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E. A. Irwin ~ Dark Fiction Bender

P. A. Matthews
Official site for Riley McCabe series

How Will They Write My Obituary ~

The Infamous Author Bio


The Battlefield


The battlefield lies before me,

wasteland of plastic fallen warriors,

life’s blood drawn from hollow barrels

spilt to dry upon the lined page of conformity.


Jagged edges jerked from a central spiral spine

decorate crumpled balls cast on hardened ground.


wage war across open white space

until their final sentencing.


Anise and cinnamon waft toward me

as if warm trade winds blew

across scented water,

tastes of the exotic wash over my tongue

as I sip the nectar of sustenance

while swallowing a bitter pill.


Unable to break the barrier between

fact and fantasy, there remains

a constant search for the ephemeral

where words meet paper and

coexist in perfected peace.


Until then, another exhausted warrior

falls from my tired hand,

sharing space with the floor clutter of

incomplete thoughts.


                                ~ P. A. Matthews/E. A. Irwin



Author of the “Myth to Life: The

Rise of Riley McCabe” series.

I reside in California, and write

fiction and poetry,  often crossing

genre boundaries  just to keep life

interesting …

and because I can.


When words fail, I tend to swing my sword.

Bright shiny cutlery is as important as

exquisite moisturizer, good hair products,

and a fantastic as pair of stunning stilettos.


Writer – in every aspect of the word. How shall I tell of me?

Perhaps I’ll let a poem explain the nuances contributing to

the passages inside the labyrinth of my mind.


                          Song Of Me In The Key Of ‘P & E’


A head of tousled golden hair

frames a face considered fair,

with pouting smile unless it’s wide,

upon my cheek small dimple resides,

but what about the eyes,

those windows of my soul,

the colors wash across them

in a spectrum of the sea,

from gray to green a

multitude of blues lie in-between,

expressions like storm clouds

gather until relived by calm,

but what goes on inside the mind

some just consider blonde.


What do I witness when
watching from the deep
recesses of hidden thoughts—
do my hopes, dreams, daily passions
decorate my guileless face with pleasure
others have unsuccessfully sought, or
what of the horror of which I write,
is this what turns the mischievous beckoning
of my eyes impish without a guiding light
from above, or is it the revelation of
God’s light that allows me to search
through darkened evil without fear.

Singer, artist, author,
math award winner who can no longer
balance a checkbook, sometimes doesn’t bother
anyone sure I can struggle through
convinced it will make me stronger.
I laugh at that wild imagining,
struggle only makes me tired.

A mystery I am, a conundrum of indignation
and grace, a tightrope walker without a net,
quiet soul with boisterous laugh in constant configuration
of how life is approached, never satisfied, and yet,
what makes me tick within the shell
of a woman few will ever know?
Could it be that I will never tell,
afraid misperception of unwillingness
to divulge my inner man is always
misconstrued, allowing hurt and pain
from those who only want a show,
or, is it the discomfort I feel from
those with whom I invest my trust
and they refuse to honor it.

Friendly, helpful, unsparkling conversationalist,
funny, thoughtful, rarely makes a list,
and back to God, I never really answered
that burning question—my faith runs deep,
my trust in Him has never wavered,
I’ve witnessed hate, and love, and anguish,
heard myself speaking of the insanity of me,
though here I sit, writing out this wish
for a new day that will end in eternity.

I’m sure some wonder what became
of the chubby, blonde little girl—
she grew up, conquered, faltered, and altered,
and even to me I’m an enigma in this world.




Welcome to my Labyrinth.


The twists and turns inside my mind at times convoluted

with sudden dead ends, darkened thoughts which reveal

nothing but more darkened thoughts, endless runs of

barren ground where nothing sparks creativity, padded

walls where I beat my fists and scream into the ether,

sparkling passages filled with accomplishments and dreams,

places in the cleft of a wall where I lay my head and rest

from the persistent highs and lows of life.



I have always wanted to be a spy.


From the first day peeking inside a Nancy Drew mystery, I was

hooked. Where else, but between the covers of a blue plaid book,

could a little blonde kid grow up to be a solver of fantastic

mysteries, or better yet—an espionage agent? Little did my

mother realize, as I immersed myself, the fantasies implanted

in my imagination would solidify, fostering all types of behavior.


Surprisingly, she didn’t squelch the insanity or my grandiose

dreams. The thrill of sitting beneath an overgrown bush, as it

brushed against my face in silenced seclusion, escalated the

needs of my shy six-year-old status, while I madly scribbled

notes regarding the disguises of those passing near, watching

for crimes I was sure they’d commit before the hidden eyes of

the fair-haired wonder.


