Conor Darrall
Bio
Short-stories, poetry and random scribblings. Irish traditional musician, sword student, draoi and strange egg. Bipolar/ADD. Currently querying my novel 'The Forgotten 47' - @conordarrall / www.conordarrall.com
Stories (120/0)
Marigolds
-1- As the young woman died within the house beyond, the three cloud-walkers debated who would take her with them. “It won’t be long now,” muttered Foirfe, her voice dry and sharp, like the willow wand she resembled. She had her timepiece in hand and nodded her approval. “Three hours now, the child is a fighter. She’ll do well with me.”
By Conor Darrall3 years ago in Fiction
The Crocknanalt Cartel
We had assembled in the solicitor's office in Cloughbann on the second Friday in July, ninety-four, six months after the funeral; me and the older brother, Cathal, and his Pill of a wife, Carolyn. The will was read, we signed some papers, and the deed to poor Uncle Seamy's house was handed over.
By Conor Darrall3 years ago in Fiction
Red Face
As the beep of his wristwatch warned him he was running late, ‘Happy Harry’ Sheridan had the sleeve of his shirt rolled up past his elbow, and was squinting in the glow of cold light that washed the cubicle. At first he had thought that the blue lights were some attempt at a cool vibe, but as he squatted in the men’s room of the Kilburn shopping arcade, he realised that the administrators of the complex probably had patrons like him in mind when they installed them.
By Conor Darrall3 years ago in Fiction
- Top Story - April 2023
The Cat it was who cried. The Panda Bear that died
*Interview begins* So where do I begin: The investigation? The briefing? The raid? We were onto the Panda, it seemed. That was the skinny being handed down from the Intelligence Processors. The Panda, whose cyber-coding had set back production at the Factory on three occasions and who was known to dance up and down the Strata without any pity for the Board's quotas, or the Shareholders' Assembly, or the Citizen populace or even the workers. That bloodless bastard who had run rings around us for the last two quarters. We had him.
By Conor Darrall3 years ago in Fiction
Tabula Rasa
It was Forkner’s fault, you could say, and mine. We were escorting wagons; salt and bog-cotton and the mails from the tribes on the islands, over the Glenveagh Mountains to Derry before the dust came and everyone had to shut themselves up for months, Forkner and me and about eight younger riders from the Guild. It was a pleasant one; three-days in good weather, on a clear road, with the smell of maturing heather, and decent company. It was one of Beth Doherty’s trains, and she was quick to pay the Sleevers, the mountain men, so that none might end up with a bullet or a blade in their belly, or mine. Her wagoners knew their trade and were as likely to share a song and a skin of potch with you than anything else.
By Conor Darrall3 years ago in Fiction