Welcome to aliisaacstoryteller, guardian of Irish mythology.


The Politics of Walking Pt4| An Unexpected Phonecall

See that face? It's the face of a little girl I love with all my heart. See that scar? It's not a facial disfigurement, its a badge of her triumph, courage, and beautiful soul.
See that face? It’s the face of a little girl I love with all my heart. See that scar? It’s not a facial disfigurement, its a badge of her triumph, courage, and beautiful soul.

My mobile phone rang this morning, and I saw from the display that it was Carys’s school. I answered with some trepidation; there must be something wrong.

“Don’t worry, nothing’s wrong,” said the voice of Carys’s teacher immediately. “I’m ringing with wonderful news! Carys walked about 50 steps today, all by herself, all the way down the classroom and along the hall…”

Well, I think you know me well enough by now to guess what happened next. Overwhelming emotion of any kind usually finds its release in tears, but this time they were tears of joy. They made the conversation a little one sided, I must admit, but Carys’s teacher didn’t mind; she was just as excited and emotional as me.

I phoned Conor. He was driving, but happily, he managed to avoid crashing the car. I felt like my heart was going to burst. From the sounds I was hearing, so did he.

In just under 6 months of corrective insoles in her shoes instead of AFO’s, a walkolong instead of a walker, and her new physio exercises for core strength and balance, she has gone from not walking, to walking 50 steps all by herself, of her own accord.

And if that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

Friday Fantastic Flash with Jane Dougherty, Geoff le Pard, Kerry Duncan and Sacha Black

It’s Friday again, and that means it must be time for Friday Fantastic Flash. Before we go any further with the submissions for last week’s challenge, I would like to introduce you to a lovely story which Jane Dougherty had sent in for the previous week’s Conflict challenge. Unfortunately, her submission got swept away by a sea of spam mail, I received nearly 400 spams in just 2 days! So Jane, please accept my apologies, and everyone else, please sit back and enjoy Jane’s Fantastic Flash, entitled Forgiveness

“I wish I’d never met you.”
Perhaps you said more, but I didn’t wait to hear. I fled to the door, flung it open and raced down the stairs. Didn’t grab a coat or put on a proper pair of shoes. Just ran. Outside the street was as packed as it was every Friday evening. People hurrying home from work, people on a night out mooning along. Anonymous people. Traffic. Pushchairs and shopping trollies getting in the way. Fury. Heartbreak.

“I wish I’d never met you.”
The words hammer inside my head like the clapper of a bell.
Ding dong ding dong.
Evening is falling. Chill. Damp. I wrap my arms tight across my chest. People had been looking at me. No coat, clapped out shoes, tear-streaked face, wild eyes. I hated them. So I ran to this bridge. Melodramatic, I know. Not that I intended to throw myself in the river. I don’t think. It just seemed the right place to brood, unburden, cast adrift.
“I wish I’d never met you.”
With my back to the crowds, face hidden behind a veil of long hair, staring into the current swollen and brown with the autumn rain, I sob. Your voice rises above the rushing of the water, the footsteps on the flagstones, the chatty, chirpy conversations of people in that moment I loathe. Your voice, sharp as a knife, slicing through the heartstrings.
Your voice.
“I wish I’d never met you.”
I turn, hair flying, cold, bitterly cold. Fury raises my hand.
“And I wish—”
You grab my wrist and you are here, in front of my face, filling my vision with those eyes I loved so well.
“I wish I’d never met you, because it hurts so much. Because you have my heart and I can’t live without a heart.”
“Liar! You never gave me anything of yours!”
“There’s an emptiness inside where it was. It’s gone. I wish I’d never met you, because if you leave me, I’ll die.”
You pull me close and kiss my hair then my forehead then my eyes. You kiss away each tear. And I know that this is not the end of the hurting. Perhaps it will never end. But perhaps it will.
“I can’t leave you, can I? And trail your ghost behind me forever? I’m glad I met you, because I love you and I can bear the pain of love.”
“Come home,” you say, “and forgive me.”
I don’t take your hand, afraid you might flinch away, interpret my gesture as possessiveness.
“I’ll come home.”
“And forgive me?”
“Forgiveness is easy,” I say. “Hating you for a lifetime would be too hard.”

Jane is the author of The Green Woman Trilogy, and Grá mo Chroí, Love of My Heart, Love Stories from Irish Myth (which is FREE on Smashwords, btw!), which she co-wrote with yours truly, as well as numerous poems and short stories published in various fine magazines and anthologies. You can check them out on her blog, and buy them on Amazon.

