Tag: Fiction

The Unquiet Land

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a while, but we don’t get along all that well. She’s a straitlaced Puritan like many here in the village. And I hate Belfast, don’t you? There’s a brother and his wife in Liverpool, but I’m never going to England. I have a good friend in Derry. You know her. Molly McEvoy. Her husband was killed last year. She has often said that she and I should live together.”
“Derry’s not much improvement on Belfast,” Finn pointed out.
“No,” said Mother Ross, “but it might have to do. I don’t have a great deal of choice.”
“Come home with me, Jinnie,” Finn said impulsively. “I need someone to look after the twins. They’re nearly six years old now, and Una Slattery’s finding them too much of a handful with four children of her own. Caitlin’s a self-willed little imp who needs some of the wildness spanked out of her. Hard to believe they’re sisters, let alone twins. My house is comfortable, and there’s plenty of room. Come on. I’ll take you up there right away. I’ve the pony and trap on the road beyond.”
That was twenty years ago—twenty-one come June—and Mother Ross had lived in Finn MacLir’s house ever since. Six months after moving in as the keeper of his house and the childminder of his two young daughters, six months of slander-scandaled tongue-wagging in the village of Corrymore, Mother Ross became the second wife of Finn MacLir. Arthur Hamilton, as justice of the peace, married them in the dining room of the large, stone house. A party began on that first Friday in December, 1898, that people still talked about two decades later. And the first Friday of every month since then, whenever he was home, Finn and his friends met to celebrate yet again the night he married the widow, Sinead O’Neill, otherwise known as Mother Ross. Though she was Mrs Finn MacLir by law, she was, and remained, Mother Ross by custom. Even Caitlin never stopped calling her by the only name she had ever known her by.
“My mother was Annie Hogan before she married Jimmy Ross,” Mother Ross once related to Caitlin. “She was the midwife here in Corrymore for many years. I was the youngest of her seven children and I used to help her at the birthing. I was with her that terrible night when you and Nora were born, Caitlin. When the arthritis crippled my mother’s fingers, I took her place. I never had any children of my own.” A sad, faraway look had come into her eyes. “I was pregnant when my husband was drowned at sea, and I lost the baby in a miscarriage. I survived on my own after Jimmy’s death using midwifery skills learned at my mother’s side. I not only took

over her job, I was given her name at the same time. Mother Ross. It has stuck to me ever since.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

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lobsters and many varieties of fish. Francisco would light a fire on the
rocky floor and the smoke would rise through the gap overhead while
we prepared a feast. Monsieur Desjardines thought this secluded spot
was heaven. We’d spend the day fishing, eating lobster over an open
fire and sharing stories. There was something deliciously daring about
being in a place feared by the locals—if the weather blew up a storm,
as it could easily do, the magical hiding spot could well become a
watery tomb.
Ken’s young life was idyllic but Portugal was changing. At the close
of three decades in power, the once-benevolent dictatorship of Antonio
de Oliveria Salazar was losing favour. In an effort to maintain control as
opposition coalesced behind the dissident Henrique Galvoa, Salazar’s
secret police grew more and more vicious, and by 1956, the country was
under siege.
Lisbon was the kind of city that attracted unusual people: the brilliant,
the demonic and those who drifted on the fringes of society. Spies abounded.
Ordinary people were recruited to inform on their friends and neighbours,
and paid according to the value of their information. Many innocent people
were ruined and the ensuing chaos heightened Ken’s determination to get
himself and his family out of the country.
Although his employees revered Kirkby, Sr. his position as a major
industrialist was unpopular with the authorities. It was no secret he had ties
with the exiled Galvoa. The contents of their ongoing correspondence was
less public and this was a double-edged sword: the Salazar supporters were
suspicious of his connection with the agitator, but totally unaware of the
extent to which Kirkby, Sr. was being kept apprised of problems brewing
within the country.
By early 1957, the Kirkby business empire was showing signs of
imploding under the intensified attentions of the secret service. Sixteen-year-
old Ken had an extensive network of friends at all social levels. When
he realised that time was running out for his dad he managed, with their
help, to orchestrate his father’s escape via a private plane in the gloom of an
early morning with government enforcers hard on their heels.
Monsieur Desjardines arranged the necessary paperwork for Kirkby, Sr.
to enter Canada. However, it took many months and the official intervention

