Dentist sequel – The Extraction…(reblog)

A few days later, the dentist rang and said: ‘I rang the dental crowd and it’s sorted now.’
‘What happened?’
‘Someone mixed up your files with a 75 year old man.’
‘How?!’
‘I don’t know, but that other man had all his teeth extracted, and you still have most of yours. So that’s where the confusion was…how’re the painkillers?’
‘Middlin.’
‘Call in tomorrow so.’
And he hung up. The next day. The receptionist answered the door. ‘Oh, hello Thomas.’
I was in too much pain to correct her. She led me down a corridor towards the surgery. Green walls. Echo. Stuffed birds. Smell like liquorice. The dentist was in there and ready. Mask, white coat and antiseptic wash. He said: ‘Are you ready so?’
I sat back in the chair. He put on the big light and got a really long needle. He asked me through the mask if I was allergic to any anaesthetics or anything. Sounded like he was talking from the fat end of a traffic cone. I said no. He asked me if I was sure cos there was a fella here before that said he had no allergies and then he had a fit on the way home and crashed into the wall.
He held up the syringe, like something out of a film about Mind Control, and blinked. I said I was fairly sure I was ok and to go ahead. He shrugged in a way that said: ‘It’s your choice, so.’
As he put it through, and my brain froze in terror, unable to compute the mad agony, the receptionist said: ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Ger?’
Soon my mouth was stroke numb and I didn’t’ have any fits so it was time to take out the tools. Pliers, drill, dental angle grinders, scrapers, gum hoover, long metal rod with mirror on the back. I was feeling so positive about it all, I could have sang if my mouth didn’t feel like concrete. Something happened behind me with a tap and a sink and then he floated back into my vision, holding what looked to be a vice grips. “I’ll need you to be very still and relaxed.” He said.
I said ok and then he went at it. Tried to get grip but couldn’t cos the thing kept slipping off. He sighed and grunted a lot. Used the electric saw and a steel apparatus not unlike a shovel. I kept looking at the big light and hoping for the best. His eyes were huge through the goggles and you could tell he was a fanatic for this sorta thing. Stubborn molars, resistant to the latest technology. There could be a paper on this yet, at the very least, good material for the drinks at the next conference. Then I started wondering if he was qualified at all. The receptionist interrupted my thoughts when she held my head and muttered reassuringly. “It’s ok, Patrick, it’s nearly over.’
And it was. He was mad now. Takin it personal. There was a feeling he’d got to the crux of the problem and it was time for one last all out attack. He bit his lip as he caught it well and grasped with intense hatred and yanked like a man trying to start a broken chainsaw. There was a rupture somewhere in my brain. I saw roots dragged from the soil in the garden of Eden, sequoia’s torn like twigs, molar earthquakes. A crisis somewhere in my consciousness that something huge had happened. He stood back and held it up between the prongs and proudly said: ‘That’s her now! Take a rinse from the glass. Good man.’
Everythin was spinning. The room, the walls, the chair. I felt like a deer that had just been shot. I stood up, shook. They were around me. Him with the mask, her with the lipstick on her teeth. Everything was amplified, like on the cartoons when you’re hit on the head with an anvil. ‘Do you need to sit down?’ He asked.
And I did. So I did. Feeling the emptiness with my tongue. The receptionist said: “You have to be careful, you could fall over. And then you might lose another tooth! Imagine that, Barry!’
He wrote out a prescription then. Said to take these anti-biotics for the next two weeks and I should be fine. Don’t mix them with drink. The last fella that mixed them with drink ended up in the mental.
Outside, the sky frowned. It took a few seconds to figure out where I was. The receptionist walked me to the door. “Goodbye now, Paddy, don’t worry about anything, I’ll make sure your files are up to date this time, there’ll be no more problems. Just keep the teeth brushed, good man, and if you don’t, sure we’ll see you again soon, wouldn’t that lovely?!