And so to last week’s Friday Fantastic Flash challenge…

I want your purple prose. Give me all the adjectives, adverbs, zombie nouns, and metaphors you can. Forget the rules, they’re made to be broken. Lay them on me, but make them classy, not trashy. No dialogue, just description. I want original, not cliché. So lean and mean is the fashion du jour in the writing world, who cares? We make our own fashion. You can describe a scene, a person, an incident, anything you like. Go for it.

First up, it’s Geoff le Pard with a somewhat unusual little piece entitled Love

Warty Wanda wanted a winsome wannabee wonderman. Jowly Jaunty James jested jovially about jettisoning his jetsetting jirlfrined who’d jratuitiously jilted James in January. When wild-eyed Wanda joined jyratting James in some joyous japes while job hunting, she sussurated sibilantly so softly that slumbering sloths succumbed to a secondary sleeping sickness. Vet virtuoso Victor Vertical virtually viped out various virulent viruses vhile vatching Vanda. She switched her self-absorption at the same simultaneous second that Surgeon Supreme saved the snoozing sephlapods. This tense turbulent triangle of trysting tykes tended tendentiously to tedium thereby taking two tentative trips together triumphing with tremendous timeousness.
Love conquers all.

Geoff has just completed a gruelling blog tour to promote his new book, My Father and Other Liars. You can read an excerpt from it here, when he stopped by my blog last week. His first book is called Dead Flies and Sherry Trifle,  and you can buy them both here. You can catch up with him on his blog.

Next is a new writer to Friday Fantastic Flash; please give a big, warm bloggers welcome to Kerry Duncan with her piece entitled The Perfect Encounter

She was sitting alone in the Brasserie’s patio, oblivious to how beautiful she looked. Blonde hair gleaming in the late afternoon sun, gently tanned skin clothed in an elaborate rose pink skirt and chartreuse top. She was waiting for her salad to arrive, nibbling on the fresh, soft baguette and trying to look less alone than she felt. Her ever present Kindle gave her a technological companion and she pretended to concentrate on the boring Book Club choice. Outlander was a truly awful bodice ripper set in historical Scotland. No description of standing stones, stark glens or handsome heroes could save this tale.

Despite the abysmal prose the book brought back memories of her life in Scotland before she moved to Canada with her once beloved husband. Life seemed so full of promise and excitement but marriage does not always survive migration. Middle age beckoned both of them and their relationship was now lackluster. Divorce and mediation loomed in their future and this business trip was a welcome reprieve from their stilted communication. They didn’t detest each other but paced delicately around each other’s feelings. Their politeness seemed like a death knell on their once passionate partnership.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall, good-looking young man enter the patio. He smiled at her and she smiled back. The waiter approached him and asked the stranger where he would like to sit and he indicated a table opposite her. He was facing her and it felt awkward. She broke the silence by asking how his day was going. He answered with a charming Cornish accent and was entranced by her gentle Scottish burr. The conversation flowed as two migrants chatted about their lives. He looked about 35, young enough to be her son, so she innocently suggested that he join her table. He eagerly agreed and the waiter raised an eyebrow when he returned to the now vibrant patio.

Much like her, his marriage had not survived the migration and had divorced. Close up, she saw the crinkly crow’s feet around his big blue eyes and he confirmed that he was 42. She teased him about how popular he must be in Canada with good looks and a cute accent. He confided that a predatory but pretty girl had approached him the previous evening in another bar. Her brazen approach had frightened him which made her laugh out loud. He was certainly a catch – slim, tall and fair with beautiful white teeth.

Dinner passed in a flash, they chose desserts and coffee as the warm sun faded into a sultry evening. They exchanged stories of the old country and why they were now so lonely in a foreign land. Suddenly the waiter was hovering to give them their checks. She smiled at him and told him that he had brightened her lonely evening. As she stood up to go, his face looked crushed and she suddenly realized how beautiful she was.

kerry's bookI am really happy to see Kerry’s story here; I have been following her blog for some time now, and she always has something hilarious or witty to post about. Kerry has just started writing for a magazine, all the best with that, Kerry, and you can catch up with her on her blog. You can buy Kerry’s book, Letters from Cairo, on Amazon.

Last but by no means least, we have Sacha Black. I am particularly honoured that this week, Sacha has chosen to apply the rules of this challenge to a section of her current WIP, Adultlands. This is an excerpt from Chapter 8

I ran to the window, desperate to see an obvious clue, a sign, anything to explain what Hawk meant when he said ‘look down at the edge of the city.’

