You know how it is - you are looking for your wellies and you find a gem!

Have to find somewhere I can use this - Prose Poetry - maybe a dream sequence.

She was walking by the river. The sound of the water running down over the stones and swishing past the reeds was soothing.

Small fish popped their noses through the water and slapped at the flies and insects caught in the upper film as they tried to escape from their riverbed nursery. 

It was early Summer and the riverbank grasses had reclaiming their beds usurped by the Winter floods. 

The trees in the wood had long ago left their frosty nakedness behind and were caressing the breezes that wafted their perfumes to the pigeon squabs in their timber framed homes.

Inside in the wood on a pathway that mirrored the twists and hills of the river path the old man and the young boy walked not close but still alongside her. 

The man was dressed in a white tunic, above this a wide hood was drawn to hide his face.

The boy was about ten years old and was dressed in a green waistcoat. His hair was long, golden when the sun burnished it as it flickered through the canopy.

His lower trunk and legs was hidden by the ferns that forms the undergrowth of all woods. 

The paths were starting to come closer. 

She could hear the pair talking, a jumble of sounds. Soon the paths would meet.

I'm working on draft two of De Buke, now called In The Wicker Wood - Secrets Uncovered..

Fanahan brings the Seeing Eye dog to the Hospital to try and flush out Georgie....

Shay put the boot down, accelerating hard, and headed for the Hospital Prison, hoping that no motorbike Garda came by and stopped the car because of the speed. If that happens, he thought, I hope he's armed I can get him to shoot the dog.

They arrived, unfortunately at lunch time. Fanahan tried to get the staff to bring the patients out and line them up in the corridor. He was advised that although Drummond was a place for housing the criminal insane, that not all inmates were criminals. Some he was reminded were not held at the pleasure of the state, but sometimes dumped there by relatives, or in some cases the individuals had no family or friends, or indeed homes.

Chastised, Fanahan decided to try and use the dog in the dining room. It was a disaster, the dog was fine and behaved himself, walking where Aoife directed him. It was the patients who messed the process up.

They tried to feed him bits of their food, to pet him or call him over to their table. At least Fanahan decided some of this group was not afraid of dogs, so that was good: but it was also bad, for him that was. Others ignored Davie, as he walked around. None however jumped up and tried to get away. One lady thought the dog was her husband reincarnated, “Jerry. Jerry,” she called, “You said you would return as a dog. Tell me Jerry where did you hide the money from the pension you got when you retired?” Then she seemed to remember and tried to lunge at the dog. “I remember, now, you went to the Canaries with that tramp.” And she lunged again at the dog and tried to hit him with her walking aid.

Just before they departed Fanahan thought to ask, “Did we cover all of the inmates? Were any missing, were they all in that room?”

“Yes Detective, except those confined to barracks for their own safety.” the Matron answered.

“Jees, why didn't you tell me. How many?”

“Five.”

After he cheeked those by holding the dog at the open door of their rooms, without any reaction. He thought to ask, “Are they all drugged up.”

“Of course.”

“So they wouldn't know if Jack the Ripper, came in to their cells? Bloody hell maybe one of them is Jack.”

“Unlikely Inspector.”

“Aoife, thanks for your help. I will drive you home now. Hold on a second can you, until I check something”

At the entrance he called a warder over and enquired where they stored their empty bottles. Then he moved the car around to the storage and cleared his car boot of the smelly, stinking, covered with spills bottles. Then he drove back to collect Aoife. Now Mutt. You can keep your nose out of my business.

As he left he decided to wind down his window and wind up the Matron: who was making sure he left. “Is that the lot then? No bodies in the basement? That's the lot then, all checked out.”

Unruffled the Matron confirmed that he had in fact met and examined all the patients. Then she halted. “Except of course except the General, he is on a day out, with some friends.”

“The General. Who is he? How long has he been here? When will he return?” Fanahan snapped.

“Go easy, please. This evening his friends will bring him back. He's here a good few years now. Harmless. He just thinks he was a soldier in the local defence force. You know during the Emergency.”

Emergency? What bloody emergency, a cock up in the nappy supply? Hold on WWII, we called that little barney The Emergency over here.

“ You know how to contact me. Let me know when he returns. Meanwhile can I speak with the Warden? Sorry Professor Murray, the man who is supposed to be in charge.”

“He was called away without notice Detective. We were all surprised, we need him here to help with the arrangements. Technically the patient was in his care.”

Three weeks later when no phone call had been received, Fanahan rang Drummond and found out General was still on a day out with friends. In other words the only suspect he had: who perhaps was Georgie was in the wind, AWOL, over the wall, water under the bridge. Gone. As well he found out the facility had a new Warden. A new Head Man, Shay Smiled at that, and this news didn't surprise him.

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.”