bahern7

READ ALL ABOUT IT! A Musical Son IS NOW ON Amazon!  LINK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09PKDZYTJ

                                         Freeland’s most famous city—Town Island City—with its skyscrapers and its yellow cabs; its teeming streets of harried pedestrians; its hotdog stands; its homeless war vets begging for change; the smell of burning flesh from those same meat stands; the stairways down to the subway on every street corner; the crush of commuters. Today, a cobalt blue sky burnishes over Town Island.   The magnificent views of that same sky if one looks up between the buildings; the world famous department store opened in 1902; the constant honking of car horns; the Indian shops; the Chinese shops; the hardy folk on the corner at Barge Street trying to entice passersby to buy counterfeit goods; the infinite number of restaurants from the most basic to haute cuisine; the ever present tourists from out of town and abroad; the constant photographing and filmi...

 

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                                   Blake Crowe woke from a choppy night’s sleep of unquiet dreams mixed with frequent trips to the bathroom. It wasn’t a burgeoning prostate problem that had him peeing so much, rather, it was the unsettling contents of those same dreams. Every half hour or so, he had woken in fright and scurried to the loo just to calm himself down. The final vision, before the shrill 6a.m. alarm bell, was of a coffin lid closing—with a bleak and resounding thud—upon Blake’s entombed and terrified head. He had tried to scream but his soil-filled mouth rendered him mute, writhing helplessly in the desolate dreamscape. Hitting the floor and straightening up, part of him felt unable to face the day at all and he considered, for a moment, leaping back into his still warm bed. However, such a gambit wasn’t an option on this important morning, and besides, he’d recently read an articl...

  Mish, I’m throwing in the towel not with a sense of defeat but rather a sense of pastures new (sunny uplands even). We’ve reached nigh on fifty pages, and in print the lines look straight and true, as beautiful (almost) as the new steps fronting the Leavey Building (church end). It’s time to run the thing off and let it stand on its own fifty legs. Not as a work of art, granted, but certainly as testimony to the strength and power of the epistolary form. But whoa! I must rein in my logorrhoea lest I stray into the realm of melodrama. My final shot goeth like this: a cold coming I had of it this morning lugging my corpus to the desk. A local access road was closed  and I was forced to trudge through a barren field before I could rejoin civilisation and proceed to Dublin ’s heart. The field was rocky and frozen and populated by a large flock of Stymphalian birds who tracked my steps with dagger glares. At least I think they were Stymphalian birds though they may have been ...