.  Here are three to get us started.

 

Bills

They stared at the envelopes, all of them clearly bills or statements.

‘Don’t open them.’

‘We can’t just ignore them, Niall.  They’re not going to go away.’

He shook his head sadly.  ‘How the fuck did we get into this mess?’

‘You know how.’

‘Fucking banks.’

‘It was us that borrowed the money, Niall.’

‘Yeah, but they shouldn’t have lent us so much.  Jesus!’  He kicked the door.

‘Don’t.’

‘What difference does it make?  They’ll be taking it back off us soon.’  He kicked the door again, cracking the wood.

‘Niall.’  Her head felt like it was going to implode.

Rob Kitchin

 

Recycling

‘They go around smashing the patio windows and then leave it for a few days.’

‘Where?’

‘These ghost estates.’

‘And then what?’

‘They go around again and check. If it seems nobody noticed, they tear into the place, strip it, the lot – kitchens, radiators, boiler, fireplaces, water tank, even the jacks.’

‘For what?’

‘For scrap.  Or to ship it off – Bulgaria, England, you name it.  It’s rampant.  White vans in the middle of the night.  Fast work.  They can make as much noise as they like and not a word said.  They built them, now they recycle them.’

Denis Linehan


Thursday

Michael walked out of the post office counting his money.  He stuffed the change and the smaller notes into his back pocket and folded the larger ones carefully into his wallet.  Jimmy was on his way in.  Michael held the door.

‘Never goes far enough, wha?’ said Jimmy.

‘Better than nothin’. ‘

The wind hit Michael and he pulled his collar up around his neck. He hadn’t bothered to shave.  Sarah hadn’t noticed.  Across the street was a new bookies.  There was shopping needed, bills unpaid.  He turned away, sighed, slumped, then turned again. He crossed the street.

Cian O’Callaghan