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Post by heatherjane on Aug 27, 2009 22:41:39 GMT -5
Soo... this is my first story on here so please go easy on me.. I'm writing a story based on some of the songs, which is set in World War 1, which comes from 'Christmas 1915'.. For example, the story starts with the Damian character and is based on Come By The Hills.. Just to clear everything up, this is not what I think of the guys at all.. it's sorely based on their characters and songs in the show... Please let me know what you think! It was a beautiful day. No, it was a perfect day. Damian thought this to himself as he sat in the sunlight on his hill. It was the midst of summer in his home town of Gurteen, though he didn’t exactly live in the town. His home was a small farm out in the country side, where the sun never ceased to shine and the glorious green of the grass never stopped glowing. He looked around admiringly at his surroundings. The familiar tree by the river stood tall and strong in the morning light, and the small trickle of the river could still be heard from his elevated location. He was the king of the world up there. Amongst the grass, clovers grew. He remembered times of his childhood where he and his sisters would search for hours on end to find the lucky four leaf clover. He sighed, not wanting to ruin his perfect morning by longing for long lost days of his childhood. He was sixteen years old now, and no longer a child. In fact, it would not be long before he would take a wife of his own. The thought sickened him, but the aspect of being considered as an adult was quite welcome. He was quite tired of being treated as an obnoxious child. He leaned back onto the soft, cradling grass and closed his eyes. He longed to do this every morning, instead of the very select few where he didn’t have to do farm work. He sat there for a long time, possibly an hour or two, just absorbing the heat. His pale skin could hardly darken, even with the long exposure to sun that he received, but he did have a few freckles to provide proof for his long days in the sun. It would not be long before his sister came running up the hill and asked him what he was doing, as she did every time he came to the hills. He always answered with one word. Sitting. She would grow tired of his simple answers, and run off to play in the fields. Damian loved the hills. Every chance he got, he would run off toward them. They were a home to him, even more so than his actual house. They were strong, and forever lasting. They told him great stories of all the people who had once stood on their ground. He knew that if he visited often enough, he would be a part of the stories too. He was so absorbed in the beauty of the hills that day, however, that he didn’t notice when his sister never came to fetch him. Instead, Damian fell asleep, and slept a good, sturdy sleep for three full hours, a much better sleep he could ever get in a bed. He felt fine, and stronger than ever when he woke, as he always did after a nap amongst the hills. He wandered down back toward the farm, knowing nothing and caring little of the time of day. He assumed, of course, that he’d outstayed his welcome in the hills, but he hardly minded. The hills always forgave him. A bigger worry, though, was his mother who could, on occasion, be quite firm. But nothing could change his mood today. It was a perfect day. “Damian, what do you know of the war?” Mrs. McGinty asked her son, while pouring his hardened porridge into a steaming pot of water. She hardly enjoyed seeing her only son choke down cemented porridge. She would soften it for him. After all, it was a big day for her son. It was the day that he would finally be recognised as a man. “Hardly any, Mam, but what does it matter?” He asked carelessly. She smiled at her son in a mixture of pity and respect. His lowly status had never stopped him from learning. He learned things he wanted to learn, and cared very little for everything else. She did worry, as all mothers do, that her son would not make a proper life for himself, but he was a very strong young man, who had learned a great deal from his father, before Mr. McGinty had become ill. “Your Da and I have a surprise for you.” She mused. She could not wait to tell her son the news. Her son deserved the best treatment of all. She poured his porridge into a small dish and placed if before Damian. Mr. McGinty stumbled into the room, resting momentarily every few steps on his wooden cane. His breathing was becoming far worse lately. He could barely stand up for five minutes without wheezing and needing to sit again. He sat down opposite his son. “That’s right, son. We’ve enlisted you for the war.” Mr. McGinty said proudly, holding up a letter of acceptance. He had travelled all the way to London himself to have the honours of printing his own son’s name on the ominous piece of paper. It didn’t matter that the doctor told him to take it easy. He would be the one to do it, no matter how tiresome the journey. The old couple