Random Rambles

We Could Pretend… #poem

From Beth Ronan’s Poetry Compilation “Blurred Lines”

We Could Pretend

By Genevieve Dewey


We could pretend we both got lost here

…crossed paths like two strangers.

Strange in body, but not in soul

Certainly not in hearts.

Because ours

Have surely met before.

We could pretend we both found here

…Discovered by the fusion of fate and serendipity.

That heart’s intention had a will of its own

And could see with greater clarity

Than our words and mind.

Because ours

Have never been more blind.

We could pretend we both are free here

…Unburdened by promises and expectation.

Adrift in a sea of peaceful indecision

Where clarity came not from stillness

But a rare moment of chaotic bliss

Because ours

Would not be a placid sort of love.

We could pretend we floated to shore

…kissed by the lapping of the waves.

That our caresses were born from survival

And not an anxious sort of loneliness.

Because ours

Have always been this desperate.

We could pretend that nobody would mind

…betrayed by none and no betrayal in kind

That our love was just more prescient

Than the petty dictates of ephemeral morals.

Because ours

Have atrophied once more.

We could pretend we cared about any of that

…tethered to a society that tells us we should.

But we never were fond of children’s games

Nor too weak or innocent to face reality.

Instead we pretend nothing and willingly suffer

The consequences of our honesty.

Because ours

…Is not a pretending sort of love.

© 2013 Genevieve Dewey, All Rights Reserved

A Letter from Mickey Downey, Part Four.

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The following is a letter referenced in Third Time’s The Charm;

Beneath the tray was a bundle of letters, no envelopes, about an inch thick. Mary’s hands trembled and she quickly rubbed them against her pant legs to remove her sweat. She sent a brief nervous glance at the doorway and lifted the first letter up.


My dearest Mary,

I would say first, that I love you, except mostly these days I despise you the way a man can hate only that which he once loved more than life. I take joy in that, actually, because today I realized I still have a heart. How could I still hate you this much if I didn’t? The truth is I hate you because I still love you and I would give anything if I could stop. You wanted me in prison for my crimes once, well this is a worse punishment by far. I hope you are happy, wherever you are. No, I hope you are empty. Empty like I am. I hope you ache the way I do. For everything we could have had together.

I decided to stop writing you today. It’s not fair to my children. I held my new son in my arms last night and I made a promise to myself. I will not rest until I find you. It was better to let you run and hide when Big Joe was in charge, but now I’m the man in charge and I will find my son and bring him home to his sister and brother. But until then, I have to stop holding on to the past. I thought writing these letters would help. I know now, nothing will help but to see you in front of me instead of in my memories. I’m only left to wonder, which will win out when I see you again? The love, or the hate?

Until We Meet Again,


Read the rest of the letters here: Letters From Mickey Downey

A Letter from Mickey Downey, Part 3.

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The following is a (partially coded) letter sent shortly before this event referenced in Second of All;

Maeve had turned in the doorway, still ignoring Mary, and said to a sticky faced Tommy, ‘until we meet again, grandson’. When Mary asked Michael about it later he had said that he simply wanted his mother to meet them ‘just in case’. All further prying was met with stony silence until finally, ‘Family’s family, Mary girl. You never know when you might need them.’ And subject closed.


Dear Ma,

Dublin? I’m to believe you spent a week in Dublin just for grins and giggles? Pull the other one. I say this with love in my heart but what’s a woman of your age thinking? I seem to recall you once saying you’d eat gruel and potatoes for a month before you’d ever spend more than a passing moment there. If you’re needing something to do you might consider visiting your children. Has Rosa told you she’ll be working uptown after she graduates? That’s two of your children situated fine, in case you’re counting. Not that I’m fishing for compliments, I’d never bother to be so modest. Ha!

Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind another visit if you’ve a yen to hop the pond. Recently I’ve been listening to some songs that have me a wee down in the mouth. Makes me think of the bonds of family and days gone buy. Speaking of, I’ve a project I’d like to show you. It’s my best creation yet and near to my heart. It would bring me great pleasure to know you’d seen it. And though I know you hate morbid talk, I would be comforted knowing it had a safe home should mine crumble. After all, the weather in New York is as capricious as ever.

As for those cigars you saw on Arthur, I’ve purchased three; one for your next visit, one for a rainy day, and the other for posterity. For myself, I prefer the Cubans. And, yes, I do believe you are correct, too much Italian food does give one heartburn. Next time I’ll wash it down with some whisky.

