Rickie O’Neill is a 35 year old writer, actor, director and musician originally from Claremorris, Mayo, currently residing in Galway. For the past 13 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. Rickie’s writing influences include Anton Checkov, Roald Dahl, George Saunders, Lafcadio Hearn, Chuck Palahniuk, Anthony Bourdain, Mike McCormack & Donal Ryan. Last December, Rickie released his first self-published novella called Little Sickos, under the pseudonym Fionnain J McKeon, and in March 2026, he released his anthology under the same name titled ALIVE ALL NIGHT, which can be purchased from Rickie/Fionnain directly by emailing: saltedstrings@gmail.com
DO YOU TAKE THEE?
By Rickie O’Neill
Once she laid eyes on them, Beatrice McConville said they were the nicest tulips she had ever seen in her life.
IN MY LIFE.
“Much more beautiful and pristine.” she said. “Than the gammy old things I received only a few months ago, when I was celebrating my first marriage.”
All morning long, Beatrice and her party had been struggling with her dress. No matter how hard the poor woman sucked the damn thing in, her plump figure just wouldn’t go into it. The bloody thing just would not slip on. Sobbing quietly at the disaster, Beatrice proclaimed –
“I’ve been fasting for hours now so I have. I’ve been doing everything the doctor told me to do. Drinking water. Eating kiwis. I’ve been smoking. Taking laxatives. And still, I’m a fat ugly mess.” She said “I should sue that motherfucker for leading me on, shouldn’t I? Yeah. I should take him to the cleaners. For everything he’s got. Because he told me I could be skinny-ish.” Moving through the space like a cage fighter, she said to the room “How on earth can a girl be skinny when all that fucker does is feed you lies? . . .Tell me. HOW?”
The bridesmaids, all three of them, stood back and bit their lips.
“I have remained fat because of him.” she said. “The BASTARD. He’d want to have his license taken away from him. Quick. Oh yes.” she said. “I’ll see to that. I will. I’ll bring his world down around him so freakin fast he won’t know what hit him. . .You mark my words.”
All this mounting negativity. . .it was tiring work for Beatrice. Real tiring. After the exhaustion had kicked in, she would slump her weight against the nearest wall and let out a sigh. A real angry one. After that, she took the pointy end of a cloth and carefully blotted out the loose mascara lines around her eyes.
“Honestly though girls.” she said, folding the cloth and dabbing, folding and dabbing. “The only thing getting me through this right now is the lovely look out’a those tulips. On my oath, they are absolutely fucking stunning.”
Outside in the chapel, there was a man called Derek running about. At 5ft 2, he was the trusted MC for this afternoon, the middle man if you like between the antsy much older crowd and the ‘yet to arrive’ celebrant.
Prior to the ceremony, this Derek fella had been tasked with the important job of greeting people and seating people. All the guests.
All Of Them.
A post he’d make much work out of although it was relatively simple to decipher on paper.
For the guts of forty minutes, this chap Derek battled through intense sweat and tears, stuffed into a tux that didn’t even belong to him. With a slight accent he drove the show, and would have more sweat running down the length of his back into his balls than he would ever care to mention.
Once his shift was up later that night, Derek would make big plans for the moment he got home to burn whatever clothes he was wearing that day. . .not because they were ill fitting or anything. . .but because of the deadened memories that had grown attached to it.
“It’s a thankless job.” he’d say, burying his face into his sweaty hands. “But. . .I want that house on the beach.”
Upon arrival into the ceremony, one female guest, a wheelchair bound lady called Audrey, said that, on her way in, she saw this man Derek vomiting profusely, like, really hard, into one of the more decadent floral bushes.
“He made a mockery out’a all those lovely hydrangeas.” she said. “But, it didn’t seem to deter him. . .”
She said “However he managed to get all of us fussy people seated safely, and so quickly, in the end is beyond me. A miracle if there ever was one. And with
No incidents apparently.”
Real soon, the place was at full capacity. Filled to the brim with bodies and a wild assortment of familiar faces – close friends, relatives, children, distinguished guests, you name it.
From the outset, the whole thing was shaping up nicely. Promising to be one of those perfect little, and wholesome days out.
“WHY THE FUCK won’t my god damn belly fit into this fucking dress?” Beatrice screamed. “It was perfect at the fitting. . .I’ve been drinking water. And fucking smoking for crying out loud. I’ve been doing everything right.”
“We could ask the chef?” said one of the bridesmaids then. Samantha. The best looking of them all.
Beatrice scoffed. Another stupid suggestion.
“What on earth do you want a chef for?”
“Well. . .” she said. “He might have some goose fat on him.”
“WHAT?”
“Yeah. . .We could lather you up in it. In some goose fat. From head to toe. We’ll stuff it right in there. . .won’t we girls?”
“YES.”
“Into all of your crevices, nooks and crannies, and if we do it properly, and I mean a really good job, I swear you’ll squeeze into that dress in no time at all. Heck.” she said, putting her hands on her big hips. “Even olive oil would do the trick. Or lube. So how about it girl. You in?”
Beatrice looked at her girls, face glowing redder by the second, and said
“Have I a friggin choice?”
In an effort of solidarity, and because they had loved their friend very much, the three pink dressed bridesmaids gathered around the doomed bride, and like a pack of hyenas they made arrangements for her. Strict arrangements. Which would involve a small measure of force, unkind force, and forty sachets of lubricant.
“Or goose fat . . .” said one of the bridesmaids. “If the chef has it.”
“Yes Monica. Goose fat. . .especially for a job like this. . .would be fucking perfect. Quick.” she said. “Someone get that guy Dave or Darren for me. Tell him it’s urgent.”
“I think his name is Derek, Sam.”
Samantha threw her arms up into the air and growling a fierce thing, she said
“I don’t care if his name is Jesus fucking Christ just bring him here. . .NOW.”
And so they did.
The bridesmaids went off and fetched Derek from the outside carnage and stood him before Beatrice and Samantha like some punishable serf. But a’course, there was nothing in the end he could have possibly done.
“I’m not like one of you.” he said, after a flurry of insults back and forth. “I know nothing about the turmoils of a woman. Not in this situation, or any situation for that matter. Therefore I can’t help you.”
He said “All I know is that there are A LOT of people sat out there looking forward to a real beautiful ceremony and it’s up to us to give it to them. The groom is on site waiting for his bride. And as of. . .”
Checking his watch.
“Four minutes ago, we have our celebrant, Jane. . .Nice girl.”
Beatrice looked around at the scene. She did it slowly. Carefully absorbing the look of each helpless face that was staring back at her. It was five minutes to one now in the afternoon and running a hand along the underside of her belly she said. . .
”Fuck my life. Being this pregnant is so overrated.”
The Galway Review 