looked at their son in pure delight. What was he to say? Damian thought to himself helplessly. They both seemed so - so thrilled. Didn’t they know him at all? How could they have thought he’d be delighted? He swallowed, trying to diminish the large lump that seemed to have formed in his throat. He felt dizzy, as though he might possibly lose consciousness. He nearly wished he had, instead of facing his parents. “That’s brilliant!” He managed through mangled breath. His parents seemed to buy it. They looked rather pleased. Good, Damian thought to himself. He just needed to keep up the act for a few more minutes until he could escape back to the hills. “When shall I leave?” His parents exchanged glances. “The train will leave from Sligo tomorrow morning.” Mrs. McGinty announced. Tomorrow? This wouldn’t do, Damian thought to himself glumly. He couldn’t imagine leaving his home – the farthest he’d ever travelled was to Derry, and that was a very lucky trip taken in order for his father to get an operation done to his knee. Even the three days had him sick and longing for home. How would he endure being away from Ireland for so long? “I’m delighted, Ma, Da. Truly, I am.” He choked. He felt his face reddening. His head felt light all of the sudden, and then he could hardly breathe. Everything went black, and Damian’s limp body fell to the floor.
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Post by heatherjane on Aug 28, 2009 14:35:50 GMT -5
Okay... Here we go with Keith's first part of the story.. song : Mountains of Mourne
Keith Harkin wandered down the streets of London in awe. It was his first time to London, in fact, it was his first time out of Ireland. With a rucksack slung over his shoulder, he made his way down a busy street. He had never seen so many people in one place before. He watched happily as young children ran around the streets, followed closely by angry calls coming from their busied mothers. Older business men stood around in fancy suits, looking around and acting superior to everyone else. Young men, such as himself, hurried around, fulfilling their various apprenticeships to different businesses. A few days earlier, Keith would have envied these young men who had a full life ahead of them, but being here in London had him quite eager for war. He wanted to see the world. Being a country boy, Keith was quite amazed by the large city. He could have sat and watched people go about their daily lives all day. He took his time to get to the post, where he would sign up, taking time to examine every single thing with specific care. There were the huge horse drawn carriages that forced their way down the streets, driven by orderly men in black suits and top hats. There were the thousands of vendors who set up their stands on the side of the street the capture the attention of an innocent passerby. There were numerous homeless men and women who sat by the side of the street with their hands out for money, displaying various injuries. Keith soaked this all up. He wanted to be able to recount the entire thing to Lauren in his letters. She had promised to write every week. He couldn’t wait to receive her letters. His Irish sweet heart was a delicate young woman by the name of Lauren O’Byrne. She was the daughter of the local solicitor, and was of a much higher status than he, but neither of them cared. They were far too caught up in the early stages of love to think otherwise. Of course, they weren’t married. Keith had given her a promise ring, a vow to marry her as soon as he returned. She had begged him not to go, realising that she would already be a full grown woman by the time he returned, if he returned. And if he didn’t, she would be far too old to marry. Keith stopped into a tiny jewellery store at the side of one of the busy streets. It was much more expensive than he could usually afford, but he’d been saving up especially for this. He bought Lauren and beautiful lily brooch. It was just right. The shop keeper looked at him suspiciously as Keith handed him the four bills, as though he didn’t believe that Keith had come by it honestly. He didn’t care what the shop keeper thought though, for he knew he’d worked hard for this money. Tucking the delicate brooch into the inside pocket of his jacket, Keith continued down the street, this time walking straight to the army’s office, ready to sign up. He pushed open the heavy door to the welcoming sound of a little bell – the type of bell that often hung over doors in tiny little shops. He glanced up, surprised to find one in such an official office. A uniformed man glanced up at him judgingly, and passed him a piece of paper and pen. “Irish?” He grunted. Keith nodded. The man smirked, and turned away. Keith, unsure of what to do, and slightly hurt by the man’s expression, took a seat on a hard bench. The words swam before his tired eyes as he began to read the sheet of paper. He found himself squinting to read to tiny print. With a sigh, he began to fill in the information required with his messy handwriting.
