"Holy fecking Jesus Christ!" His blaspheming rattled the beads off the rosary that our Aunt, Sister Maire, was saying in front of the open plot that mother was about to be lowered into. Finally, Mother would be back with Daddy. She always said she'd make him pay for dying first. All Mother's sanctimonious and religious siblings were there to pray the happy couple a less volatile after life together than they experienced in the before life!

Affronted no doubt by such base wordage, Sister Maire, nervously clicked her beads together, and prayed silently louder. It was louder because her lips bumped together more violently. I saw she was shaking a little. I wondered whether she'd dare to nip from her holy water flask while she was in public.

Sister Maire was pretending not to be unsettled by David's outburst but I could plainly see her shaking in her boots. Apart from the withdrawals she was no doubt enduring, she'd never favoured David. When were were kids she used to tell him to be more like his lovely sister. Christ! If only she knew what I got up to! If only she knew what the Priest got up to!

David was pointing backward, toward some unknown focus of his base language. "I don't know who's buried there, but I just passed our father's grave three plots back!"

My head shot away from Sister Maire's beads like I was a marionette jerked to life. "What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"They've dug up the wrong fecking grave, Maive. They're about to plant our mother on top of some other poor sod. Oh Jesus, Joseph and Mary. Like any one else other than Da deserves her for all eternity."

I was furious. FURIOUS. Both parents died destitute and I had to credit card the funerals. If this mistake was going to cost me another digging fee I might just kill someone myself and bury them in the first hole. Shit. I was still paying off Daddy's funeral from years ago. I could not have another thing on my credit card. As it was, Mother had to be buried in Sister Maire's habit because it was the only half way decent free garment we could lay our hands on. I had no more capacity to pay for my Irish family's catholic drinking ways. Their religion and the results of their drinking were costing me the earth.

Despite David's fierceness of words, he doubled over with grief and twenty seven years worth of codependent living with alcoholic parents. He rocked and moaned while keeping himself just above ground level. Everybody was looking at him. My empathy levels had long run off to join the Protestants and I just wished he'd pull his shit together so we could get to the wake and get well and truly pissed. His pathetic crying sent me away in the head.

His rocking reminded me of something he used to do when we were kids. We'd rock bad situations into games. Oi! That bastard wasn't crying for his gone Mam. He was laughing. He was shaking with laughter. His tears were tears from belly laughs and lack of breath. He found this hilarious.

In retrospect, it was. Feck off, Mam and Da. Slainte.




If you wish to join the Writers Prompt Daily simply use the above photo as a prompt and post a short story, poem or paragraph to your blog. Leave a comment and the link here so that all participants can come to you and read/comment/encourage. Story above is copyright and is Megan Bayliss' writing around the above picture prompt.