Tag: writing

Redemption

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excerpt

“I like the dean’s offer. I believe it will be quite a job, and I
should take this opportunity. Of course, there is the fact that I must
go abroad for a couple of years, but that is the way the cookie crumbles,
as the saying goes. I cannot avoid that: it is part of the Hermes
package. When I return, I will be hired, no questions asked. The dean
assured me of this. Of course, I need to talk to my parents, who I’m
sure won’t like the idea of two years in a foreign country. I’d like to
hear your opinion, though. From both of you. You two have been my
second parents for so long, and you understand this a bit more than
my father and my mother could understand.”
His aunt sat there, silently looking at him with great affection,
this child who made her feel so proud.
Demetre cleared his throat, “This is a very good offer, a position
which many others would love to have. It’s a lot better than being
hired as a clerk at some bank or a government position, although that
would perhaps be a steadier career. Still, this is better for you because
it will open quite a wide field of action for later. Of course, the disadvantage
is that you need to go away for a while. It is, after all, a serious
thing to go so far away and be a stranger among strangers, with no
friends, and all that. On the other hand, if that is what it takes, that
is what a man does.”
Hermes smiled at the last part of his uncle’s comment,
“Yes, there is always a way where there is a will. I believe in what
I can do, and I know deep inside that after the hardship, I’m going to
be where I like to be and among the people I like the most.”
“We know you well,” his uncle says, “and we know that we
cannot go against what you want to do. Besides, you are in many ways
exceptional, and you owe it to yourself to achieve great success.”
Demetre was right: he saw in this young man the soul of the
eagle who lived near the mountain peaks, unconquered by time.
He will remind him of this at every step of his way. Hermes realizes
clearly now it is his duty to try, and it is his duty not to fail, although
the word fail is one he never had in his vocabulary. He now knew
clearly that he owed this to his destiny, because it was no less than…

https://draft2digital.com/book/4172538#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763858

In Turbulent Times

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excerpt

‘Whatever. Who knows what’s true and what isn’t? But you know Flynn Casey. Always the rebel Republican. Loyal follower of James Connolly, his hero. His socialism got him involved with the IRA in strikes in Belfast in the Thirties. In fact he was shot in the leg during a march in the Lower Falls area that led to clashes with the police. Three years ago he was interned in Crumlin Road jail after that IRA campaign of protest against the arrival of the American forces.’
‘I remember that,’ said Seamus. ‘De Valera considered the arrival of the Americans an intrusion on Irish territory. And he was born in America himself. New York, if I remember rightly. And his father was Spanish. What a mad world we live in, Caitlin.’
‘Let’s hope the real madness is over now, Seamus.’
‘Amen to that. So what’s Flynn doing in Belfast? Apart from stirring up trouble.’
‘He’s managing a pub on the Falls Road, though he longs to be back in his Drumard hills. But he has Dermot in Belfast, and a grandson, if you can picture Flynn Casey as a grandfather.’
‘Happens to most of us,’ Slattery declared. ‘A grandson’ll keep him anchored in Belfast.’
‘Dermot married the youngest Sweeney girl, didn’t he?’ Michael said, without taking his eyes off the dancers.
‘And carried her off to the big city,’ Seamus replied. ‘They’re very happy there, so I’m told. Dermot has his own business as an electrician.’ Seamus paused momentarily. ‘Now there’s another good man gone. Ignatius Sweeney. Got out of bed one morning and dropped dead. And he hadn’t a grey hair in his head when he died. Still that short hair that stood straight up on his head. What your father described as the unravelled end of a rope. Good old Ignatius. I think he ate himself to death.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say, Seamus Slattery,’ Caitlin chided.
‘Oh you know I didn’t mean it. A poor joke, Caitlin, and I shouldn’t have said it. Though old Ignatius might have enjoyed it. Violet, of course, went to Belfast to live with Dermot and Maire after Ignatius died, but I hear her health is not too good.’
‘I don’t think she ever got over Ignatius’s death,’ Caitlin said. ‘It was so sudden and unexpected.’
‘And Joe Carney’s another one,’ Seamus continued in his vein of In Memoriam. ‘His heart let him down. And young Joe. Joe-Joe we used to call him. Remember?’ Seamus leaned forward. ‘Remember the day you pulled him out of the harbour, Michael?’

