Category: Story

Cranberries

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Go Your Own Way > Listen on BandCamp

The universe gave me a nudge, steering me toward a music video last night. It was Dolores O’Riordan singing a cover of “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac.

She sang it with an acoustic accompaniment in the studio. It was a beautiful rendition that took me away, tears forming. I remembered listening to the Cranberries in their day and how much I loved their voice (hers).

The song noted above created a bridge, and I pulled up more live versions of their songs, watching them one by one. One thing was clear, regardless of the timeframe, O’Riordan had magic in her voice. And what seemed apparent was her love of singing for her fans. There was joy in her eyes while onstage.

I listened to three or four more songs, and she sang them like they belonged to her. She poured in passion, torment, that sense of carrying a weight far greater than one person should.

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Railyard

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Railyard > Listen on BandCamp

I dream often, but last night was no ordinary dream. What I saw wasn’t imagination, nor the drifting fragments of sleep. It was a walk through the impossible.

The setting was a rail yard. Sidings scattered, lanterns swung, and men with tools worked the hard grind of years gone by. I wasn’t just standing there. I was seeing through a lens bolted to the front of a slow-moving train that inched through the yard. And this lens wasn’t human. It didn’t record, it revealed. It peeled the world apart like thin paper shims of light and process.

A man lifted a hammer to strike a spike, and I didn’t just see the blow; I saw the strike ripple through air and metal, detail unfolding in fractals. A train wheel shifted inches, and it became cathedral-like, an entire geometry of sound and weight. Even the sway of a lantern as someone walked became vast, multidimensional, and psychedelic without the drugs. Dream-born, but in a sense more real than anything I’ve seen before.

At the center of this dream stood a figure, an engineer, steady-handed, practical, and shaped by the logic of steel and structure. He smiled like a creator, guiding me through the yard as though showing me a secret film. But he wasn’t bound by the rules of engineering. He was a master of imagery, directing something far beyond proof or logic.

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The Rite at Carnac

Posted on by Tom Kelly

The Rite at Carnac > Audio on Patreon

The stones rose like guardians against the dusk, their massive shapes catching the last streaks of fire in the western sky. Carnac felt alive that night, the air charged, as if waiting for an old promise to be fulfilled.

A circle had formed, not of granite, but of people. Watchers, witnesses, seekers. And at the center, two figures stepped forward, called not by chance but by the land itself.

He stood bare to the wind, his body offered without pretense, not as display but as vessel. She came toward him with a braid down her back, her belly marked with a spiral in ochre. She was not simply a partner; she was a priestess, chosen.

They touched without words, palms pressed together, foreheads aligned, breath shared. The silence around them was not absence but anticipation. Even the stones seemed to lean in closer.

When their bodies joined, it was not only for them. Each movement was measured, deliberate, as though testing the rhythm of the earth beneath them. Breath became chant. Touch became offering. The watchers lowered their voices into a steady hum, and soon there was no division between stone, body, and voice.

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Ballad of Mallard

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Ballad of Mallard > Listen on BandCamp

The ride from the airport was short but heavy with the weight of travel, lighter chatting with new friends. Home (Ballinamallard), our bags clattered onto the hallway floor, and before the jet lag could settle deeper, Brad and Craig nudged us gently toward the back door and back outside. The house itself was charming, but it was the backyard that opened its arms to us.

Late afternoon light poured in from the west, unusually warm for Ireland. The painted yellow walls of the garden glowed like they had been dipped in honey. The garden stretched long and neat, framed by waist-high stone walls, with flowers bending toward the sun and vegetables reaching upward as if in celebration. Their pup Winston is playing around our feet.

The garden seemed to lean closer, fruit trees flickering in the warm light, the shed in the corner humming faintly as if it were listening in.

A table was set under the awning, the smell of lamb stew curling through the air, mingled with roasted vegetables and potatoes crisping on the barbecue.

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Hill of Tara

Posted on by Tom Kelly

The Hill of Tara > Audio on Patreon

It was the first day in Ireland, the kind of day that blurs after a long flight and little sleep. Our friends were driving us north to their home from Dublin. Somewhere along the highway, they pulled off and said, “Let’s stop here, there’s food, coffee, and there’s an old historical site, maybe something interesting to see.“

At first glance, there was a cute country store and restaurant on a medium-sized hill, with a narrow parking lot and washrooms. I was glad to stretch my legs and let the first sights and scents of Ireland touch me. The tiredness I felt eased as I studied the landscape. The valley stretched out below, and I marveled at the cows grazing free, Holsteins. I commented that back home in Canada, cows are locked away in barns. It made my heart happy seeing them at peace on the land.  Already, Ireland was showing me something different, something freer.

Inside, the café was slow, friendly, buzzing with tourists and locals. We were seated and ordered our lunch. While waiting, I wandered into the gift shop up front. Still dazed, I noticed that everywhere I turned, one word followed me: Tara. Shirts, mugs, magnets, books. Tara. There were even containers of crystals, sage, and feathers. This was my kind of shop! I hurried back into the restaurant and asked, “Are we at the Hill of Tara?” My friends laughed. “Yes, Tom. We thought you might find it interesting.“

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Rock of Cashel

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Rock of Cashel > Audio on Patreon

From the moment I arrived at the Rock, I felt its presence. Large, unyielding, a stone giant rising from Ireland’s green heart, the Rock of Cashel stands as a sentinel over the ages. Its walls, rough and cold, are patched with lichen, gray-green and ancient, like the earth’s own memory.

