Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    By the Light of the Moon: An Anthology
    By the Light of the Moon: An Anthology
    By the Light of the Moon: An Anthology
    Ebook146 pages2 hours

    By the Light of the Moon: An Anthology

    By R. A. Barnes, Maura Barrett, Jeanne Beary and

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Long forgotten but dramatic events from history have inspired fourteen short stories in this collection of new fiction from Irish writers.

    Drawn by the authors' imagination, these compelling stories reignite familiar historical themes once told through the satire of popular verse. Reinterpreted as an anthology, some tales are retold in their original setting while others are adapted for today's world.

    A glossary of all the associated rhymes and brief biographies for each author are included at the end of the book.

    Authors: R.A. Barnes, Maura Barrett, Jeanne Beary, Ilona Blunden, Phyllida Clarke, Eileen Condon, Nora Farrell, Majella Gorman, Patrick Griffin, Mary Healy, Orla Hennessy, Stella Lanigan, Rachel Nolan and Valerie Ryan.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMarble City Publishing
    Release dateJul 21, 2015
    ISBN9781908943514
    By the Light of the Moon: An Anthology

    Read more from R. A. Barnes

    Related to By the Light of the Moon

    Related ebooks

    Anthologies For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related categories

    Reviews for By the Light of the Moon

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      By the Light of the Moon - R. A. Barnes

      By the Light of the Moon

      An Anthology of New Irish Fiction

      Licensed by Marble City Publishing

      Copyright © 2015 the named authors

      First published by Marble City Publishing in 2015

      All rights reserved

      epub Edition

      ISBN-10 1-908943-51-3

      ISBN-13 978-1-908943-51-4

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the authors.

      ~

      Dedication

      In memory of Jane Avril de Montmorency-Wright

      1936 - 2014

      ~

      Foreword

      Long forgotten but dramatic events from history have inspired fourteen short stories in this collection of new fiction from Irish writers.

      Drawn by the authors’ imagination, these compelling stories reignite familiar historical themes once told through the satire of popular verse. Reinterpreted as an anthology, some tales are retold in their original setting while others are reimagined and adapted for today's world.

      A glossary of all the associated rhymes and brief biographies for each author are included at the end of the book.

      ~

      Contents

      The Oranges and Lemons Eulogy by R.A. Barnes

      Sing a Song of Sixpence by Maura Barrett

      The Fiddle by Jeanne Beary

      Restoration by Ilona Blunden

      The Sad Tale of Mary Sawyer's Little Lamb by Phyllida Clarke

      Jack Spratt by Eileen Condon

      There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe by Nora Farrell

      Rock a Bye Baby by Majella Gorman

      A Patch of Faded Blue by Patrick Griffin

      Needles and Pins by Mary Healy

      Three Blind Men by Orla Hennessy

      The Fall of Many by Stella Lanigan

      Little Star by Rachel Nolan

      Dr Foster's Patience Pays Off by Valerie Ryan

      The Rhymes and their Backgrounds

      Author Biographies

      The Oranges and Lemons Eulogy by R.A. Barnes

      I can still hear the bells ringing, children’s voices pealing out the rhyme. A hot summer’s afternoon, just before the holidays. Those strange creatures, girls, turning cartwheels on the grass and squealing as the occasional glimpse of underwear was shared. Then joining the boys in a round of Oranges and Lemons, us sweating from our football game, them glowing from their gymnastics.

      The innocence, breathless and without guile, boys and girls skipping through the archway of arms, smiles exchanged in the joy of the year end. Some of us would never see the other again, leaving for high schools on different sides of town. Others would eventually marry.

      The horror as hands chopped down on damp necks in the finale, striking the heads from the unlucky last pair to pass through on the final verse.

      We didn’t know then what fate had in store. Brady the Gimp to be cut down by Motor Neurone Disease before he could marry. Bernie Dolan to finish his teenage life at the end of a rope in the local park. But we sensed the terror of fragile young lives. Well, I did.

      ~

      Oranges and lemons, candy slices bought from Charlie Watkins’ newsagent and sweet shop. Rows of glass jars standing to attention on wooden shelves, their contents sold loose by the quarter pound. Cough candy was my favourite. You preferred the sticky, sweeter stuff.

      Old Charlie had something badly wrong with his skin. He was a wart-covered monster and we didn’t want to buy sweets when he was behind the counter. We might catch his leprosy from a humbug. I often wondered if he was upset by us pretending to play outside, peering through the window until he had gone, leaving the less hideous Mrs Watkins to serve us.