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

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

Straits and Turns

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…the moment if they didn’t interfere with his driving them to their destination.
On the other hand, could he ask them to stop? Why, could
they answer, and what could he say to such a question?
Strange beast, the human mind, as it went from one thing to
another, like a crazy monkey who jumped from one branch of a tree
to another, just like Costa’s which ran to his good trip back at the
Four Seasons to which he was eager to reach on time, so his customer
wouldn’t get impatient and take a different cab to the airport. He
looked at his watch: his time was just fine; finally, he arrived at the
Cypress Bowl, and he realized that his customers in the back were half
dressed and half not, such was their erotic oestrus during the trip…
upon realizing that they had arrived at their place they quickly fixed
their clothes, the man paid the driver and taking his half-dressed
sweetheart by the waist they walked to the front door of their place.
The driver said goodbye to them and started his return to the
city of Vancouver and to the Hotel where he arrived earlier than the
time we had agreed with the smoker. However, Costa saw his customer
waiting in the lobby. Costa walked over, grabbed his bag, put it in the
trunk, opened the back door for him, and started the trip to the airport.
Around the sixteenth and Granville, they started the usual little
talk, “Where are you from? How long have you been here? Etc. Costa
informed his customer that he came from Hellas and had lived here for
six years. The customer mentioned that he was a Turk, from Ankara,
on his way to Los Angeles for business. Oh, God, what just happened?
The earth started swirling around like a wind vane, like a top on a flat
surface. And all this buzzing noise was like a swarm of bees in Costa’s
head, as if desperately looking for honey. Endless pounding against
his two temples turned that buzzing noise into a thundering hatred.
In which school have they taught him to hate this man so much? In
which church have they turned him into such a fanatic? How many
eons of anger and hatred has he lived, and why is he in such a dreadful
condition? How was it possible that all his ancestors had resurrected
and stood before him demanding revenge? Why all this hatred today,
and why have all his ancestral parents, brothers, and sisters awakened…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763866

Fury of the Wind

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He threw his head back and laughed. But it wasn’t a mirthful
sound. “In Nimkus? That’ll be the day.”
He gulped his coffee, pushed his chair back roughly and went
out. Sarah stared after him, unaware that two tears were sliding
down her cheeks. O
The road to the neighbours proved to be little more than a cow
trail across the adjoining farms. Flicka’s hooves scattered yellow
petals of black-eyed Susans as she trotted over the dry pasture land.
Due to Ben’s warning, Sarah became especially cautious when they
reached the path along the ravine. But she need not have worried,
because Flicka navigated it with a sure-footed gait, and ignored the
brush covered bank that fell away to the gully a hundred feet below.
Only a thin ribbon of murky water was visible at its base, but Ben
said that after a heavy rain it became a gushing river.
Another quarter mile along the path, after rounding a poplar
bluff, Flicka came to a halt at a barbed wire fence that obviously
divided the Fielding and McNeill properties. Sarah dismounted to
open the prairie gate. The farm site was now visible, and she could
see that they were approaching it from the back. A country road ran
close by the front of the two-storied white frame house. The house
itself stood in the shade of a grove of maple trees.
A windmill stood sentinel between the house and the outbuildings,
and Sarah felt a pang of envy when she realized that their
neighbours had electric lighting. This farm seemed a sharp contrast
to the ones she had seen on the road from Nimkus. Every outbuilding,
from the smallest shed to the imposing hip-roofed barn,
sported a dark red coat of paint.
They came to another gate and, as Sarah prepared to dismount,
she saw a man wave to her from where he had been bending over
the engine of a red tractor.
“Hold it,” he called, “I’ll get the gate for you.”
As he walked towards her, closely followed by a brown and white
mongrel dog, Sarah could see that this was not Dave McNeill. Although
tall, he appeared shorter than Dave, and his curly hair was
darker although definitely auburn. But when he grinned up at her
where she sat astride Flicka, she could see the features were …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073530

