Mick Donnellan’s New Novel “Mokusatsu” Available now in Paperback.

 

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

 

 

 

Novel – El Niño (in Paperback).

El Niño is the exciting debut novel from Mayo man, Mick Donnellan. Slick, stylish and always entertaining, the story is a rollercoaster of drama and tension that hasn’t been seen in Irish fiction for a very long time. Charlie is our protagonist, the pick pocket that steals El Nino’s wallet and then falls in love with her. She’s the wild femme fatale, beautiful; enigmatic and seductive. She rocks Charlie’s world with her smoky wiles and drinking ways and her tough girl ideals. This is Noir at its best. Dark and edgy with crisp fresh dialogue and a plot that engages the reader from the first line and keeps them up all night – right through to it’s powerful finish.

€10.00

 

 

__________

 

 

Tales from the Heart – New Writing from Athlone Institute of Technology.

Buy “Tales from the Heart” here and have it delivered in Paperback Directly to your Door! * Tales from the Heart is a recent publication from the AIT Writing Class, launched by Mary O’Rourke in early April of this year. Here you will find a striking array of Prose, Non-Fiction and Poetry that can have you laughing out loud in one story and bringing a tear to the eye in the next. The prose is always lyrical, the poetry always profound and the true stories are drenched in observational brilliance. From interviews with Maeve Binchy to hard boiled Noir and beautiful memoir, this is a mouth watering collection that will be devoured by readers from all walks of life. The Writers The contributors come from varied backgrounds and professions and provide a unique and creative insight with their stories and poetry. Hailing fr​om Athlone and the surrounding towns of The Midlands, each student has drawn deep to put their life experience on paper. While some have experience in the creative industry, the majority of the writers are making their publishing debut here in exemplary style. The idea behind the publication is to take writers to the next step. They started the class with the imagination and moved to the written word but there was always a question of how to migrate these stories and ideas to the published form. Tales from the Heart was the perfect opportunity to make that happen. After ten weeks of teaching, experimenting with form and style, and developing each entry to perfection – we now have the finished product. Read more on http://www.mickdonnellan.com

€10.00

 

 

Fisherman’s Blues (Paperback)

Fisherman’s Blues is the hilarious new novel from Mick Donnellan.Dark and audacious, written in a distinct West of Ireland vernacular, it covers a myriad of genres from Crime Noir to comedy and an odd bit of religion. Fresh in its language, vivid in its descriptions, the book sings with the signature style of all Donnellan’s previous work, and a bit more. Delving into the lives of drinkers, lovers, thieves and scam artists, the story weaves a web of intrigue and curiosity that ends with an unforgettable bang. Not without its poignant moments, the plot hinges on the chaotic consequences of three unlikely comrade’s attempts to save their lost relationships, while unintentionally ruining the plans of a rising criminal’s efforts to take over the city. The question is: Can they succeed? And if they don’t, what then? And where have the women really gone?

€9.99

“Tales from the Heart – New Writing from Athlone Institute of Technology.” Now Available to buy in Paperback.

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Tales from the Heart is a collection of exciting new work from the writing class at Athlone Institute of Technology. Here you will find a striking array of Prose, Non-Fiction and Poetry that can have you laughing out loud in one story and bringing a tear to the eye in the next. The prose is always lyrical, the poetry always profound and the true stories are drenched in observational brilliance. From interviews with Maeve Binchy to hard boiled Noir and beautiful memoir, this is a mouth watering collection that will be devoured by readers from all walks of life. The contributors come from varied backgrounds and professions and provide a unique and creative insight with their stories and poetry. Hailing fr​om Athlone and the surrounding towns of The Midlands, each student has drawn deep to put their life experience on paper. While some have experience in the creative industry, the majority of the writers are making their publishing debut here in exemplary style. The idea behind the publication is to take writers to the next step. They started the class with the imagination and moved to the written word but there was always a question of how to migrate these stories and ideas to the published form. Tales from the Heart was the perfect opportunity to make that happen. After ten weeks of teaching, experimenting with form and style, and developing each entry to perfection – we now have the finished product.

