Grace McHale
Bio
I'm a writer from Ireland.
In general, I'm a big fan of comedy, romantic novels, classic & contemporary lady stories, mythology, theology and fantasy stories.
+original artwork
Stories (4)
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Future You, Future Me
As I lay on the sofa, the sound of men arguing somewhere outside was like a song. The sun was not out, but I had found a real bird's nest in the park the day before. It was on the path, and must have fallen out of a tree; fully intact, a perfect circular bowl of moss, twigs and dry mud woven together by one or more natural items... Bird(s).
By Grace McHale5 years ago in Fiction
Up With This I Will Not Put
April 3rd, 2042 When I woke up, it was purple. The day. It was a pale lavender dream. It reached out and touched me. I said yes. Enjoyed it for an instant. Then I said no. Could the rest of the day top it? If it didn't, my heart would break. I felt my heart break a little. Then stopped it. Then got up. Yada, yada, Yoda. I was at my desk. Or, rather, my focus was. My mind was. My body was still in the bed. There was a specific reason for this. I remembered it when the no came after the blissful instant. That was standing on a bridge between two worlds, life and death. Oh yes, it was a perfect reminder of the perfect present moment, just for you, impossible and infinite, a sparkle of golden dust in a sunbeam. When you're fast enough you can pinch it. That kind of speed involves perfect stillness. But enough! - there is a day here, my hands say; palms upturned imploring action, questioning me, flat on the bedspread, handcuffed at the wrists. Aha, I say. You two again. Well... well. You are not to blame. They say, 'You will pinch it squirt dead between your fingers.' And I might lick a little tiny taste. "Ah, you're away," said Luke, smiling from the kitchen wearing a towel. "Today's the day," he said, turning his back to prepare coffee at the stove. "We'll get out of this fix today, my angel," he said, as his towel fell off. It was classic him to pull out all the stops, and no small nod to his vanity in thinking I'd give up the goods so early in the game.
By Grace McHale5 years ago in Fiction
The Individuals
When I woke up, it was purple, the day. A pale lavender dream. It reached out and touched me. I said yes. Then I said no. I got up, and went to the desk. No, my mind did. My body was still in bed. The spark of a golden piece of dust passing through a sunbeam. You stay hard with the present. ‘There is a day here’, my hands say, questioning my grip on things, palms upturned on the rose petal slip of my nightdress as I lay on top of the bedspread. 'Today,' they say, 'You're going to pinch something squirt dead.' The coffee was bubbling on the stove filling the small apartment with familiarity. The smell of toast and a sound from the street, metal falling in an empty lot somewhere below. A drifter? Antack Avenue below was now running on empty, having once been a tree-lined street of Harbor, a thriving scientific community. We were sealed in nine floors up in a building at the edge of the Toca Valley, one of a dozen on off-grid compound owned by Hull. Luke and I were the only tenants and employees left that we knew of for a two hundred mile radius. The shower was running on Luke in the next room. Potted artificial plants from the high shelf watched our artificial cat named Cat stretched in a vertical line across a cool part of the tiled floor, limbs splayed fecklessly in the heat. After the bomb went off and the remaining kings and queens of the food chain were settled in now fully functional city substructures, Petrin-22 hit, the viral scourge that was taking out thousands. Hull was one of the few remaining private corporations making life bearable for survivors, for a price, of course. Namely, employment. But no who knows what they're really up to with a vast conglomerate of tech companies working almost free rein on solving the April 3rd, 2042.
By Grace McHale5 years ago in Fiction
