Tag: writing

The Unquiet Land

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excerpt

She used to stick up for Nora like an older brother. Fearless, she was. What a girl.”
Finn’s voice trailed away, but the wistful look remained. He was recalling scenes from long ago. “I was working on the boat one summer afternoon. Hot as an oven, I remember. Had been for several days. The children were playing on the harbour. Half a dozen of them. Boys and girls. They must have been ten or eleven years-old at the time. Clifford Hamilton was there. He was a bumptious young fellow even then. He started teasing Nora. I don’t know what he was saying because I was too far away. But you know Nora. Always sensitive, easily embarrassed. Whatever young Clifford said, Nora took it ill. It obviously upset her. That got Caitlin’s back up. Man alive, she lit into Clifford like a she-cat. Next we knew, Clifford was over the edge and into the water.” Finn chuckled. “It happened so quickly no one could do anything to prevent it. I saw it coming and I shouted, but I was too late. Even if they heard me, which I doubt. And Caitlin just stood up there on the lip of the harbour, hands on her hips, and continued shouting at poor Clifford who was swimming to the ladder to get out.”
“The tide was in then,” Padraig said.
“By good fortune it was.” Finn said. “Clifford would have been in one hell of a mess if it hadn’t been.”
Then the old man fixed his pale grey eyes on Padraig’s emaciated face for a few moments of silent but stringent admonition. “I hope you’ll leave Caitlin alone, Padraig. I hope you won’t try to force her to conform to your impossible Christian practices. Keep that nonsense for the saintly Nora. Caitlin’s different. She has pride in herself, and I want her to keep it. I want her to know that her accomplishments—and they are many—are her own, her very own. I would hate her to go through life thinking that she owed them to a non-existent god, that they were the hand-outs of divine charity. What pride can anyone derive from that? So leave Caitlin alone. Do you hear me?”
Padraig remained silent. He returned Finn’s unwavering gaze with a look of obdurate purpose. The two men sat in this dualistic pose for several seconds.
“So that’s how it is,” Finn said at last.
Still Padraig did not answer. He looked away from Finn with harrowing sadness and regret, his glance settling on the pale porcelain of the Victory of Samothrace.
“Damn you, Padraig,” Finn said with feeling but without raising his

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

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

Ken Kirkby, Warrior Painter

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To have the warmth and companionship fade away now that he had time
to devote to her in the pursuit of her dreams seemed to be nothing short of
cruel. Whatever it took to appease Karen would be done.
~~
Now, in Bowser, Ken was faced with the sudden realisation that he had
been living life on autopilot. It was a severe jolt for the man who prided
himself on being attentive at all times to what was going on, both within
himself and in the world surrounding him. As a quicksilver dawn slipped
above the scattering of islands offshore, Ken made a fresh pot of coffee and
realized he’d made a breakthrough. It had been a long night coming to grips
with the situation. Self-awareness was a fundamental state of mind for him,
but as he replayed the recent years, he could identify countless occurrences
that had ultimately reduced him to this astonishing loss of control.
His elusive mind was stubborn in its refusal to follow an orderly chain
of thoughts, and he became aware that for months, perhaps even years,
his overloaded brain had taken refuge in the distractions provided by an
intelligent mind. No matter how vigorously he attempted to discipline it to
the process, it slid sideways into something less conflicting.
The act of thinking had become busy work, necessary in order to avoid
the bleak despair that filled him, most especially intensified when Karen had
withdrawn. But he now recognised it was an escape mechanism that needed
to be meticulously managed. For the first time in a long while, he was
looking with a clear eye at the core of his anguish rather than retreating from
it. Gradually he was being filled with certainty that, with this awakening, he
was exactly where he should be.
My real job now was to be painstaking in programming my healing,
much as I did in Portugal when my dad turned the problem of beating
my recurring childhood illness over to me.
Ken was frequently ill in his early years. Although no medical expense
was spared, the ailment remained unnamed. He had grown weaker, thinner
and yet more tired following relocation from Britain to Spain. However,
in his mother’s Spanish culture, weakness—whether physical or mental—
was never to be acknowledged. It was only after the family rejoined Ken’s
dad in Parede, Portugal that the six-year-old was permitted to articulate…

