Bate da Bag outta Ye

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Liam gingerly placed an ice pack on a swollen throbbing jaw, given to him by his brother Jimmy.  That Jimmy—he sure busted me dial (punched my face).

What had started out as fun horseplay at O'Burne's Pub had escalated into a full-on brawl.  Disgraceful!  You boys have embarrassed us! AGAIN! Their mother had shouted a frequently delivered statement into their faces.

The sequence of the battle had had them rolling onto the pool table, smashing bar stools, and delivering heavy punches (knock yer pan).

  

When blood and broken beer bottles were splattered throughout the bar, the owner Frank McGuire threw them out to dark dank Knackers Avenue. “Get on yer bike and take yerself dah feck this minute if not sooner!” (Get out.)

Once the anger drained away, they staggered along the dim street, holding each other up.  

“A fine donnybrook (brawl), Jimmy .  I sure bate the bag outta ye (beat you up).”

“I’ll gi’ ye that, Liam.  You marmaladed me (punched) but good.”

“Ah, weel, I’ll knack yer ballix in (I'll beat you up) again next time…let’s git on home so Ma can gob smack us. (tell us off and perhaps slap us).”

The Irish males are often a rowdy group who may congregate in pubs. They have very colorful language. After a soccer or hurling game, there is often great animosity.

Next week starts December, and River will be providing some exciting Wednesday Words for ye.

  

The Colored Bottles

This is a re-re-post, originally written in 2011.  It was a photo prompt given by ??  You will find that answer under the photo!

1st Writes Photo

Over the years, Helen had dusted the shelves for her Great-Aunt Elspeth.  At first Helen could reach only the bottom shelf, and Aunt Elspeth had praised her. 

“Oh, what a magnificent job you have done!  Someday,” Aunt Elspeth had pointed to the very top shelf, “you will reach that shelf!  I will let you choose the bottle you love the most!”

Each time Helen polished and cleaned the shelves, she gazed at the bottles so far out of her reach.  ‘Someday…’  One time Helen would favor the green bottle, but the next time she dusted, she desired the pink bottle.

Years stacked up in numbers as Helen grew and she could dust the next shelf, and then the next.  Which one would she choose?  The blue?  The violet?  So lovely, so hard to decide.

When Helen could just almost reach the shelf, Aunt Elspeth dropped dead right in front of her. 

 By this time, Helen was now grown as much as she ever would; she was a mother with a small child.  As she closed the eyes of her now-deceased aunt, Helen smiled gently.

Then Helen found a sturdy stool and a box.  She stepped onto the stool and stood level with the shelf.  Gazing fondly at each bottle, Helen sighed.  

Reaching tentatively, Helen spoke, “One?  Hell, I’m going to take them all!”