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Post by heatherjane on Aug 29, 2009 14:49:06 GMT -5
So here's the Ryan part... Song: Heartbreaker.. Please let me know what you think! I'm very open to suggestions..
Ryan Kelly slipped out of the strangely uncomfortable bed and pulled on his trousers. In desperate attempt to be quiet, he snuck all the way around to room to get to the door without a sound. Just as he stepped on a floorboard right before the door, a loud creak echoed throughout the room. He cursed under his breath. A pair of eyes opened lazily on the bed. “Ryan...” She moaned, glancing around with little energy. “Where are you going?” He stood motionless against the nearby wall, hoping she would fall back asleep. To his dismay, and great annoyance, she sat up in the bed and gazed at him in confusion. He felt an urge to go skipping through the door, leaving her to understand for herself in the spring-filled bed. He almost did, too. It would probably hurt her less, not that he really cared. It was a great temptation. Ryan was a heartbreaker. There was no other way to describe it. He could, and did, win over any woman he wished, with his great charm and slick looks. He took this greatly to his advantage, sleeping with numerous women per week, just because he could. He couldn’t even remember having a serious relationship in his life, not to mention the foolish month-long relationships in high school and college where he and his newest mate would be the center of gossip until he broke her heart. As he did with every woman he’d ever been with, as he was about to do to the girl on the bed. “I don’t understand.” She whined, looking painfully confused. He shrugged lazily. He’d done this far too much to feel any guilt. It was simply routine. “Maybe you don’t have to.” He told her, as he had so many other women. “Ryan...” She cried. He shook his head, ignoring the tear running down her cheek. “You won’t miss me. I’m nothing but a heartbreaker.” He lamented as he slipped through the door and out of sight. Ryan felt no guilt as he walked down the street charmingly. It was something about his walk that made the passersby swoon. Perhaps it was the way he held so much confidence in his stride, as though he didn’t have a care in the world, or the way his eyes darted around engagingly. Who knew exactly what it was, but hardly anyone ever escaped its grasp. That day, Ryan was on a mission unlike anything he’d ever ventured. Women in Ireland were wonderful – easy to manipulate and decent enough looking – but he was ready for something new. He’d always been one for adventure, and he felt as though there must be something more to the world. He’d heard stories about America, where everything was new and exciting, but he knew it was not a realistic choice. He had a fine job, where he made more than enough money, but America was too much. No, he definitely had other plans. Not long ago had he seen a flyer advertising the need of soldiers to fight for Ireland and the rest of the world. He’d shoved it into his brief case busily, but the thought of the words had danced around his head for several days. Until now. Ryan was on his way to London, to sign up for war. He hadn’t really thought about the danger of loss and death that came along with the commitment of war, for he was too caught up in everything else. Unlike most people, Ryan thought of experience when he thought of war, instead of death and conflict. He hardly assumed that his days of fighting might be his last. As he waltzed into the main office, standing tall – well as tall as he could, considering he was only 5’10. As the uniformed man glanced up at him, Ryan smirked. This was going to be easy.
