A retired clinical biochemist in Dublin, a freelance journalist in Belfast, a poet in Oxford and a pharmacist in Cork are among finalists in our recent ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards’ (WAWA) on the theme of ‘danger.’
Here are the stories of their lives. And their stories.
Maureen Coleman, Belfast
Maureen Coleman, a 56-year-old freelance journalist from Belfast in Northern Ireland specialising in entertainment, lifestyle and real life stories, was named a finalist in our WAWA creative non-fiction category.
Her evocative story, ‘Narcissus,’ which she said “was living in my head for five years” and sadly was inspired by an experience she herself unfortunately underwent.
“I was getting ready to go out one evening and in the mirror I could see my ex-partner watching me,” she recalled. “The relationship had turned emotionally abusive by this stage and I knew I had to get out. The look in his eyes as he watched me sent a chill down my spine. I'll never forget it. Once I saw the theme ‘danger’ in the Wild Atlantic Writing Awards competition, I knew immediately what I was going to write about.”
As for her title, ‘Narcissus.’“I wanted the mirror to be central to the story, to reflect back his darkness so once I'd decided on the mirror's role, there was only one title,” she said. “It suited the story well - a heartbreaking myth of a man unable to love others who falls in love with his own reflection. I sat down one Sunday and over the course of the afternoon wrote the story that had been living in my head for five years. I was happy with the result but came back to it two or three times to make a few revisions and get it just right.”
Her greatest challenge. “For me it was staying within the word count while managing to evoke feelings of mounting tension and danger. In the end, I found the whole process cathartic.”
Though an accomplished journalist, this was Maureen’s first time entering a creative writing competition. “News reporting and feature writing are such different disciplines to creative writing so I always held off entering competitions like this one. I think I had a slight case of imposter syndrome so I was absolutely thrilled to be selected as a finalist.”
Narcissus
by Maureen Coleman
I watch him watching me as I sweep a flush of soft pink across the tops of my cheekbones.
He leans against the door frame, arms crossed, a slight smile on his lips. Or a smirk. It’s hard to tell the difference these days.
“I’ve told you before, you don’t need all this warpaint,” he says, gesturing towards the assortment of eye shadow palettes and lip glosses strewn across the bed.
“Anyway, you look better without it.”
And there it is, the inevitable sting.
He comes up behind me now, puts his arms tightly around my waist and kisses my neck.
“But we’re going out tonight and I want to make an effort.” I try to keep my tone neutral. Any hint of defiance might set him off.
His head snaps up. Our eyes meet in the mirror, his, icy blue, narrow. Wrong choice of words. Shit, here we go.
“Oh really? Who for?” he sneers. “Will one of your many exes be here?
“Is that why you’re going out half-naked?”
I glance down at my black Bardot top.
“It’s off the shoulders! It's not like I’m flashing my boobs!”
I turn around to face him now and take both his hands in mine. The knot in my stomach tightens its grip.
“Can we not do this tonight? Please? Just this once, can we go out and have a nice night without it descending into World War Three?”. I hear my voice, pleading, whiney. I hate what I've become.
I’m still holding his hands, reassuring him with carefully chosen words. I've become an expert in mollifying this man child of mine. Appease, pander, placate - it's a way of life now.
But God, I am tired. Our relationship is a battlefield with lines firmly drawn. I tiptoe around the minefield of his mood swings, trying hard not to trigger another temper tantrum, never knowing what’s coming next.
I face the mirror again and flash his reflection a conciliatory smile. Then I reach for my Chanel red lipstick and start filling in my lips. I feel his body tighten and glance in the mirror.
“Are you trying to provoke me?" he hisses now, eyes bulging. "I fucking hate red lipstick! It makes you look like a whore!”
My hands trembling, I mutter an apology and reach for a soft, muted beige. Muted. Like me.
I rub and I scrub the whore red away and paint my lips a pale shade of bland.
He leans in and plants an approving kiss on the top of my head.
“Good girl,” he grins. “See? Things could be great again if you’d just behave yourself and stop being so argumentative.”
I want to cry, but any display of emotion could arouse his ire. So, I nod and force back the tears that threaten to spill.
His reflected features, once handsome, look distorted. Twisted.
I'm going to leave him. Not tonight though. I’ll do it tomorrow.
Just one more night to get through.
Laura Theis, Oxford
Laura Theis grew up in Germany, in a place where all the streets are named after fairy tales, and now lives riverside in Oxford where she writes in her second language.
That’s why being selected as a finalist in WAWA’s flash fiction category with her story ‘Gretchen Tries To Make the Right Choice’ is all the more impressive.
Now in her 30s, Laura gained her Masters degree in creative writing just a few years ago and has been putting pen to paper ever since. She describes herself as “a poet who sometimes moonlights as a fiction writer.”
