Rickie O’Neill is a writer, actor, director and musician originally from Claremorris, Mayo, currently residing in Galway. For the past 11 years, Rickie has been a session musician and full-time drummer for the Irish band The Saw Doctors. In 2015 he changed his course slightly and began writing, starting off with short film scripts and poetry (which he still enjoys writing very much to this day). In 2017 he took a keen interest in the short story form and was particularly impacted by how powerful a short story can be as opposed to a long-drawn-out novel. Plus, you finish them quicker. He would love to share his latest short story with you titled “Poor Podgeen Marksman”. Rickie’s writing influences include Anton Checkov, Roald Dahl, George Saunders, Lafcadio Hearn, Mike McCormack, Donal Ryan.

Poor Podgeen Marksman

By Rickie O’Neill

  Podgeen McDonagh, a boy of about eight, liked to practice his careful shot by lining up old tin cans on a wall at the back of his house and firing them off as quick as he could.

  In the beginning his shot was terrible. Borderline useless. But over the years, having practiced himself diligently into the late hours of every night, Podgeen got better and better and by the time Podgeen was fourteen, it was no problem at all for him to have sixteen cans gone off of the same wall in just a matter of seconds.

  “Have you seen young Podeen McDonagh’s shot?” the locals would often say.

  “I have. I have seen it. Isn’t it excellent?”

  “Indeed it is. Very excellent.”

  “Which one is Podgeen again?”

  “Podgeen is the bastard, Noel.” said the priest. “Short lad. Tubby. Tight blonde hair.”

  “Ah yes.”

  “The same lad I wouldn’t like to cross. I don’t care how old he is. I would not like to cross him.”

  “Now.” said the butcher Noel, running a tainted blade across his apron. “I can’t say I know him well myself, but I knew his Father one time and he was a nice enough man.” Noel turned to the priest then: ”Just the oysters Father is it?”

  Soon sixteen cans became forty, forty would become fifty, and by the time Podgeen had finally reached his eighteenth birthday – just old enough to take a drink for himself – he had become one of the most highly anticipated marksmen in the whole, entire village; easily out gunning anyone he met, of any age, and firing now up to sixty cans off the very same five foot wall in just under thirty seconds.

  Life for Podgeen was good.

  At the local discos, Podgeen would make bold claims and liken a good gun to an old Grandfather clock, insisting time and time again that the real action was never on the outside but rather within, for it was here and only here that the real intimacy took place, and that no amount of visual refinements or engravings or polish could ever top the spectacular chain of events that do naturally occur deep within the workings of a machine’s gut and hearing all this, the young girls about him – about Podgeen – in their gowns, naivety and dresses, would blush and giggle and melt away before his young eyes like butter off a hot scone.

  There was one girl in particular: Bernadette Mangan – who Podgeen always fancied after in the town. And Bernadette – thankfully – was a much better looking girl than her God given name suggested, and it was no issue at all for her to leave manys the human speechless simply by existing in the way that she did, as gracefully as she did, with her magnetic physique and straight black hair.

  Someone once said of her eyes that “They were like two small & warless earths.” while another person compared them to “sharp blue pearls of total perfection up held by the most carefully whipped cleopatras I have ever seen, and a gentle smile to boot. . . sure what’s not to love?”

  But Podgeen McDonagh, sadly, had only ever done that. Loved the girl for the way she had looked and for her effortless ways in seemingly everything.

  Aside from that, he knew not much about the girl.

  “She is fantastic, Mam.” he’d say every night at the dinner table. “A truly magnificent creature if I ever saw one, and ya know, I’d love to get to know her a small bit as well, just to see if she’d have any interest in me. But hey, who knows, maybe I’ll do it someday. Hah. Maybe some evening I’ll work up enough courage to go and talk to her, Mam. I might even ask her out if I feel inclined to do so. Wouldn’t that be brilliant. Eh? And then I could take her back here and introduce her to you and just like that, BOOM, you’ll have a new friend coz I know how much you struggle to make new fri. . .”

  And Podgeen’s Mother Etna would sit there quietly; half smiling, eating her greens and with her legs crossed calmly beneath the table. And whenever Podgeen would look away – even if it was for a half second – she’d roll back her eyes and sigh simply because she was sick to her teeth of hearing this same old story over and over again – about the same strange girl and with no good promise of an outcome,

  But because she loved the lad very much, her chin would quiver gently around the base of her fork whenever she took a bite of food; like a balancing act. And you could see it in her eyes too – her tired eyes – that they were ravaged by war, and the spectacular heartache and dread she had felt for her only son as he sat there with her, not eating at thing, but laughing and joking, in total love – pretending his heart was perfectly fine when in actual fact it wasn’t,

  and he would do this time and time again: Podgeen would – every single night, and had done since he was about nine years old – maybe even ten – and what am I going to do with him?” she thought. “Coz when he’s not harping on about her he’s ranting and raving about the other thing.”

