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About the Author
A.A. Sheradon, living in Donegal, Ireland, 43 years old. The author has a deep inbuilt sense of curiosity about life and all that surrounds it. Likes to write, draw, paint and walk.
About the Book
A selection of Irish short stories and modern poetry from Donegal author A.A. Sheradon.
Sample Excerpts
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Life & Times
Short Stories & Poetry
ISBN: 978-1-907107-17-7
Price: €12.50 |
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Blood And Gory
Your country needs you, he said looking down crooked finger pointed eyes glared into narrow slits questioning why not joined up The craggy features on the wall beckon us to join the forces, see the world a girl in every port your country’s flag unfurled across your brass-handled coffin at your military obsequies with all the trimmings to soften the blow to your loving families Join the army, learn to kill devastate in harmony with your fellow man against your fellow brother see how the poor boy ran Join the army blood will spill grit your teeth shoot to kill trample them beneath the boot that bears your treaded leather soles on inert motionless carcasses crushing their dreaded mortal souls Joined the army born to kill squeezed the trigger from a far off hill no recurring faces to break my sleep no screams or nightmares to make me weep but closer to the fratricide are screams of threat of rampant pain of mortal terror that I’ll see again and again Blood still spills, seen now through coloured gases gushing fountain-like from flesh-torn crevasses cratered deep in enemy skin skin like mine like my brother black white yellow brown one just like the other Join the army, it says what a life he thinks the glory of mortal combat fuck war - it stinks no-one will win everyone will lose in one way or another as soldier do as leaders chose dying maimed and pained killing maiming and inflicting for a paint coated sliver of tin stuck to a ribbon of coloured bunting as his sole reward for bravery and self-sacrifice pinned to a limbless head and torso blown apart by some deathly device Don’t talk to me of war this killing field your brother, fellow human being lying dying where he once kneeled to pick a flower beside a road that he once walked on legs now blown across the ground of which he had always talked Join the army see the world kill someone who never hurled an insult at you or spat in your eye or who never met his family for one long last goodbye
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Tears
I’ve cried myself an ocean and tidal waves of tears have coursed ever downwards throughout all the long years of a life that outwardly appears to be perfect a life so very vital in its every living aspect but come the darkness at the very end of day and any fleeting feelings of happiness gives way to a gloomy mood that drenches over my embroidered feather pillow on which I cry cry myself into a slumber deep if I am lucky, otherwise I just never sleep no-one ever knows of my nocturnal plight they see one me by day and never the one by night help me, help me, please to get out of this perilous state somebody please, help me before it’s much, much too late |