 

Tales from the Heart – New Writing from Athlone Institute of Technology.

Buy “Tales from the Heart” here and have it delivered in Paperback Directly to your Door! * Tales from the Heart is a recent publication from the AIT Writing Class, launched by Mary O’Rourke in early April of this year. Here you will find a striking array of Prose, Non-Fiction and Poetry that can have you laughing out loud in one story and bringing a tear to the eye in the next. The prose is always lyrical, the poetry always profound and the true stories are drenched in observational brilliance. From interviews with Maeve Binchy to hard boiled Noir and beautiful memoir, this is a mouth watering collection that will be devoured by readers from all walks of life. The Writers The contributors come from varied backgrounds and professions and provide a unique and creative insight with their stories and poetry. Hailing fr​om Athlone and the surrounding towns of The Midlands, each student has drawn deep to put their life experience on paper. While some have experience in the creative industry, the majority of the writers are making their publishing debut here in exemplary style. The idea behind the publication is to take writers to the next step. They started the class with the imagination and moved to the written word but there was always a question of how to migrate these stories and ideas to the published form. Tales from the Heart was the perfect opportunity to make that happen. After ten weeks of teaching, experimenting with form and style, and developing each entry to perfection – we now have the finished product. Read more on http://www.mickdonnellan.com

€10.00

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Buy Mick Donnellan’s novels in Paperback now! – “El Niño” and “Fisherman’s Blues” available here.

Novel – El Niño (in Paperback).

El Niño is the exciting debut novel from Mayo man, Mick Donnellan. Slick, stylish and always entertaining, the story is a rollercoaster of drama and tension that hasn’t been seen in Irish fiction for a very long time. Charlie is our protagonist, the pick pocket that steals El Nino’s wallet and then falls in love with her. She’s the wild femme fatale, beautiful; enigmatic and seductive. She rocks Charlie’s world with her smoky wiles and drinking ways and her tough girl ideals. This is Noir at its best. Dark and edgy with crisp fresh dialogue and a plot that engages the reader from the first line and keeps them up all night – right through to it’s powerful finish.

€10.00

Fisherman’s Blues (Paperback)

Fisherman’s Blues is the hilarious new novel from Mick Donnellan.Dark and audacious, written in a distinct West of Ireland vernacular, it covers a myriad of genres from Crime Noir to comedy and an odd bit of religion. Fresh in its language, vivid in its descriptions, the book sings with the signature style of all Donnellan’s previous work, and a bit more. Delving into the lives of drinkers, lovers, thieves and scam artists, the story weaves a web of intrigue and curiosity that ends with an unforgettable bang. Not without its poignant moments, the plot hinges on the chaotic consequences of three unlikely comrade’s attempts to save their lost relationships, while unintentionally ruining the plans of a rising criminal’s efforts to take over the city. The question is: Can they succeed? And if they don’t, what then? And where have the women really gone?

€9.99

Become a Patron!

Poor Craytures.

 

Got the call to go down to Marian. She wanted to sign up. I was in the area. How am I fixed?

This was good news on a bad Friday. Needed a fast sale and get home. Marian sounded the type that could just sign up, tick all the boxes, and the weekend could sing.

Got there and she invited me in with a flurry. ‘Come in! Come in….come in. I’ve been waiting for ye!’

‘Great.’

‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘This other crowd are robbin me.’

‘That’s what we like to hear.’

‘And I have a wedding you know?’

‘You do?’

‘I do. Tomorrow. A wedding. And I got this bill in the door – how am I supposed to pay it?’

‘Tis high alright.’

‘And I’ve no work.’

‘No?’

‘No. I used to have a great job but it closed down. I was a manager in a shop.’

‘Which shop?’

‘It was a high end clothes shop. Really expensive stuff. Someone like you probably wouldn’t know it.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘And then it closed and I have zero. Zilch. Nothin. And a wedding tomorrow.’

‘Who’s getting married?’

‘Oh it’s a distant cousin on my husband’s side. But you have to go.Show face. We’re not paupers.  You know?’