The Unquiet Land

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…his eyes bulged with anger, and his lips curled back like a snarling dog’s. His right hand swung from his side and slapped Padraig so hard across the face it seemed to smash every bone. Then back the big hand swung. The knuckles smacked Padraig across the cheek and nose. The nose spurted blood. Padraig felt the hot stream on his lip and chin.
“You sneaking, cowardly lecherer!” Michael roared. “You guttersnipe priest! You bastard son of Satan! I’ll kill you.”
He burled his fist and crashed it down on Padraig’s face and head and shoulders. Then he pushed the priest away from him with a snarl. Padraig stumbled backwards and fell against the chancel steps. Michael rushed forward, roaring like a bull. With both hands he picked up the priest’s limp body and hurled it the full length of the chancel. Like an empty sack Padraig hit the floor and slid forward. His back struck an upright of the altar-rail, and his body swung round and stopped with a crack of his head against the altar.
Michael’s chest was heaving up and down, pumping his anger. He threw himself against the pulpit; it keeled over and crashed like a felled tree. In a frenzy he could no longer control he turned and ran to the opposite wall, tore down the picture of Christ walking on the water and smashed it against the front pew. Then he raced out of the church.
Michael knew that Caitlin had taken the shore path homewards. He had seen her wend her way through the graveyard and head westwards along the cliff-top. She had pulled her shawl tight around her against the coldness of the bright, clear dawn. He followed her, walking quickly, almost running. He reached the end of the line of low cliffs. The path slithered down a steep hill to meet the shore. Pausing on the lip of the hill, he saw Caitlin ahead of him, hurrying homewards like a cat. He left the path and ran straight down the grass-covered hillside. A few sheep bolted in front of him, then swung away to one side or the other. A couple of gulls rose from a rock in the grass, wheeled in a wide arc through the air and settled again. Michael was blind to them. He saw only the lonely figure in the white shawl to which he was drawing closer. He rejoined the path near a patch of brambles. Caitlin was barely a hundred yards away. Michael chased after her. The chumpf of breaking waves and the roll-rock chinner of the backwash sounded in his pounding ears. Then Caitlin’s head jerked round. She stopped and turned to face him. Fear and guilt froze in her eyes.
“Michael,” she cried, but more in a plea than a greeting.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