A few days later, the dentist rang and said: ‘I rang the dental crowd and it’s sorted now.’
‘What happened?’
‘Someone mixed up your files with a 75 year old man.’
‘How?!’
‘I don’t know, but that other man had all his teeth extracted, and you still have most of yours. So that’s where the confusion was…how’re the painkillers?’
‘Middlin.’
‘Call in tomorrow so.’
And he hung up. The next day. The receptionist answered the door. ‘Oh, hello Thomas.’
I was in too much pain to correct her. She led me down a corridor towards the surgery. Green walls. Echo. Stuffed birds. Smell like liquorice. The dentist was in there and ready. Mask, white coat and antiseptic wash. He said: ‘Are you ready so?’
I sat back in the chair. He put on the big light and got a really long needle. He asked me through the mask if I was allergic to any anaesthetics or anything. Sounded like he was talking from the fat end of a traffic cone. I said no. He asked me if I was sure cos there was a fella here before that said he had no allergies and then he had a fit on the way home and crashed into the wall.
He held up the syringe, like something out of a film about Mind Control, and blinked. I said I was fairly sure I was ok and to go ahead. He shrugged in a way that said: ‘It’s your choice, so.’
As he put it through, and my brain froze in terror, unable to compute the mad agony, the receptionist said: ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Ger?’
Soon my mouth was stroke numb and I didn’t’ have any fits so it was time to take out the tools. Pliers, drill, dental angle grinders, scrapers, gum hoover, long metal rod with mirror on the back. I was feeling so positive about it all, I could have sang if my mouth didn’t feel like concrete. Something happened behind me with a tap and a sink and then he floated back into my vision, holding what looked to be a vice grips. “I’ll need you to be very still and relaxed.” He said.
I said ok and then he went at it. Tried to get grip but couldn’t cos the thing kept slipping off. He sighed and grunted a lot. Used the electric saw and a steel apparatus not unlike a shovel. I kept looking at the big light and hoping for the best. His eyes were huge through the goggles and you could tell he was a fanatic for this sorta thing. Stubborn molars, resistant to the latest technology. There could be a paper on this yet, at the very least, good material for the drinks at the next conference. Then I started wondering if he was qualified at all. The receptionist interrupted my thoughts when she held my head and muttered reassuringly. “It’s ok, Patrick, it’s nearly over.’
And it was. He was mad now. Takin it personal. There was a feeling he’d got to the crux of the problem and it was time for one last all out attack. He bit his lip as he caught it well and grasped with intense hatred and yanked like a man trying to start a broken chainsaw. There was a rupture somewhere in my brain. I saw roots dragged from the soil in the garden of Eden, sequoia’s torn like twigs, molar earthquakes. A crisis somewhere in my consciousness that something huge had happened. He stood back and held it up between the prongs and proudly said: ‘That’s her now! Take a rinse from the glass. Good man.’
Everythin was spinning. The room, the walls, the chair. I felt like a deer that had just been shot. I stood up, shook. They were around me. Him with the mask, her with the lipstick on her teeth. Everything was amplified, like on the cartoons when you’re hit on the head with an anvil. ‘Do you need to sit down?’ He asked.
And I did. So I did. Feeling the emptiness with my tongue. The receptionist said: “You have to be careful, you could fall over. And then you might lose another tooth! Imagine that, Barry!’
He wrote out a prescription then. Said to take these anti-biotics for the next two weeks and I should be fine. Don’t mix them with drink. The last fella that mixed them with drink ended up in the mental.
Outside, the sky frowned. It took a few seconds to figure out where I was. The receptionist walked me to the door. “Goodbye now, Paddy, don’t worry about anything, I’ll make sure your files are up to date this time, there’ll be no more problems. Just keep the teeth brushed, good man, and if you don’t, sure we’ll see you again soon, wouldn’t that lovely?!

The Dental Records crowd….

