ireland

God and religion before every thing!' Dante cried. 'God and religion before the world.' Mr Casey raised his clenched fist and brought it down on the table with a crash.'Very well then,' he shouted hoarsely, 'if it comes to that, no God for Ireland!''John! John!' cried Mr Dedalus, seizing his guest by the coat sleeve. Dante stared across the table, her cheeks shaking. Mr Casey struggled up from his chair and bent across the table towards her, scraping the air from before his eyes with one hand as though he were tearing aside a cobweb. 'No God for Ireland!' he cried, 'We have had too much God in Ireland. Away with God!

Ready yourselves!' Mullone heard himself say, which was strange, he thought, for he knew his men were prepared.A great cry came from beyond the walls that were punctuated by musket blasts and Mullone readied himself for the guns to leap into action. Mullone felt a tremor. The ground shook and then the first rebels poured through the gates like an oncoming tide. Mullone saw the leading man; both hands gripping a green banner, face contorted with zeal. The flag had a white cross in the centre of the green field and the initials JF below it. John Fitzstephen. Then, there were more men behind him, tens, then scores. And then time seemed to slow.The guns erupted barely twenty feet from them.Later on, Mullone would remember the great streaks of flame leap from the muzzles to lick the air and all of the charging rebels were shredded and torn apart in one terrible instant. Balls ricocheted on stone and great chunks were gouged out by the bullets. Blood sprayed on the walls as far back as the arched gateway, limbs were shorn off, and Mullone watched in horror as a bloodied head tumbled down the sloped street towards the barricade.'Jesus sweet suffering Christ!' Cahill gawped at the carnage as the echo of the big guns resonated like a giant's beating heart.Trooper O'Shea bent to one side and vomited at the sight of the twitching, bleeding and unrecognisable lumps that had once been men. A man staggered with both arms missing. Another crawled back to the gate with a shattered leg spurting blood. The stench of burnt flesh and the iron tang of blood hung ripe and nauseating in the oppressive air.One of the low wooden cabins by the wall was on fire. A blast of musketry outside the walls rattled against the stonework and a redcoat toppled backwards onto the cabin's roof as the flames fanned over the wood.'Here they come again! Ready your firelocks! Do not waste a shot!' Johnson shouted in a steady voice as the gateway became thick with more rebels. He took a deep breath. 'God forgive us,' Corporal Brennan said.'Liberty or death!' A rebel, armed with a blood-stained pitchfork, shouted over-and-over.

I'll tell you a story about Johnny Magory!

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

They'd listen silenty, with grave faces: but once they'd turn to each other they'd smile cruelly. He couldn't have it both ways. He'd put himself outside and outside they'd make him stay. Neither brutality nor complaining could force a way in.

Refusing to lean back against him, Colleen sat ramrod straight until they reached the road. __ guess I should say thank you for saving my life,_ she muttered then turned and slapped Faolán hard across the face. __nd that__ for you having to save it in the first place. And I__ not your woman, you big, arrogant, lying, betraying_faery loving_ She searched for the perfect insult and couldn__ find one, __Scot._ She gave a very unladylike snort. __appy now? That fiery enough for you?

Identify yourself,_ Colleen demanded. ____e got a bat and I will beat the living shit out of you if you so much as blink. I__e got a black belt,_ she lied frantically, __nd_and_a gun. A big one._ - Colleen O__rien

You turn the lights on and off here and if you can__ sleep and want something to read there are books in the living room_ her voice broke off. __ait. Can you read?__is chin took a slight tilt upward. __ye,_ Faolán replied, his voice cool, __n English, Gaelic, Latin, or French. My Welsh is a bit rusty, and I doona remember any of the Greek I was taught except for words not fit for a lady__ ears. I can also count all the way up to_ He looked down and wiggled his large bare toes, __twenty._ _ Faolán MacIntyre

Funny how I keep forgetting you__e insane._ - Colleen O__rien

Submitted for your approval--the curious case of Colleen O__rien and thegorgeous time traveling Scot who landed in her living room._ _ Rod Serling

Och, lass. Yer going to have to not do that._ Faolán exhaled. __reeping up on a man is a dangerous thing, and I confess I__ jumpier than most. Yer feet are soft as a cat__.___ wasn__ creeping anywhere, I was going to make coffee and this is my house, I__l creep anywhere I like,_ Colleen muttered with a petulant scowl. __ut I wasn__ creeping.

His deep voice drifted to her through the crowd of women. __my lady when she returns. Och, there ye are, Blossom,_ Faolán grinned, standing up and taking her hand so she could ease back into the restaurant booth. __hese lasses were just asking if I was a stripper. I told them I doona think so,_ he said, his face clouded with uncertainty. ____ not, am I?__he inquisitive lasses in question flushed scarlet and scattered to the four corners of the room at the murderous look on Colleen__ face. __o, you__e not, but I guess I can see how they__ think that,_ she muttered darkly. __hat you are is a freaking estrogen magnet.

Food shouldn__ be that shade of green, lass._ _ Faolán MacIntyre

Some ghosts are so quiet you would hardly know they were there.

My own brother calling me a brickhead. Sneering faeries insulting me. Women punching me in the face. How much more am I to swallow in one bloody day?

It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die.

THAT crazed girl improvising her music.Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,Her soul in division from itselfClimbing, falling She knew not where,Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declareA beautiful lofty thing, or a thingHeroically lost, heroically found.No matter what disaster occurredShe stood in desperate music wound,Wound, wound, and she made in her triumphWhere the bales and the baskets layNo common intelligible soundBut sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea

History is the enemy of memory.