All My Love,


#RandomGen Ramble: Irish men are hot because God loves me.

Oh bah, who cares it’s a spurious conclusion? Prove me wrong. ;P

Some of you know I’ve been gushing on Facebook and Pinterest over #HotFrancis, aka dirty Detective Francis Maguire, aka actor Kevin Ryan on BBC America’s show Copper. Don’t know who that is? Wuuuuut? *face palm*




Now, I didn’t always think of him as #HotFrancis. In fact, on the first season, I merely registered his existence as Detective Corcoran’s good-looking, morally ambiguous partner who did a WAY better job of ‘keeping it real’ than Corky. I mean, for real, it’s like Detective Corcoran didn’t get the memo he’s a copper in New York City in 1865 where even the Nuns are corrupt, so this wide-eyed look of constant surprise every time the dirty gets done (which is, like, every two seconds) really was rubbing me the wrong way. But Corcoran’s super hot as well and I love me my cops v criminals stories. Especially one produced by Tom Fontana and Thomas Kelly. I mean, you are always guaranteed a gritty, character-based story with these men, instead of shallow, plot-point writing.

But anyway, as I was saying, now there’s this season and Francis just goes on a tailspin from garden variety corrupt cop (90% of the precinct) to joining one of the Irish Gangs (throw-a-rock-and-hit one) and bam, I’m like, lusting all over him. Like, drool buckets, peeps. Kid you not.

*Cue husband sighing in exasperation.*

I think I’ve mentioned no matter the show, my husband is always Team Law Enforcement. So he clings to his precious Corky like a life raft seeing as he’s at least trying to be a good Copper. (Again, while banging prostitutes, doing heroine, and asking The Donovan for favors from Tammany Hall…)

*Cue Gen snorting and rolling her eyes.*

So here’s the thing… I like morally conflicted Bad Boys. The righteously indignant like Corcoran don’t get me gooey nor do the unrepentantly bad like Donovan or Robert Morehouse’s father. I often like their characters for many reasons (I believe I mentioned above there is no such thing as a one-dimensional character in a Fontana show) but I just love the Bad Boy who fights with his conscience and loyalties against his more dominant, darker urges.

He became #HotFrancis for me the minute I realized I sooooo didn’t care he’s killed people, slept with Corky’s wife, and kept her from him, I still see the struggle in him. That scene where he’s yelling at Ellen if she would have chosen him he never would have left her? …. Gahhhhh, I was gone. Because Kevin Ryan made me actually believe Maguire meant it, for all his selfishness and grift.

*Cue husband shaking his head.*

Yeah, it’s not just because Kevin Ryan is a damn-fine looking Irishman, it’s because the character of Francis Maguire is hot.

That’s the power of good writing.


/ #RandomGen ramble over….


PS–Anyone else think Kevin Ryan would make a good Agent James Hoffman? Wonder if he can do a Chicago accent…


A Letter from Mickey Downey, Part Two.

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The following is a letter referenced in First, I Love You;

“Does he like to play Princesses?” Kiki asked. Daddy didn’t answer, just chuckled as he picked up his pen and wrote:

Dear Tommy, First, I love you. I hope you enjoyed the present I sent—’

“Daddy, guess what! I read the word love!” Kiki said, proud of herself.

“Very good, sweetheart, very good,” he seemed to choke out the words like something was stuck in his throat. Then he kissed her head and continued to write.


Dear Tommy,

First, I love you. I hope you enjoyed the present I sent–I’m not sure what a boy your age is ‘in to’ these days but I gathered from your Transformer PJs that you might like those. If you already have this car, let me know, and I will get you one you don’t. And, of course, Happy Birthday! Turning ten is a pretty big deal, it’s not every day a young man busts into the double digits! Do you remember how much you liked playing cars in the living room? We must have lost a few dozen Matchbox cars down that large vent. When you were just a wee tyke you refused to walk over it and you would stand there, stubborn as a mule, until your mother would lift you over. If I was there you would insist I do it because I always remembered to make the airplane sounds. Mothers sometimes don’t understand the importance of these things. Speaking of your mother, I am not sure if she told you that you have a little sister, she’s 5 1/2 and about to attend Kindergarten. Her name is Katherine but we call her Kiki. I’ve included a picture, she’s eager to meet you. You’ll have to indulge her if she asks you to play Princesses, little girls are sometimes pushy like that. But I promise to take you out for an extra large ice cream afterward! And never fear, you also have a brand new brother, he was born just this last May and his name is Giovanni, but we call him Joe. He reminds me a lot of you as a baby. You were always such a good baby, hardly ever cried. Kiki cried all the time but is now quiet as a bug in a rug. And it seems like you will be the only one of my children to have the Downey green eyes. Ah well, who can predict these things?