They reckon all good writers have problems with their teeth. That’s about the only positive thing I could take from the terrible pain. Then the dentist said: ‘You’ve given me a false name, are you tryin to pull somethin?’
I said: ‘No, it’s genuine, my mouth’s about to explode with some kinda toothache.’
‘That’s what I mean.’ He said. ‘Your records show you’ve no teeth at all.’
‘No teeth?’
‘No teeth.’
‘But I have teeth, why the hell do you think I’m here?!’
‘Well. Now. That’s what they’re sayin.’
‘Who’s sayin?’
‘The dental records crowd.’
The receptionist walked in and said: ‘Well, Gerry, how are you?’
‘It’s not Gerry, it’s Mick.’
‘Oh, Mick, that’s right. You lost all your teeth.’
‘I didn’t, no. Most of them are still here.’
‘Oh.’ She said, and walked out.
‘Well…’ said the dentist. ‘You better ring them. I can’t do anythin with you til it’s sorted out.’
He gave me the number and I went outside. And called. A calm woman answered and I said: ‘My records show I’ve got no teeth.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’
‘But I have teeth, there’s a mix up.’
‘That’s impossible, you have teeth but…?’
‘My records show that I don’t.’
‘What happened them?’
‘What happened what?’
‘Your teeth?’
‘Nothin, they’re fine. Well…I have a…’
‘So you HAVE teeth?’
‘YES.’
‘And your records show you DON’T?’
‘Yeah, so can you change them?’
‘The records? Oh No.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re dental records, they’re inviolable.’
‘But they’re wrong!’
‘That may be, but here’s not the place to deal with that.’
‘Where is?! You’re the office of dental records!’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘How can you not know?’
‘You should go to the hospital where you were born, and see what they have on file.’
Hung up. Went to the hospital. The woman behind the counter squinted at my mouth and asked: ‘You have no teeth? But I can see teeth, your mouth is full of teeth.’
‘Exactly. So my records are wrong.’
‘Have you rang the dental records office?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what did they tell you?’
‘To come here.’
‘Why?!’
‘I don’t know. They just said…’
‘Here, try this number.’
Went outside and tried it. A young fella answered with: ‘Yes??’
He was one of these new age pricks with a Kardashian accent. Probably hailed from the backarse of BallyMacWard, except when he was on the phone.  I said: ‘I need to change my dental records.’
‘Oh….k….? Why?’
‘They say I have no teeth.’
‘Were you in an accident?’
‘No.’
‘Did they just fall out?’
‘No. I still have them, my records are wrong, and the dentist can’t deal with me til it’s sorted. So if you don’t mind…’
‘Oh, you’re pretending to be someone else?’
‘No I’m not.’
‘Someone else is pretending to be you, then?’
‘Eh…possibly.’
‘Have you rang the guards?’
‘No, I haven’t rang the guards, I’m in agonizin fuckin pain and…
‘Let me tell you somethin, sir.’
‘What?’
And he hung up. The little bollox.

I rang back the dentist and the receptionist answered. I said: ‘Hello, I was in this afternoon, there was an issue with my dental records.’
‘Oh, LIAM, hello! How are you getting on?’
‘It’s not Liam, it’s Mick.’
‘Mick, of course. Any luck finding your teeth?’
‘No, the dental office were no good, or anyone else.’
‘Oh, you see, no one is allowed access to their own dental records except the dentist, and they can deal with it for you, they can be very strict about it, do you want me to tell the dentist to ring them for you? That might help.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, that’d be great.’
‘Ok, Peter, it’s no problem.’
‘It’s not Peter, it’s….hello? Hello?’
But she was gone.

*

 

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

Notes on Reamonn: Supergirl.

I was trying to write a bit when she walked in. It was around 3pm. Usually she’s drunk by now. Buys a bottle of Vodka at 10am every morning and has it mostly drank by the afternoon. Normally it’s in a flask and she carries it around and drinks it casually as the hours pass. She wants to know what the music is, says it sounds familiar, she used to listen to it in Poland before she moved over.

I told her it was Reamonn. She said she used to drink a lot in Poland. Party girl. Young. Finding herself. Strobe lights in dark discos, dance beats and boys. Her new fella wanted to move to Ireland. Big money, better life. She could speak good English and they liked to drink in Ireland too.

So they packed up, moved over. Had two kids. Bought a house. She had a job for a while but lost it. It was everyone’s fault. The boss, the manager, the conditions, the hours, the pay. She was better than that, didn’t need it, there’s better things out there.

She drank some more,  said: ‘I love that song.’

‘Supergirl?’