A gentle wind whispers through, brushing along the stones, soft and unnoticed, yet alive, a breath that seems to carry the clearing, the shifting energy of this sacred place.

Outside, the graveyard sprawls, Celtic crosses standing tall or leaning crooked, their carved circles weathered by many years without new burials. These stones mark Ireland’s storied dead, chieftains, poets, souls who shaped this land, their presence woven into the wind’s quiet song.

At the Rock’s heart is a grand hall, not a chapel, but a magnificent ruin that once buzzed with life. Its floor is lined with stone slabs, tombs, raised just enough to mark the graves beneath. You can feel the faint emboss of these graves underfoot. Through tall, glassless windows, remnants of soaring arches, golden white sunlight cascades in, long, rhythmic beams. From east to south to west, the light shifts, painting the slabs with a warm, protective glow, almost godlike, transforming the cold stone.

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Sing

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Sing > Listen on BandCamp

The gym was its usual self that afternoon, metal clinks and grunts, the thump of bass-heavy tunes, the faint hum of treadmills like an endless tide. And then, without warning, something split the air.

At first, I thought it was tucked into the overhead speakers, some chorus layered behind the beat. But no, this sound floated above the noise. A voice, clear and shimmering, cut through the stale fluorescent air with impossible purity. It didn’t fit, not at all. It rose much brighter, like sunlight breaking into a windowless hall.

I froze, half-turned on my machine, ears straining. No one else seemed to notice. Around me, people kept lifting, scrolling, laughing, and checking mirrors. I was the only one stilled by it. That aloneness made it feel even more otherworldly, like a gift dropped into my hands, meant only for me.

It wasn’t an everyday voice. Not casual but high, lilting, yet rooted with undertones that spoke of training, sweet and angelic, as if trembling on the edge of heaven itself. Whoever sang wasn’t fooling around. This was a voice born for song.

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The Gift of a Second Chance

Posted on by Tom Kelly

My father was starting end-of-life care at an Ottawa hospital and I had just arrived for what had become my daily visit. He was growing less aware and my time with him was becoming more solitary, although it was still nice to be in his company and share this way.

Today I was lucky and able to park closer to the hospital. It was a gloomy, grey day in November with a lick of wind to enhance the understanding of the coming transition into winter.

I pulled my coat together and hunched to maintain warmth as I walked to the crosswalk, and then along the path to the main entrance.

I noticed a man walking in the opposite direction, along the driveway with parked cars between us. He had a cane and was moving slowly and with poor balance. My first thought was “Where could he possibly be going without help as he looked that frail?

By now I was almost stopped, worried, yet excited for every new step this man took. Others were watching too and as he approached the crosswalk I assumed someone closer would assist him. This was not the case. He staggered across the road and up a cut in the sidewalk, gathering himself for the remainder of the journey to his vehicle.

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Depth

Posted on by Tom Kelly

We were having a dinner party recently and steak was on the menu. As the day closer I looked up cooking instructions as we don’t have steak often and I wanted to ensure I remembered all the tips. This was also a chance to see if anyone was doing anything new and exciting with meat!

I read through a couple of articles and found a lot of common ground. Something that everyone insisted was important was to let the cooked meat sit before eating, 10 minutes seemed the guideline. This allows the meat to finish cooking, which is difficult when people are hungry. But we waited and the meal and steaks were a big success!

Fast forward a few days. I’m doing something completely unrelated, rushing along when my guides tap me on the shoulder and say “What’s the rush? Do you remember the steaks? They had to sit for 10 minutes. There was a reason for the wait and the outcome was enhanced greatly.”

I recall stopping immediately and knowing this was the absolute truth. The guides were not scolding me for anything in particular. This was just another tap like many they have shared lately.

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Christmas Vacation (summertime)

Posted on by Tom Kelly

      

This story is not about the movie but rather a dream I had this week. You’ll understand in a minute!

Unlike most dreams I have, this dream happened in phases like chapters in a book. It all started around 3 am, ending shortly before I awoke at 7:30 am.

In this dream space, I was very aware of my surroundings and the interactions I had with people. I sensed it as more a reality than a dream.

The dream started with me visiting a small community that I understood to be in the United States. I arrived there and immediately had a guide waiting to show me around. I spent several days in this town as my dream progressed.

My guide and I took in all the towns’ events. She was a beautiful woman who reminded me of Peggy Bundy.

The reason for the title Christmas Vacation is because the townsfolk were oddly like characters from the movie. A few people could be characterized like Clark and his wife, silly but in leadership roles. Everyone else took after Eddie (male and female), very playful and lighthearted.

Everyone was odd in a good way and as the scenes (phases) played out I got to meet many of them. I saw all aspects of the town, its people, its traditions, and its inner workings.

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