Karl McBeath
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Stories (17)
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Captain De Cuellar and His Adventures
The Spanish Armada set sail to land ashore on English soil. 100 galleons with 1,000 Iberian sailors on each to land in England, in the belly of the beast. They were foiled at sea and fled journeying around the Hebrides, the last survivors were dogs, washed ashore on the West Coast, terriers that would over the centuries be westies named “Jock” posing for shortbread tins. The rest of the crews landed at Streedagh Beach, Sligo. The Gallowglass enlisted by the English took their claymore to the Spanish swines and let the beach wallow in their blood, bespectacled with Latin bodies. Few were saved for being Catholic and the rest were on the run, they ventured north and it was Captain De Cuellar who ventured to Connaught and Ulster, precariously not knowing when each night might be his last. The souls he lost on his watch haunting his every step, their spirits and blood soaking into the land and people, the black hair of the west, the strength to repel the English on the rocks and ground, through famine and purposeful pain and passing. The millions of skeletons that would perish and the language that would fervently remain; the shadow of the nation would be seeping with blood of sacrifice like a bog of an ancient bard, or a fighter who was a Milesian sparring with the supernatural force, the Tuatha De Nannan. As the clock would be covered and the death would be celebrated with a wake - De Cuellar was petrified by these lands, and he wrote his journal, begging for help from the king abroad.
By Karl McBeathabout 5 hours ago in Art
The Marquess of Montrose
The Marquess of Montrose. James Graham. He was a deserter. He hung a traitor. They say “whoever has the cheek to turn on a cause, it is the Marquess of Montrose, you canny trust him.” But the clan system meant you had clans fighting each other. Maybe the Marquess was simply holding up the system. For man can not be trusted. It’s true that trust in the system will deliver love. Without reform, the church will only be a forgotten institution.
By Karl McBeathabout a month ago in Poets
Columba
It was Brother Columba who arrived in Pictland. He encountered a menacing scourge. Nessie the Loch Ness Monster. It reared up its head and tried to gnash at Columba. He turned and hurled incantations and spells. Nessie backed down and fled. Then Columba with the wind in his sails. Set forth to Fortriu. He met with the druids and beat them with magic, a snide glance that a muttered spell hid well. Then Columba had conquered the druids and converted the last remaining pagans of the British Isles to Christianity. For his task was complete.
By Karl McBeathabout a month ago in Poets
Clan MacBean. Content Warning.
It was an eerie lit night. As I wandered across the moors. To find myself following the pursuit of all those missing people. The 1,000 odd people missing over a few years. The seers had met me at the inn and discussed what they had seen, in their dreams, for they say it is a man missing with his 40 odd strong clan. They headed for the mountains. Wild folk. Disappearing messengers into thin air. Never seen again. Scarier than anything from hell. This thing is human. Goes by the name of Seany Bean. His clan of 40 people wild as they come. To what means of disappearance I cannot say. The seers allude to maybe witchcraft. Surely not. The ancient wizardry still lingers of the highlands. Where druids would rule, they would use magic against the beasts that roamed wild.
By Karl McBeathabout a month ago in Art
Run by Crooks
The strangest thing, the society I have ventured to, on my travels. For this society has unjust laws. There is a crime class where there should not be. The quality of life is woeful. The problems are solvable. The people live in fear - there are no happy people here. They go missing, unsolved mysteries and murders no one talks about.
By Karl McBeathabout a month ago in Poets
Non-Binary Future
Everything seems normal, but I wonder why everything is so perfect? There must be something wrong. The people in this city are looking good and there is energy. But they are hiding something. For the looming threat of nuclear war that will see sweep over us all. The climate threat, the rise of neo-Nazism. There is a sinister secret about alms I must know. Why does everyone in this city spend their nights indoors.
By Karl McBeath2 months ago in Fiction
