'A beautiful, gritty tale of love, despair, and learning to trust, set in Ireland in the 19th Century.'

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The Fitzgeralds of Dublin Series is a sweeping 19th-century Irish family saga. Follow Will and Isobel through struggles, secrets, and choices that test their love and loyalty in a changing Ireland.

Amazon - https://mybook.to/FitzgeraldsSeries
Other Retailers - https://books2read.com/LornaPeel

#TheFitzgeraldsOfDublinSeries #Books #BooksByLornaPeel #FamilySaga #HistoricalFiction #Ireland #BookSeries #Bookstodon #KindleUnlimited

There are three books in The Aunt Enid Mysteries series so far... with more to come.
Older FMC, found family, hidden magic, and a recipe in each book (paperbacks & special edition eBook in Digital Book Box).
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[#videoDescription: book transitions as Karen turns over escj of 3 books in The Aunt Enid Mysteries. Background has bookshelves. ]
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#auntEnidMysteries #fantasyMystery #useImageDescriptionForAccessibility #bookSeries

Love that defies society, secrets that shape a family…

Step into 1880s Ireland and meet the Fitzgeralds of Dublin. Book 1 is available now in Kindle Unlimited — start the series today!

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Other Retailers - https://books2read.com/AScarletWoman

#AScarletWomanByLornaPeel #Books #BooksByLornaPeel #Ireland #BookSeries #HistoricalFiction #FamilySaga #KindleUnlimited #TheFitzgeraldsOfDublinSeries

Talking

The Drum did not stop its violence.

Other Unnamed had ceased their attacks on humans unless provoked. This one did not. It continued to kill and hunt them in daylight and moonlight. It preferred the shadows. It was the regular type of Unnamed, a towering black cloud with golden bones and spikes. Its hood was empty of any face or detail. Its back was prickled with points. Its claws were bludgeons and blades. It had survived the countless battles between humans and Reanimated, right up until the Drum’s destruction.

Then, when that song went dead in the abyss that was its mind, the Unnamed could not help but feel regret. It had not properly reanimated anyone. It had tried, over and over again with various victims during the Drum. Still, nobody could be its mouthpiece. A year of strife, rancor, and bloodshed had passed in the booming of the Drum, but the Unnamed still had not gotten what it wanted. There was no communication for it besides violent intention. Now, with the universal motivation of the Drum gone, this Unnamed was an outlier.

It was only a matter of time before humans or Reanimated killed it.

Still, the Unnamed had to try.

The monster lurked in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Minneapolis. The city had been mostly silent during the Drum, but since its destruction more survivors had trickled into the carved out buildings encrusted with green. The Unnamed waited for them in the shadows of debris. Sometimes they were armed and fired into its body as it lunged from the gloom, stabbing and swinging wildly, searching for the killing strike that would shatter its victims. Occasionally, in the confusion of gunfire, bullets struck its ribs or appendages, tearing away some of the dark energy coursing through its abomination veins.

It did not matter.

The Unnamed could still sink into the plants to heal, with or without the Drum. The natural world still favored its kind, and they would always have this relationship.

No human could ever understand.

The Unnamed knew it could not continue to kill, dissect, and rearrange humans for much longer. Other Unnamed who had pursued their old desires and dreams were hunted down by squads of humans and Reanimated. With good reason. The monster could understand why. There had been enough killing. Humans would never be able to completely trust them, even with the Drum gone.

If they knew why they were killed, would they ever understand?

Humans could not comprehend how easy they had it compared to the Unnamed. They could speak. They could communicate. They could talk among themselves in countless languages and sounds. The Unnamed could not do any of this. Some versions could, like the Puppeteer and some of the Gravity, but overall they were voiceless in a world that required speech.

That was where the Reanimated were meant to fill the gaps. They were supposed to be mouthpieces, instruments, and puppets for the Unnamed to communicate with the world. Instead, they became lost, their own entities, and rebelled against their creators. The Unnamed did not know they would have to kill to speak. That was not their original design, and their father, if he were around, might have instructed them differently.

Sadly, he was nowhere to be found.

More flash fiction from my book series the Greenland Diaries. This is from the POV of the lead monster in this story, the Unnamed. You can learn more about the book series right here. There are also other flash fiction pieces I’ve published on here you can read. Thank you for reading my work.

One of my favorite pieces of flash fiction from the Greenland Diaries. Pure monster POV, with hints about motivation. Enjoy. Thank you for reading my work.