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Post by heatherjane on Sept 3, 2009 11:41:02 GMT -5
Paul Byrom did his best to hold back the mass of tears threatening to escape from his eyes as his love was lowered into the cold, dark earth. He had to force his eyes onto the smoothly-carved box as it was lowered, though his mind was elsewhere. He hated the thought of his poor Deirdre stuck inside that terrible box, hidden below the earth forever. She was far too beautiful to be lost like this. She deserved to live forever, locked in place by his side. He thought of the engagement ring that was still placed on her finger, and how all the money that they had saved up together for their wedding was now being spent on her funeral. He had spent every last penny on this one event as his last gift to her. She deserved so much more, but this was all he could muster. He had even sold his home, for he couldn’t bear to live there alone anymore, not that he needed it anymore anyway. Paul had made up his mind – he was headed off to war with rage in his heart, determined to make the Germans pay for what they did to Deirdre. He hadn’t told anyone of his plan, for he knew they’d try to stop him. Today was his last day in Ireland. “How are you holding up?” Amanda asked, coming up behind him. Paul’s sister, Amanda, was constantly worrying about her older brother. Paul felt his shoulders shrug. “Ye know, you’re always welcome with me and Sean, you know, if you don’t have anywhere to stay.” “I’m fine.” He growled, sounding angrier than he had intended. Perhaps everything was getting to him. She looked concerned. “Paul,” She began. “We’re worried about you.” He shrugged, and looked away. “Don’t bother.” He advised. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” Her expression changed to that of shock. “Leaving?” She demanded. “To war.” He explained. “I’m headed for London tomorrow morning. I’m going to avenge her death, Amanda. I need to.” He looked down to where Deirdre was now completely covered with dirt and wiped a tear from his eye. They weren’t going to win. “Paul, that’s outrageous!” Amanda exclaimed, shaking her head in a violent manor, trying to wrap her mind around the idea of her own brother going off to fight for the blasted British. “Come home with me and we’ll get you settled.” She suggested out of pure desperation. “No.” He replied firmly. “They took her, Amanda. They took my Deirdre. They’re not going to get away with that.” Amanda continued to pester him, but Paul stood up and walked away. He didn’t want to hear it. No one was going to change his mind. He had already contacted the army, and they were expecting him the following day. “That’s just the grieving talking.” She told him, though she was mainly saying it to herself. Paul was rarely stubborn, but when he was, there was no chance of changing his mind. “You don’t honestly want to waste your life on this.” “I do.” He replied. “You’re going to get yourself killed.” Amanda continued, suddenly imagining herself at her own brother’s funeral instead of Deirdre’s. “If that’s what it takes.” Paul said absently. Just then, Sean walked up behind the bickering siblings and snuck his arm around his wife’s waist. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled a watery grin and kissed him pack. Paul looked away, unable to be in the presence of love. Amanda looked apologetically at him, but swiftly returned to her husband. Paul groaned. Love wasn’t worth it. He decided at that very moment that he would never love again. If he had learned anything from this experience, it would be that love wasn’t worth it. Just look at what it had done to him now. He was ready to go risk his life to avenge the life of his love. Paul found himself wandering away from the rest of the people gathered at the funeral, needing a bit of fresh air and a chance to escape. He glanced down at his black grieving clothes and realised that it would take a lot more to escape. Deirdre would hate this, he thought to himself. She hated the colour black. She used to go and make him change whenever he showed up wearing dark colours. Her own clothes were always brightly coloured and happy. He sighed a sigh of relief when he realised that there would be no bright colours at war. Everything would be tuned down. He sat down on a rock, and closed his eyes, deep in thought.