‘What’s the address here so?’

She gave it to me, I typed it in. She made herself a coffee. Didn’t offer me one. Sat back down, asked: ‘Are ye cheaper?’

‘We are.’

‘That’s good. I have to put €200 in a card this evening.’

‘For the wedding?’

‘Yeah. And we had to tax the car, pay for the holiday and I have to get my hair done yet.’

‘Flat out.’

‘I’m telling you. And by the time you buy a few drinks, pay for the hotel, and the day after, and all the rest of it. Oh my God….’

‘And no sign of work at all?’

‘Not a thing. I’ve been looking and looking and looking and asking everybody. It’s terrible.’

‘Tis. What’s your bank details?’

She called them out, went on with: ‘This government is a disgrace.’

‘That’s one word for them.’

‘The economy is supposed to be booming. Jobs everywhere. Where are they?’

‘Hard to know. Sign there.’

She signed. I told her about the contract, all that. She waved her hand, said: ‘Yeah…go on go on…do you like this job?’

‘I do.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh.’

A knock on the door. Then a woman entered. Brazilian. Two kids. Big smile. Marian said: ‘Hi…Sonza…’

‘Hi, Marian.’ Said Sonza. ‘Do you still have…’

‘Oh yes. The bag, the bag. Of course. Hang on….’ She looked at me. ‘Are you alright there for a second?’

‘Sound.’

Marian went off. Came back with a black bag full of clothes. ‘Here you go, Sonza. Lovely to see you. Are you calling around for lunch on Monday?’

‘Ok…’

‘That’d be lovely….please do.’

‘Ok. Bye. I see you.’

‘Bye…..’

Sonza left. Marian sat down. Rolled her eyes, conspiratorially, said: “Poor craytures.’

‘How do ya mean?’

‘I do give them all the old…crap we don’t want. Stuff I’d never use and can’t rid off. It was either that or dump it. Sure what can you do?’

‘What can you do?’

‘It’s the likes of all them refugees that are taking the jobs anyway. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a racist or anything…’

‘Sign there again so and we’re finished.’

‘Oh great. Thanks. Then I’ll go and start getting ready for this bloody wedding.’

‘Do. And if you’re still looking for a job next week give us a shout. We’re hiring.’

‘Doing what? Your job?’This?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be seen dead doing your job. I hope you’re not serious?’

‘Sure you never know. It might suit you.’

‘I doubt it. Thanks, are we finished. I have to get ready.’

*

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

 

 

 

 

Notes on Confidence.

It’s over. It’s done. No more writing. Time to delete all the files, all the words, all the articles and the half finished novels and badly baked stories. Take down the blogs. Remove all the links and pictures. Burn all the reviews. Put the laptop in the microwave and swing the microwave to full power. When you’re sure the hard drive is toasted and burnt you take the microwave and all and throw it in the skip downstairs. And now it’s done. No more anxiety about what to write, who to write about, where to start. No more fear that the world is secretly laughing at you, talking in quiet circles about how you can’t write, shouldn’t write, wrote something terrible that makes everyone cringe. How they smile to your face and roll their eyes behind your back. It’s all a joke, a conspiracy, a waste of your life and time and social reputation and it’s time to grow up and stop dreaming. Get a job, a normal job, one that pays normally and you don’t have to beg for the crumbs off the Arts Council table or the publishers that don’t pay on time or the theatres that take 40% of the door when they had agreed 20% but hey, read the small print. Best of luck with the eviction.