#writing #reading #fiction #books #horror #apocalyptic #shortstory #flashfiction #monsters #bookseries #novels

https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2026/02/11/talking/

'Should come with an addiction warning!'

Escape to 19th-century Ireland with The Fitzgeralds of Dublin Series.

Amazon - https://mybook.to/FitzgeraldsSeries
Other Retailers - https://books2read.com/LornaPeel

#TheFitzgeraldsOfDublinSeries #Books #BooksByLornaPeel #FamilySaga #HistoricalFiction #HistoricalSaga #Ireland #Bookseries #KindleUnlimited

Some new flash fiction from the Greenland Diaries. This one I like in particular because I explore a monster that has been hidden in the series. Enjoy.

#writing #reading #fiction #books #horror #apocalyptic #shortstory #flashfiction #monsters #bookseries #novels

https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2026/02/04/a-streetlight-requiem/

A Streetlight Requiem

It had lived in them for years.

It was in their dreams, fantasies, and nightmares. It followed them during the day, night, and everywhere else. It watched from rooftops, sewers, roads, and alleys. When it truly learned about them, long before the Drum woke, the world was different. There was less technology, fewer people, and less complexity. Their society was splintered by conflict and economic instability. Sometimes, the Puppeteer wished it could have studied different eras and times, but it did not possess that level of individuality when the Drum existed. It simply listened to the voices in the dark. It had no direction other than them.

The monster was sent out before the Drum had fully awakened. Something in the currents of shadow and reality stirred it. A disturbance from another time and place. The humans who survived, and who later learned of the future’s interference in their world, understood that the Unnamed were present before the Drum played its demon song. They did not know exactly when the Unnamed began to monitor them, but by their understanding of time it would have been around the nineteen fifties. It was through that familiar stretch of americana that the Puppeteer learned about their culture. Those images imprinted themselves into its phantom arms and through the various wires linked to the plants that would overtake the world when the Drum arrived.

The Puppeteer’s role in the apocalypse was to be the flame to the moths.

It was the dream weaver, the illusion maker, the painter of the old world the Unnamed had so violently destroyed. The Puppeteer knew that humans would eventually learn to avoid the monsters once they recognized their patterns. It needed to draw them back out into shadows and blades. So it forged the images. Cars, people, laughter, music, planes, entire cities gleaming with phantom energy became its nightly tapestry.

Out of all the spectral stories it told through its long arms, gray body, and hidden wires threaded through the unchecked bloom of vine and flower, it loved the streetlights the most. There was something about their glow. Their amber sheen bled through time and memory. That luminescence seemed unchanged no matter what else shifted or collapsed. The Puppeteer spent countless days and nights hidden in the apocalyptic underbrush and in plain sight. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years passed after its activation. Yet the streetlights were always the same.

Until now.

The Drum was gone. It vanished silently one evening after turquoise thunder lit the northern sky. The moment it disappeared, the Puppeteer felt no urge to create illusions or lure humans and Reanimated to their grisly fate at the edge of its family’s claws. It was free, a sensation entirely new to it. At first, the Puppeteer did not know what to do with the excess of time.

It wandered the city, walking between houses and treetops. Though faceless, the Puppeteer was more humanoid than most of the other Unnamed. It had gray, leathery skin, broad shoulders, and long, gangly arms. Its height and face were what made it truly monstrous. The Puppeteer stood nearly thirty feet tall, and its face lacked any real features except for a black hole that seemed to fold inward if stared at for too long. It once hid constantly, camouflaging itself day and night among rubble using mirages and spells. Its massive body was flexible enough to twist into impossible positions, allowing it to vanish into the ruined landscape.

Hiding was no longer necessary.

Now it roamed freely through rubble and green growth in the open daylight. Occasionally, human survivors fled at the sight of it, or fired their weapons in panic. More often than not, nothing interacted with the Puppeteer at all.

At night, the monster found itself unable to do anything but feel nostalgic.

It would settle somewhere in the wasteland, blending into the darkness as its skin adapted to its surroundings, like a cuttlefish drifting across a deepwater reef. From there, it would connect the green threads beneath its wrists into the surrounding vegetation. Long, wormlike strands crept outward, weaving through soil, asphalt, and ruin. Once they reached their chosen points, they ignited the darkness with illusions of the old world.

The Puppeteer was focused on only one image now.

Streetlights.

