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Wordsmiths Tullamore


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ISBN: 978-1-913275-88-4


Price:  € 15.00 plus P&P


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About the Book:


Journeys is a collection of short stories, poetry and memoirs from a diverse group of writers from all over the midlands. It is a tribute to the journeys the members have been on in their writing and personal lives since the groups formation.




About the authors:


Wordsmiths Tullamore is a creative writing group formed in 2017.

It is made up of wonderfully diverse selection of writers in different genres from all over the midlands.



Sample Excerpt:


Parcel from America By William Burns


Like a Rhode Island Red rooster, the postman crows,

“Half of Fort Knox’s gold is here, Missus.”

We rush to the table with kitchen knives

slashing shaggy twine like trainee butchers.

Mind the stamps.

Wax-sealed knots pop up and across

‘til the parcel mushrooms out in crimplene clouds

the air filling with summer clothes-line smells.

These shirts must be from Hawaii Five-O!

“I’ll dye-out these mad colours,” says my mother

“Couldn’t go to mass in them.”

All you’d hear is Book ‘em, Danno.

“Won’t wear that dress, the length of it” says my sister

“Shush, I’ll shorten it up, not too much,” says my mother

“You’re not going on Top of the Pops, are you?”

“A cowboy book for you, a mhic.”

Riders of the Purple Sage!

“Zane Who, never heard of him,

but with a horse like that there’d be no stopping of you.”

More teabags!

“I gave some to Mrs. Burke the last time,” says my mother,

“She found opening them a pure nuisance, ‘til I told her.”

“Can’t beat Barry’s loose tea.”

Diaries and fancy pens, yeah!

“Locked diaries,” says my mother

“Nobody will know what’s in there, ‘cept yourselves,

not a bad thing at all.”

Is Connecticut much different than here?

“I’ll read a bit of the cousins’ letter,” says my mother —

ah clock and time, clock and time,

the job, the job, the job,

a good bit of loneliness, but good chances too —

“The ups and downs of life are everywhere,” says my mother

“And no, you’ll not have that Blackjack gum

‘til after breakfast.”




The View (Ode to Croghan Hill) By Sophie Loren Clarke


I shall die happy knowing you

are the last thing I see

Across the five hundred year

wall full of our story

A history of our families

bottoms imprinted on it

The road once dirt, is tarmacadam’d

And filled with pot holes. Still,

I can hear Mr Flynn’s creaky wooden cart

And Alfred’s steady clip clop

Waiting for the sun to drop behind him

The boggy land, swells and

Falls like the Coast Dwellers sea

Houses scattered like ships in the distance

The low sky grey/blue. No,

teal and steely blue

Interrupted with long soft pillows

Trimmed with silver ribbons of pending rain

It is four o’clock for Mr Flanagan goes by

The rhythmic song of his barrow wheels

Sharpen as he descends and nears.

Its cacophony of shrill squeaks and

Duffs of the exhausted flattening tyre peters-out

Into the distance as he disappears over

The green patchwork hills

The white sun dims as it heads west

Its day’s work nearly over

A Polaroid blanket of pink, purple and golden amber

Develops into dark ruby ink, and velvet jet.

The endless walls, cropped land and shadows

become a handmade quilt of darkness.

They think that I cry for the embrace of a love

I never had, or felt. But they never knew, how

I love you.

This view. My view.