I slumped against the glass and peered at the crippled world below. The city looked like a broken solider, exhausted and weary after war. My chest tightened like a vice, tears clawed at my throat. I couldn’t believe that a single year of neglect could create such a mass of crumbling houses. Plant life ravaged entire sections of the city. Green spread like bacteria until it consumed its host.

I glanced at the wall; a merciless guard, towering above us, watching, just like the Hunters did. Silent, certain, infinite.

I squinted. I could see over the wall. The morning sun was high enough that I could see for several miles. Two more spheres bordered distant cities. I frowned, unsure of what I was seeing. I pressed my face against the glass straining, they weren’t spheres, they were walls. Walls that trapped other cities. Other children.

“Oh my god,” I gasped and took a step back. I stumbled into the office desk, the corner of the table dug into my thigh. I stepped back, tripped over a shoe box. A hand caught me, enveloped my body and stopped me hitting the deck. The sweet scent of a woody perfume wrapped around me. I knew that smell. Another hand slipped over my mouth.

“Don’t scream,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes. Fire ignited in my chest.


Sacha currently has her first novel, Keepers, in the editing phase, and is also busy writing her second novel, Adultland, as we speak. You can find out more on her blog.

Thank you to everyone for taking part this week and sharing your fab stories; as always, I am in awe of your creativity and wordsmithing skills.

And so we come to this weeks Friday Fantastic Flash challenge…

blue sky2

Following on from Monday’s post, I have been interested to hear about your dream experiences. Now’s your chance to tell me more.

Daydreams. Visions. Nightmares. You close your eyes. Where do you go when you sleep?

You can submit here, I will include links to your blog and books. Entries must be under 500 words, but please remember that I write YA, so there may be young people on this site… please keep it family friendly. I really hope you will join me and take part in the craic!

The Aisling | Not so Sweet Dreams in Irish Mythology

In Irish mythology, Óengus Óg of the Tuatha de Danann is most famous for his dream. Granted, this dream changed his life. In fact, it almost killed him. It also went on a long time, a whole year in fact.

In it, he was visited every night by a beautiful young woman who played the harp for him before disappearing. He fell so deeply in love with her, that he refused to eat or take part in the every day activities of normal living. He lived only for the night, and the arrival of his mysterious dream maiden. So the life in him, which had been strong and bright and vital, began to fade. He was dying.

Do you think it is possible for a dream to have such an effect? Perhaps you think you never dream. Well here are some facts.

The scientific study of dreams (yes, there is such an ‘ology’, which shows just how important dreaming is to the human psyche) is called Oneirology. The average person will have between 3 and 5 dreams a night. That includes you, who never dream. 95% of dreams will not be remembered. Dreams take place during the sleep stage known as REM (Rapid Eye Movement, not the band, although they do tend to have that effect… on me, at least). Brain activity is at its peak during this stage of sleep, at a similar level as when awake. Dreams are usually only remembered if one is woken up during REM.

Nowadays, we believe that dreams are just the manifestations of an over-active mind attempting to process the events and experiences of our waking moments. In ancient times, however, they were generally seen as something far more significant, such as a way of communicating with the Gods or the ancestors (who were, perhaps, one and the same). They were thought to be messages containing predictions, revelations, or advice.

The ancient Egyptians believed they could communicate with their Gods through dreams. They had special temples where they could lie in a dream bed, and wait for the gift of dreams in which their Gods would show themselves and impart wisdom concerning healing, advice, success in love, or warnings of danger.

Similarly, the Greeks also believed in dream incubation, but they took it a stage further. They were said to have carried out rituals of sacrifice and gift-giving in order to please their Gods, and abstained from sex, eating flesh, and drinking wine in order to purify themselves in readiness to receive their dreams.

The early Christians associated dreams with divine inspiration, in fact, the Bible recounts many occasions when God passed on messages and instructions via dreams. It was only in Medieval times that dreams began to be seen as the work of the devil.

Some cultures, such as the  Indians of Guiana,  believed that when one sleeps the soul leaves the body and returns when one wakes. Similarly, the ancient Chinese thought that during sleep, the soul left the body to wander the land of the dead.

But where does this leave Óengus? From what I can gather, he seemed to have been awake not asleep when the maiden came to him. Her name was Caer Ibormeith (means ‘yewberry’). She was the daughter of a Connacht Sidhe chieftain, and had set her sights on Óengus, sending him dreams of herself. How do you make someone dream about you? Were they in the same dream at the same time? Was it a vision rather than a dream?