But you are now free. The path is clear. The distant dream that has dominated your thoughts for years is gone and now you can sit back and enjoy your life without the unrealistic pressure of making it as an artist. And….well. What else? The next day you wake up and all you want to do is write. There’s that story you’d forgotten about. That song that’s looping in your head and you’re sure it’s original. It’s yours, it’s been fermenting for months and you finally have the tune. That line to finish that poem. That word you’d been waiting for turns up on the newspaper and you know it’s perfect. It’s the perfect ending to the verse of the Poetry that yesterday you regarded as pointless. The theatre isn’t that bad, it was just a clerical error and they call you to apologise. The publisher wants to know why your site is offline because people are trying to buy your books. An e-mail comes from a random stranger to say they’ve enjoyed your work and it touched them in a way that was unique and made an important difference to their lives. And here’s that idea for a film. The soundtrack, the themes, the script, all coming together in a flood of inspiration like water and your head’s like a submarine that’s burst with the pressure. Time to go back down to the skip and rescue the laptop but the skip is gone. Still,  deep down you know you’ve saved everything on an external hard drive and you needed a new laptop anyway so time to head to the computer shop and ask for Flexi finance. After, you put back all the links, find all the reviews, put the website back online. Find them half baked stories and discover they’re not that bad. Maybe that novel’s closer than you think. Here’s the royalty payment in the post. Rent paid for another month. No thanks to the day job. You confidence is back. Time to get writing.

*

 

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

Notes on dialogue.

 

Some nights, as the writer’s about to go to sleep, she hears a voice. Something random. A snippet, a tannoy announcement, a passing comment, an opinion from a radio presenter. It invades her thoughts loudly, briefly and unannounced and is then gone. As time goes on, the voices become more frequent. More direct. They form sentences. People she doesn’t recognise. At first it’s one, then two, then three people are talking. Conversing. Sometimes arguing. They don’t wait until night anymore. It’s day time now. At work, on the bus, in the car, walking down the street. They’re shouting to be heard. They have opinions on politics, culture, society. They have a past, desires, regrets and hopes. They have fears and wonders. She feels it all. The empathy. As they talk amongst themselves about that accident, that illness, that day their kids were born she listens, eavesdropping in her own mind, feeling the joy, and heartbreak and concern. On social occasions she suffers from disassociation, a low throb, apparent deafness. People talk and say things. They make comments, ask questions, probe her about her life but she can’t properly hear them. The plates clatter, but from a dulled distance. The lights are bright, but obscured by grey noise. Everything she touches feels like rubber. The words people say are proper words but don’t make proper sense. She can’t filter, assimilate the information, she can’t engage because she has the conversations going. And going. And going. At first, it’s a concern. A mental illness? A brain issue? But she doesn’t think so. It’s something else. Because it has a burn attached. A physical urge to do something with the information, the stories, the tales, the fascinating lives. It’s a delicious secret in some ways. This other world, these other people, this other universe where strangers meet to exorcise, to explore, to vent, pontificate, relieve the burden of their conscience. And then one day it’s too much, too loud, there is no room to think, no space to talk, no chance of work. She must do something, address this crowd and see what it is they want. And it soon becomes obvious. They want to be recorded, to be listened to and written down. To be put into context and order. They want their lives to have a meaning, a story to be told, a chapter of their existence allowed into the physical world. She begins with a line. The first line she hears. It seems the best place to start. As the room goes silent and the white noise of reality is blocked out she listens, and she hears it, and records it.

“What are we doing here?”

“I don’t know. Talking?”

“What’ll we talk about?”

“Let’s talk about everything.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

“Ok….let’s talk. Let’s talk about everything.’

*

 

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes on – The Artist.

