I reduced the selling prices on all the Kindle eBooks

November Sale, just in time for Christmas as a gift.

https://www.books2read.com/ap/xq9Ewx/Lazarian-Wordsmith

Enjoy.

Now back to working on Wicker Wood Secrets Uncovered - should be ready for Christmas - NEXT YEAR, pre-planning is a blessing.

The sequel is now named: In The Wicker Wood - Secrets Uncovered.

The second WW book is progressing, sometimes I feel the plot is writing itself - other times I would tell everyone I'm suffering from Writers Block. But that is BS - I'm just a lazy sod dossing. If it wasn't for my dream sequences, when my subconscious takes over and runs with the plot: I would be lost.

“Bob? It's Harry. Sorry for ringing you on the mobile, but other channels are not available. I gave up the landline, the bloody broadband was shite, no use at all...”

“Calm down Harry, you're all over the place, you didn't ring me to whinge, God help us, like every other businessman in the rural about the slow WIFI. What is it?”

“Bob can you come down, please, I found something that might be related to Bowen.”

“Give it to the locals Harry, or HQ: I'm retired.”

“It's a list of names, in an old biscuit tin, left on my doorstep, to coin a phrase. One of the names is Paula Stafford. The ones we identified: their names are there as well, Bob.”

“Cross of Christ! Are you sure. This could be someone messing with you Harry. Where did you say you got it? Yes I remember now – left by the fairies when you were away.”

“I don't think so Bob. But if it's genuine, there's a lot more that eleven names, a lot more than eleven victims.”

“We only found eleven graves. Are you telling me Bowen killed more girls?”

“Bob, the list has twenty seven names. Twenty Seven!”

“God. Harry can you meet me somewhere, you would consider a safe place for a meeting? This has implications we can't imaging: now especially when Bowen is supposed to be dead, but Detective Fanahan swears he is still alive and out there somewhere.”

“Owel? Tomorrow Dawn? We will be just two fishermen looking at the dawn rise.”

“Clever Harry, not the Sunrise, the dawn rise of feeding fish. Can I bring Shay?”

“Good idea, Bob, we need someone still serving, especially if he is inclined to listen to us. See you about four AM.”

Buddy Holly born this day in 1936 (7Sep).

Sitting here trying to write and then Ronan plays Buddy Holly songs, by Buddy and others on the radio.

Some tranquil moments and reflections.

From Here Lies.

The funeral was big. A woman who lived so long deserved respect. He stood with her family as people sympathised: each agreed it was time for her soul to rest.

He kept his back to the area of the graveyard where Deirdre lay. When he attended other burials he left by the small gate in the wall nearest the bridge, he never visited her. Now he turned to follow his shadow, a pathway guide painted by the climbing sun, to her.

She wasn’t alone any more: her parents were buried beside her. That in itself caused a pang of sadness, a slight tightening in the chest, a queasy feeling down low in the stomach: a memory of a time when he thought that in the end, they would lie side by side. It wasn’t anything they talked about, or even planned, but down there in that country town husbands and wives usually ended up that way: twin plots one headstone; beloved wife devoted husband.

He ran their song through his head. It brought him back to the tennis hops. She always saved that dance for him. No, matter who they were with, once the record began, they left and found each other.

A soft, “Hello.”

“Hello yourself.”

She settled within his arms and they slow danced: her chin on his shoulder, their eyes closed bodies moving slowly in unison; stepping to the slow beat one-two-one, one-two-one, one-two-one, alone in a crowd, lost in their world; the one that Buddy brought them to.

Sometimes we’ll sigh,

Sometimes we’ll cry,

And we’ll know why,

Just you and I,

Know true love ways…

The townspeople were leaving to go back to their own lives. Only a few remained, dotted around the plots, at the resting places of their loved ones. The local solicitor, while paying her respects, had asked him to call in when he had time.

“I know she left me the wood,” he said. “It's not that she replied. Call soon.”

And The Plod Goes On - still grafting at the crafting!

Shay decided he needed a list, a job list: a thing he always despised, bits of notes of things to do, your life on a page. Not the get the groceries kind of list, or get your shoes heeled, of pick up flowers for the wife. A list of priorities: who to concentrate on first in the new job. Would it be on his PC, or iPad, or Phone, in a “Notes” folder: not a ghost of a chance he would make it on any of these. Good old fashioned paper and pen, would do. Then when you solved each of the tasks – you could tick them off, scratch them out, obliterate them.

The first thing he wrote down, in his new notebook, was... Who is watching me? And the answer he thought... Terrorist Terry – how does he fit in?

