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The Cave Long Before… We’ve walked here across the time of two moons. We began when it was a sliver in the sky, the size of one curled finger and it grew and shrank as we travelled. We would not have come, but one frozen night this winter my mother closed her eyes and did not open them again. The ground shook the day after. It put a crack in the wall of the cave and rained stones down on our heads as if it too grieved her loss. That day I forgot my old name. The wind blew

This writing prompt comes from a book of prompts meant to encourage you to try new aspects of the craft. This particular one was “Write the opening of a short story entirely in dialect” In the spirit of practicing voice for my current novel, which incorporates a lot of Irish mythology, I wrote this short piece in a light Irish dialect. Seanachie I’m walking along on a boreen. You know, the auld roads. Worn down cow-paths they are so, no more than that. In the backcountry wh

Your Monthly Myth Stolen Land “Now I'm in the land of liberty where plenty it does abound Where the labouring man gets full reward for the tilling of his ground There's naught I can see that can comfort me as an exile I must roam And end my days far far away from Erin's lovely home.” Karan Casey, Erin’s Lovely Home I am eleven years old in camp, sitting on a high rock after a long hike throu gh the woods. A white man sits in a circle of white children. “And Gluscabee gave a

Imagine for a moment that it’s raining. Not a heavy rain, just a constant mist that seems to both fall from the sky and rise from the ground. Imagine a hillside of grass so green it almost hurts, and a rocky beach by the wild waves. There’s a cottage. One room, with a hearth fire laid with peat. Evening is coming, rising up from the silver sea. Inside the cottage, by the fire, a Storyteller pulls up a chair. In the sudden quiet he lights a pipe, a twist of smoke rising tow

Copyright: © Onetto, Funes, Murgo (DOPRARA-INAPL) How many of us have looked at a piece of art and loved it without knowing why? Or stayed up until entirely-too-late o'clock to finish 'just one more chapter'? Or held still while listening to a piece of music, or moved your body caught in dance? Humans are creative at our heart. We always have been. Studying Ecology, Anthropology/Archeology, and Creative Writing all at the same time convinced me of that. It is what defines us