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Post by heatherjane on Sept 4, 2009 14:51:56 GMT -5
George Donaldson stood outside the factory gates and sighed. No longer would he hear the soft ticking of machines as they grumbled in their dull work, or smell the oiling grease and the dust that often built up around the various pieces of machinery. Never again would he hear the cheerful whistles that could always be heard from his colleagues, or see their smiling faces as they laughed at some unimportant joke, though, he was realising now how important those little moments of laugher truly had been. How he would miss the piercing holler from the factory owner’s mouth, willing them to work just a little bit harder, and the pattern in which his feet always tapped on his foot pedals. He turned away, with one last look towards his home for the past twenty years. It wasn’t actually his home, however. He lived in his own house with Carrie, his wife, and their two children; Jimmy and Sarah. But it certainly felt as though he was losing a home – a sanctuary where he had gone everyday for the past twenty years. Carrie still didn’t know. He absolutely needed to tell her, and he knew this, but he dreaded the thought of telling her. He imagined her lovely green eyes clouding up with concern, and she would get that awful little furrow in her brow that developed whenever she was worried. And her voice would get higher, as it always did when she was worried, but she would pretend everything was fine. Perhaps she would offer to work extra hours at the hotel to make up the difference, or maybe even offer to get a second job. No, he couldn’t let that happen. He would have to tell her, but he would come up with a backup plan first. He remembered when Joey with the news one week earlier. Of course, no one had believed him. No one ever believed Joey. He was as good as a weasel, constantly rummaging around for scraps of information regarding anything of potential interest. He never seemed to get the stories right. So, when Joey came in, announcing that they were closing the factory, everyone laughed in his face. It wasn’t until the letters arrived that people started digesting the news. Some men had spoken about applying to different jobs, but George knew better than that. He didn’t have the education to get a different job – he could hardly read. George found his solution on his way home. Of course, he’d seen the posters plastered on the old brick wall before, but only now that he was not so eager to get home, did he take the time to read them. Wanted: Healthy Irish Soldiers. Money involved. George knew about the ward, as everyone else did. He knew that hundreds of Irish men fought daily to defend the country, and many of them died, but it had never occurred to him that this might become his path. It did seem rather realistic, and the funds would keep Carrie and the kids going or several years. It would work. He would go. It happened just as he imagined it would; the furrow in her brow, the high pitched voice, the foggy eyes... Carrie was speechless. She hadn’t realised how badly things had been going. It was true that George’s last pay-check had been considerably less than usual, but business was always up and down. It was nothing out of the ordinary. How had this happened? She shook her head restlessly. “I’ve got a plan, though.” He told her. She didn’t particularly want to hear it. They both knew that he couldn’t get a proper job. He would end up doing something far worse than factory work. “No, George. I’ll take on extra hours at the hotel until you find work at another factory.” She said firmly. “I’m going to join the army.” He announced, seeming to have ignored what she had just said. “We both know that this is the solution.” “George, don’t be daft.” She cried, shaking her head violently. “That’s hardly necessary.” She spoke firmly, yet there was a quiver in her voice. She felt a tear form in the corner of her eye; for she knew he was right. He reached out his hand, and wrapped his arms around her comfortingly, and Carrie inhaled, wondering how many more embraces they would share before he left.
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Post by heatherjane on Sept 6, 2009 0:53:43 GMT -5
“Name.” A British Official ordered. Damian took a shaky breath. “Damian McGinty.” He said as clearly as he could muster, trying desperately to keep the awful tremble from his voice. The man before him, dressed in a neat, yet disappointingly simple, uniform looked in confusion at the paper before him bearing a list of names of all who were enlisted. Damian felt a stroke of hope, thinking that perhaps he wasn’t needed, perhaps they had made a mistake. Perhaps he wasn’t being sent away after all. The hope gathered within him, and he did his best t suppress the sensation inside of him, knowing only too well that if he let it grow, the let down would be twice as hard. The British Official called out to another in his harsh accent that Damian hated so much. Another man appeared. He wore the same uniform as the other man, but his was decorated with several coloured ribbons. The first man gestured to Damian, then to the list, and back at Damian. The other man scanned through the list, then glanced at up at Damian. “Irish?” He mumbled, the word coming out as though he was cursing instead of stating Damian’s nationality. Damian nodded. “Follow me.” The man ordered, turning abruptly away and walking in a march-like manor. Damian followed behind, trying to match the officer’s stride. He was led through a long hallway and through a thick