Shay stopped after he wrote that. He began muttering to himself, whispering... He was somehow involved in the kidnapping of the priest, well not the kidnap – Bowen did that – the rescue! Jees! That part of the story was still a bit of a mystery. I was busy trying to find Bowen, not concentrating on anything else. Wonder did Bob Tyrell ever work it out? I'll ask him.

Muttering again, chewing an inner cheek, trying to bite a piece out of it, gently... I got a call to pick up the priest in that old church – in Ballyboughal, Fingal. Bally Bloody Boughal, a whistle stop, just a church and a pub, sometimes a closed pub.

An old church, and graveyard as well. Historians said that this church had a secret relic of Christ and St. Patrick – the Bachall: the crozier of Christ, given to St. Patrick before he came to Ireland. That was what the name meant the town of the staff of Christ.

Then he wrote the same question in another way. Who in the job is watching/spying on me? That's it boyo. Which of Nora's Schnauzers was sniffing around. Is it me they are looking at: Shambo, or the boss, trying to get dirt. God knows there is a lot of that, on the new boss. F them.

WHERE IS BOWEN. He wrote this in capitals: it was the question he needed to answer. But this is the danger. The higher ups want him dead and out of the way.

Then he added WHY in capitals again. That's all I'm writing down on that question. What could he know? Who fears it? Who fears Georgie can harm them? Jees that should be question in: the top priority.

He finished with the final question, for now he though. Again in Capitals – WILL I GET SCREWED? AND WILL THERE BE REWARDS FOR THE NON-PARTICIPANTS????

Fanahan sees a ghost - WW Sequel Draft II

Fanahan wasn't having any luck trying to persuade the management at the Pavs to let him view the CCTV security recordings of the last hour or so. He had checked and the open space did have cameras. But without an idea that some kind of crime had been committed on the centre, and some idea of where, when, what and how, no cooperation from management was going to occur.

He went downstairs and decided that cameras in the shops would probably not be of any use: either because the couple had not been in the shops, or that viewing would again be refused. He could not go around to the nearby Cop Shop, again no excuse would suffice: I thought I saw a dead man in the place, would mean letting the brass know he was not buying the Georgie is dead lark.

At this stage in the past, with such a puzzle to solve he would have a few jars while the wheels of connivance stirred in his brain, and the answer came to him . But he was off the jar: wasn't he? Nevertheless he had a brainwave: would Tyrell's pal, Jimmy be able to get at the recordings? After all it did seem he was a hacker of sorts.

Bob Tyrell answered his phone very quickly. It was as if he was waiting for an urgent call. “Hello Shay. What can I do for you?”

“Bob, sorry for disturbing you, but I need some advice.” Then remembering the quickness of the pick-up, he added. “Can you talk with me now? Is it a bad time?”

“It is and it isn't. Shay. I was waiting for a call from my granddaughter, she is expecting to be accepted for a college course this morning, and I'm just waiting for word.”

“Sorry Bob, I'll ring back so. What time would suit?”

“No. It's fine. If she phones the call waiting will alert me, and then I will answer her. Okay?”

“Bob I thought I saw a lunatic of our acquaintance this morning in the Pavs in Blanch. That lunatic they said was out of the way.”

“No way Shay. Are you sure.” Bob had suddenly forgotten about the pending call about the college place.

“That's it Bob. I'm not, but if I could see the CCTV images of the time, I could rest my mind, or go back on the drink, if he is around. But I have no official way of getting a look at the tape, or disk, or what ever it's called now. Could a man you know make an enquiry for me. The red fella?”

“Crap Shay, it's the other call. I'll get back to you. Hope it's good news.”

It's hard to complete a book and blog - so my solution is populate one with the other.

Nice to be out of uniform, and in a suit. Thought it would never happen.

Fanahan was being introduced to his new team, the Terrorist Watch squad. He knew some of them, others were new recruits. He had an office, but did not intend to spend a lot of time in there. Out and about Shay that's me, in the air, nose to the ground, hunting terrorists.

But it would not be that simple, he was the boss, the leader, the man who was supposed to formulate the strategy. However Shay knew that was window dressing – he was here to keep whatever ball Monahan had been carrying for the top brass, out of signt, away from prying eyes. He knew the unit often ignored certain avenues of pursuit, for monetary, or political excuses.

He would wait a week or so, while Nora decided the agenda, and keep his eyes open for the inevitable traps that would appear in his way. There were always disgruntled staff, who were aggrieved when someone was floated in above their heads to replace a colleague.

Md's Shambo, watch out for the Mouse Droppings, little things that will catch you out.

