Love {arrived}

The thing is …

No that won’t work


Joe, Joey, my beautiful man

God says I’m pregnant

O Lord give me the words


I get it, the whole angel thing

I really do -but Joseph


Lord he’s a chippy not a theologian

How is he going to understand?



Mary, my Mary my sweet angel girl

She is still sweet


The angel dude he visited me too

Explained it all so even I could take it in.

We are having a baby… Whoo hoo.



two thousand years of literal and liberal,

of conservative and radical


there are some who believe the incarnation

and there are some that doubt

just as some scoff at creation


and here’s their deal – the argument they say

Mary lied to cover an indiscretion


How could the Messiah be born

In such a lowly way

To a peasant girl in Bethlehem



Me – I’m all in, believe the whole thing

Creation, Fall, Rebellion, Redemption


And the best bit, as in any story

In the last few paragraphs …

Of a city, a hill and no more sorrow.

Morrigan has left

reposted here, originally posted on

Mary was a part of my life for so long, but didn’t get round to writing her whole story down on paper. There exists a short story about Mary Cronin called Morrigan Mary which can be found in the short story section  at, warning though it is not a pretty romantic tale, this girl is desperate and has no hope, it’s powerful only in it’s shock value. It was the first short story I wrote after a twenty year abyss. I was in a place of no hope when I wrote it. From that came the idea that even in desperation there has to be hope, this took Mary on many jaunts, being homeless and getting out in various forms including death, being abused and abusive and getting out in various forms including education, pregnancy and death. Mary was finally going to have a story for her in this blog, as a scrawny, malnutritioned, neglected child through various trials, as Morrigan the goddess within her surfaced more and more until she blossomed into the girl she is today.

But, and that is the clincher, but I have grown spiritually so much since first meeting the character Mary that I find I can’t continue. The reasons are many:

  • The concept of goddesses and gods – can’t go there anymore
  • the language needed in the place she is – can’t go there anymore
  • the girl and her decisions – can’t go there anymore
  • I can’t write about the hopelessness without a glimmer of hope
  • but most of –

The people, the characters I based on real people are still in that situation. “Mary” herself is no longer the fourteen year old girl, befriended …


“You are so stupid!” her mother was screaming at Mary. Mary was picking up pieces of delph. Mary’s brother was stood to the side smirking and her step-father was giving her one of those looks, those ‘I’ll see you later’ looks.

This was Mary’s life; her brother caused trouble for which Mary got the blame, causing her mother to lose her temper meaning she’s need a couple of spliffs and some mellow Southern Comfort to chill her out till she passed out, meanwhile her mother’s husband would use Mary for his own ends.

Mary had an alter-ego, her name was Morrigan, Queen of the Crows, Queen of the Dead, no one messed with Morrigan. It was always later, much, much later that she could invoke Morrigan. She had rituals, she would purge, she would shower in the hottest water possible, scrubbing every centimetre of her body till it tingled (for Mary’s tingle read scrubbed raw till blood appeared). As she dried her body and yanked at her long black hair so tufts of rat-tails would come loose from her scalp, she lit candles and placed her arms from elbow to wrist in the candle flame, backwards and forwards till she could feel it. Finally she banged the back of head against the wall of the bathroom until she became Morrigan.

Morrigan left the house, dressed all in black, with a long black cloak, she paused in alleys, she slithered between shop doorways, watching, waiting for her step-father leaving the bar so she could if she wanted to, kill him.

Watching and waiting, waiting and watching; thinking of her baby sister asleep in the cot. “Touch her Derek, and you will die!” she howled into the night. She swept along the road howling like a banshee, Morrigan Mary, no one dares….

Groove– ee Suzie

Yea, thank you Lord, it has been a long time coming and I have tried to be patient in my waiting, scared that it would never happen again. Last night I broke my duck and wrote. I had been thinking about doing it for ages but was scared what kind of voice would come out. The days of “Slasher Suzie” are gone. I can’t get to that point of utter hopelessness in my writing because I can’t feel it in my life.

It was a strange night, I had studied, I had read and got back to my three blogs after being immersed in Nathan and David for three days. It was half past midnight and I was about to switch off and go to bed. A friend had emailed earlier and the content of the email was still ruminating around in my head. The story I wrote was not her story, far from it, but it was the inspiration.

It was a short piece about 1200 words, a third of what I’d done in my exegesis of 2 Samuel 12:5-7 earlier on in the day. However it is complete, the tragic half finished pieces that litter my bedroom do not have a new playmate, and “A Tattered Affair” is posted on blogger.

I am not pressurising myself to keep producing, I’ll be like a hen, laying every day and then stop for a rest before continuing again. I am in a state of awe at our Lord, that he managed to get through my scaredy cat state to help me move on from my block.

I haven’t read much Christian fiction, Joshua and Joshua’s children and a few by some American ladies. I am sure there’s edgy stuff out there but I can’t write wishy washy tales that present themselves as Christian and yet the only Christian thing is they go to church. (not Joshua stories, I found part of those to be lovely narrative, the inter faith  one especially) One of the authors I read started out with Mills & Boon, which I have to admit (if that’s the right word) I have never even read the back cover of one. Maybe they are good literature for their genre, but it’s not me.

My two favourite authors are dead, Douglas Adams and Anne MacCaffrey. I still get great stimulation from Douglas’ “Dirk Gently” books, Hitchhiker is a bit different because it was written just at the beginning of the digital age and so is quite difficult to translate to the technology we have now, even the size of the “Guide” is laughable in today’s context.

I can remember a time when I would scour the charity shops of Cork hunting for a new Anne MacCaffrey, “Killashandra” was my first introduction to her but I was soon swept away to a land where people, dragons and dolphins worked together against a hostile environment. Two years ago re-read a few but I couldn’t ‘get them’ anymore. I was left grieving for the characters because they didn’t know God. I know sad isn’t it feeling sorry for fictional characters but I did.

Talenkynic, not sure what to do with her, I  think I will leave her hanging for a while longer, till I am more mature and can know how to have an alien in a Christian story. Mary, my beautiful queen of the crows, Morrigan. I still love her, she was my first character, totally unloved and unloveable, she had no redeeming features at all, and yet she broke through and was written whilst I was waiting to get on a plane at Kerry Airport.

So I’ve got my groove back, I can write (Yea) and I must be patient for the next inspiration, not scared but excited at the prospect. Lord I wait, thank you