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

Still Waters

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“You mean with tax collectors and sinners,” Tyne had said, tonguein-
cheek.
“Well, I didn’t mean it quite like that,” Morley said, grinning, “but
how can people be saved if they don’t hear the Word? And how will
they hear the Word if no one tells them?”
Morley may not be preaching the Word as he mixed with people
but, Tyne was quite sure, his life and the way he lived it would be a
testimony in itself.
Tyne had spent a troubled week, and it was only because of Aunt
Millie’s persuasive powers that she was here tonight. Since the morning
her dad had dropped the bombshell of Morley’s involvement
with Jennifer Sears, she had been determined not to attend this
meeting. Now she knew why the schoolteacher had suggested a combined
meeting with the Building & Grounds Committee. Although,
Tyne had to admit, Aunt Millie had been receptive to Jennifer’s idea,
so she must have thought it had merit. Unless ….
Why had the schoolteacher’s suggestion appealed to Millie? Had
Jennifer played right into her hands? Without any effort on her part,
had Millie seen the perfect way of getting Tyne and Morley in the
same room together?
Tyne’s thoughts were jumbled. Why would Aunt Millie want to
throw us together again? Doesn’t she know how much it hurt me
when we broke up? And even if she’s entertaining hopes of us getting
back together, can’t she see it’s all so hopeless?
Tyne was jolted from her thoughts when she heard her name spoken.
Startled, and not a little disoriented, she looked up.
“I’m sure you all know my niece, Tyne Milligan,” Millie was saying.
“She came home to look after her father when he had a stroke.” Millie
turned her head to look fondly at Tyne. “Since she’s now a graduate
nurse, I’m sure she’ll be a great asset to our committee.”
There were murmurs of assent around the table, particularly from
the men who had been unaware of Tyne’s involvement. She tried
to avoid looking directly at Morley, but her eyes were drawn to his
face. His look was inscrutable as he said, “Welcome, Tyne. We can
certainly use all the help we can get.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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or not – it all depends on the environment. I suspect that you haven’t
thought your way through it – and I’m not trying to be rude, or difficult.
Usually, when people come in and ask for something that’s completely
outside their understanding, they, probably, aren’t asking for the right
thing. I’d like to suggest that I come down and make a presentation to
your company, on what I think you’re looking for.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. You don’t seem sure about why you want it, and you’re not sure
about the environment it will be in. I suspect that no matter what I paint
you won’t be happy. Painting what is in someone else’s mind is almost
impossible. So, would you do me the courtesy of letting me come down
and make a presentation, and see if that is what you want?”
“Certainly.”
A few weeks later, Ken walked into the formidable skyscraper in downtown
Toronto and gave the board members his analysis. They wanted a
large painting for the foyer. Fine – he could supply that, but it wouldn’t
be as large as the Reichmann painting. And, it would be the first of several
canvases. A smaller one would hang in the boardroom, and several others
would hang throughout the premises. The preliminary sketches and
drawings would be framed and hung as well. The paintings would tell a
story that would be repeated in a booklet. A six-minute film would also
tell the story, and it would play on a large screen television in the reception
area. When a client arrived for a meeting, he would sit and watch the
movie.
“Now, they have something interesting,” Ken said. “This is something
they have not anticipated seeing, and they realize that you are a lot more
than just what you do. When you meet the client, you tour them around
and show them all the works, and then you sit down and get down to
business. By now, they realize that you are interesting people. You have
things going on other than making money. When your business is concluded
you hand the client a copy of the book – signed by me and your
CEO – as something to take away and remind them of the meeting.”
Ken suggested they take a holiday during the month of August and
turn their offices over to him. When they returned the space would be
transformed – not just because the paintings would be hung. What good
were paintings if the background didn’t complement them? He proposed
changing the furniture to set off his work and painting the walls in appropriate
colours. Everything had to work – it had to be of a piece.
The cost, he said, was irrelevant – the accountants would write the
whole thing off. He thanked them, told them he had to return to his
painting, and left. During the next few days several of the board members
visited his studio. A couple of weeks later they accepted his fee of four
hundred eighty thousand dollars.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

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

Water in the Wilderness

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Tyne sat on a chair across from her. Several seconds passed in silence. Tyne did not intend to make it easy for the woman.
Finally Ruby said, “I know you’re mad at Bill and me because the kids ran away. I know you didn’t want us to have them in the first place. But we … I did my best for them.”
“Did you?”
Ruby looked up sharply. The fire that Tyne remembered from their encounter in Emblem Hospital had returned to her eyes. “Yeah, I did, no matter what they … what Rachael says.”
Tyne sat forward, her eyes riveted on Ruby’s face. “And was doing your best making Rachael work like a woman in the house? Letting your daughter bully her – even going so far as to mutilate the doll? Telling her that she and Bobby would be sent to an orphanage?” She took a deep breath. “Was that doing your best for her?”
Ruby sat straight, ready to defend herself. “I didn’t know a lot of that stuff until later when Lark told me. And anyway, I can’t see it’s any of your business because they’re not your kids. You’re not even related.”
“No,” Tyne said quietly, “we’re not. But your sister left them in our care, and I promised to look after them for her. And both Morley and I have grown to love them which is what you don’t appear to do, even though they’re your own flesh and blood.”
Ruby’s face turned red and she lowered her head. “I do love them,” she whispered, “an’ I’m sorry about what Lyssa did. I try, but I don’t have any control over her.”
Tyne tried to quell the unexpected twinge of compassion. “Okay Ruby. I’m sure it’s difficult at times. But what about Ronald? You don’t deny his dad beat him?”
Still looking at the floor, Ruby shook her head from side to side. “No, I don’t deny that. Bill is hard on him, always has been.”
“Couldn’t you stop him?”
There was a long pause, during which Tyne became aware that someone stood nearby. She looked up to see a middle-aged woman hesitate in the doorway, then move on when Ruby spoke. “I tried to stop him at first, but he’d turn on me. I couldn’t stand up to him; he’s a big man.”
Tyne felt revulsion. “Did he hit you?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562884

