First Pages

From the Fiction

Short Story · An Aiden Glencar Story

Arise and Go Now

A companion piece to Give Them Unquiet Dreams.

I arrived at Rita’s house about noon. Her blue eyes widened when she opened the door. She patted the sides of her red hair and smoothed her pleated cotton nightdress, a pattern of honey-bees. She was always donning unusual clothing or changing the color of her hair, which was ash blond a month ago.

“Aiden, I’m a mess. I fell asleep on the couch. Come in.” She held a book entitled Audrey Rose.

She saw me looking at the cover. A girl in a red dress stood in front of a grave. The ground was on fire.

“Junk. I hope you’re reading better things in school. Let’s sit in the backyard. It’s such a lovely day.”

We walked through the hallway and kitchen to a brick patio covered by a pergola. She led me to a black wrought-iron table. Sunlight glimmered through the red cedar lattice above us, dappling her face. The air smelled grassy and pungent. Cat urine? Then a scent of roses reached my nose.

“Will ya have a cup of tea?” She pulled out a rusted chair.

“Sure.”

“Sit here. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

A blue jay lapped the greenish water of a fluted cement birdbath, then shook its wings, cawed, and flew away. Along one side of the patio, potted plants moved in the breeze; a few swayed in macramé holders—lush ferns, the yellow and green spider plant, the wandering Jew with its purple and green heart-shaped leaves, and others I could not name. Children laughed on the other side of the tall hedge.

“Come grab the door.” Rita elbowed the screen door. She held a small tray with a teapot and two cups.

As I hurried towards her, a chipmunk darted in front of me.

“Thank you, Aiden.”

When we were seated, she said, “Isn’t this peaceful?” She looked around. “Sometimes I sit here from morning until evening, watching the birds lift their wings or listening ’til the crickets sing.” She laughed. “That rhymed. I’m a poet.” She poured tea into a cup with milk and sugar. “Here you go.” Then she poured her own. A small pot of azaleas cast a purple glow under her chin.

“I want to apologize,” I said.

“For what?” She sipped and looked at me over her tea.

“Nanna and I lied to you.”

“And when did you do that?”

“I don’t have leukemia.”

“I know that, Aiden,” she said matter-of-factly.

The story continues
Read the full story at Impspired

Essay · The Teaching Life

Teaching at Fifty-Six

A nonfiction piece on the classroom, salvation, and synchronicity.

The full essay is published on this site, with annotations: a teacher at fifty-six on the schooner and the ladder, the “Who am I?” assignment, synchronicity, and why the classroom became a kind of salvation.

Read Teaching at Fifty-Six

Four Poems

From the Poetry

Selected work from journals including the Galway Review and Sparks of Calliope. Mulhern has been shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award and nominated for Best of the Net.

Leaves

First published in the Galway Review

That fall day we raked leaves from behind the shed.

Smell of earth and wet decay rose in the cold air.

We could see our breath.

Worms and beetles scattered through a fence.

I saw dirt and thought we had finished.

“Not yet,” you said.

The gray sky grew darker and the wind chilled.

When your flashlight showed not a speck of leaf,

you said, “We’re done.”

Today I look at the wet leaves below.

I kneel and clear your grave.

Again, I smell the earth and feel the biting cold.

The damp leaves shimmer like tears, not many,

that drop on the yellowed grass.

“We’re done,” I hear you say.

I say a prayer, cross myself, and rise.

I see my breath and imagine I see yours.

I should leave, I think, but not yet.

Honeymoon

First published in Sparks of Calliope

She asks me to put bacitracin on her heel.

“Do you see a small cut?”

I nod and rub the ointment against the crack.

Her feet are calloused and rough.

“That feels good.” She sighs.

I see her honeymoon picture on the end table.

My mother and father could be my children.

Waving from the past, bright eyes and lips,

she resembles Elizabeth Taylor in a hat.

Both dressed in fine apparel,

expectant, happy, apprehensive expressions.

“What you looking at?” She glances to the side.

“Oh, that,” she says softly. I rub Aveeno into her feet.

Tilting her head back, she closes her eyes and smiles.

The room darkens. The rain outside taps a pane.

I think of how far these feet have walked,

the tenderness at the bottom of her sole.

Kneeling, I’m thankful to ease one hurt.

Her chest rises and falls, and soon she will sleep.

Someday later, I’ll hold the photograph

and remember this night —

the rain and the darkening eve.

I will see my mother waving to me.

Maybe I will feel the cut of pain, a sigh of love,

or nothing at all.

Moving Forward

First published in the Galway Review

Mornings I injected insulin into my dog

and made sure she had enough water in her bowl.

To see her in the yard, wobbling as she peed bloody urine, pained me.

Ethel’s pain was greater than mine though,

especially the times she collapsed onto the cold tile

or bumped into walls and furniture because of her thick cataracts.

One day she could no longer hold her urine,

so I bought diapers for her, which always managed to fall off.

I began carrying her when she had that look, helping her get quickly to the yard.

My mother said, “Can’t you put her to sleep?”

I said, “So when you become incontinent, I should do the same?”

“Guess not,” she answered. I’m my mother’s healthcare proxy.

Eventually I had to euthanize her, Ethel that is.

As I left the office, the young woman at the desk said, “Sorry for your loss.”

I bent over my steering wheel and cried for a long while, then drove out of the lot.

My mother, eighty-two, is losing her sight.

She tells me she depends on audio books and the largest fonts for her texts.

Her body is filled with metal — multiple surgeries on her spine, hips, and leg.

Someday she will die and I’ll visit the empty space of her apartment.

I will remember her resolve to move forward when I see the walker beside her chair.

How she listened to me, standing tall, and told me through dim blue eyes, “I love you, sweetheart.”

All of the living are broken, inside and out,

and the problems continue to accumulate.

It’s how we care for others, show love, and move forward

that helps us become whole again.

Session’s End

First published in Sparks of Calliope

One day there is no news.

The anchors stare at empty teleprompters,

eyes wide and twitching, lips quivering,

they look into the camera.

We change channels.

See black screens or people scrambling on sets,

passing blank papers and whispering.

We do not hear what they say, and we do not care.

We are too tired to move.

Through the living room windows: trees and sky.

The wind blows and birds fly.

Somewhere snow falls and thunder booms.

But not here. There is no weather.

No drama, conflict, or story.

No wars, crimes, or political crises.

No empty talk. No sound and fury.

In a forest, high on a pine,

a wood thrush sings.

Deep in a dark-water cave,

the Emperor angelfish knocks.

A judge’s ruling: session’s end.

Someone shuts a door.

After Reading · On the Craft

Notes on the Craft

Readers who reach the end of these samples may notice a few recurring habits. One is a willingness to slow down—to let a chipmunk dart across a patio, a blue jay shake water from its wings, a scent of roses reach the nose before the dialogue resumes. Another is the ordinary and the unspeakable placed in the same paragraph: a teacup poured, a lie confessed; a hand on a child’s forehead, a diagnosis of schizophrenia. A third is attention to what a character cannot yet say aloud. These are only a few things to look for; readers find others.

If a piece interests you, more work is available on Amazon, in a back issue, or at the local library.

In the Journals

The Writing