Without the artist there is nothing. There is no stage, no play, no audience. No lights, no script, no lines to remember for actors that don’t exist. There is no box office. No tickets sold, no posters on the window, no leaflets, no  programmes, no social media advertising. No applause, no wine sold at the theatre bar. Outside, on the street, there is no bookshops, no shelves, no readings, no place to browse fiction titles, no Non Fiction books, no Sci/Fi, no Crime Thrillers, no Romance. The windows are bare. The counters are unattended, the tills are quiet, unplugged and unnecessary. People don’t read on the bus because there is nothing to read so they listen to music. But there are no bands, no songs, no song writers, no guitar players, bass players, drummers or vocalists. There is no band art, no genre, no classical, no rock, no dance, no psychedelic, no trance, no country blues, no homegrown singer/song writers recording the modern soul. As the passengers look out the window they don’t see any churches because there are no designers, nobody to imagine a steeple. No church, no mosque, no synagogue, no buddhist temple. There is no bible, no Torah, no Koran because nobody has had the ability to understand the teachings, the ethos, the importance of being able to record it artistically, attractively, with an eye to the divine. There is no divine. There is no stained glass windows. There is no Mona Lisa, no Sistine Chapel, no IL Duomo. No Ulysses. No Count of Monte of Cristo. No Brother’s Karamazov. No Godfather, no Goodfellas. There are no phones, because there were never any computers. There were never any computers because nobody was able to imagine the future. It takes an artist to bend the rules of perceived reality and force the impossible into existence. To drag human understanding to the next step. To know that there is another door to open, another level to reach, a place we don’t know about – but only the artist truly believes it is there. Without the artist, the cars are poorly designed. There are no papers in the shops. There are no museums, no libraries. No cinemas. No poetry. No sculptures. No exhibitions, no launches. There are no podcasts, no blogs, no kindle. No Apps. No philosophy, no thinking. There is only silence, infinite and grey, and the human without art is a biological machine for which there is no meaning. No understanding. No purpose. The artist is the pulse of the soul. The cartilage of civilisation.  Without the artist, there are no publishing houses. No editors. No book designers. No interns. No marketing department. The printing presses lie idle and redundant. Pristine and unused in a cold austere warehouse.  An occasional bored click or clunk of a screw as rust has her dinner.

*

 

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

Notes on Rejection.

Rejection of your writing is the the best thing that can happen. It says you’re doing something correct. Something right. When people reject something they are afraid of it. They don’t know what it is, they don’t understand what it’s about, and they don’t have the courage to follow through and find out. The majority of publishers/agents want a sure thing. They want something perfect, relevant to the current market, something that will sell, has been unseen and has come from a compliant, malleable writer. They want to make money. They’d like to see your book stacked alongside thousands of bookshelves in bookshops all over the country – and know they are getting 40 percent of each copy sold. Sleeping well in their beds in the sure knowledge that they will never break new ground, never write an original line, never have a reader sit on the edge of their seat or be devastated with fictional heartbreak. They know, deep down, that they are not creative people but have something else – they have the audacity to exploit those that do create. Somewhere along the line it became acceptable for writers to be regarded as quirky, anti-profit, scatterbrained losers that are looking for somebody organised and trustworthy to come and do all the business for them. Writers then began to buy into this idea and became dependent on the publishing industry to dictate their success or lack of it. We now have a situation where the status quo of traditional publishers is to be a bouncer at the creative door where only the mundane is let in – because that’s what sells. We can’t have the pubic confused. We can’t have the public excited. We must tell them what they already know. Add credence to the reality that already exists. There is no room for new boundaries, to bend language or test genre. No, that doesn’t sell, they say. It won’t sell, they say. It’s not the business we’re in, they say. And you are rejected because you are different, and you have something to say, and somebody ought to be hearing it. But you think the only way forward is blocked and their opinion has shot your confidence down and now the world is an artistically poorer place. Because you were rejected. But what you don’t realise is that rejection is acceptance. You are pushing the boundaries and they don’t know what to do. How to respond. What to say.  They can’t handle you and they’re worried about their forty percent. If it wasn’t books they’re selling it would be something else – cars, food, computers. Doesn’t matter because they don’t care. It’s all a sale to them. A profit and a loss. That’s why they are confounded now. You are an unknown quantity. What will the bookshops say? The Reviewers? The printers? Oh no, no thanks. But you are not for sale. You are not malleable. And you don’t have a choice. You are a vessel to the truth the world needs to hear. And congratulations. Those that rejected your work can sense this and are afraid of you. And they will reap a whirlwind.

Now.

Sit down and write.

You have a duty to record the future.

 

 

Meeting the sniper.

The night came, over the hills; sun fell down, a ball of red fire, retreating, like a flame slowly. Humidity stayed. We got to Lawrence, Kansas. I stood outside and listened to Josh Ritter. The moon bright, still trees, people smoking cigarettes. Guy asks me for a light. Told him I had none. He got one off the ticket guy. We got talking. He was tall. Blonde. Baby-faced. Agile. Where ya goin, what ya doin, where ya from, nice train, quiet night.