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

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562902

Jazz with Ella

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VOLGA RIVER, JULY 17, 1974
“She’s madder than a hornet, and she’s calling for your blood,” teased Marty. He ducked out of Hank’s way. It was lunch time on the morning after Hank had found Lona’s mysterious black book. “I guess she tortured your waitress friend until she confessed.”
“I’ll go find her,” Hank muttered. “I don’t want Chopyk or Jennifer to find out. Don’t say anything, okay?”
He didn’t have far to look. They smacked into one another at the door to the dining room.
“You…creep,” Lona growled at Hank, her usual Cheshire cat smile missing. “Now, give me back my book!”
He couldn’t resist one last stand. “Uh…whatcha talking about?” She was about to raise her voice again, when he hustled her down the hall, one hand firmly on her back, until they were out of earshot of the passengers.
“Okay, so I took it. It was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to know why you’re on this trip—and don’t give me that line about being a student.”
Lona drew herself up to her full height and bristled like an alley cat prepared to do battle. She thrust out her hand imperiously. “It’s none of your business, you thief. I want my book back right now!”
Hank knew when he was licked. “I just …heck, I’d still like to know. I’ll get it for you.” He walked her to his cabin, and she waited at the door, tapping her toe, until he placed the worn black book in her hand. “Come on, Lona. I just wanted to get to know you. Maybe we could still be friends.”
In fact, the book had been a big disappointment—besides a list of Russian names and addresses there were only a few other notes on icons

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

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

In Turbulent Times

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Then Liam was still. With a low moan his body relaxed, and she felt the full weight of it pressing on her. For a moment he lay upon her with his chin on her shoulder. Then he pulled himself away and rolled over on to his back with a sigh. Nora winced at the hurt of his withdrawal and burst into tears.
҂
Liam Dooley sat in his armchair by the fire reading an old, leather-bound copy of The Confessions of Saint Augustine that was old even when his grandfather bought it in Smithfield Market in Belfast many years before.
‘Grandda, if I was to ask you to name the book that most influenced you,’ Liam had once asked of the old man, ‘which one would you choose?’
‘The Confessions of St. Augustine,’ Grandfather Owen Dooley had replied with no hesitation. ‘That book gave me a whole new way to think about God and religion. It took me deep into the meaning of life, and continues to do so. He’s been the most influential thinker that I’ve ever read. I have an old copy in the bookcase there. Read it as often as you can. And when I die, I want you to have it and cherish it.’
When his grandfather died the book had indeed passed to Liam, the only physical keepsake Liam had of the old man whom he had venerated for as long as he could remember. Often he felt that his grandfather watched over him from Heaven, that everything he did had to be good because his grandfather was always there, watching. Liam’s great fear was that his grandfather could read his thoughts too. But he calmed himself by arguing that his grandfather would understand the often lustful thoughts of a young, single man. As long as Liam kept his lust on a tight leash his grandfather would appreciate the struggle and commend him on its victory. Only once had he surrendered; and since the day of his lapse with Nora Carrick he had taken to praying not to God, not to the Virgin, not to St Francis, but to his grandfather, asking his grandfather to forgive the humiliation he had caused him in the sight of God and begging the old man to intercede for him with the blessed saints, with God Himself.
‘I’m not like Padraig,’ Liam argued with the spirit of his grandfather. ‘I am not a priest. I have taken no vow of celibacy. Nora is an adult woman. She came to me of her own free will. Pressed her body against mine. I could not have done what I did otherwise. You know that. I would never touch a woman unless she encouraged me. And Nora encouraged me. It was she who suggested going to bed. She wanted to have sex with me.’
Liam looked up from his book. The fire was low.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

