Little Púisín (Children’s story)

 

          How do the cows now when to come home? How does a dog get the sheep to settle down? Because they can speak! Animals speak their own languages and just like any other language we could learn it. We think that they are thick and dumb animals. But its not tough to see the truth really – and I don’t really think that they are the thick ones!


          This is a story about a cat. Now cats are always sly creatures but this cat was clever as well. He was a small cat and a lazy cat. A cat with the name of Púisín. He lived in a bungalow with his small family – a little girl and two boys as well as the parents. This house was by the sea in a small town.


          Every morning when the kids were getting ready for school the small cat would wake up slowly. He’d go out from his room, the girl’s room, down to the kitchen and there he would eat his breakfast. But he only ate well every second morning, well in his own opinion anyway. One morning they would give him chicken; another fish. And it was the fish that he really couldn’t stand!


          This day when he went outside after his breakfast of fish he started to talk to his friends in the street – Ginger, Duibhín, Fish-Bone, White Stripe. White Stripe was a young cat who was always jumping about and skittering around the ground with a piece of twine or a little ball. Fish-bone and his muddy coat was always in the trash moseying about for a fish head or the like. Duibhín would be as often as not sleeping in the corner or falling asleep in the corner! It was Ginger that was the real leader of the little group and it was he that was the oldest and wisest of the group. Púisín always was jumping from idea to idea never settling. To be honest he always had too many ideas and energy to settle down on any one thing in his head. He spent too much time in his own thoughts, his own magics!


          Púisín was giving out this time.
          “It’s not right that I have to eat that rubbish. I don’t even like fish! It’s disgusting”
          “Well then give it to me,” Fish-Bone called out to him.


          But Púisín had a home and food and easily forgot that others may have needed or even been more glad of simple things then he would have been. So obviously he wasn’t very happy with that idea. It was the food that Fish-Bone preferred as well! Púisín merely grimaced and looked away in embarrassment.


          “There isn’t much you can in any case, so eat it and stop giving me a headache with your whinging,” Ginger said to him. “Exactly as h-”, Duibhín started but fell asleep in the middle of his sentence.


          Púisín left; he was eager to think of his problem. He hadno idea of caving in quite so easily. He spent the entire rest of his day thinking on a plan to save him from the dreaded fish but any and every scheme he could come up with was definitely impossible to carry out – he couldn’t reach the cans to throw them out and he was too greedy to just not eat the fish and go hungry.


          When the kids came home he listened to them to work on his problem, maybe find some inspiration from them. But then his mind lit up – he was on the right track! But instead of him listening they had to. He had to communicate with them. If the kids could be made to understand him they would give him the right food! Proper food for a proper cat.


          And so he spent a good while with them. He had decided to try and speak. He was familiar with our language but not to speak it. He ran round them trying out the word hello…


          “Mwheach.”
          “Mrella.”
          “Wrea.”

          After three hours of trying he stopped with a painful throat. The shape and size of his throat simply made it impossible for him to speak our language. He went to sleep depressed and upset that he had failed so badly. The following morning he woke up suddenly. He ran into the kitchen and started to push against the foot of the girl to make him breakfast – speaking was a hungry job he had found out – and maybe even a little drip of milk – his throat was still sore from the efforts the day before.


          However herself was still doing her homework – without Mam knowing. And because of that she whispered back to him, “Not now Púisín, I am too busy writing out my homework!” Upon hearing these words Púisín ran off – he had had an idea. He would write!


          When Róisín, the little girl, was called off by Mam Púis stole the pen and the copy she had been using from her. He ran off a little pieace and began to practice with the pen in his mouth. Pretty quickly with all the wet saliva running down the pen he ruined the copybook and all the work within it. He picked it up and ran outside with it, the wet drooling mess falling from his mouth, there was nothing left between the pages but a small pile of paper. He made sure to get out before Róisín came back.