Dozens of them lining empty roads. The Drum no longer demanded lures for the living. Those days ended beneath the teal lightning that destroyed it. These visions were not meant to hunt. They were made purely for entertainment. The Puppeteer did not care if humans were drawn to them, though most survivors no longer trusted the glow of streetlights. It only wanted to see the old world again, the warmth and simplicity of amber rings stretching across quiet streets.

There was something calm and beautiful about them. The monster did not know why.

It only knew that it needed to see them.

If you haven’t encountered a Puppeteer from the mainline series of the Greenland Diaries, you might be a little confused. You can read about that right here. The Puppeteer is responsible for the various illusions and mirages that appear once the Drum takes hold in this apocalyptic environment. They’re sort of like the angler fish of this wasteland. Thank you for reading my flash fiction from this series.

Reviewers wanted!
Reviewers: I’m offering free digital copies of The Misconception. Honest reviews on Goodreads, StoryGraph, blogs or social platforms are warmly appreciated. Message me and I’ll send it right away. 📩📝
Volume 1 exists in 40 languages
📘✨ https://meganpublishingservices.com/book/the-misconception/
#ReviewRequest #ReadAndReview #IndieBooks #GoodreadsReview #books #bookseries

In 19th-century Dublin, a disillusioned doctor and a fallen woman cross paths, sparking a forbidden love that defies society's judgments.

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#AScarletWomanByLornaPeel #Books #BooksByLornaPeel #Dublin #Ireland #HistoricalRomance #19thcentury #KindleUnlimited #BookSeries #TheFitzgeraldsOfDublinSeries

The Leaning Gun

Doris was surprised she missed it.

The Drum was over.

The monsters were still lurking about, but they were mostly calm unless you fired a bullet in their direction. It was difficult to resist this urge after nearly a year of killing, fighting, and maiming. Even at Doris’s age, she still helped other survivors battle the Unnamed in the streets. She had lost countless friends in the process, but she was still happy she participated.

When the Drum started, she was retired, widowed, and somewhat abandoned by society in her small home in Robbinsdale, Minnesota. The monsters scared her at first. She hid in a crawl space beneath her steps. However, after watching so many people fight and die in the streets, between houses, and underneath beds, she could not hide her seventy year old self anymore. She found an assault rifle and learned how to use it. She became effective, quick, and stealthy, hiding in the layers of wreckage and greenery.

As quickly as Doris had begun to unleash bullets into the wandering shadows and fight for her home against the plants and illusions, the Drum was destroyed. The Unnamed were no longer tearing apart her home night after night, frustration and vendetta powering their golden claws. The conflict that had ravaged the world and carved it into a verdant ghost of its former self was over. There was still violence and monsters, but it lacked the same edge. They were no longer being hunted to the demonic percussion.

Peace had become surreal, off putting, and seemingly unattainable after such sustained rage.

Doris had found it surprisingly easy to fight the monsters.

She had always been quiet, especially in her older age. Nobody around the neighborhood really acknowledged her existence. She took walks along the streets alone, delicately minding the uneven bumps in gravel and asphalt. She never imagined she would be sneaking, bending, and hiding behind rubble while fighting otherworldly monsters. She did it anyway, and now it was time to stop.

Some survivors were forming ragtag bands to hunt down the Unnamed spread throughout the neighborhood and city. After a few engagements, most were killed. Refugees from the north, where the Drum had been destroyed, said the Unnamed would defend themselves. In doing so, they appeared more violent than before, if that was possible.

That afternoon, in the alleyway behind her home, Doris felt a violent pull toward her newfound but retired abilities. The corridor of abandoned houses was a green, debris laden tunnel of flowers, ivy, and partially crumbled walls. A few cats and dogs scrambled among empty cars and homes, looking for food and shelter. The winds were heavy, billowing the overgrown trees into long, bubbly shadows.

Doris stood beside her old vegetable garden at the end of her backyard. Some cherry tomatoes had come back. She picked them slowly with her veiny fingers, placing them into an old ice cream bucket. Doris was pale, her long gray hair tied into a ponytail with a black hair tie. She wore a white gardening apron embroidered with flowers. Behind her stood a silver tool shed that she had pruned free of plants and their extensions multiple times throughout the apocalypse. Leaning against it was her assault rifle. She did not know the exact name or brand of the weapon, but she knew what bullets it took.

A long, aching grind groaned from down the alleyway. It was the sound of golden bone being dragged along rock, grass, and every surface beneath its spiked edge. Doris’s green eyes fell on the black metal skeleton of the gun because of what was moving toward her.

