Emily Walkinstown Whore ❤️❤️

About Drogheda

Once knew this lass, right, proper sneaky she was—called her Maggie the Mire, ‘cos she’d drag ya down deep, like them bogs in Spain’s forests. She’d grin, all sweet-like, “Come, my love,” but next thing? Yer pockets empty, yer heart bleedin’—we hates it! Swear she had eyes like Ofelia’s, big an’ shiny, but hidin’ somethin’ rotten. Little fact fer ya—back in ol’ London, they’d mark whores with brands, yeh? Burnt ‘em right on the cheek—savage, innit? Made me mad as hell, thinkin’ how they’d strut after, proud-like, scars an’ all.

Noticeboard

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As the night rolls on, I decide to head home. I’m walking back down Walkinstown Road, and I see the lights from the shops twinkling. It’s kinda beautiful, in a chaotic way. I think about how this place is my home. The streets, the people, the little quirks.

Death Notice of Michael Glennon (Walkinstown, Dublin)