Kimberley Lynne

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Carrickfergus: An Irish Ghost Story

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KimLynne

Playwright and UB prof Kimberley Lynne travels to Ireland with students each summer–and, frankly, she sometimes encounters specters in her hotel room. Not that she minds, mind you. Happy St. Patrick’s Day tomorrow, readers.

We request the most haunted room, but 21 isn’t available—it’s very popular in summer. Instead, we reserve the adjacent room 22 in the 700-year-old Dobbins Hotel in quaint, Protestant Carrickfergus, just beyond Belfast at the gateway to the Antrim Coast (or as my favorite Catholic poet calls it “north of the wall”) and guarded by a dark, hulking Norman citadel. Two round stone towers flank crenulated walls. Brightly painted mannequin warriors point replica rifles out of battlements. Belfast Lough laps on one side of the castle and a wide expanse of lawn the other. King William of Orange’s diminutive statue guards the parking lot, fenced and life-sized, considering the Marine Highway’s constant traffic. In 1690, King Billy landed at the Carrickfergus sea wall on his way south to the Battle of the Boyne. Fresh bundles of flowers lie at his boots.

    Burying Facebook’s Dead

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    image courtesy of sparkyhub.com
    image courtesy of sparkyhub.com

    Baltimore author/playwright and UB instructor Kimberley Lynne is disturbed by the fact that the dead and gone never seem to depart Facebook — here’s what she proposes be done about this insensitive oversight.

    Five of my Facebook friends have expired, yet occasionally a helpful sidebar will cheerily suggest: You haven’t talked to Greg in a long time, why don’t you send him a Starbucks gift card?

    I’d love to, I think, but I hope he’s beyond those mortal concerns now.

      Keys: A Short Story by Kimberley Lynne

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      girlwithhouse

      As UB grad student Kimberley Lynne illustrates in this short story excerpted from her MFA thesis, “The world of Hamilton is thick with surprise.”

      “Don’t I know you?” the Key Maker asks me. He’s even shorter than I am and built like a fireplug. He needs a step stool to reach the key templates hanging over his work station. He has stubby fingers and a halo of fine hair.

      I’m glad I’m unwashed and wearing baggy clothes; sometimes it’s easier not to look pretty. I don’t have the emotional fortitude for conversation; a sob lurks in the back of my throat, threatening to rise. People who need key copies hover in some transitional zone between lovers or roommates; the Key Maker should respect our code of silence.

      The Guru of Harford Road

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      robot

      UB grad student Kimberley Lynne is writing a short story collection set in Hamilton called Something with a Crust. Enjoy this hot, free sample!

      He is egg-headed. His skin is tanned, not a Creole shade, but more like grease that coats an abandoned order of breakfast potatoes. Time hasn’t been kind to him. His missing sections of teeth give him a slight lisp. His thinning hair is combed over and peaked in the center of his skull, and something woolly grows out of his ears and wraps around the arms of his gun-metal glasses. His cheeks sag in pouches, pocked like pears teetering on the edge of decay. “I said I don’t do battery,” the lawn mower repairman slurs into one long word.

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