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

The Circle

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the idea of us going so we can check on how Ibrahim is doing. Hakim is afraid the
old man may get sick and not tell him until too late.”
Emily sits next to him and hugs him. She kisses his lips and feels all warmed up.
“For a while, I thought Hakim makes all your decisions for you. I had it
wrong; I’m sorry.”
He laughs, stretches his arms and hugs her; his hands caress her hot body.
He’s in a great mood.
“It’s exactly the opposite, my love. He’s the one who always asks for my
advice. Don’t forget Uncle Ibrahim relies on me to make sure Hakim is safe and
secure in whatever he does here.”
“You mean you keep an eye on him, like spying?”
“Not spying, sweetheart. I keep an eye on him to make sure he’s alright. There is
a difference between the two,” he answers, as his hand goes deep between her legs.
She turns her head and kisses him again while, at the same time, she makes
herself more available by opening her legs a bit; he takes the opportunity to slide
his fingers over her and feels her hair. She goes wild with his touch; her breathing
becomes faster.
“In other words, you play the role of guardian angel?”
“Yes, sweet Emily.”

Tuesday morning as Peter Bradshaw gets to the office and notices hardly any of
the other staff are in. He turns the coffeemaker on in the lunchroom and as he
waits for the coffee to brew, he hears another person come in. He sees Lorne
walking to his office. A couple of minutes later, Lorne comes into the lunchroom,
looking for fresh coffee.
“Good morning, Peter.”
“Good morning, Lorne.”
“How is it going? I saw you guys yesterday coming back from lunch; do you
go for lunch together often?”
“We go sometimes.”
“Anything I should know, Peter? Something I should be concerned about?”
he asks.
Peter understands that Lorne has his suspicions, but he certainly wouldn’t
know what happened yesterday.
“Nothing to be concerned with Lorne; we talked about everyday things,
nothing important.”
“Okay, then,” says Lorne, and then he adds, “If something I should be
concerned with comes up, will you tell me, Peter?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562817

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

Small Change

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Tunnel Vision
I WAS UP BEFORE DAWN, excited, but my sense of adventure was shaded by vague misgivings. There had been something in Buster’s voice I couldn’t quite identify, something everyone else understood, and their knowing smiles had made me uncomfortable.
I shrugged off the memory, slipped out of my pyjamas which I left in a pile on the floor, dressed quickly in a tee shirt, jeans, Keds sneakers, a Yankees baseball cap, and tip-toed down to the first floor kitchen. It was still cold, even on an August Saturday, and I shivered as I wolfed down my corn flakes with milk and fresh figs from the beloved tree in Z’Andonio’s next door garden. I left the dish and spoon in the sink and walked out into a brisk morning, sunlight just beginning to gain strength above the houses and trees.
An hour later I was crouched at the edge of a drainage ditch under the railroad bridge behind number five park. I had drifted off, imagining fish in the murky, slow moving water by the time they started to show up in twos and threes. They raised a hand or nodded or mumbled hi, but that was their only attempt at communication before they wandered off to sit by themselves.
Buster arrived around nine. He was Skinhead’s cousin. He’d come to stay with the Whalens for the summer and he hadn’t been on the block for more than a few hours before he’d organized everyone into a gang he called The Blue Damons. He meant Daemons, but I didn’t correct him when he called out to me as I sat on my front porch reading a Zane Grey western, and invited me to join them. My initiation was scheduled, he said, for Saturday morning, at dawn. I wanted to suggest high noon, but didn’t think he’d get it, so I said okay and went back to my book. It wasn’t dawn, or high noon either, but it was time. They all stood and walked over to meet him. I stayed where I was and just waited. After a brief exchange of low murmurs and a burst of laughter, Buster disengaged himself and came strutting through the criss-crossed shadows of the bridge.
“Did ya know dis is yer lucky day?”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763157

