Happines and Heartbreak

Happiness

& Heartbreak

An Anthology of Irish-Themed Short Stories, Plays, and Poetry

by Known and Unknown Writers

Heartbreak & Happiness

© Copyright Tom Richards 2022 and the individual authors published in this anthology.

All rights reserved

The moral right of Tom Richards and the individually published authors to be identified as the

author(s) of this work is asserted.

Conditions of Sale

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in

newspaper, magazine, radio, or television reviews, no part of

this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including scanning,

photocopying or recording,

or by any information storage or retrieval system

without prior permission from the publisher.

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this story are the work of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: Toqueer Shahid. Find him at https://www.fiverr.com/touqeershahid95?source=inbox.

Edited by: Grammargal. Find her at https://www.fiverr.com/grammargal?source=inbox.

To contact the author, email tomrichards141@gmail.com.

Books by Tom Richards

Fiction for Adults

Dolphin Song

Always Come Home

Lost Lovers

Fiction for Young Adults

Hotfoot

Hotfoot 2: Lucky’s Revenge

The Lost Scrolls of Newgrange

The Den Adventure (TV tie-in for Ireland’s The Den Show)

Non-Fiction

A Survivors Guide to Living in Ireland, multiple editions

________________

Happiness & Heartbreak is the first edition of short stories, plays, and poetry anthologies penned by known and unknown writers to be published annually by Storylines Entertainment Ltd.

For more information visit www.tomrichards.ie.

Table of Contents

DEDICATION

Happiness & Heartbreak A Short Story by Tom Richards

Trust By Catherine Ratcliffe A Series of Poems

Midleton—Through the Memory Mists of 70 Years

Strangers & Closeness: A Collection of Poems by Larry Wilson

OPHELIA’S SCRAMLED ROYAL EGG By Pheloneous Egg Esq, Egg Merchant  (ghostwritten by Tom Richards, infamous not-so-famous author) A Farce in ONE ACT—thanks Be to God, with profuse apologies to William Shakespeare

HARLEY By William Joseph Leece

The Never-Ending Christmas by Kristin Wall & Tom Richards

Tommy Murray Poetry & Short Stories by Tommy Murray

No Place Like Home By Tom Richards

Redemption Invictus By Helen Rowntree

WRITING A BESTSELLING NOVEL FOR ONLINE PUBLICATION  A How-to Guide White Paper by Tom Richards:

An Afterthought

DEDICATION

This anthology is dedicated to

Bill Leece

Friend, educator, and scholar, he is a lover of Irish culture and all things Irish. Bill has recently retired from Rolling Meadows High School, District 214, near Chicago, Illinois, USA. Bill’s short story is proudly published

as part of this anthology.

A special Note from Tom Richards to all readers: this Anthology is composed of a variety of short-stories, poetry and plays most having an Irish Theme. Toward the end of this volume is a white paper on Writing a Bestselling Novel for Online Publication. This paper tells all would-be authors of how to write a novel for the screen, stage, and online publication. Will your work be produced or result in a bestselling novel? To answer the question, do what I do: put your bum in the seat, turn on your computer or tap on your typewriter and get started! That’s all you have to do to see if you have what it takes!  All my best wishes,

Tom Richards

Eyeries, Beara, Bantry, County Cork, Ireland

www.tomrichards.ie tomrichards141@gmail.com

May, 2022

Happiness & Heartbreak

A Short Story by Tom Richards

This unplanned trip begins with happy expectations and ends in wild bewilderment.

My name is Christopher Nelson. I’m an American, a mere sixty-seven, who has lived in Ireland for the past twenty-odd years. For the last eleven or so, I’ve lived in Eyeries Village on the Beara Peninsula, a stunning location in Ireland’s rugged southwest. Having retired, I moved down to this remote spot to write fiction and, prior to taking the holiday, published my first Irish romantic fantasy novel for women, a book that quickly went to global Number 1 and attracted the attention of a number of film producers. A recovering alcoholic, I didn’t need that attention. I was plagued by phone calls, and late-night knocks at the front door. When I opened it, reporters thrust their tape recorders in my face, and cameras flashed as they sought to interview this unknown writer who wanted to be left alone. Deciding to escape, I climbed into a borrowed car, a brand-new black Ford Ranger pickup truck I’d borrowed from Ger, my best friend, and sped out of the village unnoticed by the gang of unruly paparazzi still gathered in front of my home.

I’ve always loved lighthouses. I’ve used them as a theme for many books, and because their light always lit my soul, their glittering magical beams always made me refuse the next drink. After all, what they say is true: it’s the first drink that leads to many more and has nothing to do with the volume a person drinks. So many get that wrong, which is why I’m so careful and, after a failed marriage, now live alone.

With the crowd of reporters left behind, I headed due north, along the coastline and through the tourist town of Kenmare. There, I turned west and kept going. My final destination was a small fishing village located on Valentia Island just off the Ring of Kerry, a beautiful area I’d always wanted to visit.

