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Category Archives: Author’s

Araby…

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The following is an excerpt from one of my favorite short stories, Araby it was published in a James Joyce’s short story collection, Dubliners in 1914. It is widely considered to be his finest short story, and recommended reading, please enjoy.  I study writers the “Master’s”, the way their “Voice” shines through, words placed perfectly.  I hope you will enjoy this story as well.  Have a great day.

Credit for story –  https://american literature.com

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two story’s stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbors’ in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odors arose from the ash pits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Manga’s sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed, and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlor watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O’Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: `O love! O love!’ many times.

 

 

 

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HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY TO EVERYONE…

womanwriterblogHAPPY MEMORIAL DAY TO EVERYONE THAT CELEBRATES THIS DAY….

 

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This image is what “a picture is worth a thousand words” means.

I have been very busy trying to meet a deadline so I will be away for a short period of time.  I promise to visit all of you soon.

EAM…

 

 

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The Passing of Time

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The Passing of Time

My body aches, after years of “beating it up”.  I give in to the grace of gravity.  I do not live these days in wonder or fear.  Yet, a baby’s breath can take mine away and these troublesome times can instill fear in me for the future of this wonderful world.  My spine tingles in the presence of a gentle man both young and old.  I know that the passing of time is like a cool wind on a hot summer’s day, I no longer count the hours or days.  The thought of a new love still makes my heart soar.  It is the precious moments that I allow to linger. 

©2017.annjohnsonmurphree

 

Books by Author at locations below:

https://www.createspace.com/pub/simplesitesearch.search.do?sitesearch_query=ann+johnson-murphree&sitesearch_type=STORE

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/ann+johnson+murphree

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

[This writing is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.]

Your support of my blog and its contents are appreciated

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

 

 

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Thank you…

womanwriterblog

 

Thank you  https://danicapiche.com for the Blogger Recognition Award — Writers’ Edition Nomination.

DANICAPICHE…is all about living a beautiful life.  In eclectic form, a mix of short essays, how-to-list, anecdotes, distant memories and poetic license.

Please check out this blog for an abundance of outstanding post.

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

 

 
2 Comments

Posted by on February 23, 2017 in Author's, Awards, Writing

 

OF POVERTY & SCARLET RIBBONS

Outstanding post as always from Mike, please check out his site and follow. Prepare for excellent reads in every post.

- MIKE STEEDEN -

scarlet-ribbons

come fading glow, vampire bats crisscross a ripe moon

silvered chimney smoke outpaces the silly, chilly moths

rushing ever upwards chasing heaven sent white light

a befitting sight worthy of the promise magic bestows

upon an otherworldly place few beings know exists

midsummer day’s spawning of the briefest obscurity

so stingy the gratuity of darkness’s deepest pockets

leaving just wafer-thin messages for the abandoned

subdued tidings of those condemned to life in limbo

no time or place for squirreled away final goodbyes

solemnized in melancholy words begging guidance

a hint of urgency shrouded back-of cautious tongues

a flock of lost sheep favouring tarmac over lush grass

time has no mercy, offers no favours when on the tail

of a sleepy sun, hell-bent on tucking itself safe and warm

beneath horizons snug blanket of guarded hallucination

a stark moorland tumour, a misshapen granite hideaway

bad luck, curiosity or wanton kidnap lead…

View original post 63 more words

 
4 Comments

Posted by on February 21, 2017 in Author's

 

I am just saying…

womanwriterblogDear Followers,

Let us get back to the business of art, painting beautiful scenes, writing fiction and non-fiction, creating our dreams; let us get back to what is as close to normal as possible (for me), my followers and especially those on my Face Book page. 

I have watched with interest all those running for President of the USA.  I continued to sort through the actions, policies and as they dwindled to two, I watched more closely.  I supported and voted for the individual of my choice.  It does not matter at this point who won or lost, we have a President.  In truth, I do not care about the lives of his children other than to wish them well, I do not care what Mr. Trumps wife wears, where she is from, or about her past or his.  “Bashing with vulgarity” any person in and out of official offices is wrong.  Nonetheless, My FB page has been filled with anti-Trump post for weeks; I had my own entries of course, but I hope with “taste”. 

This morning I checked my FB page and the first post had a particular vulgar word Trump had used during his campaign.  I almost deleted the entire page, I did not faint, my ears did not turn red, and I have heard in all; you do not get my age and maintain your innocence.  My finger hovered over the delete button, I thought of the wonderful people whom “had not” chosen to lay in the gutter; they were trustworthy, decent creative people.  So, I did not delete!

It is time to get on with the business of living our lives, doing what we do best, and chose not to stoop to levels of vulgarity when voicing our opinions.  We all have something to say…I am not speaking of “going” religious or pumping up of the “faith” card, I think you all know me better.  I am just saying; let us be decent in our protest and our marches, we do not have to destroy material things and bash good people.  This country was built on marches, protest and fighting for one’s belief; it is our right as an American to do so, I practice my belief in “freedom of speech” daily.  While we are voicing our dislike for a person, place or issue, let us do so with dignity.  I am just saying…

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree 1.22.2017

 

 

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Second Anniversary…

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Today is the second anniversary of my blog Confessional Fiction, Free Verse Poetry, Prose, Non-Fiction and Art. During the last two years, I have been fortunate enough to acquire 1363 followers, 680 Twitter followers from the blog and 355,885 hits. 

All of this is because of “you” my followers, and those who drop by just to browse.  You have supported and help me get through serious health problems and the continued grief of a lost love one; this is because of you. 

Then, there are those of you who have become “Cyber” friends, and to these friends…you held me up when I was down and you walked beside me in spirit as I struggle to become healthy, write and create, a special thank you goes to you and you know who you are.

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree   

27.Night Dragonfly

NIGHT ANGELS

 

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