Wellspring of Love

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“Oh yeah, Grandma Milligan rang. Said she’ll call you later.” She
swung around to face Tyne. “Is there any mail? Anything from Pa?”
“No, I’m afraid not, honey.”
Rachael shrugged. “Yeah well, I guess he’s more interested in his
new family now.”
Tyne walked over to the girl and put her arm around her. “Oh
Rachael, I’m sure that’s not the case. He’s likely busy getting them
settled, as well as going to work every day in the railway yard.”
“I know, Mom, but he used to write at least every two weeks before
he married that woman and took her kids on as well.”
Tyne frowned and withdrew her arm, but kept her voice gentle.
“Rachael, Margaret has a name. Please don’t refer to her as that
woman. She seemed very nice when we met her, and I’m sure she’s
going to make your pa happy. Don’t begrudge him that.”
Rachael sighed. “Okay, I’m sorry.” She hesitated, then blurted,
“Mom, can I go to Lyssa’s tonight after supper? She said she’ll come
pick me up.”
Tyne’s eyebrows drew together. “You were there just two nights
ago, honey. Is there something special planned for tonight?”
Rachael shrugged. “Naw, just hanging and listening to records, I
guess. Please, Mom. It’s Saturday night. Lark’ll be there, too.”
“What about your Aunt Ruby? Will she be at home?”
Rachael hesitated. “I … don’t know … that is, I don’t think so. So
Lyssa says we can have the house to ourselves and play the record
player as loud as we like.”
Tyne took a deep breath. Should she give Rachael permission to
go to the Harrisons’ when there were no adults at home? Although
Lyssa considered herself an adult, Tyne would be far happier giving
Rachael permission to spend an evening with fifteen-year-old Lark
than with the precocious eighteen-year-old sister.
“Mom?”
“We’ll ask your dad when he comes in from the barn. If he says it’s
okay, then you can go. But I want you home by half past ten.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562917

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763327

Swamped

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the process. Then she went to the bathroom and emerged a moment
later looking professional and businesslike again. She sat down next
to him and talked business as if nothing but business had ever happened
between them. Eteo listened carefully and agreed on what
needed to be done for his new company, now registered under the
name Alexa Ventures. While Rebecca talked business, Eteo played
with her combed-up hair and neck and ears to the point of giving
her goosebumps, and Rebecca loved every moment of this but without
giving any hint of her awakening desire.
But when she had finished talking business, she let him undress
her to nothing and let him place her on top of him and ask her to
make him feel as wild as he had felt earlier, and Rebecca did her best
and rode his firmness deep inside her and like an amazon gave him
the utmost sexual pleasure once again. They both went to heaven and
back numerous times until they couldn’t have anymore, and then
rested in each other’s arms until the time came for Eteo to drive to
North Vancouver and Rebecca to her husband and child in Kitsilano.
Over the next few days Eteo’s work kept him busier than ever.
Golden Veins was getting a lot of attention, and its price had risen
into the fifties. This enabled Eteo to unload some of his clients’ stock
and use the funds to buy shares in Wheaton for them. Platinum Properties
was also doing very well, trading at a dollar and a half now and
with good volumes every day. John from the trading desk had gone
in and out of it a number of times as the stock moved upward, and
Eteo had sold many of the shares he held, getting good profits for his
personal accounts and his clients. Even Helena made a few dollars
on Platinum Properties. This delighted her, since as a conservative
girl she usually stayed away from risky penny stocks, except of course
when Eteo advised her to take the plunge.
One morning Eteo asked Mitch to meet him, and within half an
hour, he entered Eteo’s office, wondering what this was all about. He
didn’t have to wonder for long.
“Have a seat, Mitch,” Eteo said without any preamble. “I had a
meeting with Rebecca Horton. She has put the wheels in motion for
a new company incorporated for me with the name Alexa. You’ll
serve on the board of directors along with Peter, the engineer…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Jazz with Ella

