Gaelic Tales: A Collection of Short Stories

The Lost Island of High Brazil.

They say there's a lost land, a lost island claimed by no man, one that bear's witness to all mankind, an island that holds god's and deities no man can define, coming to this island would not be favourable to anyone, those who did were never found again.

In a place called Westport in the year 2017, an African woman called Lauren, walks the beach with the sun beating the rocks, she wore a t-shirt and shorts. The air feeling heavy with the heat and the stench of shit wafting in from the sea, as she walked, she lifted her head as sweat fell from her brow, in the middle of her walk she noticed a dark patch poking out from the sand, the dark thing didn't fit in with the land around it.

She walks up to it slowly as she felt drained, she gets to this, this dark thing in the sand, but still it looked aloof, kneeling she pushes away the sand to find what looked like a logbook, confused she opens it and the writing was barely visible it looked waterlogged, like it just came from the sea.

Thinking for a moment weather to keep it or not, she decides to take it, so, she walks off the beach to her car, reaching it the metal was hot to the touch barely bearable to open it, she sits in the chair seat and the leather boiling nearly scolding her back, she jolted up not placing her back on the seat, placing the book on the passenger chair letting it dry out.

She drives to her house where she shared it with her best friend, the friend sat in the living room watching tv waving to her as she walked in, but Lauren still holding the book just ignored her and went to her room, in the door she shut it locking it behind herself, she walks to her desk and places the book where the sun fell, after that she took a cold shower to get away from the heat, once done she changes her entire outfit, her now in jeans and a tight fitted crop top, she lays on her bed fighting the heat for the rest of the day.

The sun fell as night creeped in with Lauren still laying on her bed, laying with her body facing towards the bed, lifting her head and looking to the side she noticed the book still sitting there, sighing she gets up and goes to the desk sitting at it, switching on the lamp and opens the book to read what she could.

The first few pages looked regular the dates where back in 1967 but after a few pages, it was more like frantic writing as if someone was rushing to write, it read; I'm a fisherman called John and I know this is a logbook and I am currently sitting in my cabin writing this, I'll tell you what's happening as it happens.

In a pub in the town of Westport in 1990 a fifty-year-old man sat being annoyed by the younger people's blaring music, he unable to hear the weather, he asks for the Barman to turn it up, but the Barman shouts, "it's at its highest."

Frustrated he rubs his face seeing then as he looks back up at the tv, with the music going down he could hear the news reporter but only slightly, John listened intently with the reporter saying tie things down and take things in as a tsunami is warned to hit the west coast of Ireland.

In a panic he gets up and places a few punt on the table and wobbled to the door, bumping into a lot of people, he finally gets to it and puts his hand on the doorknob, but before he could pull, the door jolted back hitting him square on his forehead, making him fall to the ground as people walked in, the same people apologized helping John back to his feet and away John went stumbling and staggering to the street.

Getting outside and it being dark with wind so heavy and rain lamping down, John walked through the streets to the pier it being only a few steps to it, but to him it felt like a mile long, getting to the start of the pier a man sits in a tow truck shouting at him "hear John better tie you boat up along the shore if possible, it seems the news people are losing their minds, there hasn't been a tsunami since somewhere in the seventeen hundred's."