Nancy Spain

azure_eyes_by_darkgoth
Darkgoth@DeviantArt

I lifted my thumb for a lift. The driver ignored me and passed on by. It was late August, in 1979. Apart from the odd vehicle, the only other sound was the haunting cry of the curlew. It was going to be another glorious Irish summer day.

We had spent the night in Letterkenny, but I had left her with her friends. The baker had given me a lift to the Derry road, on his way to Ballyshannon. I had met her on the bus from Galway, a mature arts student, she said. But, I had met her before. No, I had seen her before, at Lisdoonvarna Folk Festival, a month before. She had been singing at a campfire. Her haunting voice had touched something in me and had drawn me to her. Maybe, fate had brought us together. Who knows? Continue reading “Nancy Spain”

Conspiratio

I wonder if the WordPress Community could help me…..
So, here goes:
A couple of month’s back I was reminiscing with my Mum. I asked her about an interesting character that used to visit us. We called him the Day and Night Man because he used to arrive just before lunch or supper. When he came, us kids were chased out of the dining room so that the adults could talk. We knew our freeloader was involved in hush-hush affairs.
So, back to Mum. She told me that he was a double agent, but she declined to go into details about his activities – best to let sleeping dogs lie. From what little she disclosed, the Day and Night Man was, indeed, an interesting character. He was Mum’s cousin. Their grandmothers were sisters. Sadly, he was gunned down by unknown assailants in his house, back in the 1980s. I guess one side got to him.
The Day and Night Man got me thinking. I started writing a story about him. I let my imagination loose and it soared like and African condor. The result was my second novel.
I had planned to have the story as three separate books, but I ended up with a book with three parts. I need the reader to get the full SP. I chose the Latin word for Conspiracy. I think it adds gravitas to the book. The story is about conspiracies, after all.
So, I would like the WordPress communities to have a read of my story, over the summer, as a respite to all your blogging. Or ask any of the new adults (18 to 30) that you might know.
Here’s the book description I have used when I published the book on Amazon:
     Would you have the courage to solve a murder, especially if the deceased was a family member?

Small Conspiratio

     Nineteen-year-old Zeb discovers that his uncle was not a victim of a hit and run accident, but of murder. After his shock, anger, regret and helplessness, he vows to find the truth about his uncle’s death.

     Accompany Zeb and an unorthodox Celtic heiress with golden eyes and a gift of Third Sight, on his quest. Follow them down one heart-pounding rabbit hole after another, as they follow the murderer trail. Lift the rock off an ancient conspiracy and open cans of worms, as they search for Truth and Justice.

     Take a deep breath and enjoy the roller-coaster ride of murder, mystery, conspiracy, sex, family intrigue and retribution.

If you are interested, feel free to e-mail or contact me via the Contact page. Parts of the story are autobiographical. London was my home for a decade, spanning the 80s and 90s.
Peace be with you.
PS: Is it usual for an author or writer to be moved by his or her work? Some parts of my story had me in tears.

Cry

Cry
bgfkjWiffsmiff23 at Flickr.com

I found this poem deep in my computer. I couldn’t open it with my current version of MS Word. The file was a DOC file, last saved in November 1994! I opened it with Notepad.  In amongst the Zip DingBats was this poem and another. The events that warranted my poem was what was going on in Rwanda, Bosnia and Somalia.  At the time, I was33, free, single and without a cat or a dog. Much has changed both with me and the world, but this poem hasn’t.

Continue reading “Cry”

N3

N3
Ian Armstrong ©2014

Trafalgar Square was full of tired Millennium revellers. His hands were warm in his pockets. She offered him a fag. He had given up the fags on the stroke of midnight. She looked cute in her Tinker Bell costume, so he took it. He leant forward for a light. Their eyes met, like passing ships in the night. A cold wind made her shiver. He handed her his warm parka. He smiled at her. She looked like the Michelin Man. They watched the buses come and go. The N3 arrived. “Are you coming?” He flicked his fag and followed her.

Remember

Remember
outlawninja.deviantart.com/

This is the second poem I found. I updated it to reflect current realities. I wrote it whilst watching the 1994 Remembrance Sunday ceremony.

Cold and wet, young men stand at ill ease,

With old veterans uncomfortable with thoughts of fallen comrades.

The Scots, the Irish, the Welsh, the Grenadiers and Household Guards in their grey splendour,

In memory of the Great Fallen

From the green fields of France to the poppy fields of Afghanistan,

Lest we forget.

9 Lessons learnt in Life

Sunrise

I have lived a full and interesting life. I count myself fortunate in having had an idyllic, safe and middle-class childhood. I was lucky enough to attend a high school, which was a beacon of multi-racialism during South Africa’s Apartheid years. I am a proud beneficiary of Ireland’s wonderful tertiary education system. For a decade, London was my home, THE global city. I have had the opportunity to work in various countries, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe., and I have met wonderful and interesting people, who have made me a better person.

Continue reading “9 Lessons learnt in Life”