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“Who knows?”
Paul and Jennifer locked stares. “You still want to do this, don’t you?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he nodded. A minute passed.
Finally David spoke. “So Paul, if you’re really going to leave, can I have your leather jacket?”
★
Breakfast was chaotic. At first, Ivan Nikolaevich announced to the diners that their departure would be delayed while they awaited the delivery of food supplies. Almost immediately following his speech, the riverboat moved away from the dock and waiters appeared with an adequate spread of hard-boiled eggs, bread and sausages for the buffet table. Ivan Nikolaevich appeared untroubled by this contradiction, and after fourteen days in the Soviet Union, the guests also treated it as normal. Jennifer, Paul and David helped themselves to the breakfast and sat together, saying little, distracted by their thoughts. There was no doubt in Jennifer’s mind that Paul would do what he wanted. Apart from anything else, she realized how much she would miss him—and not just for his jacket, like David.
The jacket. Huh. It’s very distinctive, thought Jennifer. She visualized the maroon and white leather college jacket with the appliqued letters “UV” for University of Vancouver on the sleeves. Her thoughts were already leaping ahead to the day that she and the others would have to cover up the fact that Paul had left the group. If someone else were to wear that jacket—someone, for instance, like that American, Frank, there—with the same haircut and height, he could be mistaken for Paul from the back. David glanced up at that moment, caught Jennifer’s look and also stared at the young man from Tennessee. Thoughts swirled, cascaded, in Jennifer’s consciousness: the jacket, the view of the haircut, something she had to remember, something she had promised in a dream. What was it?
“You know,” David spoke, his mouth full of toast, “that pretty boy from Tennessee is a real nice guy. I think he’s got his eye on you, Jennifer.”
She silenced him with a glare and went on with her breakfast.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Eagle Talon and his son, Honiahaka Little Wolf, emerged from the forest with a
magnificent buck slung from a sapling pole between them. The two men paused to
rest and massage their aching shoulders. Below them stretched the mighty water,
birthplace of the sun and home to the great creatures who blew fountains into the
air. It was also home to the friendly man savers.
As Eagle Talon looked far out to sea, he remembered how his youngest son, Kosumi,
was washed out of his canoe by a savage wave. He thought he’d lost his son to
the sea, but two man-size sea creatures, those who blew fountains of water into the
air, came to Kosumi and swam him safely to shore.
From that day forward, the Nation declared these man-savers Friends of the First
Light People. Never again did they hunt them for food. Since that time, the sea mammals
leapt from the water to greet the young men whenever they sailed out to spear
the white fish or to dive for the clawed sea-cleaners.
Eagle Talon whispered his thanks once more for his son’s life. Then he whispered
his thanks to all the creatures of the sea that fed his family and his people.
Little Wolf saw it first and crawled on all fours to the edge of the embankment for
a better look and beckoned his father to join him. On the beach below was a great
canoe, big as a longhouse. Strange, white-skinned men with hairy faces shouted at
one another and banged at boards of split pine, inside. Outside, men were painting
the frightful beast whose head was a double serpent totem of scarlet, blue and green.
Eagle Talon and his son watched in awe. They must return quickly to the village.
Surely the sachem, White Eagle, would have an answer to the appearance of such
strange visitors.
Since Eagle Talon and his tribe greatly respected White Eagle as a wise elder, a
confederation of villages elected him sachem. He governed the people of his district,
upheld the law, allocated farmland according to the size of each family, collected
tribute, provided for widows and orphans, and taught all boys up to the age of sixteen
the arts of manhood. He also acted as arbitrator, whenever war threatened.
White Eagle sat erect. His grey hair flowed unadorned in long shiny strands to
his lower back. He wore a beaded doeskin jacket, pants and moccasins. The sachem
raised his hand to call for calm and addressed the gathering of braves.
“My brothers. These strangers have surely come in peace. Let us welcome them
with gifts of food, as is our custom. We will honour them with song and dance at our
Lodge Fire and celebrate Broken Wing’s success in the hunt. If they allow us, we will
help them repair their strange craft that they may soon be on their way.”
The gathered braves turned to one another in discussion. Then they voted by a
show of hands to follow the sachem’s advice.
White Eagle continued. “I will approach the strangers at their camp. Broken
Wing, Crow Foot and Eagle Talon will bring sweet corn, the gift of the gods, and
fresh salmon. I go to prepare my face and body with red earth as a sign we are men
of the earth.”
Freki, ever on the lookout, was the first to see the four Natives approach the fire.
They wore only tan breechcloths. Three of the Natives wore crow and turkey feathers
in long braids. They had their heads shaved except for a long strip of stubble…