    ‘I’m Mick.’

    ‘I’m Mike, it’s really Mikhail cos I have Russian origins.’

    ‘I’m really Michéal cos it’s Irish for Michael.’

‘Cool. Vegas, huh?’

    ‘Yeah. You?’

    ‘I gotta report for duty in the morning.’

    ‘Duty?’

    ‘I’m in The Marines.’

    ‘Really?’

    ‘Yeah. I got a five man squadron and we’re getting deployed next week.’

    ‘Iraq?

    ‘Afghanistan.’

    ‘I heard it’s getting messy over there.’

  Drag, smoke in the night, hovers in the streetlight. ‘It was never any other way, man.’

    ‘And what do you do?’

‘Reconaisance.’

    ‘Gathering information?’

    ‘Kind of….I got my crew and we watch out for the guys on the ground.’

   ‘Making sure they know what they’re getting into?’

    ‘Yeah, I’m a sniper.’

    ‘Jesus.’

    ‘We protect.’

    ‘How does that feel?’

    ‘It’s my first mission.’

    ‘Nervous?’

    ‘I got a job to do, that’s it.’

    ‘Did you always want to be….’

    ‘I was recruited cos I can speak Russian and I’m trained in multiple marital arts.’

    The whistle goes and we get back inside. 

He went one way. 

I went the other. 

The windows were black with night. Ocean blue seats and folks asleep. Passed  some time watching laptop films and thinking about Vegas and war. Drank red wine and the Amish guy in the seat ahead looked over occasionally and smiled. Him and his red cheeks and his side-burns. Wasn’t sure what a conversation might involve. Religion, maybe. Love thy neighbour. That kinda thing. Sure what do I know?

Train rhythms beat on quiet tracks, like wheels on an office chair going over a plush carpet. 

We got to another small town, can’t remember the name. There was a platform with a lonely family standing in the smoky light.

 Mikhail came back out for another smoke and we picked up where we left off.

    ‘So, I report at 7. Hope my guys are all there and then we ship out in a few days. When we’re in action, we’re trained to never move. Go to the toilet. Nothing. We have to sit still for hours. Even days.’

    ‘Why?’

    ‘You can’t give your position away. Even the slightest move and you’re gone.’

    ‘How long you out there for?’

    ‘Depends. Some tours are six months. Others twelve and eighteen.’

    ‘And you have a choice?’

    ‘I don’t care. I’m staying out there as long as I can. I want to protect my country, man. Someone has to. And if I don’t, those motherfuckers are gonna come and shoot me, and my family, and whoever else they can kill.’

    ‘What are the civilian casualties like?’

    ‘I’ll put it like this. The other week, right, a good friend of mine, good guy, fuckin good soldier. He’s out there, and he’s doing his job, and he’s trying to help the villagers fight these Taliban assholes, cos those guys are bad, right?’

    ‘Right.’

    ‘So a seven year old girl comes up to him saying: ‘…hey mister, hey mister…’ Something like that. And she’s sweet and she’s holding a doll and he wants to be kind cos she’s a kid and these are things she’s gonna remember when she gets older, right? Hearts and minds.’

    ‘Yeah.’

    ‘So she hands him the doll and he takes it and the fuckin thing explodes and kills the two of them.’

    He takes in some smoke. ‘Crazy, right?’

    ‘Fuck.’

    ‘So that’s what we’re up against. Some of these guys don’t give a fuck, at least we have standards. I love my country. I’ll die to protect it, but I won’t kill an eight year girl in the process. That’s the difference between us and them. That’s what people don’t understand.’

    ‘What age are you, Mikhail?’

    Stubs out his cigarette. ‘I’m just gone twenty-five.’

    ‘Twenty-five.’

    ‘Yeah, it’s hard on my girlfriend, but she said she’ll wait. Whatever it takes. Ya know?’

    Whistle. Back on board please. 

The night went by and there was a queue as the train slowed and the doors opened on the final stop and I saw Mikhail there with his bags packed, ready to go. He looked around, spotted me and said: ‘Hey, Mick, good luck in Vegas.’

