#new irish writing

[ballyhubbock]

A Living Legacy  

Kari Rosvall is an amazing living legacy of a most frightening kind.

A Living Legacy  Mark Rice 500 words The story that follows is unbelievably true and not the work of this writer’s imagination. Would you be surprised if I told you that a survivor of World War Two is still alive and living locally in Dublin? I was. The war ended eighty years ago. I met Kari Rosvall as she talked about her book and her life in our local GAA club. Would you be surprised if I…

[winterspiderpurrs]

The post was getting a little long BUT @illogicalkat and @smidnite are so amazing for this!

Previous posts from the last addition done here:

And cause I loved it.... imma add a little more :D

*********************************************************

Steve went to get Sarah; his mom on the phone. She was always a voice of reason with him. He was hopefully she could shed some positive light in this situation.

"-That child has known you practically his whole life. You're his papa. Doesn’t matter what some... DNA test says A leanbh. " her Irish accent became more prominent, the more she talked.

" But a man has a right to his child. I know it's going to be hard. And poor Peter! Having to face that man again! I woulda hit him!"

Steve coughed a little and rubbed the back of his neck.

" Well, uuhh.. no problem there."

" Steve Grant Rogers Barnes! That temper of yours is always getting you in trouble!"

" Ma!"

" Could be making the situation worse."

" I know, Ma, I know..."

Steve could hear her sigh on the other side of the phone.

" Well. Was it at least a good hit?"

Steve laughs and moves back toward the dining room where Peter and Matt are still at.

" Yeah, it was a -"

Clatter.

The phone slipped from Steve's hand as he stared at Peter.

~

While Steve had wondered off to speak to him mom, Bucky had gone back up stares to check on Harley and May after seeing that Tony had gotten in the car and was a long ways away from the house.

Peter gathered up the paper they had, scanning it over to Matt's office for him so he could review it again in Braille once he got it to his special machine.

" I uuhh... have another question since it's just us."

" Of course. What is it?"

Matt tilted his head toward Peter, sensing that he was nervous again.

" I umm read before that you cannot uhh get divorced if your... pregnant?"

Matt blinks.

" Oh,"

Peter nervously gathers the papers and puts the extra copies in Matt's briefcase for him.

" It's not his. Obviously, but umm, I just wanted to be sure."

Matt smiles and shakes his head.

" You're fine. The state of New York lets you. And as he has no rights to you anymore... you're safe. Congratulations."

Peter smiled in relief and pressed a hand to his stomach. Laughing a little.

" Yeah... I just found out last week. Was gonna wait a few more weeks. Before saying anything to Steve and Bucky. This one definitely was an oops surprise pregnancy."

Clatter.

Peter and Matt turn toward the door to see Steve standing there staring. Cell phone on the floor.

" You're pregnant?!?"

Meanwhile, upstairs, Harley is pacing his room. Why would THE Tony Stark be here? Was it for Dads metal arm that Mom helped create? Was it the scholarship program his school had?

Was he coming to expand his art collection with one of Papa's paintings? Mom had gone back to school and gotten his degree and had written a couple of papers. But would that be enough to get Tony Stark's attention?

He looks at the magazines cut out he had of Tony Stark from a few years ago when he was on the cover of Time magazine. Dad had bought it for him while they were in line at the store. He frowns a little. Now recalling the wide-eyed stare his Mom had when he came into the room and saw it the first time. He seemed oddly nervous when he asked where that came from and why he had it.

The look on Tony Stark's face downstairs, he seemed scared, nervous, and hopeful?

He pulled his laptop up and hesitated a moment. Then he started typing away.

' Young Tony Stark photos'

The more he looked, the bigger the pit in his stomach grew.

He felt like he was going to throw up.

Across town, Tony was once again looking through the paperwork and looked at the copy of the birth certificate.

Father spot was blank on it.

But when he saw the name on the certificate, he rushed towards the trash can and threw up. It all just became too much. Everything that he was robbed of. And how much at least at the time of Harley birth that Peter obviously cared for him deeply.

