Blog 3
Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start writing!
John was born in Ireland on a small farm in the midlands . He studied Geology at University College Galway where he joined the University of Galway Drama Society writing and directing plays as well as writing a series of short stories. In 1979 he immigrated to Calgary, Alberta, Canada to pursue his professional career as a Geologist. Since retirement in 2017 he has rekindled his love of writing and has completed several short stories. His short story ‘Treasure’ has been accepted for publication in The New Quarterly literary journal and will be published later this year.
John recently completed his first novel (unpublished – as yet) – SPECK. Page one of SPECK received honourable mention in the Gusty Great Novelist Page One competition of 2022. John is an active member of the Alexandra Writer’s Society and the Writer’s Guild of Alberta. SPECK is his first novel.
In 1979 he immigrated to Calgary, Alberta, Canada to pursue his professional career as a Geologist.
Since retirement in 2017 he has rekindled his love of writing and has completed several short stories. His short story ‘Treasure’ has been accepted for publication in The New Quarterly literary journal and will be published later this year.
John recently completed his first novel (unpublished – as yet) – SPECK. Page one of SPECK received honourable mention in the Gusty Great Novelist Page One competition of 2022. John is an active member of the Alexandra Writer’s Society and the Writer’s Guild of Alberta. SPECK is his first novel.
John recently completed his first novel (unpublished – as yet) – SPECK. Page one of SPECK received honourable mention in the Gusty Great Novelist Page One competition of 2022. John is an active member of the Alexandra Writer’s Society and the Writer’s Guild of Alberta. SPECK is his first novel.
Designation
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna.
Designation
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna.
Designation
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna.
Designation
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna.
Designation
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna.
Designation
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna.
Designation
Promo
Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start writing!
Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start writing!
Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start writing!
As autumn changed to winter after my third Gathering, the cold set in early and hard, forcing the worms and the insects to go deep. When at last the cold abated, the sky became permanently morose, a monotonous, interminable drizzle, lost in grief and weeping for we-knew-not-what. Despite the softening earth, the worms did not return, and our hunger grew. We listened to the endless ‘plick, plick’ of bare and dripping branches, the ‘plock’ of water filling the crooks of the Roosting Tree, our home, the great ash chosen so wisely by the Founder, before the hunger and the Sickness, before Akka, in his loving mercy, turned against us.
We preened and preened to repel the damp, until our glands would give no more, until, like blight on a carcass, water began to seep into our black coats. A thin mire lay over the land, drowning even the faintest possibility to feed in the fields. Birds shook and fluttered, puffing themselves to counter the ooze, hunkering down with one thought: spring.
With our backs to the forest, we stared southward across the narrow field, to the farmhouse that stood amongst the low sheds, and the barn to the west that shielded it against the wind. The lamps were lit in the lower level of the house and in a single room above. We watched, hoping the young woman would come into the yard once more to feed the fat-ones or throw offal into the pit. These were foolish notions fueled by want. She had already given them their evening meal and she would not venture out again in the rain.
The Foragers, those appointed to search out food beyond the fields, had failed us. They were our eyes and ears in the forest, our beaks and claws, the most skilled amongst us, sniffing out the precious dead, a stray animal, a fallen bird, the gift of carrion that might yet save us from starvation. But they had found nothing. A tasteless grub at the last moon became a feast in memory. The crones of the flock muttered about the one who had brought these afflictions upon us, the one who had blasphemed.
As autumn changed to winter after my third Gathering, the cold set in early and hard, forcing the worms and the insects to go deep. When at last the cold abated, the sky became permanently morose, a monotonous, interminable drizzle, lost in grief and weeping for we-knew-not-what. Despite the softening earth, the worms did not return, and our hunger grew. We listened to the endless ‘plick, plick’ of bare and dripping branches, the ‘plock’ of water filling the crooks of the Roosting Tree, our home, the great ash chosen so wisely by the Founder, before the hunger and the Sickness, before Akka, in his loving mercy, turned against us.
We preened and preened to repel the damp, until our glands would give no more, until, like blight on a carcass, water began to seep into our black coats. A thin mire lay over the land, drowning even the faintest possibility to feed in the fields. Birds shook and fluttered, puffing themselves to counter the ooze, hunkering down with one thought: spring.
With our backs to the forest, we stared southward across the narrow field, to the farmhouse that stood amongst the low sheds, and the barn to the west that shielded it against the wind. The lamps were lit in the lower level of the house and in a single room above. We watched, hoping the young woman would come into the yard once more to feed the fat-ones or throw offal into the pit. These were foolish notions fueled by want. She had already given them their evening meal and she would not venture out again in the rain.
The Foragers, those appointed to search out food beyond the fields, had failed us. They were our eyes and ears in the forest, our beaks and claws, the most skilled amongst us, sniffing out the precious dead, a stray animal, a fallen bird, the gift of carrion that might yet save us from starvation. But they had found nothing. A tasteless grub at the last moon became a feast in memory. The crones of the flock muttered about the one who had brought these afflictions upon us, the one who had blasphemed.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna.