Work from Ken Windle

The Laughing Man.
Declan Coyle was a charming character.  The life and soul of the march towards Dublin.   He had dallied with many girls in his life but, always, moved on. Some said he was a drinker and cared little for women.  Others said he had a lust for life. He always put on a brave countenance when facing adversity. The great hunger had taken a million lives. Children dropped dead on the march and once strong men and women looked like corpses.  As they neared Dublin he took out a revolver.  He blamed the British Empire for the famine and he would bring justice.  He was not laughing now.
A story in 100 words

By the light of the silvery moon.
The moon was full and silvery bright.  On nights like this, lunatics ventured forth, hell bent on madness.  We were such a couple and, long gone in drink, drove onto the beach.  The tide was running high and, past caring, we stripped off our clothes, leaving a trail of garments to the sea's edge.
We plunged into the angry breakers, rolling and splashing.  We were invigorated by the cold, salty water.  The woman at my side looked beautiful, bathed by that silvery light.  The noise of the waves echoed in my ears.  I had made up my mind to take her.  It was all or nothing that wild night.  We shouted and yelled at each other above the noise of the Pacific Ocean.  As I squinted at that heavenly creature she rolled onto her back then sank beneath the surface.  I waited for her to surface but there was nothing.
 I froze, looking at the large, dorsal fin circling to my left.  A great white.  The perfect killing machine honed by nature to kill.
The killer accelerated towards me like a torpedo.  Its doll like eyes black, glossy and unfeeling rolled in its head.  I could taste its evil and malevolence.  It hit me in the ribs and, in intense pain, I passed out.
I opened my eyes to blinding sunlight.  The night had gone, leaving me on the shore.  I turned my neck, painfully, bringing the mutilated torso into focus.  I knew it was my woman by the mane of blonde hair streaming in the onshore wind.  The shark had taken her.  He had cheated me.  She had been taken by the light of the silvery moon.

Gambler, born and bred.
If I recall,
Chances of winning the lottery are small.
That is it, that is all.
Persist in meaningful pursuits.
Expand your mind.
Find the purpose of your existence.
Look at me a fallen soul,
Who had it all,
Now struggles once again to be whole.

Random thoughts.

Birds feed as if there is no tomorrow.
Bolder day by day as if to say.
Pray we survive the winter.
The winter of our discontent,
When tempests rage.
No relent from hunger.
Why do you watch us feed?
Take heed of your human greed.

Wet upon wet,
Yet again no sun today as yet.
Grey clouds racing across leaden skies.
Rain upon rain,
Falling steadily, heavily.
Dampening the spirits of men.
Children go stir crazy imprisoned indoors.
Winds moan, groan, whistling round buildings.
We doze in front of winter fires.
Nothing as yet inspires.

Storm follows storm.
Storms of life,
Bringing strife.
Cutting sharp as a knife.
Threats of earthquake and war,
Disease and pestilence abound,
Round the globe.

Pigeons wait for spring and courtly romance.
Signs begin to unfold.
Crows bearing twigs.
Blackthorn, showing, glowing,
Bearing white blossom.
Lambs newborn wait for a warm sunrise.
The freeze kneels to the mild breeze.
The cold blue hand of winter releases its grip.