MAIREAD BYRNE

The Tired Terrorist

The terrorist was tired. Goddammit he said, I could do with some bacon & eggs. He was sick to the back teeth of killing. It was ugly. He’d had enough. He laid down his shotgun, his nail-bomb, his knife. He emptied his pockets. He unzipped his jacket. He thought of the spare room in his mother’s house. What he wouldn’t give to be under the peach coverlet right now, morning radio barely audible, shouts of the children outside, the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs. Or more foreign breakfasts. Croissants & apricot jam. Fresh bread & honey. Watermelon. Yogurt. Smoked horse. Even noodles.