It was the Red Unnamed.

A towering crimson cloud of points, claws, and ribs, adorned in a moving ruby storm that fluctuated between afternoon sunlight and shadow. It stood higher than some of the nearby homes, especially those whose roofs had collapsed beneath excessive foliage. Doris followed it with her eyes as it passed quietly, without interest, its obscene golden claw leaving a sediment wake behind it.

Doris’s gun would do nothing against this Unnamed. She had watched them shrug off bazooka blasts. It took dozens of survivors to kill just one.

“Don’t know what to do with yourself? I hear that,” Doris said, stepping into the alleyway behind it. “Me too. Though it is sort of nice we are both in the same position.”

The Red Unnamed stopped.

Doris laughed nervously.

“Uh oh,” she said. “You do understand me, don’t you?”

More flash fiction from the Greenland Diaries. You can learn more about the series right here. Thank you for reading my work. Writing about a character like Doris is something the post-apocalyptic setting offers me, and I might not have found her without it. One of the reasons I love writing fiction and monsters. The characters that reflect off that mirror.

#apocalyptic #author #blogging #books #bookseries #fantasy #fiction #flashfiction #horror #monsters #novels #patrickWMarsh #reading #shortstory #theGreenlandDiaries #writing

New flash fiction from the Greenland Diaries. This one follows the boredom of no combat from the old world. The nervous system doesn't know what to do. Enjoy.

#writing #reading #fiction #books #horror #apocalyptic #shortstory #flashfiction #monsters #bookseries #novels

https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2026/01/28/the-leaning-gun/

'Should come with an addiction warning!'

Escape to 19th-century Ireland with The Fitzgeralds of Dublin Series.

Books 1-9 box sets - http://mybook.to/FitzgeraldsBoxSets

#TheFitzgeraldsOfDublinSeries #Books #BooksByLornaPeel #FamilySaga #19thCentury #Ireland #BookSeries #KindleUnlimited

My Experience Writing and Releasing Two Books Simultaneously https://www.writersdigest.com/my-experience-writing-and-releasing-two-books-simultaneously #BusinessofWriting #BookPublishing #GetPublished #BookRelease #bookseries

For all of those who are interested, I’ve just made the title of The Way of the Wielder, book four public! 🥳

Check out my latest blog post, where I reveal what it is, as well as go into a bit of backstory about how I decided on yet another alliterative title.

https://sarahjhoodlet.com/blog/title-reveal-and-what's-to-come/

#WritingCommunity #Writer #SelfPublishing #FantasyBooks #Fantasy #FantasySeries #BookSeries #TitleReveal #Blog

The Fitzgeralds of Dublin Series is a gritty 19th-century Irish family saga. Follow Will and Isobel through struggles, secrets, and choices that test their love and loyalty in a changing Ireland.

Amazon - https://mybook.to/FitzgeraldsSeries
Other Retailers - https://books2read.com/LornaPeel

#TheFitzgeraldsOfDublinSeries #Books #BooksbylornaPeel #FamilySaga #HistoricalFiction #19thCentury #Dublin #Ireland #BookSeries #KindleUnlimited #Bookstodon

Extra comfort for election day #reading

Today is election day in Portugal and the future seems quite dark, asking for extra comfort and minimising anxiety.

I’ve been re-reading Dorothy L. Sayers’ Lord Peter, which is who one thinks is a good friend. The books are also funny and, most important,  things are cleared and end well (considering this is crime fiction :-)).

I started this re-read last year and after the first volume, read other books (I’m doing the same re-read with Austen and the Brontes), but after reading the second in the series, I can’t put them down and I’m starting the next as soon as I finish one. I’m now almost at the end of The unpleasantness at the Bellona Club and have the next in order of publication ready, which is Lord Peter views the body (12 short stories).

I’m also adding a spicy rooibos hot tea (it’s so cold here, both outside and inside!) and watching/listening one of the lovely Ali channels (go there and check both of her YouTube channels, I find her content so comforting!) while I’m reading.

#BookSeries #BookLook #ClassicCrimeFiction #DorothyLSayers #LordPeterWimsey #reading

'A beautiful, gritty tale of love, despair, and learning to trust, set in Ireland in the 19th Century.'

