Home > Author > Martin R Jackson : Running with Finn McCool
1 " No matter how hard I tried, my legs had turned to stone and night fell upon me that instant. No stars were out. No moon, just blackness... "
― Martin R Jackson : Running with Finn McCool
2 " Although it had been several years since, I could still taste the atmosphere of that horrible day. The stench, the braying of the horse in the yard outside, the shuffling and scraping of chairs in the room above, and then the muted mumbling of serious voices. Serious voices that had come upon a seriously wrong conclusion... "
3 " The sun was blindingly bright and I hadn’t a care in the world until a solitary black cloud twisted my fantasy to gloom and despondency. I knew that I must shortly return home. I turned the other way, attempting to run—to run and escape, but I was frozen. No matter how hard I tried, my legs had turned to stone and night fell upon me that instant. No stars were out. No moon, just blackness. I was suddenly back in that little attic bedroom of Primrose Cottage, with the smell of freshly extinguished tallow just starting to fade away, supplanted by the pungent odour of that vinegary bastard, my grandfather. "
4 " The repetitive drone of the shanty music and raucous banter had stopped dead. All eyes were upon them. ‘Carry on, boys—don’t let me spoil yer merriment,’ Brady called, rolling his hand around in a barrel-organ gesture. Then, just like an engine, the whole commotion rumbled up to steam again, the fiddler’s elbow sawing away, concertina pumping and spoons clacking, but no one sang... "
5 " Dogs cocked their legs on anything perpendicular, carriages clopped and growled along the cobblestones, and all with the prevailing aroma of rancid fish quietly melding the confusion together... "
6 " The youngster had frozen again as his memory flashed back to the glowering face of his grandfather, deeply lined, snarling, wild eyes stretched as wide and white as pot saucers... "
7 " More coal, more smoke, more heat, more steam, more pressure, more speed. The engine raced forward streaming black smoke like a funerary ribbon rippling in the breeze. "