          At that moment there was nothing else he could do in the house so after throwing the copy away he ran out to his friends and he practiced writing letters from the back of empty packets of sweets onto pieces of scrap cardboard with Róisín’s pen. After a while Stripe stopped looking at him – he was too boring, he was waiting in one place the entire time! After a while Ginger was finished with his own family and he walked out slowly into the yard with his friends and without any fuss he lay down on a piece of paper that had been left in a ball on the ground.


          By now Duibhín had been outside for a good while – but he was asleep! Or rather had been because also at this time, he moved; beneath the sheet of paper, beneath Ginger. Ginger started to splutter – his dignity was injured. Stripe jumped up onto a box and was skipping about behind Púis – Bone was playing about with a few cans as usual – eating!


          After an hour of Púisín practising his writing Ginger started to look at him, noticing how quiet the kitten was.


          “Púisín, my dear small cat, what in all mice’s name are you thinking of doing?”
          “Writing!”, he replied to Ginger, proud in his voice.
          “You are only a cat – you can’t!”, Ginger replied back to him in turn.
          “We will see! I am able to write this!” and he showed them his work.
          “Púis stop this – if your family find out what you can do… And think on this what will happen if something goes wrong?”
          “Nothing will!”, Púisín shouted angrily at him!
          “In God’s name don’t write…”, but Púisín wasn’t listening!

          Later on he grabbed a can from Bone and started to copy out the letters on it in the pattern they made. Bone had grabbed a bag of rubbish in the morning so he had his own choice in scraps – that was how Púisín thought – he had had a can in his mouth and, because it was Fish-Bone, it had to have been a can of fish. For the first time ever Bone did not argue with him! Púisín did not stop practising at all that day but spent his whole day writing.


          That evening when Mam came into the kitchen with his can of food Púisín came in with a scrap of card and a marker. He started to write in front of the entire family. When he was finished the family was exploding with happiness and pride. After that he drew a line carefully through the word – to show that he didn’t like what they were feeding him, And they definitely understood him because Mam on that very point came out with another, a different can; the one that Púisín had said he liked.


          Looking in the window sat Fish-Bone with a grin on his face and Púisín’s practice can in his mouth. He was eager to watch “Púisín’s” trick. The can fell from his mouth to the ground. Inside in the house Púisín stopped eating quickly; he wasn’t the only cat that could play a trick.


          Out in the garden the can rolled in the wind. “Chicken” was written on it!

 

Caoimhín

Advertisements

Caoimh na bPáipéar (Irish story) (Scéal trí ghaeilge)

 

          Caoimh
          Suaimhneas
          Nuair a stopann gnó an tsaoil seo fásann caoimh.

 

          Bhí chuile duine gnóthach ag obair le haghaidh an fheis a bhí ar súil an lá sin! Feis-Ceoil an Inbhir Mhóir a bhí ann. Bhí Liam i rang a trí sa ghael-scoil ansin. Tháinig sé ar scoil inné théis mí go leith tinn le flú dona. Mar sin an dráma a bhí siad ag cur ar aghaidh… ní raibh páirt aige ann.

          Bhí an comórtas ar siúil inniu agus ní raibh am ar bith d’éinne eile. Bhí siad ró-ghnóthach. Inné ar maidin bhí sceitimíní air chun bualadh lena chuid cairde arís. Tháinig sé isteach le heló a rá le chuile dhuine ach théis sin thosaigh siad díreach leis an dráma. Gan Liam!

          Anois bhí sé ag tarraingt pictiúr leis féin agus dó féin. Agus a uaigneas! Bhí sé ina shuí sa chúinne, amach as bealach dhaoine. Pictiúr le peann luaidhe amháin a bhí sé a dhéanamh. Ní ceann ceart a bhí ann.

          Rinne sé líne an talamh agus stop sé. Thosaigh sé ag smaoineamh. Chuir sé an ghrian faoin talamh. Cúpla crann thuas sa spéir. Abhainn freisin. Bhí Pokémon ann le liathróid ina lámh agus duine ag teacht as. Thosaigh sé ag déanamh béar / fear ainimhí – Battle-Beast. D’inis a cholceathrar na scéalta faoi dó.

