The Donnellys of Lucan_The boarding school of Henry_Curtain Break_The Introvert
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The Donnellys of Lucan
I was introduced to the Donnelly family of Lucan, Ontario by my cousin, Richard Coulbeck. He showed me two books about this family entitled " The Black Donnellys" and Vengeance of the Black Donnellys. They were poorly written by a Thomas P. Kelley, visioning only one side of the feud that occurred back in the nineteenth century. It was a feud betwww.onedoor.ccween neighbours of Irish background and the majority of the Irish people who emigrated from Ireland back in the nineteenth century settled mostly in the Middlesex County of the Province of Ontario. A small farming village called Lucan which is located ...
The boarding school of Henry
Henry Greene was a calm and serene teenager. It was his passion to stroll in the garden next to his house and sketch out the beautiful scenes of plants and animals interacting in nature while listening to Mozart. It would be perhaps wrong to conclude then that he was an introvert, as he enjoyed playing too with his friends in the evening. But he was different from others in that he was a kind of boy whose likes and dislikes were rarely influenced by friend-inflicted-prejudices, so he was able to enjoy many of the things which his friends and classmates knocked off.It was a Friday, as the famil...
Curtain Break
I live for the balmy nights.Wandering down the cracked pavement that borders my street, there is no pleasure greater than feeling the nighttime breeze caress my face. My footsteps echo in the darkness, a hollow sound that pings off the shuttered, squat houses. Trees loom ominously above me, casting rustling shadows every few feet. My watch beeps at me. 6:32am. I’ll need to hurry home before sunrise.I stop briefly to retie my shoelace, looking down the lane. Save for the occasional porchlight, the neighborhood is dark, empty and completely asleep. Cars sit on their driveways, glimmering in the ...
The Introvert
You stand with your finger pressed to the doorbell. At first, no one answers. The temptation to turn away, to leave it for tomorrow, for never, is almost overpowering. Sweat breaks across the back of your neck. Your stomach turns over. But then you hear a voice. Come in, they say. Now you must step inside. You want to kill her. She did this to you. But she is already dead. * Thanks to the aunt who always showed up at Christmas dinners and Easter lunches, dressed like Audrey Hepburn at one of her glam parties, with a dirty martini balanced precariously in a black-gloved hand and a long cigaret...