Harley Edwin Anthony Parker.

[daftmooncretin]

so i watched the will ferrell nascar movie and now i cant get nascar! dean winchester out of my head (feat disgruntled sports journalist cas who does not want to be here)

[mixsethaddams]

Eddie didn’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. 

As far as he was concerned, new year, same him. You don’t like it? Choke. 

He made no bones about telling people that, either. Every year when someone asked ‘So what’s your resolution?’ he was quick to launch into a rant about the pressures of society to improve and fit into being more ‘normal’. He’d sneer and whine until whoever was caught in the crosshairs was able to slink away. 

Enter Steve Harrington. 

Eddie was enamoured by Steve and all his superstitions. Steve never walked under a ladder, freaked out if he thought a mirror was broken, and even had a fake rabbit’s foot on his keys. Eddie caught himself counting a flock of magpies outside the trailer one day, trying to remember the dumb little rhyme Steve always rattled off when he waved to them. 

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy....

Eddie thought he must be really down bad for Steve if he was entertaining the idea of some random birds telling the future. 

It was New Year’s Eve and Eddie was sitting in the Harrington living room with the rest of the party. He watched as Steve opened up some windows and placed lit a candle on the main windowsill. When he joined him at the window to ask about it, Eddie was surprised to learn that not only was it a superstition, but Steve was carrying on an old family tradition. Steve explained all about the origins of the candle, how it originally stood for hoping for a priest to visit to bless the house, and how it had morphed over time into being a welcoming light to bring the household into the new year. 

“I open up the front and back door at midnight too, let the old year out and the new one in, you know?”

Eddie didn’t know, he had never had any superstitions, but he nodded anyway.

“Plus getting it all set up gives me time to think over my resolution,” said Steve, looking out the window.

Eddie swallowed hard. His mouth opened to spew his usual spiel about resolutions, but he practically bit his tongue to stop himself. 

“I’m thinking about finding a new hobby this year,” Steve continued. “Maybe I should pick up a guitar, see if I can give you a run for your money,”

Steve’s soft smile made Eddie’s ears tingle.

“How about you, Eds?” asked Steve. “Any resolutions?”

Eddie’s eyes widened as he scrambled for a response. Fuck fuck fuck the one time he needed to think of one and he had nothing.

“Uh, actually, I uh, I was thinking about getting into teaching,” said Eddie, the gears in his head finally cranking up. “So I guess, you know, if you did want to learn to play, I uh, I could help,”

Eddie bit his lip and hoped Steve wouldn’t see right through him. 

Steve put his hands in his pockets and gently bumped his shoe off Eddie’s.

“I’d like that,” he said. 

And just like that, Eddie had his first ever new year’s resolution. He wasn’t even mad about it. 

[andyridgeley]

[everlywrenstories]

The Search For Crann

Hi! I'm Everly Wren and this is my first published book! It's an fantasy book set in modern day rural New England with lots of different types of abilites and a hard magic system.

All alone on her graduation day with a linguistics degree and no job prospects, Eira wondered what she would do with her life.

That is, until three strange women with magical powers show up in the parking lot and kidnap her.

Now, Eira is thrust into a world she doesn't understand. Who are the Ritires? Why does her blood make magic symbols work? Why are her three new friends saying they're now trapped in this world, with no way back to Crann?

And who are those shadow beings chasing after them?

Tropes: Found family, reluctant hero, ancient magic, celtic magic

Trigger Warnings: blood is a common component of magic, mild violence.

Currently only $3.99!

[stephenrea]

I wanna talk about 'The Banshees of Inisherin' cause I really enjoyed it but I'd like provide ye a bit of context for the production of the story that might alter some of the analysis I've seen gettin passed around. A common misconception about MacDonagh is that he's an Irishman- he's not. He's English. His parents are Irish and he's spent many a Summer holiday in Ireland. But he was born and raised an Englishman. Irish stories of the 20th century have a tendency to carry a lot of political tension, far more tension than you'd see in 'The Banshees of Inisherin' because, like all irish stories for the past millennium, they work as fabels. They're all metaphors for recent irish history and the social mores of rural Ireland and understanding that is almost necessary for the enjoyment of the those kinds of works.

