Thomas de Burgh

As I meandered through the rooms and corridors and up the turret of the centuries old castle, my mind was fluxing. Who walked these stone floors before me? What was their story? Did they have a good life? What did they look like? How did they die? My digital camera is snapping non-stop. Me in front of the fireplace in the great room. Me on the roof looking over Galway Bay. In the hallways. On the lawn. Everywhere.

Back in the great room, my eyes are drawn to the green moss growing on the walls. How did I miss this? It’s a castle – I suppose green moss would grow on the walls of a 600-year-old building. I notice a bookshelf and mirror and thought, “There’s a neat picture – I’ll capture my reflection in the mirror.” I turned to snap a shot and noticed the castle keeper’s (is there such a word?) wife watching me as I clicked my Nikon.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked me. Leonie was her name, “I am, yes. Thank you. I was admiring the walls and thought I’d take a picture with my image reflected in the mirror.” “Oh really,” she said. “May I see?” I handed her my camera and she was obviously adept at using a digital as she knew exactly what to do. “Is this the picture you just took?” “I don’t know," I said. "It’s the last one I shot." "Ah yes, I see it now," Leonie exclaimed. "The moss on the walls – with the mirror reflection. It’s a pretty picture. But that’s not your reflection.”

I suddenly got that “excuse me?” look on my face and grabbed the camera from her. “I don’t think you're looking at the right picture. This is the –” My voice trailed off. It’s probably still wafting around Oranmore Castle somewhere. I stared at the picture I just took. There’s the moss on the walls and the bookshelf and mirror. But that's not my reflection.

There was a smile in the lady's eyes as she spoke. “Thomas de Burgh – that’s his name," she said. "Was his name. His father was Richard de Burgh, 2^nd Earl of Ulster. The family lived here in the mid-1300’s. Thomas died very young – I've read he was only 24. I see him now and then. Inside the castle – never outside. He’s shy. This behavior is unlike him. He must be coming out of his shell.” She paused. I wanted to respond but found that I was at a loss for words. 

Leonie seemed empathetic to my current state. “I’ll leave you to finish your tour of the castle. If you need anything, just – find me.” She smiled and turned to walk away – then turned back. “The fever. Thomas died of the fever.”

Funny. I was feeling a bit feverish myself.

(Photo taken at Oranmore Castle, Co. Galway 2009. Pictured is Leonie Finn, one of the owners.)

Captain Plastic Planet and the Bread Wrappers of Doom

"Holy particle beam weapons."  Bodkins exclaimed, as he hung frosted inside the wheelwell
of the luxury 767 Stratocruiser.

Kid Koolit, was piloting the tear drop shaped hypersonic trash transport nearby.
7.73 seconds later, a plastic bleach jug  was sucked into the scramjet intake port.
The craft spun perilously out of control down to the acrid fields of smoke and fire below.
Bodkins could feel the sickening thud of the crash in his fine porciline bones.
He regurgetated the lime jello he had for breakfast all over the hydralic hoses of the landing gear.

Plastic Planet has been burning out of control for almost a decade now.
A munching mass of drug residue and plastic has combined with a mutant bacterial strain.
The giant size bacteria ate massive quantities of waste and excreted napalm as bodily waste.

Some trash heaps reported bacteria to be as large as a common house cat.
Possible solution to contain the strain was to encapsulate them in bread wrappers and
seal with a twist tie. The thing would then suffocate in its own waste before it could eat through the
wrapper. The question being, how to wrap several billion bacterium with limited bread wrappers?

Bodkins flight descended from altitude to land at the Nazga Plain in the Peruvian Andes.
Early aliens designed it to be trash exempt. His white extremities were paralysed. His
yellow-orange blood cells, full of dioxin residue and BHA from raunchy cold cereal,
were coagulated in his gut. He fell out of the wheelwell with a sickening thud onto the
tarmac. The air thin and cold. To him, it felt like he was in the company of Llamas and burnt
corn cakes.