And he was gone.

 

Mick.

 

Novel – El Niño (in Paperback).

El Niño is the exciting debut novel from Mayo man, Mick Donnellan. Slick, stylish and always entertaining, the story is a rollercoaster of drama and tension that hasn’t been seen in Irish fiction for a very long time. Charlie is our protagonist, the pick pocket that steals El Nino’s wallet and then falls in love with her. She’s the wild femme fatale, beautiful; enigmatic and seductive. She rocks Charlie’s world with her smoky wiles and drinking ways and her tough girl ideals. This is Noir at its best. Dark and edgy with crisp fresh dialogue and a plot that engages the reader from the first line and keeps them up all night – right through to it’s powerful finish.

€10.00

  

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

Hollywood to Vancouver

The hostel was on Crenshaw Boulevard. We had to go through Hollywood to get there. So we get off the train and me and old Jane are there with a world of bags and a continent of fatigue and we see all these film rolls on the walls. Jane knows what they are cos she works in TV and tells me they’re really cool and rare and then we get an escalator passed a pillar with trees painted on the side. And everything’s kinda bright yellow and there’s a static fuzz in the air like nothing’s exactly real and if you fell too hard against a wall you’d go right through it and into some dark black abyss the other side of nowhere. So we take these stairs at last and exit onto Hollywood and Vine and there’s an old tramp lady there and she’s in tattered rags and her hair’s brown and her teeth are nearly gone and she’s spinning round and round and round and she’s screaming: ‘I’m fuckin famous, you motherfucker! I’m famous man! Look at me bitch! Look at me, I’m fuckin fay-muss!….agagahahahah….!’ and then she stops and starts jumping up and down and screaming at no one at all and on the ground are all the stars of famous people and ahead are theatres and themed restaurants, and we ask a guy bout where we’re staying, and he tells us and we end up getting a taxi.

Night falls asunder and the great star blasts the world awake and we get on to Hollywood and Vine again the next day. There’s a guy dressed as Spiderman hanging off the wall and up the road there’s Heath Ledger’s Joker walking around with a knife and Marilyn Monroe is having a chat with Superman by the ‘Crossway.’ We met Chucky from Child’s Play outside the Dragon Theatre, a famous place for Premieres, and we took a picture and he asked me for a tip in the kindest way possible. Wasn’t too long before we got roped into a tour, everyone thinking we’re on honeymoon and tryna get our money. And we get into this small bus with a black lady driving and another couple that say they’re from New York but they’ve got West Coast skin and style and sunglasses. Blonde guy. Thin girl. Arms across the rest and taking in the passing breeze. A smell of summer trees. The lady driving points out houses. George Clooney lived there. That’s where Michael Jackson lived with the flowers outside. Here they filmed the Fresh Prince of Bel Air and Paris Hilton is building a new house here.

Thin streets. Intense heat. Bottles of water. The smell of sun cream. A megaphone on top of our little bus explaining who the people in the passing gardens are, how much their houses cost and what they do for a living. And the world is a pyramid with a great snake wrapped around it and the head is here, the venom of wealth, and below the throng is obscured in a shadow of arrogance and ignorance and something like an assumed entitlement, and the mob clamours to reach this dizzy height, looks up in admiration and envy, desperation and pain, wants to climb this slimy back and achieve all that these here water sprinklers have to offer, and the yellow Porsches, and the million dollar porches and the view, such views, isn’t the view fantastic, wouldn’t you like to live here, wouldn’t it be great, so nice to dream about tennis courts and afternoon Bacardi and tanned legs and white clothes and leather couches and cool pools and champagne and strawberries and green hills and security cameras and big iron gates and body guards and stalkers and freaks and paparazzi and sick people just lost, lost, and to dream of no more bills or crying in the shower and how it’s possible here to be a beautiful God, God himself, with Mexican maids and intravenous mocha and a phone full of famous numbers, gathered at parties where cocaine went around on a ten thousand dollar velvet cushion and we could take as much as we like cos we’re immortal, after all, ain’t that my picture on the wall, wasn’t that my voice on the radio, hey, Joe, what now, we’ve done it all, the world is watching, we’re too high up and no way back down, what’s outside, I can’t go out there, stay here and hide and pass the line, it’s stronger than last time, same guy? No different guy, new, last guy died, fell from a roof, oh shit, gimme another hit, put on some tunes, I want to act, I want to sing, I’m bored, I wanna feel something, you wanna hooker? I want a woman. There ain’t no women here, Joe, you know that, just actors, man, what time is it….