He Rode Tall

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“I would like to see Mr. McQuaid, the branch manager,”
said Joel.
“I’m sorry Mr. Hooper, but Mr. McQuaid is no longer with this
branch. He has transferred to our Denver offices. I am the new
branch manager, can I help you with something?” said the attractive,
middle-aged woman who Joel, conditioned in his paradigm
of chauvinism, had mistaken as a receptionist.
“Well ma’am, I sure hope so.” Joel hoped he would have a clean
slate with this manager, and not have to deal with the negative
impression he had made on his earlier visit. Joel continued, “You
see, my daddy used to bank here, and I am running short of cash
and was hoping that maybe you could help me out with a loan.”
“Why don’t you come into my office, Mr. Hooper, and let’s see
what we can do for you.”
Even if he didn’t get any money, Joel was certainly appreciating
the treatment he was receiving on this visit. The last time he was
here after his dad died, he had waited over ninety minutes to see
Mr. McQuaid, who, as the secretary explained, “was a very busy
man.” Finally, when he did get to sit down with him, Mr.
McQuaid told him that an old, rundown ranch yard and a
half-section of land really had no market value. According to Mr.
McQuaid, the Circle H could never be a functioning cattle operation
without access to at least several additional sections of
pastureland, and his home ranch was essentially worthless. Furthermore,
Mr. McQuaid also advised him that horses were worth
a dime a dozen. Joel had tried to explain the breeding and value of
his livestock to the young, city-raised banker, but it all fell on
deaf ears and he was quickly dismissed.
Finding himself on the street outside the bank within five minutes
of being ushered into the branch manager’s office, Joel had
retreated back to the ranch and made up his mind to cut expenses
wherever possible.
But now, he had run out of ways to cut costs any further. Joel
needed cash not just to pay off some of the bills …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562862

Poodie James

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Poodie saluted. Spanger hesitated, then returned the salute
before he wheeled the cruiser around and headed toward the station.
Pete Torgerson cranked the steering wheel knob as he crossed the
Great Northern tracks and guided the Packard along the dirt road
between the river and town. His headlights swept the curves, illuminating
sagebrush and bunch grass. A jack rabbit bounded in
front of him for a few yards and faded into the blackness of the
road’s margin. Ahead, a few cars rested in a dusty parking area
around a pole supporting a flickering red neon sign that identified
Ted and Angie’s Chicken Inn. George Pearson’s Lincoln, and
Fred Lawrence’s Cadillac were there. He didn’t recognize the
other cars. Inside the two-story log heap, the air was heavy with
smoke and “Tuxedo Junction.” Ted waved from behind the bar. A
man Torgerson recognized as a clerk from the J.C. Penney mens
department pumped nickels into the juke box. At a corner table,
Angie was taking a dinner order from a man who sat alone. Slim
ankles and high heels were just disappearing from the top of the
stairs into the upper hallway. Torgerson heard a slur of a male voice
loudly ask, “Which room?” In a circle of light, four men studied
their cards at a table whose green cover was embellished with stains
and cigarette burns.
“Mr. Mayor,” Pearson greeted him, with a hint of derision,
Torgerson thought, “we just got started. Seven-card stud. Throw
in. It should be an interesting game.”
Torgerson nodded to Pearson, Lawrence and two orchardists
from the north side of Lake Chelan. The growers materialized at
Ted and Angie’s every fall when packing house business with Lawrence
provided an excuse for an overnight stay in town. Angie
delivered the mayor a whiskey sour. Nothing to eat, he told her, he
wouldn’t be staying long. Torgerson anteed. Lawrence dealt.
Torgerson examined his hand. Next time around he called, and
threw two dollars in the pot. The game was underway, and the
mayor got down to business.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

