Galway City, late July—when dawn comes early—5am, only twenty minutes off. All was calm. All was bright. It reminded me of something . . .
Tag: Seamus Scanlon
My brother Sid was a fire starter who started early. He was twelve. He was precocious. He was an igniter atrocious. He was a pyromaniac poet laureate . . .
It was a rainy day in Galway. Nothing new—Galway and rain are synonymous, along with fog, mist, hailstones, slippery footpaths, pneumonia . . .
Dusk was falling on a high summer day in Galway City, a place that claimed me but never loved me . . .
The new teacher, Mister Moran, was on an exchange program from New York. Our school was a nickname maelstrom—Ghoul, Moose, Bull, Scab, Pox-face, Arse-brain. He was Moron straight off. He got off easy. You should have seen him . . .
Featured: Black Interest
- Home: Social Essays
- New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Tano)
- A Simple Distance
- Dog War
- What Is Hip-Hop?
- On the Way Back
- Bandits & Bibles: Convict Literature in Nineteenth-Century America
- Pressure Makes Diamonds: Becoming the Woman I Pretended to Be
- The Baker’s Son: My Life in Business
- Game World