 

          “An jab! Ach céard é?!?”, thosaigh an príomhoide – Máistir Ó Flábhainn – ag caint leis.
          “Pictiúr”, arsa Liam leis.
          Thosaigh an múinteoir ag gáire, “Sea! So an bhfuil tú ag iarraidh teacht liomsa?”

          D’aontaigh Liam agus chuaigh sé leis chuig oifig na príomhoide – seomra ranga a trí – bhí a rangsa imithe le dráma freisin. Chuaigh sé isteach agus shuí sé síos lena chuid úrléisí ealáine agus cruthaigh sé.

          Bhí peann luaidhe, maircéirí agus péinteanna aige chomh maith le cárnán beag páipeár le dathanna eagsúla. Bhí sé, ag an am seo, trína chéile fós faoin dráma – mhothaigh sé go rith chuile dhuine uaidh. Ach théis tamaill d’imigh an smaoineamh as a cheann.

          Bhí ró-méid d’intinn caite aige ar an gcumadh. Thosaigh na crainn ag fás san áit ina mbíonn siad; an spéir san áit ina bhfuil sé agus an féar san áit a mbíonn sé ann. Rinne sé dearmad glan ar an am suas gur tapáil an múinteoir é ar a cheann.
          “Am le dul abhaile!”

          Bhí Liam caillte ar feadh noiméad – rinne sé dearmad ar an áit ina raibh sé ach théis soicind dhúisigh sé suas agus rith sé chun a chóta agus a mhála a fháil. “Slán a mhúinteoir!”, a ghlaoigh sé amach nuair a tháinig sé ar ais go dtí an áit ina raibh seisean agus a mham ag caint.

          Chas an múinteoir; “Maidin amárach tar isteach chugam – bhuaigh do rangsa sa comórtas so ní bheidh siad anseo arís – is féidir leat péinteáil arís!”

          An chéad lá eile tháinig sé isteach agus shuigh sé síos i gcúinne an tseomra. Ar feadh píosa bhí sé ag féachaint ar na páistí eile. Thosaigh sé ag cumadh – pictiúr beag le peann luaidhe amháin. An chéad cheann eile d’úsáid sé péint. Théis ceann eile bhí an rang imithe as a smaointe!

          Thosaigh sé ag scríobh focla ar na pictiúirí – an chéad cheann ná ‘díomá’ agus ansin bhí ‘gruama’ ach théis tamall phioc na móthúcháin suas! Ag deireadh an lae bhí pictiúr do spás deánta aige dárb ainm ‘sásta’!

          Díreach roimh dul abhaile tháinig a rangsa arais. Chaill siad agus bhí díomá an domhain scríofa ar na haigheadheanna beaga. Liam a bhí lán d’áthás, ach athás ciúin a bhí ann, ní an gnáth-cheann torannach a chuireann fonn ort rith agus béiceadh. Chuaigh siad ar fad abhaile gan focal a rá!

          “A mhúinteoir”, a dúirt sé leis an Uasal Ó Flabháinn, “ an féidir liom tarraingt amárach?”
Gháir an múinteoir, “Ach a Liamín beidh ranganna ag súil duit ag an am sin!”
          “Ach céard faoi am lóin?”, a chuir sé an cheist arís le dóchas.
          Bhí iontas ar an múinteoir leis an méid crógacht a bhí ag an gásúr beag. Mar sin dúirt sé, “Sea mar sin – tá obair le deánamh agamsa so is féidir leat teacht isteach i mo sheomra!”

          Chun críoch a chur leis an scéal – is péintéir é Liam anois ag saothrú an-airgead! Tagann sé isteach go dtí a shean-scoil mar tá fhios aige go bé sin é an t-am is tábhachtaí d’éinne! Tugann sé a lán airgid do chomórtaisí le haghaidh daoine óga agus an ealaín! Is moltóir é sa méid comórtaisí is atá sé in ann! Tá sé ag iarraidh scoil bheag a shocrú suas chun ealaín a thaispeáint!