Water in the Wilderness

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Rachael’s voice rose, and in spite of an inner resolve to appear brave, she began to tremble.
Ronald stood up. “I’ll take you part way until I know you’re safe. An’ after I leave you, if you see someone you know, ask them for a ride to my folks’ place.” Going to Bobby he lifted him from the chair onto his feet. “Okay, Bob old man, get on my back again.”
Rachael knew she had no choice but to follow them. Once they had made it around the house and back onto the street, she hurried to catch up. “I’m scared, Ronnie, I don’t want to go back. Uncle Bill will beat me.”
She saw her cousin grit his teeth. “No, he won’t. You tell them you just wanted to see your dad because it’s Christmas. He wouldn’t dare beat you for that; my mom won’t let him.”
Rachael wanted to believe him, but she was not so sure. She remembered what her uncle would have done to her that other time if Ronnie hadn’t been there to protect her and take the beating for her. Then, too, there was Lyssa.
They walked on in silence. Rachael had felt warmer after being in the shelter of the shed, but now her face began to sting again from the biting wind. She buried it in the sweater still wrapped around her doll. “Oh, Shirley,” she murmured, “I can’t take you back where Lyssa can hurt you again.”
When they reached the main street of town, Ronald stopped and lowered Bobby to the ground. “Okay, I’ve gotta go before someone sees me. But you keep goin.’ It’s not far now; you know the way. And, like I said, if you see someone, ask for a ride.”
Rachael didn’t answer. He looked at her keenly. “Look, kid, promise me you’ll go back. You can’t go to the farm, it’s too far. My mom’ll take care of you. Now, promise me, Rachael.”
She lowered her eyes and gazed at her snow-covered boots, realizing that her feet were numb with cold. What choice did she have, anyway?
“Promise me.”
Rachael looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I promise. But where will you go, Ronnie?”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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assion doesn’t come from this generation.”
“I was. I was raised in an ancient place by somewhat ancient people.”
“So, what do you propose I do?”
“I propose you find out whether I am telling you the truth.”
As he and Rocco left, Ken turned and said, “By the way, I think the gallery
should be called The Joseph D. Carrier Gallery.”
Carrier smiled. “Of course.”
Once work on the gallery began, Ken and Carrier met frequently. When
Carrier discovered that Ken’s paternal grandmother, Constanze Inocente,
was from Genoa, he declared that the connection made Ken Italian, and a
member of the community. With Carrier’s urging, Ken joined the Canadian
Italian Business and Professional Association, a dynamic and diverse
group that included doctors, lawyers, carpenters, and bricklayers.
As opening night of the Carrier Gallery approached, Ken suggested a
show of his Arctic paintings, on a massive scale.
“You haven’t sold any and you want to start off with a huge explosion?
Rocco asked. “What if it fails?”
“You’re sounding like my mother. What if…”
“I love the idea, but what a risk!”
“When you jump off a cliff, make sure you do it head first. Be honourable.
Do it big.”
What about the cost?” Rocco asked. “Who will pay for it?”
“All we have to do is commit to the vision and the rest will follow.”
Ken rented the warehouse next door to the framing factory, a space
large enough for his Arctic paintings. He painted the ceiling black, the
walls white, and the floor battleship gray. Then, he went to work on the
giant paintings. Rocco focused on the show. They needed a sponsor, Ken
said. The show had to be unique. Canadians didn’t care about the Arctic
so everything about it had to be special.
“If Canadians don’t care, why are we doing this?” Rocco asked.
“Because this story has to be told,” Ken said, explaining that the entire
saga had begun on a beach in Portugal. And that’s when it struck him –
Portugal would be their sponsor.
He wrote a letter to Dr. Antonio Tanger Correia, the Portuguese Consul
General.
Correia called. “Mr. Kirkby. As if you had to explain yourself! What a
delight to get your letter. We must have lunch!”
They met for a lunch that extended into dinner. Ken explained that he
wanted the invitations for the exhibition to come from the Portuguese
people, meaning the Consul General and the Portuguese Ambassador to
Canada. “I’m not asking for money,” he said. “I simply want you to issue
the invitations.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Swamped