Portmagee is a wonderful village. Nestled against an active fishing harbor, the town boasts many things, including a national award for the Best Public Toilet in Ireland, which I still find a hoot. Seriously, though, the place is a delight. On the eastern end, a two-lane expansion bridge thrusts out over the open water leading to Valentia Island and the lighthouse I wanted to visit. The village has a single main street dotted with shops that look like something out of a Dickens novel: window displays are filled with knickknacks, including model lighthouses, caps, mugs, and keyrings, most of them stamped with a Valentia Lighthouse Logo. The post office also acts as a village shop. In the summer, long blue and white boats filled with tourists steam out to Skellig Michael, a prime location for a recent Star Wars film. When the moon shines on the harbor, just like the lighthouse, it lights my soul. I’d seen Portmagee on the map and, noting its stunning location, wanted to spend the night there prior to my lighthouse visit. But as I drove further west, first through the Ring of Kerry towns of Sneem and Waterville, it dawned on me that I had neglected to book a room at Portmagee’s only bar, restaurant, and B&B, The Moorings. With the sun going down early because it was just before Christmas, I decided to phone, but as I searched through the pickup, it dawned on me that I’d been in such a rush to escape from the throng of reporters that I’d left my cell phone on a table next to the front door. The only thing I could do was keep going. So I grabbed a cup of coffee at a shop just past Waterville and kept driving north. Then thick fog descended along the Kerry Coastline, and I got lost. I drove for miles out of my way before stopping to ask a local for directions. An old farmer wearing a thick yellow work coat who was walking home pointed me on, and I knew I was on the right track, but again, I got lost.

Now, it was past six thirty in the evening and completely black. During winter in Ireland, the sun goes down at about four thirty. I turned off the radio and decided I had no other option but to turn around and go back home to Eyeries. But then I saw to my left a bright light and realized it was the Valentia Lighthouse. According to a paper map I’d bought along with my cup of coffee, it was located only five miles or so from Portmagee. So I put my foot down and turned left toward the coast. Rounding a bend, I finally saw a string of pearls: beautiful white lights that lined the bridge heading across the strait from Portmagee to Valentia Island. My spine tingled at the sight.

When I arrived in the village, I found I’d been lucky. Because it was Christmas, most of the rooms in The Mooring were booked. But the owner, Vicky, took pity on me and gave me the very last room. I felt like I was Joseph, escorting the Virgin Mary riding on her donkey, because I’d learned that there was room at the inn for me.

Entering Room One, I discovered that my lodgings were perfect: a big soft bed with warm blankets and four fluffy pillows—it was much too large for me. A color television would keep me occupied when I wasn’t reading or working on the notes for my latest novel (I had a pending deadline), and there was a big bathroom with a full shower—even a hair dryer, though I had no hair. I thought as I turned it on, feeling its warmth, that all I needed was a woman, but I kicked myself, assuring myself that I was fine without a female partner. After all, I had been single for years.

I opened my bag, putting away my belongings. Shirt and trousers went into a long, narrow closet. Socks, underwear, and T-shirts were stuffed into a bureau. I laid my laptop on top of a conveniently large rolltop desk and, sitting down, was intent on getting to work.

But then the room phone rang. It was Vicky inviting me down to dinner. It was almost 11:00 p.m., and if I was coming I had to make reservations for the last sitting. Deciding to go because I was finally hungry, I gathered my coat, put on my hat, and—taking my room key—walked the two flights of steps downstairs.

In the dining room, I ordered something that tasted like spaghetti, an Italian dish created by Vicky’s husband, Chef Willy. Man, was it good. I’d decided not to have the turkey and bacon, which I decided to save for the next night. After all, I thought, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Why not save the best for that hallowed night? Little did I know as I finished my dinner that another surprise awaited me, and in fact I was saving the best for last.

Then I looked up and saw her. Tegan Brady O’Shea looked like an angel. Her short, curling brown hair was a halo lit from behind by a Christmas tree. Fathomless blue eyes gazed down on the guests seated at the next table as she took their order. Tegan’s smile dimpled her smooth face, and her breasts looked so fresh, as if they’d never been touched.

When I looked at her, my resolve to remain single vanished. I had fallen in love at first sight, a depth of love I’d never known before, and something I thought teenagers only did. I could feel my cheeks burning, my heart swelling in my breast, and all I could feel was its loud thumping. When I decided to go out of my way to say hello, something I rarely said to a woman so much younger than me, I realized: she looked to be only forty-six. If I introduced myself, she’d think I was being fresh. After all, why would a guy aged sixty-seven be after anything other than sex? But if she thought that, she had to know she was wrong. I’d fallen off my emotional wagon. I was in love, hook, line, and sinker and I thought myself a fool.

Done taking the older couple’s order, she drifted toward me like a heavenly creature. When she gazed down on me, I guessed how tall she was. I’m five-foot-six. She had to be almost six inches taller. Then I realized: it was her long legs that made her look taller. It turned out, when I asked her later, that she was only five-foot-eight.

When Tegan finished taking my order, I did what I had not done in over thirty years.

Tegan, I called, can I have a pint? When she nodded and smiled, I realized it was not only my heart that had fallen off the wagon. I knew then and there that I was truly fucked.

When I had finished that single pint and went back to my room, my heart was racing. I vowed then and there never to drink again, not if I was going to attract Tegan or be able to live with myself. As I turned on my laptop to work on my novel, a plan boiled into my head. I started searching the Internet for an appropriate gesture to express my true feelings. ‘But what are those feelings, exactly?’ I thought as I glanced through various websites. When my Internet search ended, I found myself gazing at the image of a ring. But not just any old ring. It was a gold, emerald, and diamond engagement ring.

***

The next morning, I skipped breakfast, intent on my quest to buy that ring. I walked across the car park and climbed back into the pickup, which I’d fondly named the Beast, it was so big. Starting the truck, I glanced at my watch, an expensive Tissot, which John, my son from my failed marriage, had bought me for Christmas three years ago with money he had earned as a part-time salesman in an auto parts store in America. He had stopped talking to me shortly after that when I’d gotten drunk during the only Adult Softball game I’d ever attended. Having flown to Boston from Ireland to visit him where he lived with his Mom, I had attended a game to cheer on my then ninteen-year-old son. He was playing first base, and when he came to bat in the second inning and whacked the ball with all his