I’m sure this is a lot to take in, so I will end my letter here and say once again that I love you and I miss you. I don’t know what it is your mother may have told you, but I want you to know you can call me whenever you like, or write if you are so inclined. I meant what I said last week that I will always be here for you no matter what, day or night, whatever you need. And you don’t need to worry, I will not make you move, I gave you my word. You can ask your mother, I always keep my promises.

Your loving father,


PS–I’ve also included my business card which has my personal lines written on the back. You may call any of the numbers, everyone has instructions to put your call through to me at once.

A Letter from Mickey Downey, Part 1.

I thought I might occasionally share with you some of the letters Mickey Downey wrote to his loved ones. The title of the first book in The Downey Trilogy, “First, I Love You”, comes from the letters Mickey wrote to Tommy as a child. Mickey’s letters (not just the ones to Tommy) are a recurring theme in the trilogy, although the reader rarely gets to see one. I hope you will enjoy getting to read one!

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The following is a letter referenced in Second of All; “It was a particularly good one, one Tommy had read several times (though he would go to his grave before he would admit that to anyone).In it, his father dispensed with the usual ‘here’s what your sister and brother are up to’ and spent the letter reminiscing about living with Tommy and Mary in Brooklyn.”

Dear Tommy,

First, I love you and I hope you are well!

A little birdie told me your hockey team didn’t make it to the finals. I am sorry to hear this and I know it is not from any lack on your part. You are quite talented, I am sure. Defeats are a part of life’s lessons for us I am afraid. Sadly they only get harsher as life moves on. But it is how you handle these disappointments that makes the mettle of a man. But I have no worries there, even as a young child you always brushed off disappointments with only a minimal fuss. A trait you get from your mother, no doubt, as it couldn’t have been easy raising you alone but she never complained. Even in the end shortly before she left, for as many arguments as we had she still was as loving and patient as ever. Every day I was able to spend with you, she always had a smile on her face and no matter the struggles she had, she could always find a way to spin a positive out of it. I remember one time when you were only about 2 years old, she had been ill all week with the Flu and had lost her waitressing job from the missed work. I brought her roses and the rent for the remainder of the year expecting to have to comfort her. But you know what she did? She smiled wide, handed you to me, and said, ‘I’m only sad I can’t smell these roses.’ I fed you dinner (spaghetti-os were your favorite) and I even got to give you your bath, something your mother usually did herself as I apparently made too much of a mess playing battleship with you. It was my habit each night I got to spend with you to rock you to sleep telling you stories your great grandfather, Seamus O’Malley, had passed on to me. Now, there is a man whose veins run with pure steel–he never met a disappointment he couldn’t turn into a blessing! He is a full 45 years older than I, yet he can still run circles around me in a spirited argument and still carves every day. If I possess even half of his vigor at his age I will truly be blessed. Anyway, this story was one of your favorites, or I should say, sent you to sleep the fastest, which in retrospect might be saying the opposite. You’ll have to tell me which case it is upon hearing it at an older age: 

Finnegan had been a hard working man, if the work you were speaking about was finding ways to do the least amount of work to gain the most. One of his favorite things to do was trick people in to buying his tales of magical healing wells. Now back then people had heard of Brigid’s Well but few knew where to find it. Finnegan would spin a yarn about how he had thrice been cured by it himself and he knew the secret path to get there. They would pay him in food and shelter and other such comforts to show them where the well existed. But wily Finnegan would lead them around in circles until they were good and dizzy then leave them off at the nearest spring he could find. By the time they discovered the water was just ordinary water, he would be long gone. One night he was sleeping in a barn and a Wee One appeared before him.

“Finnegan,” she said. “It just so happens there is such a well in Kildare as to make a sick man healed. Would you like to know how to find it?”

“Oh, yes, very much,” Finnegan replied, thanking his good fortune, but suspicious of it just the same. “What is it you would want in exchange?”

“You must agree never to trick others again. And, I must warn you, you can only drink the water if you truly seek healing.”

“Of course,” Finnegan agreed, while crossing his finger behind him.