For most people, a dream is something they observe, or are a part of, but which is out of their control. Some, however, report experiencing lucid dreaming. This occurs when the dreamer is aware that they are dreaming, and may even be able to control to some extent the events of their dream. I know this can happen, as I have experienced it myself.

In Óengus’s dream, Caer Ibormeith stood beside his bed. When he reached out for her, she disappeared. Where they sharing a lucid dreaming experience? He reached for her, she realised she was dreaming and woke herself up?

In Irish mythology, dreams were often used as a means of seeking knowledge. In fact some of the practices utilised to achieve this share similarities with shamanic dreaming.

Imbas Forosnai is an ancient Irish ritual for looking into the future and seeking information through dreams. Imbas means ‘inspiration’, in particular the sacred poetic inspiration of the ancient Filidh, and forosnai means ‘illuminating’ or ‘that which illuminates’. According to a text named Cormac’s Glossary, it involved the use of sensory deprivation and the consumption of specific substances in order to pass into a trance or dream-like state. (You can read more about it here.)

The Tarbfheis, or bull feast, was a ceremony used to select the next High King. It involved the sacrifice of a white bull, after which the Druid, or poet, would ‘chew the flesh and drink the broth’. I’m assuming the meat was cooked, since broth was a component of the ceremony, however, the Imbas Forosnai was said to require the chewing of ‘red flesh’ ie raw, so perhaps it was required of the Tarbfheis too. Following this meal, the poet was wrapped in the bull’s raw hide to dream. If his dream was unsuccessful in identifying the new King, he faced death.

According to the Togail Bruidne Dá Derga, ‘The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel’, on this occasion, the poet dreamed the future King would arrive in Tara naked and surrounded by birds. Young Conaire Mór was out hunting birds, when the leader of the flock suddenly threw off his feathers and revealed himself as the King of Birds, and Conaire’s true father. He advised Conaire of the details of the new prophecy, whereupon the young man immediately removed his clothes and set off for Tara accompanied by the Bird King and his flock. Thus the prophecy was fulfilled.

The Aisling is a dream or vision  in which a poet meets a beautiful, magical woman, probably a woman of the Sidhe, symbolising spring, the bounty and beauty of nature, and love. During the troubles of the C17th and C18th, the Aisling developed into a patriotic poetic genre in Irish language poetry, in which the fairy woman became a Goddess representing Ireland’s sovereignty.

I also came across a reference to a rather curious practice of seeking knowledge which involved sleeping and dreaming beside the tomb of one’s ancestors. In the C6th, poet Senchán Torpéist gathered all his poets to see which one of them could recite the whole of the Táin Bó Cúailnge,  also known as the Cattle Raid of Cooley, but none of them could. His son, Muirgen, was said to have gone to the grave of Fergus mac Róich (King of Ulster and Queen Medb’s ally and lover), where he fell asleep, and thus learned the true story in a dream from Fergus’s ghost.

I’m assuming this is a type of dream incubation, as practised by the ancient Egyptians and Greeks. In fact, Herodotus, a Greek historian from the C5th BC claimed that an Egyptian tribe called the Nasamonians practised divination in exactly this manner, by sleeping in the graves of their ancestors.

As with Óengus, though, in the old stories, dreams are most often associated with love. Fionnbheara, King of the Munster Sidhe (don’t let them hear you calling them ‘fairies’) was so enamoured of a mortal woman named Eithne, that he cast a spell which sent her into a deep sleep. In her dreams, she was able to visit him in the Otherworld.

Immram Bran mac Febail, also known as the ‘Voyage of Bran’, is an C8th tale in which Bran journeys to the Otherworld. He falls asleep after hearing fairy music, and in a dream he sees a beautiful woman of the Sidhe who tells him to seek her at the Isle of Women. He journeys across the sea for a long time, having many adventures before finally arriving at his destination, where he is reunited with the woman of his dreams.

This story bears many similarities with that of Óengus. Let me just tell you that, unusually for an Irish love myth, with regard to Óengus and Caer Ibormeith, all’s well that ends well, but if you’d like to read the whole beautiful story for yourself, you’ll have to get your hands on a copy of my new book, Conor Kelly’s Legends of Ireland.