Slowly, my spy cache grew. Begging for paraphernalia to

furnish my spy kit, I soon possessed an arsenal, including a

smooth black gun, worthy of what James Bond used, along with

a camera for taking all-important surveillance photos, which

both shot plastic bullets upon my cold demand, as well as

walkie-talkies, and a stylized pen fashioned from something

purloined which allowed covert conversations with spy central.


One of my prized possessions was a well-secreted identification

card revealing my agent status only when put under a magic red

film. Ah, life was good as spying became second nature, each

endeavor relished when I took my love of the underworld and

placed it in an unsecured environment—school.


While students did their thing, developing a system intrinsic

to the spy was where I set my sights, sure possessing the ability

to read upside down and backward were inherent traits which

only needed practice. Searching for new schemes, writing

techniques were made up of codes which I diligently checked in

the mirror for each message awaiting decoded revelation.

Much to my chagrin, I never learned to develop invisible ink.

Despite begging for chemicals, my mother never felt the urge

to become homeless while I blew up the kitchen with

experiments, although I was encouraged to inspect any type

of foreign matter, including blood and hair samples with my

trusty microscope. Raised by a mother in the aerospace

industry and being the child of a science and electronics

teacher made for an interesting mix I often refer to as my

slippery DNA ladder. Did I mention I was a geek?

Undaunted, life as a secret agent filled my head with

magical excitement.


So, while Florence Nightingale and Madame Curie were

wonderful role models (played I was both), it wasn’t until the

appearance of Emma Peel, British agent extraordinaire, when

my quest for secret agent status found real possibilities.

Here was a woman who looked fantastic while she kicked the

enemy’s butt, saving the British empire from infiltration and

attack. Yes, Emma became my ideal.


I read every mystery I could get my hands on. Let me rephrase

that—any mystery my grandmother (another Emma) allowed

me to read. I must confess mysteries, thrillers, and a library

filled with suspense still keeps me reading. Throw in a bit of

horror and I’m your gal.


Alas, I never realized my dream of growing to five-feet-nine

inches, owning an Austin Martin, or saving humanity with

guns and the ability to read and write backward. Life somehow

altered my imaginative dreams. However, the unquenchable

thirst for spying and mysteries never faded, nor did thinking

like a secret agent. Nuggets of intrigue remained deeply buried

within my heart and psyche, awaiting exploration, nurturing

a germ of an idea … writing thrillers.


Those who know me know I love the intrigue of getting inside

someone’s head to deliciously dig around in there with shiny

cutlery to find out what makes a person tick, or what gives

them ticks. I like complex characters and plots. I like to be

disturbed by something which alters a character’s normalcy.

I love it when I can play all that out on a page and someone

will say my writing came too close to reality.


A book and its sequel were written (the Shamrock series, yet

unpublished) and in those books the main character is an

amnesiac skilled with a gun since childhood. While the need

to experience everything I wrote wasn’t necessary, the gun

issue was. How could I tell an audience what it felt like to hold

that piece of heavy cold metal in an aching hand while blowing

a hole in someone’s head? Fate intervened. I would experience

what I had daily practiced with my amateur plastic collection.

Shooting a real gun.


My day at the shooting range ended with me emptying a

larger-than-life .45 of its ammo into a paper target. The

dissipating smoke revealed my performance … a bullet clean

through the center X which left all but the center of the letter

intact. Perhaps one day I’ll frame the target and hang it next

to my Pulitzer Prize certificate for outstanding fiction,

whenever it is awarded.


A girl can dream, can’t she? I thought back to my childhood,

happy my imagination had fostered ideas not necessarily

shared by other little girls on the playground.


Deep in my heart I have never given up on the dream of

being a spy, but learned to take those dreams in a new

direction. You just never know where your dreams will lead …


Lest you think I somehow got trapped in a cycle of

never-ending mystery, I was able to accomplish a few

other things as I crept through life. Singing: my true passion,

and one I got to live out for a good portion of my life.

Painting land and seascapes in oil. Chasing storm clouds

with a camera so I could hopefully transfer the images onto

canvas and do their grandeur justice. Luckily, I like science

so I don’t tip over from all the right-brained activity.


Yes, you never know where your dreams will lead.


Maybe life is a mystery after all.


Thanks for reading. I hope you return.


E. A. Irwin/P. A. Matthews





The Pensive Pen


I live my life by practiced pensive pen,
The words well chosen
from my mindless cache,
Across the lines
each letter tells me when
To end the sentence –
period or dash.

Each notebook filled with
twisted spiral spine,
On pages rife
with ordinary ink,
Lies prose, or poem,
or solitary line,
My choice, no matter what
the others think.

A pattern is emerging as I write,

An unknown author-this, my daily plight.


                                            ~ P. A. Matthews/E. A. Irwin


Contact e-mail address:

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