Extract from "Pot Pourri" #2

Mummy have big tummy. Daddy have big smile. We go to see the man who put jelly on mummy's tummy. There is a TV but no Bugs Bunny, no Winnie the Pooh. The TV is black and white and it look like clouds moving. Clouds moving slow. Daddy say it's sister. That mean another one of me, but like Mummy, not like Daddy. The man with the jelly have no big smile. He does not like the TV. He say something. Mummy and Daddy have no big smile now. The clouds is not happy in the TV.
Back home. Playing in my room with clown and Bunbury bear. Daddy say sister sick. But not sick like when my nose sticky. Very more sick than that. Mummy cry. Daddy cry. Me cry.

Mummy have big, big, big tummy. Daddy have smile. We in Ireland. Me stay with Granny and Grampa. Mummy and Daddy go to get sister. She in Mummy's tummy. Big, big, big. Me play Lego on floor. Floor blue like sea, with black shapes like clouds. Nice black clouds.

Mummy and Daddy come back but not sister. She not in Mummy's tummy. She come out but not come home. She go to Jesus. I play with Lego. White bricks and red bricks. I make Lego house. Lego house on black cloud on floor. Why she go to Jesus? She go to play with Jesus? I want to play with sister. I want to play with Jesus. But Jesus never come to play Lego.

Daddy angry at clouds. He not look up at clouds. He not speak to clouds.

Words

I love writing. There's just something about words that helps bring peace to my mind. Lately I haven't had as much time to write as I used to ; but when I take an effort and put the quill to the parchment, or rather my fingers to the keyboard, I am never disappointed. I am always rewarded in some way. Sometimes it's the cathartic release of bottled-up emotions or nostalgic memories that words provide me ; often it's the feeling that I have accomplished, manufactured or created something with my own hands, however humble that thing might be.
Usually I write poetry, mostly because I find it easier to concentrate on writing a small text, in rhyme, rather than page after page of prose. But I've always wanted to write a short story of some kind — I've just never had the patience to finish what I'd started. Recently I've tried working on a new idea, Clouds. We'll see how that goes. In my last post I included an extract of it. It's not great writing, and it doesn't make much sense on its own, but it's a draft of something I hope to build upon in the future. We'll see!

Extract from "Pot Pourri" #1

The cold sunshine failed to bring any warmth into Seamus's numb knuckles. The turfing iron seemed to be an extension of his own arm, as he bent over, putting pressure on the lug with his feet to break into the unyielding frozen earth. But the ground would not give in. His boot slipped on the lug, and the shaft of his instrument drove into his chest. Seamus fell to the ground, on his back. His tired body ached, but his eyes turned towards the lapis lazuli sky streaked with sheeplike clouds. Each cloud seemed to have a face of its own. They were all flocking westward to some unknown destination. Seamus felt left out from their ethereal exodus. He wondered what it would be like to walk upon them, jumping from cloud to cloud as if they were woolen stepping stones. He wondered if, from up there, he would see all of Hibernia. Her hills, her fields, her woods and her brooks. He would undoubtedly be able to have a clear view of Karsell Manor and its beautiful English garden. He would be able to watch Blanche as she sat in front of the pond, reading her beloved books. He thought he heard her soft luminous voice. A spring of fresh words, shining in the light of her lips, flowing, swimming towards his heart, winning it over, over and over again. Shining, flowing, swimming. Winning. Words. Clouds.
The earth shook under Seamus's head. He heard a clumping. He opened his eyes. Cruel hooves were beating the frozen ground. The stewart. Seamus tried to sit up, but his body would not move. Panic took hold of him. Only his head responded. He turned it to the right. The hooves were just a few inches from his face. He twisted his neck to look up at the black horse, which blew vapour out of its gaping nostrils into the cold air. Upon it was mounted a thin, pale man. His head was bare and his mouse-like nose gave way to a thin red moustache. "Get up off your ass, fenian", the stewart shouted, in a high-pitched voice and with a strong English accent. Seamus tried to move his arms and legs, but they would not respond. He looked up at the clouds, helplessly. "I said get up off your filthy fenian ass!"
"I can't, sir!"
"What's this?"
"I can't move, sir. I fell to the ground, and I think the cold has got to me."
"Humbug! You are just a lazy white nigger, like all the rest of you bloody Irish fools. Get up right away, or I will give you a taste of this crop."
Seamus could not move. The horse crop came down on his chest like a lightning bolt, again and again. He clenched his teeth. The stewart sneered, whipped his horse, and rode away. Seamus continued to stare at the clouds, wheezing. Each breath he drew left his chest in excruciating pain. He felt darkness closing in on him. God help me... God help me.

It was the smell of freshly baked soda bread that brought Seamus back to his senses. He opened his eyes. He was lying in a small bed. A quilt was pulled up to his chin. A peat fire diffused a warm but shy reddish light in the otherwise dark room. He could see the curvaceous silhouette of a young woman in the far side of the room, busying itself around what seemed to be a stove. He opened his mouth to call out her name, but instead was seized by a coughing fit. The girl immediatly ran up to his bedside.
"Seamus! Are ya all right?", she cried.
"Aye, Maire, I'm grand", Seamus managed to say between fits of coughing.
"Ya don't look grand to me, Seamus. That cough doesn't sound good. And you're as pale as death." Maire's voice sounded alarmed.
"Och don't you worry about me, Maire. I've been through far worse than this."
"Not worry? Did you see the bruises and wounds on your chest? The stewart gave you a beating again, didn't he?"
"Yes, he did. But..."
"I knew it." Maire's voice was angry now. "I knew it. I told you to keep out of trouble. You've been with that English girl again, haven't you? That's why Lady Karshell sent the stewart after you, isn't it? You reap what you sow, Seamus. That bastard is going to kill you someday. And you'll deserve it." Seamus coughed again, and tears started running down from Maire's pretty brown eyes. "I don't mean what I've just said, Seamus. You know I don't. It's just... It's just that I don't know why you go gallivanding after that girl. I don't know what you see in her. What does Blanche have that us Irish girls don't have?" Seamus shrugged his shoulders under the bedcovers. "Seriously, Seamus. I want to know."
"I honestly can't tell you. I just don't. But I know that I can't help it." By it, he meant the intense, passionate, debilitating love he felt for Blanche. Maire tried, in vain, to wipe her tears off her cheeks with strands of her long auburn hair. Seamus lifted his hand to her cheeks to help her. "Don't cry, Maire", he said softly. "You know we were never meant to be. We are too much alike, you and I. Or too different, I don't know which. I'm sure you'll find yourself a husband someday."
"Necer mind", Maire smiled. "I've been working on the land all day. And then taking care of you. I think I'm just tired."
"Not too tired to jig, I hope? Dan's cousin is staying with his family at the moment, and he's a damn good fiddler. He was supposed to play at the Cross Keys tonight."