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#ascarletWomanByLornaPeel #Books #BooksbyLornaPeel #Dublin #Ireland #historicalromance #romance #19thcentury #Kindleunlimited #Bookstodon #Bookseries

The Kinship of Strangers: When DNA Reveals What Identity Cannot Accept

Some truths arrive uninvited. They come in the mail, in the form of a cardboard box containing a plastic tube, a prepaid envelope, and instructions for depositing saliva. Six weeks later, they return as a percentage breakdown, a haplogroup designation, a list of genetic relatives you never knew existed. The Kinship of Strangers, the third novel in the Fractional Fiction series, asks what happens when those percentages contradict everything you were raised to believe about who you are and who belongs to your people.

The premise emerged from a scientific fact that should be unsurprising but somehow remains explosive: populations that have lived as neighbors for millennia share genetic ancestry that transcends the boundaries they have drawn between themselves. The Cohen Modal Haplotype, a Y-chromosome signature associated with Jewish priestly lineage, appears in Palestinian populations at rates that complicate every simple narrative about who belongs where. Bronze Age bones excavated from Levantine soil carry DNA that belongs to everyone and no one, ancestors claimed by peoples who cannot acknowledge their kinship without destabilizing the stories that hold their communities together.

Population genetics does not care about politics. It does not respect the borders drawn by empires or the categories enforced by tradition. It simply reports what the molecules reveal: that human beings have been mixing, migrating, and making families across every boundary we have ever erected. The question is not whether the science is accurate. The question is what we do when accuracy threatens identity.

Ten characters confront this question across ten interconnected stories. A rabbi in Philadelphia receives test results that connect his Y-chromosome more closely to Palestinians than to most of his congregation. A Palestinian archaeologist excavates remains at Megiddo that complicate every modern claim to the land she is digging. A cognitive scientist lectures on identity-protective cognition while failing to apply her own research to her own avoidances. A genetic counselor who helps others interpret their ancestry results throws away her own kit unopened. An Israeli geneticist and a Palestinian researcher collaborate across borders their families cannot cross, their shared data too dangerous to publish in either of their home countries.

The stories move from Philadelphia synagogues to Jerusalem checkpoints, from Chicago conference rooms to Amman hotel lobbies. Characters glimpsed in one story reappear in another. Connections emerge that none of them fully understand. The architecture borrows from two public domain sources: James Joyce’s Dubliners, with its linked stories building toward earned epiphany, and the nested narratives of One Thousand and One Nights, where Scheherazade survives by leaving stories unfinished. Like Scheherazade, these characters have learned that the story that does not end is the story that keeps you alive. Resolution is not available. Continuation is the only victory.

This is Fractional Fiction: the methodology that drives this series. Each novel takes a public domain literary source, identifies its structural architecture and thematic engine, and synthesizes it with contemporary scientific research to produce something that belongs fully to neither tradition but could not exist without both. The Dying Grove married Joyce’s Dubliners structure to mycorrhizal network research. The Inheritance fused Ibsen’s Ghosts with transgenerational epigenetics. The Kinship of Strangers brings Joyce and Scheherazade together with population genetics and cognitive science, asking how we process evidence that contradicts our sense of self.

The research domain matters because the science is real. Identity-protective cognition is a documented phenomenon: the tendency of intelligent people to recruit their cognitive resources in defense of beliefs that anchor their social identity, even when evidence contradicts those beliefs. The smarter you are, the better you are at defending what you already believe. The Cohen Modal Haplotype is real. The genetic overlap between populations who define themselves as fundamentally distinct is real. The characters are invented, but the science that disrupts their certainties is not.

What makes this novel different from the previous Fractional Fiction books is its refusal of resolution at every level. The Dying Grove offered transformation through dissolution. The Inheritance delivered revelation through excavation. The Kinship of Strangers offers neither. Its characters do not arrive at peace. They arrive at recognition: the acknowledgment that they share more than they can accept, that the stories they tell about themselves are simultaneously necessary and false, that kinship does not require acknowledgment to exist.

The final story brings multiple characters together at a genetics conference in Amman, Jordan. They have been circling the same questions throughout the book without knowing it. When they finally meet, what they discover is not resolution but company: other people who have been carrying the same impossible knowledge, other strangers who are kin whether they can say so or not.

The Kinship of Strangers is available now through Amazon in Kindle edition and paperback. A free PDF is available for download at BolesBooks.com. If you have ever wondered what your DNA might reveal that your family never told you, if you have ever suspected that the boundaries between peoples are more porous than the stories suggest, if you have ever felt kinship with strangers you were taught to see as other, this book was written for you.

The test results are in. The question is whether you are ready to read them.