The Southern Star recently asked readers to get creative, put their proverbial pens to paper and write some (very) short stories!
February Morning
BY AILEEN BRADFIELD, Enniskeane
Pulling on the oilskins she regards the woollen hat, handy if the rain comes but it will make her too hot. Outside, the crank and scrape of the latch brings her from breezy coldness to the sacred, calm of the maternity ward. A familiar grunting groan fills the space. That backward shuffle through straw, anxious discomfort, bearing down, patience. The crubes are out, another half hour.
Further on a sturdy Belgian Blue seeks and finds his prize. With outstretched neck he claims the warm pink teat while his mother’s gentle moo-calls and nudges, keep him alongside. Reflexive head puck and he sucks with vigour, upturned tail wagging in contentment.
Following the shuck, shuck clatter of calf-barrow and into the brighter shed and bawling calves. She quickly gets to work, climbing over the gate into a little guy fresh from his mother.
With the calf facing the thick warm milk, she plants her feet firmly behind him. Bending over his curly back, stretching one hand around the wet nose, she sets about teasing the mouth to suck. Milk dipped fingers find the willing mouth and yes, that knowing without knowing, that primordial urge.
But wait, wait, maybe he has been too long with the mother. Will he balk? Please suck little fella, my back won’t last. The jaw slowly starts to move, tongue curling around the fingers, clasping, the sucking becomes more insistent. Quickly then the transfer to the rubber teat.
He takes it.
Old Podge
BY David O’Doherty, Clonakilty, runner-up
Coughlan’s had the oddest pool table. Be it the drink, or something magical, but the balls defied gravity and rolled upslope; a mystery only one man had solved.
An old fella with sausages for fingers, grasping endless pints of Murphy’s, every Friday night Old Podge would amble to the back lounge to school the young bucks.
‘Whisht now, children,’ he’d chide. Grabbing the good cue, he’d fish a euro from his suit pocket and slam it into the metal slot. Coughlan’s barflies would flock to observe the master at work. His motion was swift and economical, his wisdom keen.
‘You’ll never plough a field by turning it over in your mind,’ was the advice he’d dispense to vanquished foes. I was there the night he played that shot on the black against Buzz McGrath.
The game went to the decisive black and the crowd hushed as Old Podge bent over the table and set the cue ball in motion.
What happened next flouted all reason. Old Podge waggled his eyebrows and set the cue ball rolling. It was an unorthodox shot that sailed off two cushions before kissing the black, which rocketed into the top right pocket. The lounge stood in disbelief as Old Podge offered a curt nod to Buzz, drained his pint and returned to his stool.
When Old Podge was found dead not long afterwards, the landlord finally caved to pressure and got a new table.
It was pristine and flat. The magic was gone.
The Old Man
BY HANNAH KELLY, Scartagh, Clonakilty, runner-up
Paudie scrambled along the rough path until he came to a remote beach. Today was one of those bright Summer Days that he remembered from his childhood.
Outlined in front of him was An Sean Fhear. Stretched across the rough sea was a long strip of land, a hill on its right which looked like a head, and a sharp, pointed crag on its left which looked like two feet sticking up out of the water.
Here and there were tiny spots of white that reminded Paudie of buttons, but which he knew were the remains of houses from the time this island was inhabited by well over a hundred people.
He had been one of those people, now housed on the mainland because the island was deemed unfit for human habitation. Paudie had spent the happiest years of his life on that island.
Paudie imagined the current inhabitants of the island – the rabbits, the foxes, the many trees and shrubs—no longer bereft of their fruits, the grass untouched by bare feet, and the gulls, fearless now in their scavenging, wheeling around in large numbers.
Paudie shivered. He noticed the mist descending on the island. And he heard a strange noise – the flapping of oars. Peering through mist, he saw a neamhóg.
He blinked and saw a figure rising. Her hands outstretched, he recognised his mother beckoning him, calling him to join him in what was to be his last journey in a neamhóg.
Quality entries give judges an enjoyable but difficult task
We at The Southern Star are happy to say that the judges found it very difficult to agree on our eventual finalists for our inaugural microfiction competition, which is a wonderful complaint to have. The breadth of topics, of talent, of style and of mood divided the judges’ opinions widely, and we hope that our readers equally disagree, debate, and discuss amongst themselves the work which we are very proud to publish. The rules of our microfiction contest were that it was to be no more than 250 words long; to write so concisely requires a keen eye and a brutal knife to the work.
Some famous wit remarked that, If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter. A good writer enters late, and leaves early, and there was scarcely an entry that did not leave us wondering, but sated. To our contributors, we thank you for your time, your efforts, and sharing your talent with us.
To create a story from nothing is a remarkable art, and to put your name to it, and have it out in the world is a commendable act.
To those we reluctantly judged to be the ‘top three’, congratulations. To all our other entrants, we look forward to publishing some of your work in the coming weeks, and look forward to seeing your name in print in the future.
The winning entry will receive a €100 voucher for Kerr’s Bookshop, Clonakilty, while the top two runners up will receive a €50 voucher each for the same shop.