      We had our first taste of financial independence from the same lady. She took us both on as paper boys, in the days when milkmen delivered glass bottles. Daily news, gossip and nude girls appeared between pages of inky print. Michael the Midget was head paperboy and he managed us with dull efficiency and zero humour. I had the country delivery route called Box and spent an hour racing my bike between a few isolated farmhouses, enjoying the freedom. You took the dense and affluent Old Bedford Road on foot, built your muscles carrying the heavy bag of papers and raked in the tips at Christmas.

      I was two years older and graduated to working in the petrol station next to our house, selling Embassy Gold cigarettes and Smurfs, filling unwitting foreign tourists’ cars with the wrong fuel. My pay-packet outstripped yours but you still managed to save more. I’ve always been penny and pound foolish.

      A year on and the menswear department of C&A was my new employer. I spent my Saturdays chasing leather jacket thieves, rearranging Crimplene trousers on their rails and measuring the inside legs of Pakistani gentlemen. Within a couple of months I bought my first guitar and discovered beer. A few months later I concluded that one or more of my drinking buddies were crooks and not buying their round of drinks. Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights out on the town always cost me a lot more than the other lads. As for you, even though we shared a room, I had forgotten you existed.

      It would take until my second marriage for you to admit, during your best man’s speech, that you had pilfered my pockets for change each morning that I lay comatose in my hangover bed. Over the course of time it was enough to buy that saxophone you wanted. Nobody could understand how you had saved so much. In later years you put down your confession as a joke. But we all heard you on the day.

      ~

      Between those two marriages I found myself in financial straits. Live while you’re alive was my motto and property problems found me with no rainy-day fund. You had made a few quid by that stage and stepped into the breach, insisting that I accept a loan of several thousand. This before I knew about the saxophone scam. I accepted both the money and a feeling of indebtedness. The younger brother had become an adult while the older was floundering in a pit of hedonism.

      In honour of my own infidelity you explored your own mid-life crisis. But it was short-lived, once the financial implications became clear.

      My sporadic lack of common sense seems to be inherited. I didn’t lick it off the stones, as they say here. When our parents retired early they headed offshore – not to the Cayman Islands but aboard an overpriced thirty-foot catamaran during the Thatcherite boom. I was between homes and between wives, so you and yours became custodians of several of the seafarers’ bits and pieces, including the cutlery set in its mahogany box with a piano finish. I think they meant to catch fish with a string and eat them raw, like Gollum. It didn’t last, of course, and after three years of clothing and footwear rotting in the Essex coastal winters they retreated back on land, to Scotland which was about the only place they could afford to live. On request for return of the cutlery set your response, after spousal consultation, was ‘Yours for twenty quid’. Presumably you didn’t manage to insert all items in the orifice suggested by our mother.

      ~

      I found my feet with that second marriage and my head rose above the financial mire. My offer to repay the loan was firmly rejected. You had come into some money and really didn’t need any more. My need was doubtlessly greater than yours. I agreed, of course.

      The benefits of a prudent life continued to accrue for you. Share options, company takeovers, property gains. When your wife demanded a brand new Audi you saw fit to bestow your old Ford on our parents who were struggling under the cosh of a small pension and the Scottish weather. ‘It still doesn’t make up for the cutlery set,’ Mother confided in me.

      Another decade passed and I received a call from our father. You had arranged to purchase their flat from the council, reducing their rent to a nominal amount and having the will altered to make clear your beneficial ownership of the property. Father was worried that I might think they were disinheriting me. I said I didn’t need it. Mother promised to hide the antique plate collection from your wife and began to point out any items of value whenever I visited, which wasn’t that often.

      I made my own few feeble attempts at riches. Substantial share investments grew and vaporised with the fall of the Irish banks. A cashed-in pension dribbled away in the property crash. And I bought a few lottery tickets but none of those came up winners. Life hurtled towards its end in a harmless blur of mediocrity.

      ~

      Now, at last, comes the chopper to chop off heads. I see your neck, pale and damp with the perspiration of hard-earned prosperity. Bells peal but the singing has stopped. The dance is done, knickers have been shown, the match is finished and our term is over. The last man’s dead.

      Your face is impassive. But wait. A single tear on your cheek as you look down upon my body in its silk-lined box. An American oak casket with brass handles. Good choice. Nothing but the best for me. I like the half-lid.

      Farewell, brother.

      ~

      Rhyme background

      Author biography

      Sing a Song of Sixpence by Maura Barrett

      I have a box of windfalls in the back of my car. Ralph gave them to me. I only know two Ralphs. The first is Ralph McTell, a singer/songwriter. Met him after a gig in the local hotel. I found him to be insightful and warm. I liked him because he was a storyteller. The second is Ralph Hogan, him of the apples. He is a whizz in the kitchen and I want to marry him. Unfortunately, that is not an option available to me. I knew another man once who did all of his own ironing of a Saturday afternoon, I wanted to marry him too. I am not in love

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 9