It was one of those Ballykillduff days that seemed to have been mislaid at birth and never quite recovered.
Morning arrived reluctantly, dragging itself over the hills like a wet coat someone else had already worn. The sky hung low and colourless, a slab of dull tin pressed flat against the rooftops. Rain fell straight down—no drama, no thunder—just a steady, joyless drizzle that soaked everything slowly, as if the day had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.
The village square was empty. Even the statue—whose subject nobody could quite remember—looked embarrassed to be standing there, rain slicking its shoulders until it gleamed like a regret. The shop windows were dim, lights left off to save electricity or enthusiasm. Inside O’Flaherty’s, the radio murmured to itself, unheard by anyone, reporting weather that was already happening far too much.
Water crept along the gutters in thin, patient streams, carrying leaves, grit, and the occasional idea that had fallen out of someone’s head. The river swelled and darkened, moving faster than usual, as though it were late for something important and slightly annoyed about it. It slapped at the banks with muddy urgency, whispering to the stones in a language only old things understood.
People stayed indoors. Curtains twitched. Kettles boiled repeatedly, less out of need than for reassurance. Somewhere, a clock ticked far too loudly, reminding the house that time was still passing even if the day itself appeared stuck.
Down by the lane, the old telephone box—long disconnected but never removed—stood full of rainwater and reflections. For a moment, it looked as though the village had drowned a smaller version of itself inside, a pocket Ballykillduff where it was always raining and nobody ever answered.
By afternoon, the cold had worked its way into the bones of the place. Doors swelled. Hinges complained. The rain grew heavier, not angrier—just more insistent, as though it were trying to explain something important and failing repeatedly. Puddles formed in the familiar dips of the road, each one a dark mirror showing the sky exactly as it was: unhelpful and unavoidable.
And yet—quietly, stubbornly—life went on.
A light flicked on in an upstairs window. Smoke rose from one chimney, then another. Somewhere, a dog barked at nothing in particular, satisfied it had done its duty. The rain softened, just a fraction, as evening crept in with blue shadows and the promise of lamps and supper.
Ballykillduff endured the day the way it endured most things: without complaint, without fuss, and with the unspoken understanding that this too would pass. Tomorrow might be brighter. Or stranger. Or worse.
But tonight, the rain would keep falling, the village would keep breathing, and the dark would settle in—not as an ending, but as a pause.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 