MacDonagh, being an Englishman, is less concerned with these politics; but irish influences remain strong in his works all the same. First and foremost, he's a playwright and this is evident in the structure of his screenplays. MacDonagh makes a lot of references to the film adaptation of John B. Keane's play 'The Field' both visually and by use of certain character archetypes in his film. Take 'The Irish Fool' (a trope that deserves its own post tbh) depicting a mentally disabled character whose function in the story is like that of Shakespeare's fool, only these ''''fools'''' are genuine depictions of how mentally disabled adults were (and still are!!!!!) treated/taken care of in rural irish society. Yet in spite of all the parallels between both stories, The Banshees of Inisherin makes one fundamental deviation from all other irish works which is that rather than having the interpersonal conflict between the protagonists be a metaphor for irish history- irish history is instead a metaphor for their conflict. This inversion of traditional Irish storytelling is present in other areas of the story as well, such as the banshee not being a screaming mourner- but a passive aggressive observer. It's MacDonagh's close connection with the Irish that allowed him to subvert tradition in a way that I personally believe to have been done masterfully. Hypothetically; you could tell this story in any location, but it's rural irish identy is what sells it. Between the isolation of island life, the consant threat of emmigration vs homeland violence, the blur between the natural and supernatural, and the total lack of privacy met with a mandatory level of trust; all these factors are what make 20th century Ireland the ideal setting for a a story of this calibre AND I LOVE IT.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

my sister and i made a book bingo for 2024 and one of the categories she chose was romantasy and i rarely, rarely do this, but i MUST tell you that my pick for romantasy (a far wilder magic by allison saft) has me looking up one-star reviews on goodreads to validate my feelings.

[yandere-sins]

me, writing a scenario with Ghost for the first time: well, this is fun! I love imagine him talking bc his voice is so nice.

british english: yes, but can you write his accent? are you sure you know where to cut of the words and what forms to use?

me, who has learned british english first in school before being forced into american english, so now there's just a double use of it both inside me with very little differentiating between them, also no one teaches you accents and dialects:

[renee-writer]

The Irish Lass and the Scottish Lad Chapter One

A/N Good morning. This is a rewrite of From a Shamrock to a Thistle. Sigh. As with the original, Claire is bi-racial. Here we go

AO3

“Seriously Gel, I don’t think I can handle one more sprain. If the blokes don’t know how to play rugby, they shouldn’t be doing it!”

 

Her mate, Geillis laughs. “Claire, my love, you are in Scotland now. Rugby is practically a religion.”

 

Nurse Beauchamp re-secures her curls into the falling bun. With her black and white heritage, they are loose with a mind of their own.

 

They exit the loo and are meet by the head sister. “Nurse Beauchamp, there is a patient waiting in x-ray. He is being checked for a dislocated shoulder. Please see him back to the treatment room.”

 

“Yes Mistress Fitz.” She walks away, mumbling under her breath, “probably another rugby mishap.”

 

Entering x-ray, she sees him straight away. His arm, cradled to his side, is a dead giveaway. Looking down at the chart, she finds his name, “Mr. Fraser?”

 

He looks up and feels time stop. The lifting Irish accent drew his attention. Her beauty holds it.

 

“Aye.” His mates, Angus and Rupert stand.

 

“Aye lass, this be Jamie. Messed up his shoulder playing football. Slammed down on the pitch trying to stop a goal.” Angus explains  “Aren’t you a pretty one. After your shift, you wish to come back to mine?” He waggles his sizeable eyebrows.

 

“That is no way to talk to a lady.” Rupert pushes him away, “Forgive my mate, miss. He was raised in a barn.”

 

She has heard worse and tells them so. That is when her patient speaks up, “A shame my lady. No one should speak anything but kind words to you.” It isn’t a line. He means every word. A passing doctor reminds her where she is. Her patient and his mates need escorted to the next stage of the NIH shuffle.