‘Yeah. We used to listen to it at home all the time.’

‘Before you moved over?’

‘Before….everything.’

She danced a bit, put up a hand to the beats. Took a drink, said: ‘Sure you don’t want some?’

She feels the excitement, song always gets her. Brings her back, back to a place before experience and knowledge, a careless place where she didn’t have to think.  She can’t remember when she decided she was a Supergirl. Maybe it was when she had her first kid, or second, or when she got married. Most mornings now she gets the flask and fills it  and goes for a walk. Walk where, who cares. The kids are gone too. Husband took them. She had an apartment for a while, no rent paid. That’s gone aswell. Now she lives with my neighbour and makes him dinner every evening and he gives her some money for the off licence. Lately he’s getting annoyed because the dinner does be burnt and he’s noticing things going missing around the house. First it was a phone and she blamed the guy up the road. Then a jar of change and it was the fault of the woman that visited an hour before. Then some real money from a wallet and maybe it was a break in, might be time to call the guards. He’s also the kind of the man to keep a suitcase of cash under the bed. He went looking for it yesterday to buy a car and sure most of it was gone. Had vanished. Disappeared.

So she’s giving him some space and hanging out here, listening to Supergirl.  And where did I get the computer, it’s really nice. And do I like this town? Was I ever in Poland? It’s good, but Ireland is better. Much better. She wants to see her kids at the weekend but the husband won’t let her. Won’t answer the phone. Last time she got too drunk and didn’t show up and there’s been no word since. But she has a plan. There’s going to be a court day soon, solicitors, a real showdown, she’s got it all planned as she dances, transformed back to the careless place, invincible. Supergirl.

*

 

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

Paddy backs Ruby Walsh at the races…

We were working for the races. Doing security. Paddy was at the bottom door, an eccentric mid fifties. He opened with: ‘Hey, Micky…?’
I was at the middle door. Pretended I didn’t hear him. The he said again: ‘Hey, Micky…?’
‘Yeah, Paddy?’
‘Was there many here last night?’
‘A good few.’
‘A good few?’
‘Yeah.’
‘A few thousand I suppose?’
‘Around that yeah.’
‘Around that. Ok. What time was the last race?’
‘Eight or so.’
‘Did you back any horses?’
‘No, Paddy, never really my thing. And we’re not really supposed to.’
‘Oh yeah, oh yeah.’

