Mick Donnellan’s New Novel now Available on Amazon.

You can now read…

Mick Donnellan’s new novel 

The Naked Flame 

Amazon.

Click here:  Buy The Naked Flame Now.

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You can now read The Naked Flame on KINDLE below:

About The Naked Flame:  

Set in Athlone, the heart of the Irish midlands, The Naked Flame is a story of love, loss, betrayal, and passion. John joe is engaged but doesn’t want to get married. He’s not sure how to break this to Karen. Then it’s time for the stag party in Madrid. There he meets Marilyn. They spend the night together and everything changes. Now the wedding is cancelled, the police want to talk to him about a double murder and the phone is ringing with mysterious requests to come to London. John joe suddenly finds himself in a surreal world, full of unusual characters and extreme danger, with no obvious way out. Met with impossible choices he can only trust the alluring woman that offers all the answers – but at what cost?  

 Mick Donnellan’s fourth novel is rich in comedy, tragedy, hints of the absurd and undertones of a man in existential crisis. The story thunders along with unexpected twists and ominous turns that culminate in a devastating climax. A unique tale, it strikes an emotional note, and is guaranteed to supply an entertaining read. 

About Mick Donnellan 

Recent Awards/ projects: 

Mick Donnellan is the author of three previous novels. El Niño (2012) Fisherman’s Blues (2014) and Mokusatsu (2019). 

The Naked Flame was completed during a retreat at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in late 2021. 

When not writing fiction he works as a successful Playwright and Screenwriter. Film credits include Tiger Raid (2016) adapted from Mick’s Play Radio Luxembourg.  He has recently received the Agility Award through the Arts Council of Ireland and the Mayo Theatre Bursary through Mayo Arts Office.  

His most recent Play Nally was supported by Westmeath Arts Office and aired in May 2021 as a Zoom/Youtube performance. It was attended by over two thousand viewers on the night and many more since.  

You can watch Nally here: https://youtu.be/FiJYuaa5x2Q  

In May 2020 Mick had a monologue (The Crucified Silence) chosen as part of the Scripts Ireland Play festival. After a week of intensive workshops with Playwright Eugene O’Brien, the monologue was directed by Jim Culleton (Fishamble) and performed by Aaron Monaghan.  

Mick is currently part of the Galway Theatre Development Programme run by Andrew Flynn in conjunction with Galway’s Town Hall Theatre. He is also listed on the Irish theatre institute here:  http://irishplayography.com/person.aspx?personid=47564 

Curry chips and fandom.

You can meet another artist and they’ll ask how’s your writing, and you’ll tell them, and they won’t listen, and they’ll say we must go for coffee someday, and they’ll promise to buy your book, and then they’ll fuck off somewhere. And they haven’t a notion of doing the coffee, never mind buy the book. And then you’re having a curry chips and this fella bullocks over, puts his hands on the table, and says: ‘Howya, Micky!’

            He was well drunk, jeans too big, bloodshot eyes, jowls like a St. Bernard. Worse still, I hadn’t a clue who he was, so I said: ‘How’s things?’

            ‘Fuckin mighty.’

            ‘Great to hear it. Are ya still workin away?’

            He wasn’t much of a clues man cos he said: ‘I am. Same fuckin place, sure what can you do?’

            ‘What can ya do?’

            ‘And you? Are ya still writing?’

            ‘I am.’

            ‘I read your last book.’

            ‘Which one?’

            ‘The one in February. Fuck it sure, I read them all.’

            ‘Good man. Did you like the last one?’

            ‘Fuckin cracked. Mighty ridin’ in it.’

            ‘There was a bit alright.’

            ‘But it was a good story too.’

            ‘Thanks.’

            ‘Any Plays comin?’

            ‘I’m workin on a few things.’

            ‘I saw Nally on Youtube.’

            ‘Did ya?’

            ‘I did. Fuckin loved it. Hard to believe ye managed it with that fuckin lockdown but it worked.’

            ‘Thanks.’

            ‘The actors were fuckin mighty. How’s your chips?’

            ‘Lovely. I got them in the van over there.’

            He looked over, suspicious, like he was ready to accuse the van of trying to hide. ‘I wonder will they sell me a burger?’

            ‘Sure ask them.’

            ‘I fuckin will. I’m fulla porther. Drinkin since yesterday morning.’

            ‘What’s the occasion?’

            ‘Sure don’t ya know? Life. What else?’

            ‘True.’

            ‘And c’mere, whatever happened with the film that time?’