The next day. Again these bags, we’re like a great rumbling herd hurtling towards Vancouver. And the heat lays it on hard, and we got the Amtrak off Crenshaw, and I spent most of the time writing, and sitting opposite a crew that were on their way to the Burning Man festival. And did we want to go? The tickets were over 300 hundred dollars and it was eight days in the desert, and you needed so much water, food, clothes etc. They were drinkin Vodka and Red Bull and it was noon, and they were excited, and we had another twenty two hours to go. The train rides on, slow, incremental, calm accentuated. A guy came and sat opposite me. Kind old man. He looked out the window. Looked at me. Looked back. He seemed anxious and we said nothing for a while and then I closed the lid and I said hey, and he said hey. And I reminded him of his son, and his son had a big job, and was married, and was Ireland a nice place, and did it rain much, and what will we do in Vancouver, and we should stop at Portland because it’s beautiful. It went on like that, and he came to life, and the colour came back in his cheeks, and he thanked me for talking to him, and he left and I got the feeling that he’d needed that chat, like he woke up and looked over the California plains and saw before him the bulk of his life that had passed, and felt the wheels pull him toward the final chapters, and he was scared, but when he got to talk and discuss all that he was proud of he didn’t feel that bad, and was happy to and look out the window for another while and smile, maybe cry, maybe think, or just sleep and dream with the lullaby of motion.

And it wasn’t long before we saw the fire, and there was so much smoke it blocked out the sun, and all The Burning Man kids called it Awesome and Amazing and Beautiful and a mad scatter of tourists came from nowhere to take pictures and a couple of old men that musta been local compared it to previous fires. The flames ate the scrub and the brush and all that it could devour and the plumes got so thick that it was like a slow motion mushroom cloud, and it was such nature, such consumption, so toxic and inexorable, and then we passed on through and drank the cold beer, and The Burning Man kids were drunk except one guy that wanted to tell about his past, and no one really wanted to hear, but he told it anyway, spiced it up with words like Lawyer and AK47, and Doing Time, and I got wondering why he’s so damn proud of himself, and his sour coke deals, and doesn’t everyone really live in their own drama, their version of the world, listening to the voice-over of the movie in their heads, and it began to get dark and the road is a pedal and the mind is a wheel and we keep on spinning and spinning and spinning.

Mick.

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

Mokusatsu now available Worldwide in Paperback.

Mokusatsu

 

A

New Novel 

 

by 

 Mick Donnellan

 

Now available in Paperback. 

 

**Price €10** 

(Includes Postage and Worldwide Delivery. )**

 

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

 
 
 

Read more on www.mickdonnellan.com

 

 

Liz Parsons shares thoughts on Mokusatsu…

Hi Mick, I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed Mokusatsu. It’s a really gripping read. Very dark, but also really funny! The Ballinrobe ATM raid had me in stitches! Your powers of description are amazing. In just a few words you give a full sense of what a place looks like, smells like and feels like. I hope we get to read more about Charlie. He could really do with rehab! Anyway, thank you for writing such an enjoyable book. See you soon, best wishes, Liz….

 

*

 

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00

Mayo County Library to Stock Mokusatsu at all venues.

 

Mayo Country Library have requested an order of Mick Donnellan’s third novel – “Mokusatsu” to be stocked at all libraries around the county.

It will be widely available there in the coming weeks. Please ask your local librarian for an update if looking to borrow.

Special thanks to Mary Farragher and all involved.

You can read more about Mokusatsu below:

Mick.

 

 

Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.

(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.

€10.00