Rickie O’Neill is a 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

A HYPOTHETICAL QUESTION

By Rickie O’Neill

It was ten o’clock in the morning and once again the fourth day of a poor September. Outside on the path, there were children making noise, almost too much noise, as they played about with a tattered ball. Old man Norman could see them too, these giddy kids, through the lace curtain of his kitchen window. All that laughter and all of those screams. . .

He could hear everything.

Even the tears of the local fat kid came through in waves and Norm thought “Ah yes. . .that great annoying sound once again. . .has it surely been in existence forever?” All that whining and moaning, it would make Norm laugh, when they finally told fatso the truth. When they said he wasn’t good enough for fun activities like this, and that maybe, just maybe, he should fuck off home to his big whorish mother and violent stepdad. . .or else he’d be fixing for a clippin.

Back in the kitchen, when the teapot was close to done it would let out a big long whistle that carried on for the guts of a minute until someone took it off the damn heat. But this sound, for Norm, was always good. It slowed everything down a bit, often reminding him of those real early day cartoons. Those proper, proper animations from the 1940s and 50s, or, from back in the good old days when he was young and kind’a fit. But, as he’ll say himself “It’s just a really old fucking teapot and all that whistling, yeah, it’s probably not a good sign. I should maybe get a new one.”

Standing at the sink, the pink sink, and drinking his tea, Norman would watch the little fat kid get beat to a pulp by a group of seven or so kids. And these few kids, the ones doing the beating, they were much fitter and stronger than the fatty. They were slick movers, more agile, and boy did they beat the hell out’a him.

Almost senseless.

He was bleeding now a’course, this fat kid. And he was crying out loud, calling for help, his mother, hoping somebody would come to his aid, maybe someone like Norman, as looms upon looms of thick dark blood poured out of his face and onto the ground. Old Norm thought it was a strange thing too. Strange and kind’a funny how the harsh laughter out’a these kids, just the sheer noise of it, could so easily outdo the hard suffering of just one boy. In his mind sadness was a much greater thing. It was a deeper expression almost than just joy. It had more of a boom. And the great fear (to top it all off) of what might happen tomorrow, eh? When this boy’s father got hold of these little hoodlums? He figured yes. . .there may be hell to pay. Severe hell. The very kind that would warrant a few small funerals.

“Ah. .” he said, tipping the rest of his tea down the sink. “At the end of the day, that boy should learn to eat properly and maybe throw a punch or two. That way those kids won’t be picking on him like that. All he has to do, when he’s well trained, is beat one of them up, to within an inch of his life, with a club or a stick, and just like that the others will get the message.”

Standing there at the kitchen window, looking out at the beautiful trees and the violence, Norman couldn’t help but for a second recall some of his own memories, from his own youth; an instance that should’ve been a pleasant thing to endure he thought. But no, this turned out to be something else entirely. . .

A malignant sort of an ordeal.

“Wait a minute.” he said, rubbing a finger over his left temple. “I thought I had gone and forgotten about all of that stuff. . .All of that misery. . .What’s happening here?”

These were vicious things by all accounts. Every single one of them. Full to the gills of pressure points, and teeth. And without a word of warning they arrived like a flood back into Norman’s life like he had all of a sudden owed them something.

Money.

Or an apology.

Here they were now, out of nowhere, these darkened voices from a hundred years ago. Here they were, like lightning, laughing and jeering, taunting, drawing out tears, along with everything else, like spiteful demons at a numbers rally.

“I remember it now.” he said. “I see what happened. And for whatever reason, I can’t seem to get it out of my head. He said it was –

December 1952 and another beautiful cold night in the middle of nowhere good. All day long, he said. . .I was smiling ear to ear, like a thing possessed. However I managed it in the end, that evening I somehow convinced my father to give me the loan of his car. It was an old Cortina. And I asked him to do it without complaint, all because I had wanted to take Maureen ‘Legs’ Joyce, the only woman I had ever really liked, out on a date. I was stood in front of the fireplace warming my hands when I dropped the bomb. The oul lad, he was plonked in his usual chair, half asleep, and honest to God, I couldn’t believe it when he said yes. The fact that for once in his life he actually trusted me with something. Everyone knew he loved that car more than me. Even Mam was shocked. You could see it on her face that she was utterly speechless.

“Thank you very much.” I said, giving him an awkward hug.

Thirty minutes later, around seven o’clock, as I made my way over to the house, all I knew she had to do was say YES to my offer. That’s all she had to do. And everything after that, I figured, would a’course be nice and dandy and come Monday wouldn’t I have a nice bit of raunchy good news for all the lads in school; provided it all went according to plan.

When I finally got to the house, and me all dressed up, I got out of the car, walked up to the door and when Maureen’s mother answered I politely asked if she was in.

“Hello, Mrs. Joyce.” I said. “Good evening. Is Maureen in?”

I couldn’t for the life of me remember the mother’s name at the time; and that annoyed me in a big way. I still can’t recall it. But she was one of those much older women who always had haunched shoulders and a sour look on her face. I knew right away when I had the question asked that I was in for the high jump with this one. My mind started racing a’course. What if she said no?

