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Non-Fiction
Poetry
Never Judge a Book by It's Cover
In the small village of Ballyshannon, Ireland the rain beat down, the wind blowing in off the Atlantic to the west. Seeping in through the cracks and crevices, an old woman gave a shiver. A widow in her sixties, Margaret O'Neil was tired. Tired of the pain in her head and feeling so depressed it made her heart ache. Not one person in Beal Atha Seanaidh (Ballyshannon) cares a hoot, she thought. If I go to me mortal resting-place, there'll be no tears lost. Me husband, bless his eternal soul, will be waitin', she mused bitterly.
        Seated in the worn chair her husband had used for some ten years past, she wondered if her leaving would appease the evil floating around her head. Would her offspring live a better life for it?  God knows, she thought. Me kids won't give a fiddler's damn, long as they gets the house.
        Outside, the wind blew cold rain against the small window in her living room. A chill ran through her bones as she looked at the gray sheet draped across the crude beam overhead. She had tied one end to the large knob on the door
A Snippet for the curious