The Wee One told him the well’s location and Finnegan began searching for it, out of curiosity and avarice. But every time he would get near where the well was supposed to be, he would find he was right back where he had started. But he would always begin again thinking this would be the time he would find it. He began to waste away from obsession and lack of food. One day as he was resting on a low wall along came a fair maiden. She gave him some warm bread and he told her of his quest. He figured he had been tricked by the Wee One just as he had tricked others because even now, when he was truly sick, he still could not find the water.

“You poor dear,” the girl said. “I’m afraid Morrigan left out the most important part. You must truly want to get well to find the water in the first place.”

“What foolishness is this?” Finnegan asked. “Of course I want to get well!” And he did, for she was quite beautiful and he could see himself raising goats and children with her as a good and honest man.

“Then drink,” Brigid said and waved her hand. Behind her apace was a small circle of stones with a bucket suspended atop. He drank the cool, mossy water and suddenly felt no desire to wander anymore.

He settled down and made a good life with her. But one day his past came to haunt him as these things tend to do. One of the people he had tricked in the past came seeking justice. When Finnegan offered to let him drink from their well, the man thought he was being tricked yet again and absconded with Finnegan’s bride. Enraged, Finnegan armed himself and his children and swore vengeance upon the man and all who would aid him, vowing he would not stop until he was reunited with his fair love. But he did not know Brigid had sacrificed herself rather than be used by his enemies. So, endlessly he searched, killing all those who dared try and stop him. After each battle, those who would come to claim the bodies of their kin would swear Brigid’s ghost would wander about the dead, crying for their souls, and singing: ‘Until we meet again, my love, until we meet again’.

Then one day, wearied unto his soul from his searching, Finnegan laid down his weapons and gathered his children and grandchildren near and said, ‘enough’ and breathed his last breath, thus finally being reunited with his eternal bride. But his children did not weep, for there is nothing so perfect as a thing with no ending and no beginning, such as a family of souls intertwined.

My dear boy, I think of this story often when I think of you and your mother, not just because it reminds me of when we were together, but because it gives me comfort knowing that eventually, we will be a family again.

Your loving father,


A wee bit of #RandomGen on a fine Thursday…

I was thinking… periodically I come across blog posts, or articles or whatever that talk about research put into fictional books. It’s true there are some great fiction novels that practically exude “author researched the heck outta this” and then there are others that exude “aw, come on, that would never happen”. My own personal style? I’m somewhere in between. As some of you know I love, luuuurve, love things having to do with American gangsters–usually old school gangsters of the Luciano and Capone sort. I also love the rich history of the FBI and other crime-fighting branches of the US Government. I also love the history of Chicago and the history of Nebraska (which have quite a long history of being connected). My family’s from Chicago, I’ve heard tons of interesting stories. I tried to throw some shout-outs, if you will, to those histories in my Downey series. BUT, I’m telling a story, a fictional story. I took some liberties. Quite a few liberties, as only the purists will know. *wink* I think that’s our right as authors, in essence to say, “Yeah, but what IF it were to happen this way?”

What was my point?

I have no real point (ha!) except to say I deeply enjoy when people discover/recognize my nods to history and real people but, yes, I did, on purpose, flirt with the “that would never happen”. That’s the point to telling a yarn…


Speaking of #RandomGen… did you know Al Capone’s older brother Vincenzo–“Jimmy”–lived in Homer, Nebraska? Yeah, for realsies. Went by the name of Richard Hart. And–get this–he was the town Marshall for a while.

I know, right?

Sometimes the truth really is stranger than fiction.






Write ON! REBLOG of “You’re Not a Writer” by Lissa Bryan

From Lissa Bryan:

“You’re Not a Real Writer”–RUBBISH!

“…In the end, it seems to boil down to a few critics and authors who want to keep up these crumbling walls of distinction as a way of differentiating a select few from the hoi polloi, like a society matron appalled at the influx of “new money.” But their insecurity does not constitute a valid definition.

There are real writers everywhere.

Click to read more. It’s a fantastic blog post! (I’d just Reblog it, but alas, Blogger and WordPress do not play well with each other so I have to manually do it.)
And speaking of things that are full of Truthy-truthiness:


There isn’t a day that goes by that Ireland Calling doesn’t have the right cheer me up, which sometimes comes in the form of “rub some dirt in it” as my maternal Grandfather would say and he was full of salty Irish wisdom. Haha!

You can go to their website www.irelandcalling.ie by clicking on the meme or follow them on Facebook at www.facebook.com/IrelandCalling and Celtic Quotes www.facebook.com/pages/Celtic-Quotes/ !!!

To those that like to rush to judgement and place people in boxes…


Hee! Dedicated to all the “challenging” women out there. *wink*