Lake John

I sat there listening to the rain. The storm everyone was talking about was rolling in, I smelled heat and earth with the air funneling in from the West. The gentleman next to me seemed to be studying his thoughts while he ate slowly. His shoulders cringed with every course of sporadic wind. I could hear his fork clinking against his teeth and noticed that his gray eyes were like mirrors of the sky, glimmering with shocks of lightning on the horizon. I liked this meal. Green beans with red onions and honey glazed bacon, zucchini fritters, heirloom corn bread, and lamb burger with nasturtium flowers placed on the rim of the platter. The chef's wife twice visited my table, we discussed my new book and her extended hiatus from writing poetry. I was pleased to walk past a row of Delphiniums on my exiting the restaurant by way of the garden path. They stood haunting the evening with their electric blue frames, like mermaids in a starlit sea. I wanted to observe the storm clouds along Lake John every day for the rest of my life.

So I Set Out

So I set out, not really with a plan, just a sense of determination. The path is dry, the leaves are green, the birds are singing. The morning beckons. A sheen of dew glistens in the sunlight, not a cloud in the sky. I am home. I am happy. I am lost.

I can’t help but hold my chin up, close my eyes, and breathe it all in as I take my first steps. A cool breeze sweeps over my face and I am gone. I want my bicycle, but the terrain calls for something less sophisticated. My feet are the vehicle this path demands as the gravel crunches under my soles.

I open my eyes, look down from the sky and study the horizon. Step by step, it seems to stay the same, as if I will never reach the hazy hills in the distance. Do I even want to? My foot suddenly catches on a root protruding from the path and I realize I should focus a little more on where I am now. I steady myself on a wooden fence post, dust off my hands, and continue on.

I can see the path winding as I begin to raise my eyes again. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. A row of small trees line a knoll as the path curves again. The grass sways freely in the breeze as it has lost the grip from the dew. I pass by a field of clover, pick a flower and breathe in its delicately sweet scent. My sights set again on the hills, still hazy, still out of reach. I don’t want to stop.

As I continue my trek, the path suddenly splits into two. As if out of nowhere, a choice is before me, no markers tell me which way to go. For the first time, I want to stop.  Both ways look the same, both seem to lead to the same destination. I have no map, just a sense of direction. I warily make my choice, head down my chosen path, and the hazy hills are still on the horizon.

As I continue to make my way down the path, it suddenly begins to narrow. The gravel turns rough and it is becoming difficult to walk. The sun still shines bright, but it begins to feel hot on my face and the once cool breeze slowly goes away. The path no longer winds and I find myself only walking in a straight line. I no longer want my bicycle. I keep my eyes down, watching the path, making sure I don’t trip on a rock.

As I wearily navigate the stony terrain, a spot of green catches my eye. A patch of clover peaks out from under the rocks and a single flower blooms. I kneel down on the path and put my nose down to the tender little flower. I gently breathe in its sweet scent and remember the field of clovers from earlier in my journey. I lift my eyes to the sky again and breathe it all in as if I were taking my first steps.

The path remains rocky, though not as bad as before, and I feel like I am learning to navigate it. The path steadily begins to widen and wind again; and a gentle breeze fills the air. As the sun crosses the meridian I hold my chin up and close my eyes again. I open my eyes, look down from the sky and study the horizon. I see the hazy hills in the distance but I no longer recognize them. I don’t want to look back to see how far I’ve gone.

Roaming the Planet

Hello Ditalinis! I have thought up a creative writing assignment for May, if you would like to participate we would all LOVE to read your words! This month we will be traveling this wild planet, and sharing our journeys with the group. You won't need a plane ticket, just your imagination! Choose a place to 'travel' to, anywhere on the Earth!Then write and post a travelogue-style journal entry, or series of entries about your adventures. I'm leaving the rest to the imagination. Please use your creative license to make this assignment light-hearted, harrowing, humorous, transformative, completely mundane even if you wish. You could journey to a rest stop in Tennessee and get caught up in a strange conversation with a truck driver... you get the idea. Love & Ink, Katie