A rich couple walked up to my door, his suit, her feather hat, she asked: ‘Where do I go?’
I asked: ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Well…’ she said: ‘Here?’
‘Ok, upstairs or downstairs?’
This was when she produced her ticket and said: ‘What does this say?’
I read it, went: ‘You’re in the wrong building.’
She revved all her wealthy horsepower and said: ‘No, we’re not. Sheila said to come here.’
‘Who’s Sheila?’
‘She organised it.’
‘Organised what?’
‘The dinner.’
Your man chimed in then, with: ‘We’re here for dinner with Sheila.’
‘Well you have tickets for the other side of the stadium…’
‘The OTHER side?!’ She said. ‘But Sheila said to come here.’
‘Sheila was wrong.’
‘Excuse me?’
Your man had the phone out now.
Then three underage came along and tried to slip in behind me.
I stopped them with a hand and said: ‘Tickets?’
They all said together: ‘Tickets?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh.’
And they disappeared. Meanwhile, your man was off the phone and said: ‘Sheila said we’re to go across to the other side of the stadium.’
‘Ok.’ I said.
‘This is ridiculous.’ Said your one.
‘I’d hate to see this place if there was a fire.’ Said your man. And they went away.
Paddy was waiting patiently at his door. The he said: ‘Hey, Micky….?’
‘Yeah, Paddy.’
‘What was wrong with blondie?’
‘Wrong tickets.’
‘Wrong tickets, oh yeah. Do you think we’ll be late tonight, Micky?’
‘Not sure, Paddy. Depends on the crowd.’
‘Depends on the crowd. Oh yeah. Do you like this job, Micky?’
‘It’s ok, Paddy.’
‘They’re nice people, aren’t they, Micky?’
‘They’re not too bad.’
‘Ruby Walsh is riding later too, Micky.’
‘Is he?’
‘He is, Micky. Will you back him?’
‘We’re not supposed to back horses, Paddy.’
‘Oh yeah, oh yeah.’
A woman came along and said: ‘I’ve no ticket but my kids don’t know I smoke, so can I slip out there for a quick pull?’
‘Go on, so.’
‘Thanks.’
She went outside. Braced the wind as she lit up, dragged hard and exhaled into the gratified cold. Paddy didn’t say anything this time. We just sorta stood like sentries til something happened.
That’s when mass started downstairs.
The priest could be heard over the speakers blessing the track, and the punters, and wishing everyone luck.
After, the commentator went through the line up. There was talk about Ruby Walsh but not much. I looked over and Paddy was gone somewhere. Probably to the jacks or for a sandwich or something. The woman came back from outside and said thanks and then she said she was rushing to put a bet on.
Few minutes later, the next race was on and Paddy was back and it was busy. Jimmy the supervisor came and he was holding a betting slip in his hand. I said: ‘What’s that?’
‘Got a good tip.’ He goes, ‘from a steward. Ruby Walsh.’
‘Are we allowed bet?’
He shrugged, said: ‘Depends.’ And walked off.
Later, when it was calm again, and the crowd were gone for a drink before the next race, it was just me and Paddy. I waited for him to open as I knew he would.
‘Hey, Micky?’ He said:
‘Yes, Paddy.’
‘Did you back Ruby Walsh?’
‘I didn’t Paddy, no. Did he win?’
‘He did, came in at 22-1.
‘Good man, Paddy.’
‘You’d right to back him.’
‘How much’d you win, Paddy?’
‘I don’t know yet. I have to collect it. Do you think I should go and collect it, Micky?’
‘You better, Paddy.’
‘Do you think?’
‘I do.’
‘Will I go now?’
‘Go on.’
‘Right so, Micky. Thanks.’
‘No problem, Paddy.’
‘It’s not a bad job when you make this kinda money, sure it isn’t, Micky?’

Donedeal Dialogue

The phone rang and he opened with: ‘How much d’ya want for the car, boss?’
‘€650.’
‘€650 you’ve up on the ad, but what’ll you take for it.’
‘What’ll you give?’
‘Ah, I don’t know, sure is there no brakes on her?’
‘No.’
‘Or NCT???’
‘Eh…no that’s gone too.’
‘And you want €650?? Shtop, I’ll give you €300.’
‘I’ve already been offered €400 by a lad.’
‘Is he dhreamin?’
‘That’s what he said he’ll give, anyway.’
‘Aragh, I don’t know. How many miles on her?’
‘355,000.’
Beat, then: ‘Three hundred and fifty five THOUSAND?!’
‘Yeah, but she’s a good car, never let me down….til now.’
‘Ah, sham.’
‘Wha?’
‘Were you doin round trips to America in her?’
‘No.’
‘You want €650 for a car with no NCT, no Brakes and 355,000 miles on the clock?’
‘Don’t forget the new driveshaft and the two new wheels I put on last week.’
‘Sure what the fuck good are they with no brakes?! Will she brake at all? Not even a little bit to get me home…?’
‘No. You’ll need a truck or a tow rope to bring it home.’
‘What about the handbrake?’
‘That’s fucked too.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘I am.’
‘Any tax?’
‘Out next week.’

