Thursday , June 20 2024

Irish stories

This post is also available in: Italiano (Italian)

I had disseminated some (almost) Irish stories (short stories) on this blog. From this blogpost you have the chance to read them.

The first or the last? An Irish soda bread short story

Enough time to have that tiny mouths on the bus too. USB ports. They are mouths to me. They are mouths and they have a blue nose. The streets are almost the same, the bus is the same but not the same. With its USB mouths.

Bheoláin and the Winter Queen

Bheoláin knew that the Winter Queen would have eaten her if she had found her. The Winter Queen eats everything… But Bheoláin was a brave and smart lassie. And Bheoláin loved the summer.

When the Devil comes to Inis Mór

They should have realized I was there simply by looking to the left side of the Bóithrín. Because the grass withered under my shadow. But they never see me. They don’t look, so they don’t see. The funny thing is that they see me where I’m not…

The civilized Viking and the stubborn (Irish) monk

A few days ago I found out on Irish Medieval History Facebook Page that “Irish monks invented the space between words”. This is a short story about an unusual Viking, a young, smart Irish monk and that invention…

How The Irish Rediscovered the Solstice

< Gráinne? >
Enda uí Rómhar had been waken up by something. Of course he thought it was his wife.
It happens to everybody that, barely awake, things in your head are a little bit fuzzy.
Sleep is a mysterious thing and awakening even more, perhaps.
But a few moments later Enda realized why it couldn’t have been her wife: she was dead. She had died the day before.

Where the Clouds are Born: an imagination of Puffing Hole

It’s named the Puffing Hole: the hole that snorts. It is one of the miracles of Àrainn’s west coast. The sea penetrated the rock for tens of yards and, perhaps finding a hollow area, led to a fall, creating a gap through which the sea rises inside the rock, up to the sky.

About maxorover

Ebbene sì. Max O'Rover parla anche Italiano. E in Italiano scrive. Un Irlandese con la geografia contro, ecco chi è Max O'Rover. Il falso vero nome (quindi vero o falso?) di Max O'Rover è, ovviamente, in Irlandese: Mach uí Rómhar. "Rómhar" è il ventre, ma anche il ventre della terra, quello in cui crescono i semi, in cui nascono gli alberi. Mica male per essere uno che non esiste, avere un cognome così evocativo. Prima o poi la scriverò, la vera falsa storia degli uí Rómhar. La storia del perché ci hanno cacciato via. Una storia fatta di boschi sacri che non abbiamo difeso, di maledizioni scagliate contro di noi da Boann. Un pugno di druidi falliti costretti a scendere a sud. Fino a che la maledizione sarà spezzata. Fino a quando potremo tornare. Quando sono in pausa pranzo, ogni giorno, mangio una mela. Non getto mai i semi della mela nella spazzatura. Li getto nel prato. Perché sotto sotto ci credo, alla maledizione. Mi ricordo la maledizione. Ma non ricordo quanti alberi devo far crescere: dieci? Mille? Un milione? Intanto continuo a gettare i semi nel prato, e ad aspettare il ritorno a casa.

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The civilized Viking and the stubborn (Irish) monk

This post is also available in: Italiano (Italian)A few days ago I found out on …

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