Did I mention that I have a new book out…



Sunday Lunch Invitation – Guests: Ali Isaac, Geoff Le Pard and Sacha Black

Ali Isaac:

The Bloggers Bash team are having lunch over at Sally’s… there’s plenty to go round, if you fancy dropping by. So what’s on the menu? And what on earth will we find to chat about, I wonder…

Originally posted on Smorgasbord - Variety is the spice of life:

sunday lunch logo

Today begins a new series of Sunday Shows and the format is Invitation to Sunday Lunch. The format is that an invited guest brings a virtual plus one from the past or present who has inspired them in some way. They are also asked to bring a course for lunch either a starter, main course or dessert and why that particular dish is important to them.

Of course formats are flexible and to begin this series one of those elements has been suspended so that I can fit my three guests around the table.

This year the highly successful Bloggers Bash Awards was debuted and London never knew what hit it. The city where celebrities and high level government officials roam the streets and corridors of power, was paralysed by the influx of excited and enthusiastic writers from the Land Of Blog. Such was the overwhelming hilarity that certain members…

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Friday Fantastic Flash with Geoff le Pard, Sacha Black and Rachele Baker


So the challenge I set you on Friday Fantastic Flash last time was all about…

Conflict: you’ve had a row. Harsh words were spoken, which can’t be unsaid. Do you fall apart, or kiss and make up?

First up it’s the Geoffle with a masterclass in dialogue and a very unexpected ending…

‘You used the f-word.’
‘Yes, but I…’
‘Dawn says if you are getting so angry, maybe I should worry about what might happen next…’
‘You’re not serious…’
‘I’m just saying, Dawn thought…’
‘But what do you think? Do you really think I could, what? Hit you?’
‘It’s in the paper ever week.’
‘Sure it’s in the Express. Hardly the home of accurate reporting.’
‘I don’t think I deserved to be treated like that. I was only asking…’
‘You said I don’t want you here.’
‘No, that’s what you wanted me to say.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’ve never wanted me here.’
‘That’s what you said to me.’
‘What did I say?’
‘I really doesn’t matter.’
‘That I didn’t want you? I would never say that.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘No, if I’ve said something wrong tell me.’
‘There’s no point.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re my mother. I can’t divorce you or send you home can I? Shall I make some tea.’

Geoff has just completed a gruelling blog tour to promote his new book, My Father and Other Liars. You can read an excerpt from it here, when he stopped by my blog last week. His first book is called Dead Flies and Sherry Trifle,  and you can buy them both here. You can catch up with him on his blog.

Next, it’s Sacha Black with a piece entitled Verisimilitude, which also has a sting in the tail of the last line. Mind you, I love the very first line, too…

“I like my nails long, Paul. French polish, because it makes them tidy yet elegant.”

I walked round the chair he was tied to and stopped at his back. I leant into his neck and drew a nail up his skin digging as hard as I could. A trickle of blood oozed down his throat. How far was he willing to go for this?

“After what you did, Paul, I willingly sacrificed them. Can you feel their razor sharp point?”

“You’re a psycho, Shona, untie me.”

“You have to be joking, you’re never getting untied. In fact, you’re never doing anything again.”

I picked the hunting knife off the table and tapped the point.

“Excellent,” I breathed. It was just as serrated as my nails.

“Shona, this isn’t funny. I said I was sorry. Now, let me the fuck out.”

I slammed the knife down into the chair right between his bare legs. The point punctured the wooden base and stood erect like a soldier at attention. Sweat trickled from his forehead and splashed onto his thighs. I bent down and licked it off.

“Scared are we?” tingles of excitement raced through my body. I wasn’t even sure what I would do, what I could do. What was allowed?

“Shona, sweetie. Please.”

“Shh, now.” I said, placing an index finger onto his lips.

I drew level with his face, tension narrowing my glare to a cold slit.

“Are you ready?” I said, curving my hand round the knife and pulling it out of the seat.

I slammed the blade into the chair. His scream echoed around the theatre as applause erupted from our audience.

I turned and bowed. Paul gave a nod, still tied to the seat. The judges stood. My shoulders relaxed, tears spilled down my face as I breathed relief. We had smashed the audition.

Sacha currently has her first novel, Keepers, in the editing phase, and is also busy writing her second novel, Adultland, as we speak. You can find out more on her blog.

And now, I am honoured to welcome a new writer to Friday Fantastic Flash… welcome, Rachele Baker! Rachele is not new to writing, however, as you’ll see. Her piece is entitled The Courage to Love.