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boys their usual beers, while Patricia wanted grapefruit juice and
Alex had a coke. Appetizers were ordered. Eteo as usual had the mussels
his friend George cooked in wine sauce, George’s specialty and
Eteo’s favorite appetizer. He suggested Ariana try them and she loved
them so much he ordered another plate, which they both relished to
the last mussel and the last drop of sauce. Soon their main meals arrived,
and they all enjoyed them too. The night went by nicely. Eteo
oen caught Logan’s eyes on Ariana, and he noticed too that Logan
was talking to her so much that his own date was beginning to feel
lonely. He subtly made Logan aware of this and soon the atmosphere
was balanced again.
Their mood was very jolly and at one point George the cook
came out and greeted them. Eteo introduced Ariana to his old friend
and noticed that George gave her a couple of glances of admiration,
reminding Eteo that soon everyone in the local Greek community
would know about the relationship, since George would most likely
mention it to his wife Stefania, who would go out of her way to pass
it on to all the Greek women she knew, including Eteo’s ex-wife who
was still a good friend of Stefania. Eteo imagined the expression on
his ex-wife’s face when she found out and a devious smile spread over
his own face. Suddenly he leaned over and kissed Ariana on the lips.
The others smiled but said nothing, and Ariana’s cheeks reddened,
though she loved his spontaneity.
At the end of the evening, Logan took the boys home and then
Patricia to Coquitlam, where she lived with her parents, while Eteo
and Ariana went for a ride to Horseshoe Bay. There he drove to
Whytecliff Park and parked. They kissed for a while and then, excited,
moved to the back seat, equally hungry for one another. It was the
first time she had climbed on top of him and ridden her sensuality
to the peak of pleasure, her low moaning driving Eteo even crazier
for her body than ever. As they made love, it seemed like all the celestial
bodies and constellations paired off in the firmament and sang
erotic cadences as each heavenly lover coupled with their mate:
Perseus with his Andromeda, Uranus with his Gaia, Zeus and Hera,
Rhea and Kronos. All played out their erotic games just as Eteo and
Ariana did in a car by the side of the road in Whytecliff Park.

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

The Unquiet Land

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Finn MacLir dragged his feet back into the dining room after seeing his guests off into the night. He paused in the doorway, raised his outspread hands to his face, and drew them down over his cheeks. “Padraig, I’m tired.”
He was a tall man, over six feet in height. His broad, beefy shoulders were more rounded now, his waist wider than in his younger days. As Padraig remembered him, he had always been a burly, muscular man, full of energy and vitality. Now, at seventy-five years of age, that energy and that vitality had begun to ebb away.
He approached the table unsteadily, lifted the wine decanter and tipped it to his glass. But only a drop or two dribbled out.
“So much for that,” he said. He thumped the decanter down again on the table, and a few knives and forks jumped on their plates. Finn turned to face his remaining guest.
“These are troubled times to be returning to Ireland, Padraig.”
“When are there not troubled times in Ireland?” Padraig said.
“Ay, when indeed?” Finn sank into his chair with a sigh. “The last election left us in a pretty mess, didn’t it? A real shipwreck.” He paused in thought for a moment, tapping the empty wine glass with his finger. “Ay, a real shipwreck. The old ship of state, the S.S. Ireland—remember her?—she ran aground on rocks during a mutiny. A rebel crew tried to take her over. We didn’t know it then, but it seems this rebel crew, this Sinn Fein, had a lot of support on board. The passengers have since voted them into positions of command. Seventy-three of them no less, with Eamon de Valera, one of the old mutineers, escaped from the cooler and appointed captain. It could only happen in Ireland.”
Finn MacLir stared at the empty wine glass, silent, serious, disillusioned. “And half a dozen of the old crew, all that’s left of our old Irish Parliamentary party, cast adrift on a raft in very stormy waters. They’re doomed, I fear. But the situation doesn’t look too good for any of them; or even for the ship itself. They’ve renamed her the S.S. Republic but they haven’t got her off…

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