Stories

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October 25, 2011

Some diary entries … March to May 1999

Posted by Brendano under Death, Ireland, Memories, Stories | Tags: , , , , |
[22] Comments 

1/3/99 – Sean played Hercules – he loves it and is progressing through the various levels.

4/3/99 – Pauline took the kids to an Irish dancing lesson in Maghera (their first) – they both enjoyed it enormously … A tree fell across the road today just after Maire, Andy and Susanna passed on the way home from school, and just before Pauline drove to Erika’s – she had to turn and go another way.

5/3/99 – We watched The Simpsons and the final of Robot Wars; Sean rang Peter to tell him about the latter and we chatted to him.

6/3/99 – Pauline went out to look for Itsy, who hadn’t come home last night (not for the first time). She found poor little Itsy dead by the side of the road – she was still warm, her eyes were open and she wasn’t marked except for some blood by her nose. The children were very upset … She was a lovable cat. (more…)

 

December 2, 2010

Sean’s world 5

Posted by Brendano under Ireland, Stories, The music of what happened | Tags: , |
[13] Comments 

Apart from Dublin and Munterconnaught (and a pre-natal stint in London), the only place Sean ever lived was Cavan town, half an hour north-west of us.

I have never spent much time there, except for the 2006–7 rugby season when Sean played under-16 rugby for Cavan and I helped out with the coaching. I don’t know the town very well.

In his first year at Cavan Institute, a third-level college (2008–9), Sean studied Multimedia Production … a FETAC level 5 course. He was always good with computers, and the course suited him well. We used to drop him to Virginia each morning, and he would catch the bus to Cavan. The course was largely project-based, and his results for the year were excellent … he gained a distinction or a merit in every subject. (more…)

 

October 12, 2010

Medusa

Posted by Brendano under Stories | Tags: , |
[7] Comments 

[Previously posted on MyT]

He was sitting on a rock at the edge of the sand, playing with a piece of bladder-wrack he’d picked up – bursting the bladders, and thinking about this and that.

‘Medusa,’ she said, ‘had seaweed on her head. Instead of hair.’ He looked up and saw her – a slight, smiling, dark-haired girl, his own age or close, blocking the dim sun.

She sat down on the rock to the right of his, uninvited, and continued to speak in a strong country accent … probably a traveller, he thought as he inspected her, which he was free to do as she was looking out to sea. The wind blew back her ropes of hair and showed her face. (more…)

 

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