oak door. The room in which he now stood was completely different from the lobby where he had lined up with everyone else. Unlike the of the previous room which was full of solemn men, all of which regarding him as an outsider, this small, simple room was crowded with people much like himself, unsure of where to go but still enjoying their time. With a quick glance around, Damian could see nothing but the laughing, smiling faces of men, standing in large or small groups. No one was left alone or on the outside. Damian smiled to himself, realising he was among his own kind, among the Irish. The man who had led him here was smirking slightly, an expression so full of detest. He picked up a clipboard sitting on a small table beside him, and asked for Damian’s name. “Damian McGinty.” Damian replied quietly. The man made a face. “And how am I supposed to understand that quiet voice when it’s already littered with its blasted accent.” The man muttered. “It’s Damian McGinty, sir.” Damian repeated, a tiny bit louder this name. The man shrugged, ticking something off on the list. With that, he spun around and marched right out of the room, leaving Damian in speculation of what he was meant to be doing. When he finally made up his mind to step towards the door, he heard a voice from behind him. “McGinty, eh?” Said a man. Damian turned around to look at him. He noticed first the saddened eyes, which was quite a shock considering how friendly his voice had seemed. The man possessed blue eyes, much like his own, and thick eyebrows seeming to take up a large portion of his forehead. Between his eyes, a long, shapely nose jutted down through the center of his face, giving him a bit of an automatic smile. Somehow, he looked very neat despite the stubble around his jaw and mouth. Damian, still quite dumbstruck from everything, nodded. “A fine name.” The man noted. “What did ye say your first name was?” “Damian.” Damian said, more confidently now. The man held out a large hand. “Paul Byrom.” He said happily. “Pleased ter meet ye.” Damian grinned, happy to have met someone worth talking too. “I’ve been chatting with some of them lads, if ye’d like to join us.” Paul suggested, turning into a group of three other men. Damian watched them talk, examining each of them with special care. The first, to Paul’s right, reminded him of many men in his home village, possessing many typical Irish traits such as pale skin, blue eyes and dark hair, much like himself. He was rather small with narrow shoulders, but long, muscular arms. He returned to the man’s face. His nose was quite short, contrasting with Paul’s, drawing more attention to the blue eyes. He discovered soon after that this man named Ryan Kelly, and came from the County Tyrone. “It’s mostly to do with money and taxes and whatnot.” Ryan rambled, explaining to the man next to him, George, about his previous job. Damian hadn’t caught the name of it. “Taxes.” George scoffed. “The real reason I’m here.” George Donaldson was a large man, his broad shoulders and long body stretching up several inches past Paul, who was quite tall as well. Despite his height, George didn’t look unfriendly in the least. In fact, Damian felt a small urge to hug him, noting his teddy-bear like feature. Damian estimated that he must be in his late thirties, so several years older than Paul and Ryan who looked to be in their late twenties. His head possessed no hair, despite the rather pale, nearly orange coloured eyebrows the furrowed over his squinted eyes. The light seemed to reflect off the man’s head in the most peculiar way, making him sort of glow, and seem like an unannounced leader, though no one had said anything on the matter. The last man in the group seemed to be the closest to Damian’s age and had a less Celtic-sounding name then the rest; Keith Harkin. His appearance was rather different as well, though with a single glance Damian could tell he was Irish. Damian learned quickly that he was from a small town in County Donegal called Muff, which wasn’t too far away from Sligo. Keith stood out in the room full of Irish men for one reason and one reason alone; his hair. Long blond hair stretched down his neck, far below his ears. It stopped in the same region where his chin stopped, so not quite shoulder length. He had a very round face with an equally round nose, and a square chin. Although Keith’s face was hardly smiling, two large dimples cut into his cheeks, more prominent on the right side. He too had soft blue eyes, but they were hardly noticed for his other features controlled his face. “The real reason we’re all here, George.” Keith replied, and Damian stopped to wonder whether that was why his parents had sent him away. Were his parents really cruel enough to put their son in danger in order to pay the damned British government? “If I want to start me own family, this is the only option.” Keith continued, and Damian stared in envy that Keith had gotten to come here by his own will, not forced by his parents. Ryan smirked, but didn’t offer an explanation as to why he was here, nor did Paul. After talking for a while with these men, Damian learned that the Irish had their own small portion of the British army, and wouldn’t be fighting aside Englishmen. It was a new system the army was trying, for they had decided that the Irish needn’t be worth the same standards as the English. Despite the reasoning, Damian was quite relieved. He would so much rather spend his days traveling alongside these men than the awful men he’d met earlier.
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