Junefinnigan's Weblog

Here is the direct link for my novel ‘My Father, The Assassin’ by J W Finnigan which I have just received.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/My-Father-The-Assassin-Finnigan/dp/1481904396/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1358800225&sr=8-1

You can also buy or borrow on Kindle! The author is June Finnigan on Kindle and J W Finnigan for the paperback.  Yes, they are both me-don’t ask!

Enjoy x

Phew, I have run all the way to my blog site to bring you the great news that ‘My Father, The Assassin’ is now published through CreateSpace and will be available in five working days on Amazon!  I expect to post the Amazon Link at the weekend.  Please, please buy it to help boost my recognition.

About time, you might say and I agree.  The other great news is that I can concentrate on completing ‘The Bolivian Connection’ for publication!

This is probably the best adrenalin rush I’ve had in years and spurs me on to even greater things.  I will be performing with my rock band, The Rock Chick Band, in June in Tuscany and I would love you all to be there.  This is to be a year of celebration!

Would love to hear from you, Amore June x

Christmas 2010

 The Mother who got home for Christmas

Was ringing a gold festive bell

The children had all rushed to greet her

For she had such a story to tell.

They all settled down by the fireside

And she smiled in the glow of the flames

There was stardust and snow on her clothing

As she sat in the warmth without pain.

The mother who got home for Christmas

Had been driving alone in the snow

Then the roads had become impassable

And soon she had nowhere to go.

For the mother who got home for Christmas

Had legs that were crippled and old

And whilst others were able to walk home

She was forced to wait in the cold.

But then on the hour of midnight

A bright shining star lit the sky

The car was showered with gold dust

And a sleigh then landed nearby.

The mother who got home for Christmas

Could hardly believe her eyes

For Santa was here with his reindeer

He had seen her from up in the sky.

She was sprinkled all over with stardust

then she walked to his sliegh in a dream

She was wrapped in a great white blanket

Then flew off in a sparkling stream.

A few minutes later they landed

She walked to her door without pain

Santa placed all the presents around her

then went into the night again.

For the mother who got home for Christmas

A miracle had happened that night

If you believe in the magic of Christmas

It’s power will make everything right.

 The Wayward Son

 By June Finnigan

The Sun was raging, boiling hot, spat out its wayward son,

The fiery rock, alone in shock, flew ever further on.

At last it slowed and felt a pull towards a silent moon,

It rested there and gently spun to cool its molten wounds.

Its outer crust became less hot, a warm and sticky stew,

Tiny creatures, mindless things evolved and landmass grew,

The mud then thinned and creatures swam in seas of blue and green

Then trees and plants grew strong and danced, in breezes fresh and clean.

The smiling rock gazed into space and felt its fathers pleasure

The Sun was pleased and sent out rays, to warm the rocks new weather

But waiting in the gentle seas, a creature not so happy, had seen the land

 And grew some legs, its greed was sharp and snappy.

The creature quickly found its feet and started walking upright

It marched across those fertile lands with battles, scorn, and blight

It built great ships, it sailed the seas and thought itself superior

It mined and scarred the rocky slopes, it damaged rocks interior.

It killed and ate the harmless creatures, greedy sickly feasts

It sucked out oil, created fuel to feed its metal beasts

The rock felt ill, its centre groaned with fire that spurted out

The creature and its kind were shocked, they screamed and ran about.

The Sun looked down upon the rock, it shed a molten tear

The creature was the one to blame; he was the one to fear.

The Sun increased it burning power right through the ozone layer

It would scare the greedy beast, the creature said a prayer.

The rock spat out its wayward son and sent it into space

The creature’s metal ship had been it’s only saving grace.

The Sun watched from its vantage point and waited many years

Until the rock was well and healed, then brushed away its tears.

Hunter Dies
By June Finnigan
1st November 2010

Hunter’s wife is red with nagging, scoffs at hunter’s boastful bragging;
Brown dog turns its head away, fears the mood may go astray.
Hunter storms out of the room, leaves his wife in pool of gloom;
Takes his jacket, hat and gun, heads for moor, begins to run.