  “Sixty something fucking cans in half a minute?” the priest exclaimed one afternoon. “That’s 2 and a bit cans a second. That’s impressive.”

  “The lad has talent, Father.” the grocer Patsy replied, banging her fist off the counter. “For sure he does, and there’s no denying it. But he’s a lost soul around these parts I’m afraid. A nomad almost. A God damn nomad.”

  and then she goes:

  “You know what I think, Father? Eh? Do you want to know what I really, really think?”

  The priest nodded once, half preoccupied with something else.

  “What is it Patsy, luv? What in the name of God do you really think?”

  And rubbing her fat, spotted jowls Patsy said: “I think Father. . I think that lad would be better off shooting that yoke someplace else. Like at a war or something, don’t you?”

  And as she spoke, the priest nodded and smiled and scratched the corner of his eye and pretended to listen to all that was being said but get this, he wasn’t really listening at all – of course he wasn’t.

  Much too busy with something else he had been. . .something odd & peculiar,

  a Sin perhaps,

  as he dragged his lethargic feet after him in search of the very thing he was looking for, and isn’t it only right and proper that such distractions be violently typical among our clergymen, especially those tied down to semi-doomed parishes in the middle of nowhere.

  Like this one.

  “Our holy man is a bit distracted.” they roared, pitchforks in hand. “Too damn busy eyeing up the liquorice, deals and the bribes and knowing him and the blatant way he goes about his things, he’ll probably get away with it too, the devil.” and

  “When Will We See Change?”

  “Well Patsy.” the priest goes eventually. “I wouldn’t rule it out for one second. The boy is still quite young and Thank God for that, but however young he may be, he has a lot of learning left ahead of himself. If war calls upon his soul I am sure he’ll go away to take it, and wouldn’t it be a crying shame for the community to lose the boy like that. . .in such a manner. A crying shame.”

  Slouched over the shop’s countertop, the grocer Patsy listened carefully to the priest and everything he had to say on the matter. And while he spoke; traipsing about the aisles – she would cough and splutter and bite into each of her discoloured fingernails like a thing perpetually starved –

  and whenever she found herself in agreement with something; an all too seldom affair – whatever it was – she’d simply lean back, arrogantly enough, and make this educated sound that went something like “Mmmm, mmmm, yes, yes” and the nails she didn’t fancy hanging on to were either swallowed whole (by her) or spat down into a bin by the sink.

  “I’M NOT CONVINCED, FR.FINTAN.” she went on. “I mean, what good is it firing at silly cans around here, in this rotten place, when you could be out firing at monkeys and shouting for peace somewhere else, in some place that’s nice and getting bloody well paid for it. Although.” she went on. “I’m not sure he has the right constitution for it either. For war like. I mean, the same lad would want to skirt a few pounds off himself if he’s going to be at that craic, don’t you agree? I mean. .come on!”

  The grocer Patsy let out a big sigh then, rant over, and said: “Look Father, I’m only saying how I feel, alright? That’s all it is. The boy Podgeen McDonagh can do whatever the hell he likes with himself; good, bad or indifferent, I don’t actually care. . . .Now, just the sweets is it?”

  One Autumn morning – early – Podgeen McDonagh, aka ‘The Best Marksman In The Village’ got up out of his bed, dressed himself, went into the kitchenette of his Mother’s house and poured himself a large cup of water from the tap.

  You see, reader, it was never common practice within this line of work to shoot on a full stomach. It was important to stay very lean, light and empty in the knowledge that there would always be time to eat something delicious later; and for this evening’s meal Podgeen had his sights set firmly on a few thick slices of bacon, cream sauce, some spuds and a lock cabbage, and slicking back his hair in the mirror with a comb he said out loud: “Ya know something, this evening actually can’t come quick enough. I’m gonna eat like hell so I am. Like a God damn velociraptor. And nothing is going to stop me.”

  The dark sun had just started to come up over the far off hills and Podgeen’s plan for the morning, and some of the day, was to attempt a full clean pass at seventy cans perched on the wall, and this was – even for Podgeen – a truly mad feet. “But if I can somehow do it.” he thought to himself. “If I can somehow muster up the tact to succeed here today by getting all those buggers down off the wall without making too much of a mess and within the allotted timeframe then I’ll be happy, for it will be a new personal best.

  “Seventy cans in thirty four seconds? Have I gone stone feckin mad?”

  It was a spectacular undertaking. An almost in-human post to ask of a youngster so early in the morning. “By rights I should be in bed like all the other lads my age.” Podgeen thought. “Cuddled up in my nice warm He-Man blanket. . .dreaming of guns, marshmallows, naked women, Mangan and He-Man.”

  But luckily for Podgeen, the process of today’s mission was simple. “If failure graces me.” he goes. “I won’t worry or panic about it. I’ll simply calm myself down, take a step back, have a fag, or two, and strive to tackle it another day. Hell, I might even go back to bed.”