          Aon huair atá agallamh aige agus a chuirtear ceist ar chonas atá sé in ann péinteáil mar atá sé deir sé é seo!

Caoimh
Maidin amháin dúisíonn tú suas ag déanamh rud a bhí tú a dheánamh do shaol ar fad – ach ní rud speisialta é! Ach an mhaidin seo tá chuile rud imithe uait! Níl rud ar bith fágtha agat. Agus thosaigh mé ag péinteáil – d’érigh sé as sin!
D’fhás an chaoimh istigh ionam agus ní raibh aon rud i mo dhomhan beag seachas an paipeár agus mé féin – clann muid ó shin!
Mé féin, an paipeár agus an chaoimh a tháinig ó thada!

 

Caoimhín

Tears of Roses (Poem)

 

Hot flashes and red tears,

Fear flutters like moths to the torch,
Rodents, gnawing their way out through,
The hearts and lives of those around.

She I love more than angels to God,
She I wear as a cloak on my person,
A cape for my heart, A cowl for my body,
How then can her pain not aggrieve me?

She is my rose and me an innocent fawn,
Not yet strong in the world and yet drawn am I,
Blooms red as heart’s blood; soft as a swan’s down and yet
Arrested by the green leaves and tassels she has grown to envelop her.

Love can be poisoned not by sharp barbs
Or forced aside by wicked worms for
Under all their masks no-one can deny

Us.

 

Caoimhín

Raggedy Ann (Poem)

What to do with Raggedy Ann

Now that she’s all used up.

Battered bashed and falling apart

A broken old ragdoll.

 

What to do with Raggedy Ann

Falling apart at the seams.

Sawdust leaking from patches and band aids

Is she too far gone to heal?

 

Shall we throw her away

That old Ragdoll

Should we keep her hanging on?

What to do with Raggedy Ann

When the band aids are all gone.

 

Zoe

R-U-2 D-2? (Story)

 

                         Artoo trundled out behind See-Threepio. They had been sent out by the Princess to find the Jedi, the only one as of yet. Leia still didn’t have enough confidence to claim her heritage; in her mind the Force was still linked with her father. And still Leia believed she lacked the necessary power to guarantee she could resist her hereditary lusts. It wasn’t the first time Luke had gone off for a while to think, Artoo knew this, but then Artoo was more of a brother to him than Leia had been a sister. He had the time, working together so often with him, at this point nearly reaching counterpoint level. But then Artoo had been around before either of the twins, even before Anakin and the entire episode. His personality, so to speak, had always been to be there for those he cared for and in particular the Skywalkers.


                         He saw Luke at the rim of the Megablock looking down upon the Coruscant nightscape. Or maybe it should have been called a lightscape. See-Threepio immediately bustled over. Artoo ingested the beauty deep within him.

“I wonder what is the matter with Master Luke? Do you think he is ok? He seemed to me to be running a slight temperature earlier today and now my sensors tell me he’s chilled! And then there was the matter that he was most strenuous on – the moving of the New Republic’s centre of government to Impe… Coruscant, that is. He seemed to be over stringent on the issue for no apparent reason. He mentioned something about the dark auras of the Emperor Palpantine remaining present in the area. Artoo don’t tell me, could that be the reason?”, the prissy tin voice returned.


                         If Artoo had eyes he would have rolled them. He completely ignored C3PO’s rationale of the Force – what would he know? – and then he replied; after the merest fraction of a pause, in his electronic beeps, but did so softly.