“I was trying to push myself out of my comfort zone and write something in a new genre,” she said. “Having to create a story with a real sense of danger was a new challenge for me. The first spark for my story came from an image I had of a scientist observing a room-full of girls, although we only encounter him once, as a disembodied voice.”
Like many writers, Laura faced the literary task of ‘killing a lot of babies.’
“My flash version is whittled down from a much longer story of several thousand words which contained a whole other point of view from another character: a man who was watching and evaluating the girls in the story I enjoyed making my story shorter and shorter until only the essence was left.”
As for her story title.
“I really love long titles that are full sentences and I think this one was the only candidate for me. Gretchen's name is important to her especially because her identity has been reduced to a number in her current circumstances so I felt it important to center it.”
Laura’s' previous writing has won many literary prizes.
Her book, ‘A Spotter’s Guide To Invisible Things’ received the Live Canon Collection Prize and the Society of Authors’ Arthur-Welton-Award. Her Elgin Award nominated debut ‘How To Extricate Yourself,’ an Oxford Poetry Library Book-of-the-Month, won the Brian Dempsey Memorial Pamphlet Prize. Other accolades include the Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize, the AM Heath Prize, the Poets & Players Prize, the Oxford Brookes Poetry Prize and the Mogford Prize.
Gretchen Tries To Make The Right Choice
by Laura Theis
When Gretchen hears the lock click behind her, she swallows, or rather, tries to swallow, but her mouth is too dry to produce any saliva. Her tongue feels like a shrivelled, dying thing.
Pull yourself together, a voice screams in her head and she is grateful for it, for how alive it seems. The angry voice of hope. She wills her facial muscles into a non-threatening smile and starts looking around the room. She notices that most of the others aren't smiling. Most look tense or frightened. Some are even unwise enough to allow themselves to look hostile. Good, she thinks. She knows they’re going to be scored on agreeableness. She spots a very small crying girl and makes her way towards her, starts consoling her in a gentle, soothing voice. The girl seems grateful, even accepts a hug. Gretchen wants whoever is observing them to notice her, so she asks the crying child her name. She doesn’t register the reply, she only wants to state her own one in reply, in a clear voice, close to a microphone.
“Gretchen. My name is Gretchen.”
She makes sure to say it twice.
Gretchen is so thirsty the sight of the water bottles dropping from the ceiling almost makes her faint. She tries to calculate the right move, and she knows she’ll have to do so quickly, before too many desperate girls around her make theirs. Not enough water for everyone. What desirable qualities are those assholes trying to assess with this exercise? She has a vague idea it’s to do with submissiveness around precious resources. Shit, she is overthinking this, and now most bottles are already gone. Gretchen makes a grab for one of the last ones, but another girl beats her to it, shoves her backwards. She retreats, then spots another bottle that has rolled into a corner. She jumps on it, relief flooding her. But she doesn't open it. Instead she finds one of the cameras, looks straight into it and asks in as docile a voice as she can muster, “Are we allowed to drink this?” She wasn’t expecting a reply, but suddenly a distorted, disembodied voice booms through the room. “You’ll be allowed to drink as soon as the gong sounds.” Bingo. The gong doesn’t sound for another long stretch of time, in which Gretchen fears that surely someone else is going to fight her for it, but it’s as if the announcement has reminded everyone that they’re being watched.
“Number 22, please stand by the door. You’ll now be escorted to your Assessment. Everyone else, stand back.”
It takes Gretchen a second to remember that this is her, that her entire identity has shrunk down to this number. But still. It’s a lucky number. And she’s been doing ok so far. She’s almost sure of it. If she plays her cards right, if doesn’t completely mess up now, she might survive this.
The door opens. An armed guard grabs Gretchen’s wrists and starts leading her away.
Ruth Keely, Dublin
68 years young, married with two adult children and a finalist in the flash fiction category with her story ‘An Incident On The Line,’ Ruth Keely epitomises the truth that it’s never too late in life to start writing.
A retired clinical biochemist living near the sea in south county Dublin, she says, “I only started writing just over a year ago so am absolutely amazed to have my story recognised in this way.”
As Ruth explains it, “My first attempt at writing since school days was an entry for a short story competition for the Ennis Book Club festival which I attend every year with my book club. Although I was unsuccessful, the discipline of a word count and a closing date was somehow inspiring and since then I have entered several competitions that I’ve found on social media. However, I soon realised I knew very little about the structure of story-telling so I have watched some YouTube tutorials and signed up for both an on-line and local evening courses in creative writing.”
As for her story for the ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards,’ she says, “I’m not sure how this story started, but most people will have known an unpleasant person in their youth and might wonder how they would feel if they saw them years later. I had written a slightly longer version a few months previously and when I saw the theme for this competition, I realised it might work but reducing the word count was difficult. I often use the local commuter train so it was a familiar setting and I love a twist at the end of a story.”
