A Rising Fall - 5 years old

My first novel published five years ago today. The first in a dystopian trilogy entitled CITY (my unfinished symphony)

A Rising Fall (City Book 1) "Live as you love."

Ten years after the blackout, a group of humans struggling to fight off a conscious famine, try to re-learn empathy to save humanity in an old industrial assembly plant.

In 3 days; feigned affection, deception and a black heart will take them to the repression of their own fears in search of New Utopia.

"In flavour it is a bit of a mix of Greg Egan’s Diaspora, Yevgeny Zamiatin’s We and the 2002 film, Equilibrium. As such, it is in good company......The plot is engaging and keeps you reading, with a successful “show-don’t-tell” technique that is often lacking in contemporary literature."

- Evie Kendal - Dark Matter Fanzine

Paperback - https://goo.gl/qyoqxs (Amazon)

Digital - epub, mobi, pdf

iTunes - https://goo.gl/X9HWtk

Barnes & Noble - https://goo.gl/WWUtJ1

Smashwords - https://goo.gl/yLYYdA

Read Online at ISSUU - https://goo.gl/FV6Frb

Take Risk and Take Care,

C.SeanMcGee

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Done - The Inscrutable Mr Robot

Done ! 

My 15th novel 'The Inscrutable Mr. Robot' is finished. Last words have been written. The right ending should always come as a total shock but at the same time should come as little suprise. 

Hopefully I got this one right. 

Sure there's some rewrites to do but the blind walk is done; now it's just elaborating on what's already been written. 

Anyone who knows the misery and lonlieness of writing can attest to overwhelming joy and calm that comes from finishing a book; however fleeting it may be, this moment is the only reason I write.

Let's drink !

Take Risk and Take Care,

C.SeanMcGee

'Dark Existential Fiction'

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BathroomWindow

Do your dirty peeping and poking here. Leave a cigarette butt, a footprint, or your guilty expression smeared on the glass.

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Dark existential fiction that is just as rich in philosophy as it is strange and uncomfortable.

From the reclusive mind of Irish writer, C.SeanMcGee, fourteen novels that delve into the perverse and ever-lurking shadow of humanity: where all the more interesting stories take place.

When questioned on his own twisted and weirdly optimistic perspective of life, C.SeanMcGee merely replied,

“One must be a complete failure at life to any good at writing about it.”

Entropy

This house will out-live me
No matter how much I know
No matter how much I have done
This simple house of bricks will make a home for anyone
History itself is cast in stone
But not you or I, or anyone we know
All is forgotten except that which is known
Like the pyramids, the monuments, and my goddamned fucking home

Entropy ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

On Art:

One has to be a complete failure at life to be any good at writing about it.

C.SeanMcGee ₢2017

Life (a short poem)

"Don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up.........Ahh shit."

"What?"

"I fucked it up."

Life (a short poem) ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Mary, the Butcher of Salisbury:

Mary was a drunk,

and down on her luck,
But never was Mary a bore.
With a mouth like a gun,
and boy could it run,
She had every man on the floor.

Though her words they did slur,
It would never deter,
Her love for the drink and a tale.
Be it story or rhyme,
A sonnet or line,
She'd go at it hammer and nail.

And it's fair to be said,
That in truth she'd be dead,
Were it not for her gift of the gab.
For her life it was shite,
but the booze made it right,
and her words, they could pick up the tab.

You see, Mary, she lived with a cunt of a man,
An asshole that no-one could stand.
A bitter old prick,
As crass as was thick,
And who spoke with the back of his hand.

And Mary, she wore all the bruises and marks,
On her face, her arms and her neck.
But the look in her eyes,
When she drank or reprised,
If you'd seen it, you'd never forget.

I can't quite describe it,
except only to say,
that no man was ever the same.
The moment they came to take her away,
With no-one but Mary to blame.