As it turned out the mouse droppings were boulders. Nora wanted him to pretend to do the terrorist job but also to devote some time, secretly, under the radar to finding out who was off the hook now that Georgie, the serial killer was dead. What were they afraid of while Georgie was alive? The real problem in sticking his nose into this hornet's nest, was that Fanahan knew Georgie was still alive, hiding somewhere, probably planning another killing. It was laughable, the head of the terrorist Squad, not looking for the biggest harbinger of terror he had ever know.

He was knackered. On the one hand Ryan telling him Georgie was dead, the coroner agreeing. All of them knowing that was not true. Now he was being asked to find out who was pulling the strings. Who was afraid of Georgie? And why?

A conundrum Shanbo, as Grandad often said. Come here me boy I have a conundrum for you to work out.

This one was not a question being asked for amusement, not a riddle he could work out. But that was the job he had been told to do, while keeping his staff busy on crap.

Only In Ireland – the land of the foul mouthed plonker.

Was asked a week ago to read a few verses, at a church service to remember babies, who were lost before, during of shortly after birth.

Have been asked before to participate and was honoured to do so.

Towards the end of the rehearsal the piper, who usually performs a piped lament to finish the outdoor part of the remembrance, said “I have wurds to the lament, dum dum do do... a pom.” The coordinator asked, “ Have you got them with you? Written down?”

“No. Dems on me 'puter.” (Honestly. He speaks and mutters a lot and that is about the lilt of the accent – North County Dublin Accent).

“But I can recite dem.”

“Grand so,” adds the coordinator. “Pat can you write them down.”

I muttered to the lady sitting beside me ..On with the kid gloves now to try and get Billy to tell me the words.

After a bit of fitting and sparting ( pissing & farting) he had muttered the first few verses to me and I had written them down.

“That's all I remember but deres a few more verses.” He offered.

“Where?”

“I tole ya, on me 'puter.”

“Can we go over and get them?

“Nah, I may not be able to find them. I'll bring them over tomorrow.”

“OK” I said. “I will be at mass at 10 o'clock – give them to me then, or if you like give them to me 15 minuter before we start tomorrow.”

So Pat goes early to 10 mass, parks his car outside yer mans front door.

No sign of yer man the piper, not a squeak out of him. So off I got to mass, expecting to find him waiting when the service is over. But the green between his house and the church is devoid of life – not even a mangy mutt defecating, as usual, on the path. So he was not waiting to see me before or after mass.

In the afternoon I arrive for the remembrance, to find the piper in his kilt and top with his pipe under his arm, all prepared for the performance.

I get the poem, which has been left in the front seat for me and walk down the church to meet him and discuss how he wants his work delivered.

He storms up with steam coming out his ears and loudly shouts vile profanity at me. The F word and the B word and a hope he could Pee on my grave, because we had missed meeting that morning, citing a time scale when I was sitting in the car outside his door.

So I decided I could go home, or do the readings as I said I would but not his poem. I opted to clear off home – leave him to it. My Good Wife whispered “Michelle Obama – when they go low YOU go high.”

I sat down and looked at the poem for the children who died at birth, or after, or in memory of miscarriages that mothers had.

“Jesus Lord have mercy on lost children.” That was the first line I read. Jeepers this guy is asking mercy for children who we all believe are in Heaven. I read on and it got worse. “The love that we had to give to them. Has been placed on to others who are at hand....To know that our baby is in your Mother's care”

So my editing pen was put to good use. The first line was changed to “Jesus Lord welcome our lost children.” Baby became babies, is became are. So on I went: chop, chop, change, write, edit.

Well do you know what? Outside I explained the poem, said I was honoured to have been asked to read it. Reviewed it, pointed out the despair and the loneliness in the verses and the words and gave it my best radio and TV voice and education, pausing and speeding up, slowing as required. And I got a big clap and shouts of well done.

Then the piper started to pump up his bellows, get its wind up with a few thumps on the side of the bag, and tones the instrument, and then the priest walked away into the Sacristy and the crowd dispersed for refreshments. He blows a few notes and storms home silently. No march accompanied him, as I watched him stomp across the green. Hoping he would encounter what the dogs had left there over the week.

Later I realised that the day before when he said “I have some wurds...”

We were supposed to say “Will you recite them after you play the refrain tomorrow?

Typically Irish stupidity. I will only perform when asked to do so, I won't offer, or say I want to do it, and when I'm stupid enough to keep my mouth shut about what I want to do, and someone else gets asked to do the job, I will turn nasty.

Just like at the party when Jonny is asked to sing a song and says no, then when asked again insists he won't. But at the third asking agrees to perform.

Francie, my dad used ask once, maybe twice, and then called on another. He was popular with some, hated by the ones who insisted all week afterwards, that he would not let them sing.

Bloomin' Irish traditions.