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763106

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume III

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14th of November
As we focus our eyes to notice a difference
among the pieces of day, we don’t know how to get
a hold of ourselves, we miss the shape, the hour, colors,
faces. We only listen carefully so that we might
discern a sound that confirms the passing of time,
so we can reverse the performance, box, broom handle,
name, the dice that roll on the table,
the limping wind that stumbles onto the barbwire
the fork that hits the plate and its sound that continues
internally.
Otherwise a circle without a center remains, a whirl
in the air with no movement but its own;
it can’t become a car tire that crosses a forest
and if once it becomes a square
it’s not a window through which you look at the world
or the three lined carpentries in an unfamiliar
neighborhood,
but only the relativity of straight lines, the analogy of corners,
boring, very boring things. A mathematician and
an astronomer could create something concrete and
clear out of all these.
I can’t. Yet I always liked the Observatories; the dark
stairway, the clock, the telescope, those photographs
of stars in homely positions: Orion without his sword,
with no underwear, Verenice with her many freckles,
unwashed, frumpy, a whole urban kitchen
transferred to a metaphysical location, boiling cups,
jugs, casseroles, the grater, salt cellar, baking tins,
white spots, a bit of steam hanging onto the smoked
walls of the night.
Someone was talking of numbers and more numbers,
light-eons, leagues and leagues. I wasn’t listening.
Today a friend was telling me that when he was thirteen
he was selling oranges and lemons in Piraeus;
he also had a young Armenian friend who was selling
socks. During the summer afternoons they’d meet in the
harbour behind a pile of sacks, where they’d put down
their baskets and read poems; then they’d eat a sesame
bread ring and an orange and gaze at the sea, the jumping
fish, the foreign ships.
From today I also have a friend who smells of orange
and harbour. He keeps many evening whistles of ships
in his pockets. I see the movement of the big finger
of the big harbour clock on his hands. From today on,
I’ll love him, I’ll unbutton one of his coat buttons.
Now I think of going to find his young Armenian friend
to find a basket with socks on the road, to cry out, socks,
beautiful socks, cheap socks. At noon, I’m sure I’ll find
the Armenian youth behind the sacks, I’ll get to know him;
he’ll recognize me since we both have the traces of our
common friend’s eyes on the lips. If I missed that
basket with the socks and the one with the lemons I
wouldn’t know how to fill my day, my words,
my silence.
Yet I believe every comrade wishes to have such a basket,
only that I don’t know where to find it and I get angry and
I search.

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Poodie James

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to the surface and throwing columns of water into the air. He
thought about being water, whipping into froth, rising to ride in
clouds above the world, dropping onto hills and fields, roaring
down mountainsides, lazing in lakes, plunging over dams and falls,
spreading to meet the ocean, enveloping rocks and logs and sunken
ships, fish swimming through you, sunlight playing on you.
He wondered if the world was alive and all of its plants and creatures
lived on it, as funguses and bacteria live on animals and people.
Poodie lay on his back in the sunshine and watched a hawk
circle in slow turns above the valley, soaring on updrafts. The only
effort he could see was a tilt of the wings now and then as the hawk
drifted up. It rose so high that wings and body blended into a speck
against the blue, then regained form as the hawk wheeled down to
float up again. He tried to imagine wind pushing against wings,
rushing over feathers, the thrill of the downward spiral, the elation
of being lifted atop a column of air. He wondered what the hawk
saw as it hung above the hills and orchards, the streets and houses,
people, the river. One of the books at the library said that hawks
and eagles could see a mouse from high in the air. He waved, in
case the hawk could see him. He wanted to know the currents of
the river the way the hawk knew the currents of the air. Swimming
the river, he had to work against the flow and eddies of the water
and fight his way across, as if the river didn’t want him there.
Sometimes it lulled him in its embrace, but the river’s power
frightened him. The air welcomed the hawk and bore it like a
mother carrying a child.
September 17
Swam the river today. Maybe last time this year. Air cold, water warm.
Very tired when finished. Getting old? Found a man looking in the
window when I came back. Showed me a card from the health department.
Said he had to inspect my cabin. Showed him inside. He took
notes. He wanted to look at the outhouse. More notes. Showed him my
apple trees, ready to pick. I gave him apples. Wrote my name for him. “I
know,” he said. Nice man.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868