{Threepio! Chilled! He’s crytpomorphacyrometically chilled, you factory reject! That’s the reason… You did know that we are out on top of a mega-block in the middle of the night with gusts blowing upon us constantly? Are your logic circuits that lacking that they can’t factor even a simple calculation like that into their equations?}


“Now just you listen here, you little rolling pedal-bin. Why if it wasn’t for the fact that master Luke insists upon keeping that X-Wing of his, he would have had you traded in years ago for a newer more functional model; the new R5s are much more predictable and dependable then the R2 series; which, to be perfectly honest, has malfunctioned as soon as they were even commissioned. I on the other hand have the utmost use to the Princess, what with my supreme grasp of dialects and communications that you could merely dream of – why you still need binary beeps to communicate? Of what possible further use could you be to the Skywalkers? So don’t speak to me about being outmoded! Why–”


                         See-Threepio continued with his rant as they fast approached Luke; he knew they were there by now. Well, Artoo corrected himself, Luke probably knew they were there before they had even exited the turbolift.


{Well mister golden-communication if you’re so good at your job how come nobody ever listens to you?}


“What do you mean nobody ever listens to me? I will have you know you miserable–”


                         Artoo continued to ignore the moaning droid that now followed him and halted behind master Luke. Without turning Luke raised his arm and placed it upon the carapace of Artoo’s blue head. Threepio was still ranting on as he stopped walking, just behind the pair.


“Good evening to you too Threepio!”


                         The protocol droid seemed shocked for a moment and then regained his balance and continued. Minus the rant!


“Indeed master Luke. I do notice however that the humidity level is extremely high tonight!”


                         Artoo warbled an electronic fart in his direction. Threepio was disgruntled but made no move to discipline him – he had already been discourteous to master Luke and decided that silence was the most prudent course; for the expected nuance of protocol. Luke merely chuckled at Artoo; while empathizing with him.


“Master Luke, Mistress Leia was conc….”, and so he began again.


                         Artoo continued with his own thoughts. He was close to Luke, both emotionally and mentally, and over their years of working side by side he had grown accustomed and aware of his moods and thoughts. Much in the same way that Luke was, by now, use to his chirps and burbles. Then again… a lot of that may simply have been his Force-assisted reading of Artoo’s consciousness. After all as a Jedi-master; as well as falling in the footprints of his mother, he would be aware of the shifts in the White Current tide; and the eddies in the flow of the Force.

                         It was hard to see what they would have been like, the twins, if life hadn’t shipped Luke to Tatooine; he probably would have ended up like Han in his early days. Hell any day – it was still hard to drag Han away from his gallivanting or impishness. But you only had to look at Luke’s youth and his fascination with tinkering or his speeder-bike to see that. Perhaps it was why Leia had chosen Han – after all the missing half to her soul was the tinkerer and rogue; that Han mirrored Luke in. Leia was more… sensitive to others. But then perhaps that came from her time away from Luke; just as his melancholia may have. It was odd therefore that Leia was the one with the protocol droid; although she did a much better job than Threepio ever would; and Luke got Artoo; the general purpose… pedal bin.


                         Luke was Artoo’s to mind. Throughout the years responsibility had been forced upon Luke and each time he had buckled… but only for a while. In the end he always managed it. Had things been different for Artoo, even with all of his potential, he never could have achieved what Luke had. All Artoo could do was come along for the ride and help in whatever way he could. Both through his empathy with Luke, his own understanding of life – and the power-Force of that life – and how Luke connected with that power.

 

———–

 

                         It had happened years ago. Before Luke was ever born. Many years. Sometimes we start off love in faith and somewhere in between the chaos of life twists and corrupts it into a cacophony of lust and need; the lover becomes someone to offer shelter and protection from the world and reality. Amidala was that to Anakin. The love had died and only the affair died. But what would she have known, adept in the powers of the Fallanasi current or no, she faced the terrible and as yet untried Vader that resided within the spirit of Anakin. He loved her no longer, just what she was to him. She was his eye in the storm, his clinging to the world that had been and his idea of it. Not his idea or love or of her. His subconscious knew of the monster that he was becoming but it was submerged in chains, bonded in tides of hate and evil. Never to admit what he was doing to his Queen.