‘Oh Christ above. Sure you’re lookin for antique prices at this rate.’
‘She’s worth it.’
‘They’re a good car alright, when they’re actually workin….you’ll have to pay someone to take that away….’
‘We’ll see. The engines are goin for export at €400 minimum.’
‘Sure why would I want to export the engine? She’d be no good to me then at all!’
‘I s’pose.’
‘Hmm. Yeah. What’s your best price so?’
‘€450.”
‘Your best price I asked yeah, c’mon on now.’
‘Sure….’
There must be a little bit in the brakes?’
‘Nothin.’
‘What’s wrong them anyway?’
‘Master Cylinder I think?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
I’ll give you €350 tonight, cash, into your hand, that’s the besht you’ll get.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘No one else will give you that, and sure I’ll probably hit the wall half way up the road. Where do you live?’
I told him, and he said: ‘Where exactly?’
‘We’ll figure that out if you’re comin…’
‘If I’m drivin from Athenry how do I get there?’
‘I’ll get back to you later.’
‘Lad, will you take €350 into the hand?’
‘I’ll save your number and let you know. Depends on the other fella that offered €400.’
‘Sure he’s a pure fairy.’
‘Money’s money.’
‘He won’t give you that for it, you’ll be wastin your time talkin to him. Take the cash off me now, quick sale. Into the paw. Bang bang, she’s done and dusted.’
‘I’ll give you a call later.’
‘Do, do, do. I’ll be at your place tonight and we’ll do a deal. That’s the besht price you’ll get.’
‘Thanks. G’luck.’
‘Bye bye, bye so, bye.’

Mick Donnellan’s Mokusatsu now available on Kindle…

Mick Donnellan’s most recent novel 
 
Mokusatsu
 
is now available to be read as a Kindle e-book. 
 
You can do so here:

More details below. 

About

Mokusatsu is the long awaited sequel to Novelist Mick Donnellan’s first book El Niño. Despite the Japanese name, Mokusatsu is set in Ireland – and a significant part of the story is set in Galway and Mayo. Charlie, the protagonist, is 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.

About Mick’s first novel El Niño

El Niño is set in Ballinrobe and the surrounding landscapes of Mayo and Galway, the book tells the story of Charlie, a sympathetic delinquent trapped in a world of crime and alcoholism. Hailed as a new voice, and a crime fiction breakthrough for the West.

About Mick Donnellan

Mick Donnellan completed the MA in Writing at NUIG in 2004. Since then he has worked as a novelist, journalist, travel writer, teacher and Playwright. He completed his first novel, El Niño,  in 2005. He left Ireland soon after and went on to live in Spain, Australia and Canada. While traveling he worked as a travel writer and Journalist and co-founded the Arts Paper – Urban Pie – in Vancouver. Upon returning to Ireland he went on to work with Druid (2009) and RTE (2010).

Later, he established his own theatre company, Truman Town Theatre. All Truman Town Plays are written, directed, and produced by Mick. The company exploded on to the theatrical circuit in 2011 with their hit Play – Sunday Morning Coming Down. Following a national tour, they went on to produce (and tour) two more hugely successful Plays Shortcut to Hallelujahand Gun Metal Grey. These dramas eventually became known as the “Ballinrobe Trilogy.”

Moving slightly from rural settings but not themes, the company toured a fourth Play, Velvet Revolution. An intense two hander set in a stark urban landscape, it created interest in Mick’s work among the film industry.

He followed Velvet Revolution with his fifth Play – Radio Luxembourg and it was immediately optioned by London Film Company Dixon/ Baxi/Evans and adapted for the screen.

While the film was in development, Mick’s second novel – “Fisherman’s Blues.”was published. As it rose up the ranks, and enjoyed positive reviews, Mick was taken on board as screenwriter on the Radio Luxembourg project.

After some months commuting to and from London, the script was locked down and a shoot organised in the Jordanian desert.

Titled Tiger Raid and Starring Brian Gleeson, Damian Molony and Sofia Boutella, it was accepted into the Tribeca film festival (New York) and was also seen at Cannes and Edinburgh, and the Irish Premiere was screened at the Galway Film Fleadh.

Most of 2018/19 has been spent working on the exciting screen adaptation of Shortcut to Hallelujah with Florence Films. Hot off the press, the screenplay is titled Sam and is based around the gypsy curse supposedly set on the Mayo Football team as they returned home as All Ireland Champions in 1951. Set in the present day, Sam is drenched in Irish lyricism and modern day dark humour. The script has been been met with keen interest by film producers and actors throughout the industry.

Mick currently works as a Creative Writing Lecturer at Athlone Institute of Technology.

 

Paperback version below:

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 inspiration….