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

Swamped

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“But he claims you assured him the hole is good. The market is telling
him something else.”
“It is a good hole, Eteo. Why do you doubt it?”
Eteo had to pause for a moment to find smoother words than the
first ones that came to mind.
“Look, Richard. If they really had a good hole, they wouldn’t
make a cash call now. They would release the news that their hole
was good. Simple as that. Asking for more money so fast, I have to
tell you, Richard, it’s not a good sign. I don’t like it, and neither does
Bernard.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic, Eteo. We have a good hole, you’ll see.”
“I hope so Richard, I hope so. But looking at the market, if it
thought the hole was good, there would have been lots of buying orders
from the drillers themselves, you know that. We would have seen
them by now. I’m afraid your guy has got nothing and just wants to
milk the partners for as long as he can.”
Eteo paused and took a deep breath. Richard was silent too. Finally,
all he could say was, “It will be a good hole, you’ll see.”
“You know,” Eteo warned, “Bernard could be a bad partner if he
found out that anything was kept from him.”
“Why? What did he say to you?” Richard asked, sounding
alarmed now.
“I’m just advising, Richard, that Bernard could be a very negative
factor in the market if he felt cheated. He could try to undermine you
just for the principle of it. I know him.”
“Come on, Eteo. There aren’t any principles in this market, and
you know it. If my market picks up, he’ll make money on it too. Why
would he undermine me.”
“Then the question arises, how will you move your market with
a bad drill hole?”
“Don’t say that, Eteo. I have a good drill hole. You’ll see when the
news is out.”
“I hope so for your sake, Richard”
“Are you trying to warn me about something more specific, Eteo?
Is there something you’re not telling me?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

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

Savages and Beasts

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…flowing in his veins. Marcus knew well he could graduate from
this school tonight he could take his diploma tonight he could
put the Kamloops Indian Residential School behind him and
behind his sister by just learning how to kill. This was the lesson
he had to learn tonight and the power of such a lesson kept him
quiet in the closet just behind Sister Gladys’ desk.
Suddenly footsteps were heard. A door opened and a man
walked along the long hallway going towards the sleeping quarters
of the girls. Marcus moved the closet door a bit open enough to
discern Father Thomas going his regular direction. Marcus walked
out of the closet and twelve steps further he hid behind the door
leading upstairs to the rooms of the priests and nuns. Moments
passed, moments that felt like eons when suddenly Marcus stopped
even his heartbeats as he felt on his body the back of the door opening
slowly. Two persons entered: a girl, his sister Deborah, held by
the hand by Father Thomas who was right next to her.
Marcus charged like a thunder and before the priest turned
to look he had wielded the knife twice up and down striking the
back of the priest in two places. The priest, struck by surprise,
tried to turn and look who was doing the killing when he received
two more strikes on his chest. With a loud cry Father Thomas
stepped backwards and losing his balance he fell on his back and
his head hit the wooden post of the stairs and with a noisy thud
he collapsed on the floor.
“Let’s go,” Marcus said to his sister and taking her by
the hand the priest was holding a few seconds earlier he led her
towards the main entrance door which they found locked. They
ran to the basement and to the carpentry shop, Marcus climbed
on a short ladder and opened one of the two windows. Deborah
first then Marcus crawled out of the building and, running as fast
as they could distanced themselves from the mausoleum.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763602