Marissa stared out at the grey sky. Rivulets of raindrops made their way down the window. “Perfect,” she mused. “Perfect weather for the mood I’m in.” Her mind was suddenly filled with an image of Jeff’s face. His intense blue eyes, his thick dark hair that was always a little unruly, his chiseled features that softened when he laughed.

“Why now?,” she thought. “Now, when everything was so perfect. Now, when, after all these years of carefully guarding my heart, I finally got up the courage to take a chance on love. And look where it got me,” she thought bitterly. “Brokenhearted. Just like I feared.”

She replayed the events of the previous night in her mind again. How excited and happy she had been that Jeff was finally back from his overseas assignment in Germany. He had been gone for months and she had missed him terribly. Everyone had told her that it was difficult to maintain a successful long distance relationship. But she had hoped that their Facetime chats, their frequent emails, and the little gifts she sent him to surprise him would keep their romance alive.

Reflecting on the last several months, Marissa realized that she had noticed a subtle change in their relationship that she had been unwilling to acknowledge. Jeff had seemed distracted when they chatted on Facetime like he was not fully engaged in their conversations. His laughter had not come as easily as it used to when she made little jokes. He did not seem as enthusiastic as she expected him to be when they had discussed what they would do when he finally came home.

Last night was a disaster. She had been so excited to see him. She had purchased a sexy new dress that she thought Jeff would love. She had left her long brown hair loose and flowing – just the way he liked it. She was wearing an exotic new perfume that she was sure would drive him crazy.

When she heard his knock on the door, she rushed to open it – slightly breathless and smiling happily. One look at him and she knew. The smile disappeared from her face. Her legs suddenly felt like they might not support her. A slew of emotions raged through her body. Disbelief, pain, anger.

Marissa stared at the man that she had been falling in love with. He stood silently on the doorstep and made no move to come in. When his gaze met hers, his eyes were no longer full of light and love. They were blank and devoid of feeling. It all seemed a little unreal.

She waited for Jeff to speak. Finally, in a voice she did not recognize, he spoke. “Hi, Marissa. How are you?” he said mechanically. They were only standing a couple of feet apart from each other but the distance felt cavernous.

Rachele is a veterinarian by day, and a writer at all other times. You can find her on her blog, where she dispenses great tips about looking after your pet, as well as information on various pet complaints and treatments. She has also published a very moving account of her mother’s final months with malignant pleural mesothelioma, Eighteen Months to Live. I have read this book; you can see my review here. You can buy Eighteen Months to Live on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.

So, a mixed bag of wonderful stories for your delectation, and thank you very much to all this weeks participants for gracing the Friday Fantastic Flash.

And now to this weeks challenge, inspired by something Sacha Black said recently.

purple prose

I want your purple prose. Give me all the adjectives, adverbs, zombie nouns, and metaphors you can. Forget the rules, they’re made to be broken. Lay them on me, but make them classy, not trashy. No dialogue, just description. I want original, not cliché. So lean and mean is the fashion du jour in the writing world, who cares? We make our own fashion. You can describe a scene, a person, an incident, anything you like. Go for it.

You can submit here, I will include links to your blog and books. Entries must be under 500 words, but please remember that I write YA, so there may be young people on this site… please keep it family friendly. I really hope you will join me and take part in the craic!

Author Feature: Ali Isaac

Ali Isaac:

Nick was kind enough to feature me on his blog today. He gave me a lovely intro, thanks Nick! If you have never visited Nick’s blog, you should, because not only does he write great sci-fi, and cute kids books, but what he doesn’t know about Indie publishing isn’t worth knowing. He occasionally drops in the odd nugget or two of Greek mythology, too, and his features on dodgy book covers and titles are laugh-out-loud hilarious!

Originally posted on Nicholas C. Rossis:

Ali Isaac needs no introduction. Still, I’m going to give her one, as I’m terribly fond of this remarkable author, with a silver tongue and a hand to match. She recently launched Legends of Ireland; her third book in her Conor Kelly YA fantasy series. Or, as she explains, a side project that came about because of people’s interest in Irish myths and legends.

Because, you see, Ali has not just written some of the most moving blog posts I have read, but she is also a veritable treasure trove of information on anything Irish. Which is strange, as she’s not even Irish! Indeed, in a blind fit of jealousy I might even claim her as a fellow Greek. To find out why and discover this remarkable lady, just read on.

But first, an introduction to…

Legends of Ireland

From the blog of Nicholas C. Rossis, author of science fiction, the Pearseus epic fantasy series and children's books Click to buy on Amazon

There is so much more to Irish mythology than ‘The Children of…

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