            ‘Tiger Raid?’

            ‘Yeah. I went up to see that in Galway. It was fuckin class.’

            ‘It’s still goin. You can buy it or rent it on Google Movies and all that craic.’

            ‘Twas some craic that night. That Gleeson fella can fairly act.’

            ‘He can, nice lad too.’

            ‘I’d say so. Are ya still teaching?’

            ‘An odd time.’

            ‘Dose I’d say?’

            ‘Tis grand.’

            ‘I couldn’t teach now. Fuck that. Gimme a kango and I’m happy, how the fuck do you sit at a computer all day?’

            ‘Different strokes, I suppose…’

            ‘Will ya have a pint?’

            ‘Still off it.’

            ‘Are ya fuck?’

            ‘I fuckin am.’

            ‘How long done now?’

            ’11 years I think. 10 anyway. Kinda losing count these days…’

            ‘Christ almighty, I wouldn’t last two days. You must be loaded. Selling all them books and films and shtuff and not drinkin?’

            ‘Writing’s the easy part, making money off it is more complicated.’

            ‘I fuckin bought them anyway.’

            ‘You did, good man.’  

            He stood looking at the chip van, stars in the night sky behind him. Aroma of cooking oil and vinegar mixed with ketchup. He said: ‘I think I’ll have a burger and five or six more pints and fuck off home.’

            ‘Sounds like a plan.’

            ‘I’ll be sick as a dog tomorrow.’

            ‘I don’t miss that.’

            ‘Christ. Shtop. Keep writing anyway. I want to read the next one. And make more fuckin films.’

            ‘I will.’

            ‘Fuckin do. I’m not into any of that other fancy shite but I like your shtuff.’

            ‘Sound, thanks.’

            ‘G’luck, Micky.’

            ‘Sound. G’luck.’

Shoes and Chinese beach blues.

This woman had a room for rent and a policy of no shoes. I had one shoe off when she asked: ‘Are you parking there, like that?’

I said yeah, and she said no. That won’t do. It’s dangerous for her car when she’s trying to pull out and she might hit mine and could I park it up the top there instead.

            I put the off shoe back on and got back in the car and started backing back, back towards the trees and the empty pond, and the horseshoe groove that kept cars safe and undinged. It was a calm blue evening, leafy suburb, Newstalk on the radio, banging out ads about famine and starvation. Not too sure where the Peugeot came from. One second I was about to lock to the left and then there was the pokey eyes of reverse lights coming in the gate. We did a bit of gush, and push, and awkward acting the bollix, and ended up stuck beside each other in the driveway. Now there was two cars parked badly and no way out the gate. Our lady, Breda, yelped from the doorway. “Michael! Michael!”

            ‘Yeah?’

            ‘Let that man in.’

            The guy was Polish, Latvian, Hungarian, something. Double chin and smig and big belly behind the wheel. He shrugged, said: ‘I’ll only be 10 minutes anyway.’      

            A fourth character appeared; stairs left. Previously unseen, unnamed, unheard of and unexpected. Shorts, blonde hair, pale green eyes and an agitated voice. She stood beside Breda, bare feet, squinted at the two of us, tried to assess what was happening, then asked: ‘Are ye delivering my Chinese?’

            Come in, said Breda, just come in.

            We both walked towards the door. Crunch of stones, caffeinated blood from a long day on the road. Thoughts like haunted ghosts flitting round black tormented rooms. Coming, going, living dying, breaking through, electric saw blades on concrete.

             Shoes again, please, said Breda.

            Got the two of them off this time. Good job I bought decent socks in Dealz last week. Your man’s name was Justin. Breda was excited because he was the best handyman around and didn’t often come unless you were a valued customer. Even at that, his time was precious. More precious than the bad parking tenant and the girl looking for her Chicken Szechwan. He was going changing a plug, and the plug was broke for a long time, and we couldn’t let him go now or we wouldn’t see him again for weeks. I took the chance to escape up to the room. Small, functional, towel, window. Unpacked, got ready to chill, embrace silence, do fuck all. Then I heard: Michael….? You can move your car back now. Justin is gone.

            Shoes on. Parked. Shoes off.

            And did I know anything about broadband. There was a lad here at the door last week and he sold it to her and it was pure shite. And now Eir were going taking money out of her account and she had to ring them. And isn’t it awful, and the doorbell rang, and who’s this now, must be the Chinese, have you seen the beach yet? You should go down for a walk. It’s lovely.

            I will. Which way is it?