 

“Come.” She directs. Angus whispers something and Rupert hits him again. She simply shakes her head.

 

It isn’t easy being bi-racial. Most people treat her as either a goddess or a whore, with very little in between. She is exalted or vilified. Her dad has brought her up to be strong. Her mum taught her to take no shite. Between them, she is an Irish African warrior. Comments like Angus ‘ roll off her. It is only racial, not sexual slurs, that affect her.

 

She takes him to the treatment room. “You blokes can wait in the waiting room right there. He shan’t be long.”

 

They move that direction.

 

“You aren’t to be messed with, are you?” Jamie asks.

 

“No. It helps, in this profession, to have a stern outside.”

 

“And inside?”

 

“That depends on how I am treated.” She set up what will be needed to place his shoulder back in place. “It is dislocated. You will be seen to soon.”

 

“But not by you?” he makes a pouty face that makes her chuckle.

 

“No, by a more senior sister and our orthopedic doctor.”

 

She walks out and he watches her arse. He will see her again. He knows he will.

[cave-cryptid]

I keep hesitating to dig into Hozier's new releases because I keep telling myself that I'm mentally incapable of consuming them at this moment in time.

I'm incapable of fully appreciating them.

My brain capsule is simply unprepared

Too Feeble

My Palate too Unrefined

To cronch the bones and savor the blood and marrow of their mighty and potent lyricism

It's like I need more and more time to fully prepare myself for the hymns of a mystical forest entity. Are any of us ever prepared? I just don't know

[tartigglez]

foreign friends: "omg why can't you speak Irish??"

Irish speaking friends: *makes fun of me for speaking in Tyrone dialect*

I CAN'T WIN

[obitv]

wish english was a cooler language like "problem" thats such a boring word. fadhb is cool

[mariocki]

Play for Today: The Cry (BBC, 1984)

"It's best forgotten about."

"You're not gonna be making a complaint?"

"Complaints? We're not making any complaints! We don't want to know about any complaints."

"Complaints against who?"

"Well, the police."

"Who should I complain to about the police?"

"Well, the police, I suppose."

"What good would that do me?"

[fjphoenix-poetry]

Open Letter to New York City

You took me in without hesitation;

gave me a warm bed

and a roof over my head;

as well as a free laundry card with some dollars still on.

You were always there, found a salon to do my hair

and provided plenty of distraction

to ease my racing mind.

Thank you for keeping me out of my head.

You made sure I was always near a park,

"Exercise is important," you said

and you asked the trees to listen

as I reasoned through my problems.

You transported me here and there,

providing the most weirdly wonderful characters

for me to observe on the subway;

I guess you had an inkling that I loved to people watch.

And finally, you helped in my success

when no one else seemed to believe

the things I could achieve;

and by doing that you helped me to -

believe in myself.

[timbarrus]

Take notes. What is a nest. Nature will take it all back. I am probably the only person on the planet who thinks this is a good thing. I do not care about Homo sapiens sapiens. I care about wildlife, and you only think that none of them live with you. But no. They live all around you, and they are important because they have all helped sculpt the land. I do not see photographic sadness. I see the wild as taking your sadness failures and turning them into places where trees, nests, wild grass, fields and meadows and fish ponds can flourish. It is not ruination. It is life. Every country in the Commonwealth (just one example) is filled with people who have no home. Consider it a challenge to build better, smarter houses. Across the pond, my life and my friends are foxes, skunks, squirrels, coyotes, bears, a thousand species of birds, deer, river otters, red wolves, beavers, chipmunks, and awesome mountain lions. These guys would love a house where they could build a nest. The photographs in this are voices. An element of sadness creeps into each photograph as an icon of abandonment. Homo sapiens abandon their nests and go find another one. My coyotes live in a cave. My mountain lioness has been sleeping in the hay loft of my neighbor's farm. My neighbor has no idea she is in his barn. His barn. Her barn. He will kill her if he finds her. I am thinking of building her a smart treehouse over here. Winter has its tongue wrapped around the lamppost of memory's frozen breath.