She had an idea for a book in the morning. It was there. When she woke up. Clear, concise, simple, brilliant. The clarity was astounding. The story felt original, unique, a credible take on a new way of fiction. All there was to do was write it. The characters were already developed, the plot points obvious, the ending came rushing through like a train with no brakes, blasting through the walls of her mind and around her body in excitement. Yes, this was it. The overwhelming advice was to write it now, record it, make notes, don’t let it slip away into the day. Don’t let her head get full of garbage and push out the creativity. She’d write it tonight, she said. No need to write down anything now, it’s already there. Settled, banked, ready. How could she possibly forget it? So she sat up, checked her phone, cruised around four apps for forty five minutes until she was late for work. But that was ok, she had a book ready in her mind and there was nothing to be stressed about. At breakfast, there was no milk or cereal and the kids were hungry. She went to the shop and the car was low on diesel so she had to go a station. The station was busy and it took nearly half an hour. She got back to the house and the post was there. Mostly bills. Time for a shower but she’d forgotten to turn on the immersion last night and the water was cold. Didn’t matter, she had an idea for a book, it was going to change everything. Which agents, she thought. Which publishers. UK or Ireland. Uk is better. Irish publishers are all cowards. They only go for something if it does well in England. Safe bet. Easy money. She’d contact the UK industry tonight. Google a few places. Write a cover letter. Outline the plot. Then maybe she shouldn’t give too much away? What if someone steals the idea? Especially that ending. It was so….perfect. And it could be developed. How will it start again? Let’s see. Jane meets Damien at an airport? Or was I thinking in a foreign country? Love story? Why not make it a thriller too? We could introduce a third element, a darker love interest from Laura’s past that turns out to be a psycho. Yes, that would be good. Or maybe Damien’s the psycho all along? Nice twist. A dark twisted tale set on an island in….why not just set it in Ireland? The UK might not go for that. Why not set it in the UK? I’d have to go and research. Weekend in October maybe. Take some annual leave. Do I have any annual leave left? Is that water hot? She goes through the bills while waiting. No chance of a weekend in the UK. Has a lukewarm shower. Goes to work. She doesn’t like work but it’s ok today because she has a secret. A new book idea. Just get through the day and get home to write. The meetings are taxing. Take maximum concentration. Dark warm rooms, power point presentations. Maybe at her desk later she could jot down some notes on the story. Keeps her going. The day ends, no notes taken. She gets home at 6pm. Mostly exhausted. Family time. Dinner time. Night closes in. Time to start writing. Work out that plot. Look up those agents. Tired eyes from screens all day. An audit to be finished. Those bills coming. Maybe leave it til the morning. Get up at 5am. Work on the book before work. That’d be easier. Fresher. Simpler. It’s such an obvious plot anyway, just have to write it, it’s about…that original bit in the middle, the ending….it’ll come. It’ll come. Time to sleep, sweet sleep.

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

Notes on the digital age….

 

You don’t know who you are. You used to know. But not anymore. There was a stage when you could count all the people you knew respected you and those that didn’t. You could say with relative ease how many things and instances you should regret and ought to be ashamed of. But not anymore. Now you’re unsure. You don’t know what people think. What they really think. You search for validation in the online world. It works briefly, like a drug, and you are sedated, but then the drug wears off and you’re worse than before. There is an inkling that the world has formed an opinion. A false one. It’s a constant feeling of walking into a room that goes suddenly quiet as if you have been the topic of conversation. It’s not that people go quiet publicly – it’s that their minds suddenly switch to a certain mode. Something they know, or have seen, or think, or has formed their idea of who you are. It happened with work. You were going for the interview. Your CV was sent in. All relevant details supplied. Past experience. Age. Suitability for the role. Cover letter. Education. Enough to work on, to consider, and then allow the candidate to make an impression. But then someone said: ‘Let’s google him.’ And the task fell to the girl it always falls to. The one that can type fast, find the sites, declutter the search to the juicy bits. They found you on Facebook and looked at all your pictures. The holiday. The friends. The relationships. They got an idea of the type of person you are. Then it was on to Instagram, Snapchat and Twitter. Linkedin. They went into your friends pages. Your family’s pages. The friends of your friends. And the family of your family. They looked at everything. Would they marry you. Would they sleep with you. Would they work with you. Could they like you. Those opinions in that status update. Maybe it was sarcasm. Maybe it was racist. You shared that article on US politics. Seemed to support the candidate they don’t like. Is he critical of #metoo? Let’s not hire him. Not the right fit.

