This piece of flash fiction was selected for inclusion in Autumn Leaves, a broadsheet of poetry, flash fiction & song lyrics by Roscommon writers. Autumn Leaves is part of the Arts Office Literary Development Programme, funded by Roscommon County Council and the Arts Council of Ireland.
Another row footed. Twenty-three minutes, that one.
She sweeps hair back from her face, replacing it with sweat and the turf mould’s dust. Not to mind. That row has her a few quid – ten, maybe twenty – closer.
Closer to going. Closer to being gone.
Turn, lift, stack, foot.
There’s a box buried in the bog. There’s money in it. It’s her money, earned by her for her. It’s for getting out of here.
She mentally runs through what’s in it. No small sum. A ways to go yet, but Fifth Avenue beckons. The Statue of Liberty too. And perusing Tiffany’s window at dawn, coffee in one hand and some sort of bun in the other.
Turn, lift, stack, foot.
Taking to the turf was genius. No-one wondering what someone like her wanted with working. No accountability, comment or payslip, just approval for being ‘a great worker’ – a woman’s highest accolade around these parts.
Getting away. It can’t come soon enough.
Away from curtain-twitchers and nosebags. Away from endless washing and potatoes with every dinner. From going to Mass for the want of something to do, from gripe water and the price of beef. From the surname she never liked, never wanted. From weariness she’s too young for.
Turn, lift, stack, foot.
She’s not proud of herself, but she cannot stay. He’s a good man who’ll find another. He’ll recover.
Turn, lift, stack, foot.
Though it’ll take him a long time.
Turn, lift, stack –
Her parents too.
Turn, lift –
There’ll be no coming back
Turn, lift –
Not even for funerals
Turn –
Not ever.
doireann.ie 