Way above on wind swept crag, stands the proud and watchful stag;
Red coat glistens in the rain, muscles flexed to ease the pain.
Shoulder grazed by hunter’s bullet, hind had licked, tried to clean it;
Now he waits with nerves on edge, stands his ground on rocky ledge.

Hunter pulls his hat down low, bends to meet the swirling snow;
Over field of ‘set aside’, crosses stream and moor so wide.
Now he enters woods so dark, sheltered from the stormy blast;
He will prove he’s not a liar, checks his gun, prepares to fire.

Hind at rest by mossy boulder, fawn asleep against her shoulder;
Raises head and sniffs the air, soft brown eyes, her fawn to care.
Snug and warm on leafy bed, sleepy now she nods her head;
Tries so hard to stay alert, thinks of red stag, proud and hurt.

Hunter takes the lower track, keeps up wind, he can’t be slack;
Steps so softly, breathing low, sees the hind in rocks below.
Trees have thinned, snow is heavy, unscrews flask and takes a bevy;
Rests his gun against tall pine, makes his plan, there’s ample time.

Red stag listens, sniffs and stares, hunter could be anywhere;
Storm is closing in great haste, there can be no time to waste.
Quietly leaves his vantage point, moves to ease his aching joint;
looking east and looking west, tired and cold he needs to rest.

In the woodland life is still, wildlife fearing, sensing kill;
Moon comes up as evening darkens, hunter waits his senses sharpen.
Red stag cannot hide forever, hind will draw him through the heather;
Storm at last begins to ease, gentle breeze the grasses tease.

Red stag steps into the wood, so far things are looking good;
Hunter may not venture out, evening’s cold and snows about.
Stops and listens, head held high, hears the silence, heaves a sigh;
Breaking twigs now sound like thunder, hooves are cracking debris under.

Hunter hears the muted sound, cocks his gun and spins around;
Hind now senses danger near, rises up, confirms her fear.
Sees the hunter, rifle raised, knows that red stag must be saved;
Loving eyes return to fawn, can she leave his side so warm.

Red stag reaches open ground, listens hard for slightest sound;
Moonlight bathes the clearing bright, hind and fawn almost in sight.
Then he sees the glint of steel, flash of fire, he turns and reels;
But he feels no wind or pain, hunter fired and missed his aim!

Hunter’s gun flew from his shoulder, hind had leapt from nearby boulder;
Sending bullet into heath, saving stag from certain death.
Stag sees hunter grab the gun, fears for hind and starts to run;
Head held low, his antlers armed, hunter braces in alarm.

One step forward, hunter aims, screams as ankle sears with pain;
Pine strewn ground comes up to meet him, rusted mantrap crunches teeth in!
Stag and hind recoil in shock, stare at hunter, ankle locked;
Red blood seeps into the ground, hunter lets out mournful sound.

Hunter’s wife regrets her nagging, smiles at brown dog, tail a wagging;
Lays the table, stirs the soup, gathers eggs from chicken coop.
Hopes that hunter won’t be long, night is cold with winter’s song;
Sits by fire with babe at breast, waits with brown dog, all at rest.

Red stag, hind and fawn so small, leave the woodland, trees so tall;
Ford the stream that runs so deep, climb the rocky moor so steep.
Now that they are on safe ground, stag takes time to turn around;
Lying deep in woodland heath, thinks of hunter nearing death.

Hunter lies in pool of blood, strapping leg has done no good;
Thinks of wife, regrets his rage, wants to turn a brand new page.
Feeling weaker, feeling strange, calls for help are out of range;
Woodland creatures hear his cries, none will heed him, hunter dies.

Yes, I know, I have failed to keep the world updated, which is a tragedy to say the least. But ‘I’m back to let you know that I can really shake them down’ (sorry, old 1960’s pop song lyrics that suddenly came into my head, which happens all the time I’m afraid)
‘My Father, The Assassin’ is slowly doing the rounds of London agents, one or two at a time seems sensible. No bite yet, but some nice comments!
Yet another short story has rolled out of my over active mind, called ‘Without Trace’, a little bit of Tuscan science fiction.
Otherwise, I am currently planning a Rock Concert in June 2011 in Tuscany to add to my artistic CV. Let me know if you would like a free ticket!
Life is good here in Tuscany and very inspiring for writers and artists; I am a lucky girlie.