Polly Richardson – fiction

Fredrick was RIP 1800

   Creak the floors drenched in screams, groaning cracks. What secrets do you weep?  He hunched, eyeing threads. Perfection, despite squalor. His sanctuary, near two years since his death.  Wicks reluctantly flicked light, spluttered glow. He remembers this one’s squeals. Almost climaxed, as he recalled the ether wafting, tangoing its way up her flared nostrils. Nasal hair recoiled, defenceless. Her eyes screeched till bulge. Burst vessels branched out, spread like skin-forest. He strokes. Inhaled that image deeply so it rests on inner fibres for nights ingestion. Soft flesh, rippling, his vice-like grip. The old machine quivered protest in rotation. Struggled to indent that unfamiliar with its prick, tap tap tap.

 Mouldy walls sweated damp never flinched his senses, nor their stench, piled ten high. Knotted locks draped revealing blue lips in darkness of still shadows. Expressions deadpan, de-tongued.   His gnarled digits fingered, caressed fading pinkness, gliding it swiftly, tap, tap. The rats unable to take it scurried, leaving the rotten as sacrifice. He cackled, baritone-ish. Planted it within echoes that coiled their way down. Drowning whispers. The others, froze.

Frantically they clawed, pickpick, picked indentations. No hope of stones left etched. Their undreamt dreams dragged to waltz in slinks of sanity. Their knowing. Begged the cockrail call. Immersed in hopes of dawns gifted moments of relief and breath.

He gathered himself. His obsessions shuffled his assent to the infirmary. Setting them all off howling despite no moon.  Leaving them guessing who’s next, their pleas submerged, as he climbs. He liked to play, taunt before ribboning flesh. One by one.  Keeping them just about living. Walls never speak, only conceal yet deafened.

He skulked the old corners, waiting, to pounce prey. He thirsts. Pulsating, pooling saliva, watching. Wild-eyed whores birthed snatched, point grappled sheets to wail their knowing, as priests claim demonic possessions. Turning own eyes blind to corners, yet their necks prickle beneath the dog collar, smelling rancid behind. Nobody ever listens to insane. Nobody notices the disappeared, already condemned.

Polly Richardson (Munnelly) is a Dublin born poet now living and writing in Meath. She has been published both nationally and internationally in many anthologies and e-zines under the surname of Munnelly and more recently Richardson. A contributing poet to US-based poetry forum Mad Swirl and Europe’s Live Encounters digi mag with poems featuring in  Boston’s Nixes Mate review, Porter Gulch Review Cabrillo college US, Italian based Lotus Eater mag and member of and co-runs Navan creative writers group: The Bulls Arse. She has been heard reading at national and international poetry festivals from 2013 to 2019 including Trim’s (Meath Ireland) first poetry festival in 2019. She also has been heard at open mic nights all over Ireland and via Skype for the second time to Dallas when Mad Swirl went live launching their best of anthology 2018 in 2019. In 2017 she worked with Frisian poet and the now Netherlands Laureate Teasd Brunja in Harrlem in Amsterdam.  

She has been featured in many issues of The Blue Nib and was shortlisted in their Chapbook 2 competition 2018 and was highly commended by judge Kevin Higgins. She also appears in a special edition of Boyne Berries honoring poet Francis Ledwig’s centenary in 2017 and in their 25th edition in 2019. In 2016 she was part of an event ‘Awaken Your Soul’ that was shortlisted for a Sabateur award in London 2017. Her poem Fox Thought has been used to inspire sculptures creates by a group of art students in the US. This year 2019  she been heard reading poems on the radio for international poetry day and recently did a second radio recording for MasterCreators covering creativeness of the creator, poetry, writing and the process, with a third interview booked for summer 2019. She recently had poems published in a new anthology by Drogheda’s creative writers group – Poems From The Trail -a  collection of poetry that featured on last year’s poetry trail at Fleadh Cheoil 2018. She is currently working on her first collection.

Polly Richardson

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