And then there was the girl you met. It seemed to go well but then went cold. Maybe it was her friend. The one always on the phone – what did she find? And sone days you say hello to people and they’re not really responsive. Or they ask you things they couldn’t know unless they were looking at your online profiles. You talk to strangers like friends, and friends like strangers. Everything is a surreal bubble of virtual possibility. When you dropped the petrol hose and the fuel went everywhere, you saw it on Youtube in your mind. When a passerby said something funny you saved it later for sharing. When you met an old friend you took a selfie to tag it in a while because there was nothing else to do. Nothing to say. Nothing to feel. There is no substance. No reality. No emotion. There is no human connection. You don’t know who you are, everybody else does, but you don’t. Everything is chaos.

*

 

 

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

Mick Donnellan’s “Mokusatsu” Now available on Kindle.

Mick Donnellan’s most recent novel

 

 

“Mokusatsu”

 

 

is now available to be read as a Kindle e-book.

 

 

You can do so here:

 

 

More details below.

 

About

Mokusatsu is the long awaited sequel to Novelist Mick Donnellan’s first book El Niño. Despite
the Japanese name,
Mokusatsu is set in Ireland – and a significant part of the story is set in Galway and Mayo. Charlie,
the protagonist, is 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.

About Mick’s first novel El Niño

El Niño is set in Ballinrobe and the surrounding landscapes of Mayo and Galway, the book tells the story of Charlie, a sympathetic delinquent trapped in a world of crime and alcoholism. Hailed as a new voice, and
a crime fiction breakthrough for the West.

www.mickdonnellan.com

About Mick Donnellan

Mick Donnellan completed the MA in Writing at NUIG in 2004. Since then he has worked as a novelist, journalist, travel writer, teacher and Playwright. He completed his first novel, El
Niño
,in 2005. He left Ireland soon after and went on to live in Spain, Australia and Canada. While traveling he worked as a travel writer and Journalist and co-founded
the Arts Paper – Urban Pie – in Vancouver. Upon returning to Ireland he went on to work with Druid (2009) and RTE (2010).

Later, he established his own theatre company, Truman Town Theatre. All Truman Town Plays are written, directed, and produced by Mick. The company exploded on to the theatrical circuit in 2011 with their hit Play – Sunday Morning Coming
Down. Following a national tour, they went on to produce (and tour) two more hugely successful Plays Shortcut to Hallelujahand Gun Metal Grey. These dramas eventually became known as the “Ballinrobe Trilogy.”

Moving slightly from rural settings but not themes, the company toured a fourth Play, Velvet Revolution. An intense two hander set in a stark urban landscape, it created interest in Mick’s work among the film industry.

He followed Velvet Revolution with his fifth Play – Radio Luxembourg and it was immediately optioned by London Film Company Dixon/
Baxi/Evans
and adapted for the screen.

While the film was in development, Mick’s second novel – Fisherman’s
Blues.
was published. As it rose up the ranks, and enjoyed positive reviews, Mick was taken on board as screenwriter on the Radio Luxembourg project.

After some months commuting to and from London, the script was locked down and a shoot organised in the Jordanian desert.

Titled Tiger Raid and
Starring Brian Gleeson, Damian Molony and Sofia Boutella, it was accepted into the Tribeca film festival (New York) and was also seen at Cannes and Edinburgh, and the Irish Premiere was screened at the Galway Film Fleadh.

Most of 2018/19 has been spent working on the exciting screen adaptation of Shortcut to Hallelujah with Florence Films. Hot off the press, the screenplay is titled Sam and is based around the gypsy curse supposedly set on the Mayo Football
team as they returned home as All Ireland Champions in 1951. Set in the present day, Sam is drenched in Irish lyricism and modern day dark humour. The script has been been met with keen interest by film producers and actors throughout the industry.

Mick currently works as a Creative Writing Lecturer at Athlone Institute of Technology.

 

www.mickdonnellan.com