“She is in.” she said. “But. . .what do you want that cabbage for?”

That line would knock me a bit. Half sideways actually. If I’m being honest, I didn’t care for it at all, even if it did come from her mother. I’d become quietly angry soon after it was said. Quietly seething. Just the fact she had balls enough to speak about her daughter like that.

“Umm. I was wondering if I could maybe take her out for a few hours.” I said. “Take her out for a spin in that car over there.”

The mother shimmied forward a little then peered around me to get a look at the car.

“Is that your car?” she asked.

“It is indeed, madame.”

“Did you buy it?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. I did buy it.”

“With your own money?”

“I bought it with my own money.” I said. “Yes. I worked real hard to get it so I did Mrs. Joyce. Real hard.”

Laughing into my face, the old woman said – “Ahhh. Men these days wouldn’t know what hard feckin work was if it slapped them on the face. Tssk.” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “Hard work my backside. Why are you telling me lies young lad? . . .Why?. . .By the way, I’ve seen you about before too, haven’t I? Yes, I’m fairly sure I have. Only I can’t place your name for the life of me.”

I stopped the dear lady then, out of ‘respect’, and told her my name was Norman. Norman Waldron. And looking back now I almost wished I didn’t say anything of the sort. Looking back I kind’a half wish I just cut to the damn chase a lot quicker than I did. You see, for a moment there I was lax in my approach.

Too lax.

Too busy I was, yeah, too busy humouring casual chat while trying to politely honour an unnecessary line of questioning. And why exactly, because this old bag said so?

Nah.

No way.

For this, I could’ve killed myself on that very doorstep – honest to God. Only because I didn’t feel much in control of the situation. I was stalling too much I felt. Here I was shifting my weight about from one foot to the next, like a monkey in a zoo, and that behaviour simply was no good to anybody in a time like this.

Not where Maureen was concerned.

This false respect I was continuously offering up to her coward mother wasn’t going to get the girl into my father’s car any quicker. So I had to do something about it, and lively. “Excuse me madame.” I eventually said, producing a nice bouquet of flowers from behind my back. “I hope you don’t mind but these are for you.”

The woman scoffed at my gesture, of course she did, and looked down at the flowers with the same disdain a dog would have when he’s sticking his nose into an old boot.

“I hate lilies.” she said. “But I’ll take them anyways. I’m sure they’ll brighten up the kitchen window. All that’s there, at the moment, is a mountain of frickin ashtrays.” Then she said “MAUREEN LUV. THERE’S SOME LAD HERE AT THE DOOR LOOKING FOR YOU. BRING A JACKET AND MAYBE PUT ON YOUR GOOD SHOES. GOOD GIRLEEN.”

That evening I took Maureen up to the small lake beside the parish church. It was a beautiful spot, particularly at night, and had any amount of space for parking cars. Before we left at all, I even made a sound promise to Maureen’s mother, the crank, that I’d have her back by eleven o’clock and not a minute later. “And if we didn’t come back.” I said. “If somehow something awful were to happen to us while we were out. . .” I said “I give you full permission Mrs. Joyce to call the guards right away so that if they ever find us, they can lock me up for the rest of my life, for going back on my word, and that way yourself and Maureen won’t ever have to see or endure my company ever again.” And then I stuck my hand out before the old woman and said “HAVE WE GOT OURSELVES A DEAL?”

Well, what can I say? I at least thought it was a funny bit of theatre but, she didn’t laugh. A’course she didn’t. All she did in the end was scoff at the two of us, right into our mouths, and shut the door in our faces.

On the way up to the lake, my attention was split fairly evenly between the road ahead and the sharp, beautiful contours of Maureen’s side profile. That night she was wearing an almost all white outfit which I thought looked well against the leather of the black seats. The girl, God bless her, however she did it, made the whole business of looking beautiful seem profoundly effortless and for a while there I felt very inadequate in her company. But, I had to tell myself –

“You made your bed now, lad. So you better lie in it.”

I wasn’t too mad in thinking that I might maybe get a kiss off her that evening was I? Looking back at our exchange, I don’t think I made her uncomfortable with any of my “tricks”. Lord knows she had known me a long time at that stage, and knew only too well what lads our age were capable of. In all respects, her mother was kind’a right to be a little ticked off about the whole thing, but, even with that going through my head, as I drove the car, I still found myself to be very put out by what she had said about Maureen when she wasn’t present with us at the door; that whole caper of calling her a cabbage and what have you. How despicable can one be, to go around talking like that, to strangers, about their own daughter. Wrestling with the gearbox, I’d be flash-forwarding my mind into the future, our future, saying that if myself and Maureen ever had children, if I was ever lucky enough to get that far, I would only have the utmost of love and respect for them, and in that dream I’d forever hope to father a girl, only because it would further prove my point.

“One day, God.” I thought. “If ever I am lucky enough. One day.” I said.

And if I hadn’t slipped up with the car not a mile from that lake, maybe she would be here with me today. Sweet Maureen. Holding my hand and drinking tea. Watching the world go by outside. With its warts and all. “Yeah.” I said. “Maybe.”