  The weather had been warmer than usual today. Strange for Autumn. The air fresh and pleasant with a faint smell of slurry and diesel in the ether. Podgeen quickly realised once he stepped outside that he had no much need for a jacket, so he took it off a while later – the pristine denim his mother had bought him – and hung it up on the branch of a tree.

  He loved quiet days like this; Podgeen, where nothing really moved. It was perfect shooting weather. Ideal in every sense. Although he would often say that it was the bad weather days that made a good shooter, because “Nothing, and I mean nothing, worthwhile was ever accomplished in the sunshine.”

  And as Podgeen gathered up all the cans he could find, suddenly he became very thankful to have gotten so many of those so called ‘bad days’ throughout his young life, for it was a very sound demonstration of one’s wit, will and discipline.

  He wondered if his fascinating ‘gunslinging’ story would’ve been an altogether different state of affairs had he lived someplace else. Someplace hot and exotic on the other side of the world – like Pakistan or India, the Philippines maybe, and he thought yeah, that it probably would.

  “They have great shooters in these places too though.” he said to himself. “Fantastic shooters in fact. However I truly doubt that any of them are as good as me. . . .You know why? . . .Because they don’t have no hail or snow to train them. Aha. All they have is heat.” he said. “Dead fuckin heat. Whereas I, Podgeen McDonagh, have loads upon loads of the bad stuff, and I am very lucky for it.”

  A few moments passed as Podgeen gathered up the last of the cans and set them carefully down on top of the wall, and after that he walked over to his position in the muck, took up his gun, checked it then settled it neatly into his arms as if it were a new born child and he held it tight like he loved it.

  “Now little one.” he goes to the gun in quiet. “You sit there and be good.”

  and without any more encouragement the butt end of the gun did exactly what she was told and settled herself nicely into the crevice of Podgeen’s thin chest as he – the boy wonder – locked his fingers down onto their crucial positions and braced.

  “There you are you little son of a bitch.” he says, looking at his first doomed target through the gun’s eye-piece. “I see you.”

  There she was ladies & gentlemen – can number one – an old Maxwell House tin, sitting pretty atop the mossy five foot wall as if she had been there for years and had all the world’s time to waste.

  However Podgeen had no interest in wasting time and was quick to cock back the gun and fire it off

  BANG!

  and just as he did it – the very second he pulled that trigger – a familiar voice from behind him said: “Good morning Podge. . .”

  and that,

  dear reader,

  I’m afraid,

  was all it took.

  The boy – suddenly frightened – screamed with the shock, sending the bullet not towards its intended target, but haywire into a nearby wall,

  ‘Pyoom’

  Like a hellish pinball,

  and a half second later the bloody thing flew back again – at twice the damn speed – zipping through trees and bushes and past Podgeen’s head before eventually finding its forever mark between the two bewildered eyes of the man that spoke,

  and Podgeen heard it all, the whizzing and the pinging and the rustling of leaves followed by the grim penetrative clak of metal as it splits through flesh and bone, and then Podgeen said: “Whoops. This is not good. Not good at all.”

  The poor unfortunate’s official name was Gerry something, but arrkid Podgeen had always known him by his other title – The Postman.

  It was eight o clock in the morning now and Podgeen, shivering like a mad thing, quickly dropped his gun to the dirt and stood back – wanting to get a right look at the man. Five or so seconds later the fifty-something year old father of two crashed down to the hard ground like a sack of God knows what, with a big hole in his head and a thick red line streaming down the centre of his face.

  A silence fell.

  “Well would you look at that.” Podgeen goes, running a hand along the back of his head and looking off to the side. “I’ve only gone and killed the damn Postman. Sugar. . .Well, in my defence, I suppose he shouldn’t have startled me the way he did so I guess it’s his own fault. . .”

  In all truth, the boy Podgeen only half knew the man. His name could have been Maurice Stack as far as he was concerned. However, he would watch the man closely for some time, like a scientist, and after a while he thought it totally absurd that someone like that could die such a gruesome death so early in the morning and still have their eyes open.

  “Surely he can see me here now.” Podgeen said, waving a hand in front of the dead man’s face. “It can’t be lights out that fast can it?”

  He would suffer a delayed reaction to the whole situation; Podgeen. In fact, he even made slight light of it for a while, almost believing it was a prank. But when he did finally realise the damage, and that it was all real stuff; that’s when the panic took him. Utter panic.

  And when that happened. When the panic had finally set in; he ran into the house as fast as he could and he had sweat on his forehead and under his eyes on the palms of his hands, and being the honest lad that he was, he cleaned his shoes and quickly took up the home phone and when the policewoman answered on the other end, he screamed at her in hysterics and said: “Please come quick! Please come quick! There’s been a terrible accident! You need to get here pronto!”

  “Who’s calling please?” the operator replied.

  “It’s me, miss. Podgeen McDonagh. I’m the best marksman in the whole entire village.”

Written By: Rickie O’Neill