                         Amidala was to lie by him night after night; blinded to her reality; by her own unwillingness to face the idea of the monster that she had loved, she had chosen. All of her choice and all of her fault! While the love had existed it had been precious but now… It was fast-becoming as evil and dark as Anakin himself. The sand-clock had been turned and she didn’t even know it yet – she needed to escape him before she was killed herself and her legacy with her. The power of freedom and life was to die and be quenched on a continual basis by Darth Vader over the coming future, though they were yet to see the shadows of what was to become his dreadful and feared prestige.


                         The truth? She had clung to him, in part by her own mind… but also by sheer compulsion, the power that exuded from Anakin and his obsession with her. His unwillingness to let her go and to awaken and open his eyes to his new life and world; the world of his creation. Part of this, no doubt, the equally malign influence and compulsions of certain well-placed members of the political world; on what was to become the throne-world of galaxy wide suppression, terror and domination. The world was based on lies and deception. Hate and fear.


                         And it was spreading. The civil war that was starting to appear would rip the lovers apart as it revealed their true new natures; as well as the nature of the Republic’s power. The start of it had already happened, all that was left was the spiral to chaos and than, later, absolution.


                         Amidala had slept with Anakin. She had on more than one occasion. They had made love always, never simply had a physical union or one of lust. At those first times they had loved, truly; Amidala hurting for his pain, not fearing his anger. But at a later stage she had became pregnant. Not with the twins but with him. The twins’ elder sibling. She had known but had never said anything. She had been about to. But she hadn’t known for long. He had been around for three months prior. And had been very slow to develop. It was at this time that Amidala had noticed… no honestly, she never saw that Anakin had changed until it was too late; rather she saw the pain that had been rooted into him as maturing into the hurt of an adult. She never believed or connected to the fact that Anakin was becoming a dark specter of his original self. But she saw that they had changed as a couple, their rapport souring somewhat. The only redeeming time between them in bed, where they slept comforted each by the other, never hating or hurting.


                         Her son grew slowly, he spent his time enveloped in the Force. He grew up as a part of it; taking from it its warmth and giving to it his own power; truly sharing. As his own life-Force had grown strong he had acted as a conduit for the larger shaping Force and spirit of the galaxy, that which tied all living things, and which had became concentrated in his small form. But he had never been born, never had that chance… The will of the Force is strange at times, those steeped in it hear its subtle calls; but it is those same creatures who are whirled down the path of its choosing more so than those that stand in its opposition. So to this child who never saw born-life, well he had his place in the Force’s visions of the future. He had his part to play, a life yet for him and a role to shape the stories yet to come…


                         Anakin had lain by her one night. It had been here on Coruscant. He had been… strange here. There wasn’t quite a definite way to explain it. He acted in ways that… were inexplicable and contrary to his own nature, his emotions were funneled and purified, like the legendary transmutation sciences. But here the valuable turned to duracrete. He had synchronized oddly with his darker emotions. He had been more likely to hate and prone to lust or anger. Not violence. No, because oddly for some reason he was more in control, calmer here. He had been tasting of the darker side of life but it had been… forever forming and maturing under the surface on Coruscant, like the darker sides to the cities own underbelly.


                         To see Anakin here was like to see the city itself – viewed from above it was a jaw-dropping wonder with all of its bustle and business of metropolis scrapers and air-taxis, for Anakin a non-stop mental rush of intelligence and brilliance that pervaded most of his life; for longer periods in greater depth the beauty of the nightscape could be appreciated quietly by the observer, similar to Anakin’s control and ever growing inner-mastery of the Force and it’s subtle streams; but deep below it all existed the lowest of the low – beneath the thugs and the scum existed the eco-systems that pervade all corners of habitation, where all forms of creature were transformed into mutants of their own species, Anakin… beneath the surface metamorphed his deep and true loyalties into dark roiling tensions. Bitter tensions. His love for Amidala, his mentorship to Chancellor Palpantine and his fatherly feelings to Obi-Wan were all stretched so far that they transformed into completely differing rapports. Not that Amidala noticed any of this. She merely saw the couple as dysfunctional as is the way of humans, and blamed herself and Anakin. Not looking elsewhere, avoiding the more painful recriminations.