You see, her husband was found,
all bludgeoned and bound,
Floating in a bag in the sea.
And with a pint in her hand,
And too drunk to stand,
Old Mary was ready to plea.

"No contest, your honour,
for every drink,
and every word i have said.
But as for that prick,
I've no shame or guilt,
In how he ended up dead."

And so she drank her last pint,
With the hangman in sight,
And the rest of us down by the stairs.
And she told us a fable,
The best she was able,
Considering her state of affairs.

And though history would remember,
Her violence and temper,
For us it was hard to forget.
The way she could drink,
and thoughts she did think,
the most remarkable woman I've met.

Mary the Butcher of Salisbury ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

One Wednesday in August

A miserable old prick in a house made of sticks,
and the lady who smoked were a bore;
for both of them sat in the idleest of chat,
on a corner, in the cold, by a door.
One of them coughed, and the other one smiled,
but neither was getting along;
Not a thing to be said, not an inch or a mile,
not a story, a rumour, or song.
It wasn't until the man had been killed,
that the lady who smoked seemed to care;
for his body it lay in the shallowst grave,
on a corner, in the grass, by the stairs.
The nieghbour's complaints and the copper restraints,
and her heels were the worst of it all;
While the body of a man and her fingerprints can,
confirm she was partly at fault.

One Wednesday in July ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Are monsters real, daddy?

"Of course monsters have teeth. How do you think they eat children?"

a counsel with my son

The Art of Letting Go (an impromptu discussion)

Of everything; and anything
To have ever been, to ever come, and to all which will one day come undone
Of everyone; and anyone
That ever was and will ever be; and to those that came undone.
Of clocks and candles; of time and age
Seamless is the transition; and nary a break in the day
Of ego and name; of pride and shame
On how you fucked, how you looked, and how fast you could run
All of which will either soon or have long since come undone
Of broken hearts and broken toys
And the pieces of which are all scattered on the floor
Of we and they; and of you and I
One of us is bound to come undone
Of love and the courage to suffer and yearn
Let your children leave you, no longer need you; and never return
Of being loved or living alone;
Whether walking on eggshells or the silence that fills up a home
Of being unheard of and forgotten; or of love that grows distant and cold
For all that you gave up or lost; and for that which you never will hold
Of me and my name.

The Art of Letting Go ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Genesis - a short story on fatherhood and the death of the artist

The father looked at his child. "What would you like for dinner?" he asked. The child responded with a crooked smile. "Your patience, your virtue, your compassion, and your servitude but not your potential; you can cut that bit off, I like you just how you are."

genesis ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee

Happy Birthday

You shall be seen only by those you have never met, heard by those of whom you have not spoken, and understood by those you do not know. In companionship we find then, solace; a kind of umbrage or abscondence from one's self.

Take Risk and Take Care,

C.SeanMcGee

Suicide

a yellow breasted bird on an old fruit tree

fluttered its wings as it left

what a sight to be seen for a man such as thee

on the tip of his very last breath

alas nothing grew in the garden again,

not a flower; not even a weed

nothing but a stone, and a wreck of a home

and the roots of an old fruit tree

but a day it would come, when as yellow as the sun,

fell a feather from a little bird's breast

for above it did flutter; with no quiver or stutter

where the man and the tree lay at rest

suicide ₢2017 c.seanmcgee

Pé na Cova (one foot in the grave)

"Why wait?" I said. "Why hesitate? "What good is one day from another?"

You just laughed, and slapped my back;

"That's a good one," you said. "That's a real good one, my brother."

And so we drank to all our worries,

And we drank to all the blues.

And the sun it rose in a miserable light,

As we drank to all of the truths.

The truths we had forgotten,

And those we'd rather forget.

To the ones which proclaimed us a villains,

And to those which we owe a great debt.

And so we drank to the end of times,

To love and its inevitable end.

And we stumbled off home in the wee hours of dawn,

Just a prick and his miserable friend.

One Foot in the Grave ₢2017 C. Sean McGee