Don't Mind Me - Tapa blanda

Coughlan, Brian

 
9798985882483: Don't Mind Me

Sinopsis

What begins as tragedy trips into farce, the realistic somehow turns mystical and, viewed through a prism of irony, these delightfully off kilter stories offer surprising, often skewed and witfully unsettling impressions. Don’t Mind Me is a collection that follows no rules and leaves no tracks.

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Acerca del autor

Brian Coughlan lives in Galway, Ireland. Wattle & daub is his first collection of short stories.

Fragmento. © Reproducción autorizada. Todos los derechos reservados.

From ‘The Instrument’

The practising went up several notches in our linoleum and pine kitchen until a family member entered the room for food or water or simply to go from one part of the house to another. As soon as they entered the room I would stop playing and stare at them. The mastery of this complex and moody instrument could not happen with someone watching, or worse listening, to what I was doing. It must have been my pretend dedication and serious demeanour that convinced my family I would become proficient at playing the instrument. In reality I was self-flagellating with the same song; Kelly the Boy from Killane that I massacred time and time again in a halting, error strewn manner, until the inner clasps fastened themselves and the whole apparatus clamped shut with a sudden sullen finality.

From ‘Keys Cut While You Wait’

The poor man had himself driven demented; convinced beyond all reasonable doubt that the people at nearby tables were secretly stealing glances in his direction. Guarding their smiles with menus large enough to act as shields they were passing comment on his pinkish perspiring head and fogged-up designer glasses. It really didn’t look like his date was going to make an appearance, did it? Because there was no reason why she shouldn’t have sent him a message through the dating App; especially if she was simply running a little late for some perfectly understandable reason: like a road accident or a death in the family; unless of course she had changed her mind about the whole thing and was planning to ghost him, in which case he should immediately gather up the remnants of his self-respect, pay the waiter for his drinks, and slither into the night.

From ‘Motorcycle Man’

I told the lady, in no uncertain terms, that Motorcycle Man was entirely her responsibility; as much as it pained me to say so, there was nothing I could do to help her. The phone returning arthritically to its cradle was a proper jab to the heart. I erupted into overflowing tears. I couldn’t stop myself from blubbering, blubbering like a very tired old man. I wasn’t crying for him (I thought): I was crying for myself. Here was the day. Here was the day of reckoning and I was too weak, too pathetic, to do anything. I turned up the volume on my antiques show as high as it would go; I wiped the tears from my eyes with a pocket handkerchief and blew my nose; I considered the build-up of moisture on the bedroom window as a sign of how cold it was outside; I opened/closed my pocket-knife multiple times; and I did a thousand other inconsequential things before I finally called Claire back to beg for her forgiveness, explaining my initial reaction as mere shock, and offering her my full and undivided assistance.

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