                         That night he had been up late; probably had alcohol consumed, maybe even some glitterstim. He had nightmared. With Force powers as deeply rooted to his person as Vader – as he was fast becoming – Anakin was unable to merely dream. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have slept as others did – it was overly dangerous for powerful Jedi; instead their subconscious lay entwined with their conscious, like a union of two oh so similar lovers. It was a form of meditative trance, similar to the famed Jedi-hibernation. But this was not most nights! His powers acted in a gentle manner, seductively, for beneath the apparent quiet they hid their most lethal and deadly nature. They lapped outwards in waves; or more accurately spiraled forth, like a mist or a fog. The dark miasma concealing the light and the life that it enveloped; and then suffocated it. Amidala wasn’t effected much more than waking badly and feeling drained. Even in his darkening form Anakin was overly fond of her to hurt her as such, even subconsciously.


                         Her son was never to be however. His life had been crushed, forced out of his body and when left wandering he found the form of the droid that had been endangered during the preceding day. Artoo Detoo had been below the couple by a few levels in a repair bay; and yet the connection his mother had had with the mechanical had drawn the child to him. Once the child’s consciousness was there he combined with Artoo; their lives, their Forces twinning and blending, growing and evolving with each other; a hybrid of mechanical personality and a potential Skywalker. In the state that the droid had been – his systems damaged and his personality failing; with the child’s body destroyed and his life-spirit evaporating – he had joined with Artoo; the two becoming one and after a while his own personality grew and shaped within Artoo. He became a form of life and a consciousness of his own, small but real and quite existent.

 

                         From then on Artoo had made it his specific duty to watch over Amidala – his semi-mother – and afterwards his own younger brother. He had had potential as a force-user but after his metempsychosis he had lost most of that to merely being potential himself, a personality rather than a creature. And so he watched over Luke and influenced the events around him with his logic-driven brain to help the Republic and the Knights it now planned to foster. Artoo had never known where this fondness; or indeed his deep emotions; or his devotion to and bond with Luke came from. He had never considered it. It was now part of his programmed logic-brain-quasi-personality. The side to him that made this possible… had never had the chance to grow up enough to know. Instead it had made its own life. And found its own place within first a rebellion, then a New Republic and finally with a family of Skywalkers and Solos; his family…


                         He tuned into the conversation again as Luke drummed on his steel casing.


“Comin’ Artoo?”

 

Caoimhín

Web Art (News)

 

                         As yet we are still working on the site in general but already after much thinking, and using concepts with an actual face now, I have rethought a lot of my strategy.  A future shape I plan for us to take, and I do stress a, and this idea is very much an alpha concept is the idea of web-art.  A new shared art made for the people to be shared and creatively common but also to be of the people that surround me and connect with me through this website and hopefully further.  This comes after looking at a lot of the works by famour internet artist Johnathan Harris.  During this weekend our first few stuff should go up on here as well as our first webcomic, Sacred Profanities and its own sub-blog.  Any tips our suggestions as to what internet art and internet creative material is get in touch!

 

See Jonathan Harris’s Ted Talk

Jonathan Harris own site Number 27

 

Caoimhín

Premier (News)

                         So this is the first post on our first version of a website.  For a while I wasn’t sure whether this was a first attempt or version.  The difference in my mind is that this site has achieved what we want it to and will continue to grow into what we want it to.  For anyone who stumbles on this within the next week, without very much to see all I can say is come back soon because I promise you more material.  I am hoping to have this as a well updated easy to read and travel site.

 

                         The whole point of it is our home online, both a communication portal – for those who want to hire us, offer us material or enjoy our works, a way in which we can produce and share our entertainments with the wider world and a series or articles and material that people can enjoy.

 

                         With that I will leave this post and wait until I can back it up with more than just words with…. pretty words in stories instead?

 

Caoimhín

 

                         An edition to this earlier post is a new direction, we decided that we wouldn’t be selling our dubious wares out just yet and decided to focus on the pure art side of things and what we can contribute.  Hope people enjoy what we get up here over the course of the next week.