Her approach to writing is an interesting one. “When an idea jumps into my mind, I usually make a quick note on my phone, then later sit down at the laptop and type as fast as possible,” she said. “I like to take a phrase (such as ‘an incident on the line’) and run with it. In this case I started with the title and the rest just fell into place. Later I edited it by re-reading it at least a dozen times, once out loud. I really enjoy writing in a flash fiction style as I’m no good with purple prose. Probably my scientific background!”
An incident on the line
by Ruth Keely
The train had been delayed due to an “incident on the line” and the station was beginning to fill up with intending passengers. I was squinting in the evening sun when I suddenly saw her at the beginning of the platform. She was dressed as if for an interview, in a smart navy suit and kitten heels. Her distinctive red hair was probably dyed now as she must have been in her fifties. I hadn’t seen her in over twenty years and it was still too soon.
I could feel the familiar sensation of a panic attack coming on. The feeling that my chest was going to explode and that I would drown in my own sweat. When I was a child, I always thought these feelings meant I was going to die on the spot. Part of me used to want that to happen, just to get away from her. I took three deep breaths and glanced up at the screen. The delayed train was due in one minute. I had to do something or I would never be free of her and there wasn’t much time. I moved along the platform, pushing my way carefully through the assembling passengers. I didn’t want anyone to notice me.
I could see the distress on her face as I got nearer, a mixture of indecision and fatalism. The blood had drained from her face, her lips were moving as if muttering to herself, her eyes darting from the edge of the platform to down the line. I suddenly felt relief. Maybe fate was coming to my rescue. People were still running down the steps to the platform and surrounding me. Everyone was staring at their phones, chatting, absorbed in their own lives. I looked down the line and the train appeared around the bend hurtling towards the station. She stepped forward over the yellow line, her head bowed.
There was the usual warning shriek from the train as it approached the station and her face suddenly changed. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed and she stood up taller. I recognised that hard expression and it sent shudders down my spine. It was the same determined look I used to see before she would start on me, hurting me, terrorising me, always finding me wherever I hid. Now that she was in front of me, I couldn’t go on knowing that she still existed, still had the potential to threaten me.
She stepped back from the edge and started to turn around. Had she changed her mind? It was too late for that. I forced a stumble and fell hard into her. She flew off the platform, arms flying, grabbing at the air, looking up at me in shock. Did she momentarily recognise me, remember what she did? I hoped so. Then she was gone.
For me, this was more than just another “incident on the line”. It was closure. And I was safe at last.
Terry Kerins, Cork
A pharmacist by profession but also a creative writing facilitator for neurodivergent adults in her native Cork, Terry Kerins, now in her mid-40s, was named finalist in the flash fiction category with her story ‘Two For The Price Of One.’
“In my initial short story, I had the idea of a mother and son waiting for the son’s father to arrive at an arranged pick-up point in a supermarket carpark to take him for a weekend away,” she said. “This opening scene was very vivid and I felt it was the beginning of something. It sat untouched for quite a while until I re-read it and realised that I still liked it and could take it somewhere. I’ve made a good few revisions and it had previously been rejected in its short story form by a number of competitions and journals. I felt there was something in the core of it and I think by stripping it back to flash fiction I found the real story.”
As for choosing her title. “There was only one other possibility, ‘No Harm Done,’ but when I pared the word count down this was no longer relevant as it was a quote from the child’s father that I cut in the editing.”
Terry received the good news about being selected as a finalist while on her sick bed. “It came late on a Monday evening when I was smothered with a head cold so nothing could have lifted my spirits more. Thank you to the judges for taking the time to read my work and for deeming it worthy of a finalist position. Writing can be a lonely road and it is so encouraging to get recognised for all the drafting and re-drafting and editing that goes into getting one piece ready for submission.”
Terry’s writing has already earned her awards, including winning the Bournemouth Writing Short Story Prize three years ago. In 2023 she received a Special Commendation ‘From The Well’ short story awards and had two entries short-listed in the Allingham Flash Fiction Competition in Donegal and one Highly Commended. Last year, she was a finalist in the London Independent Story Prize and in the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation Writing Competition.
Two for the price of one
by Terry Kerins
17:35
I shake my head and a silent curse forms on my lips. The supermarket carpark is nearly empty, and I turn to my son, Dylan, ‘Let’s play I spy!’
‘I spy with my little eye something the colour, pink,’ he says, then points.
At the corner of the carpark, near the woods, stand a group of teenagers. There are two girls who look about seventeen and one of them is wearing a day-glow pink boob tube and shorts set. The other girl is heavier, her legs an unnatural orange colour. They splinter from the group, elbows akimbo, hands on hips, chins jutting out.
‘Don’t show me, Dylan. Silly goose!’
He frowns and folds his arms, ‘I want Daddy.’
‘Daddy will be here soon,’ I say, giving Dylan my phone and I watch the teenagers to the theme tune of Spider Man. The heavier girl leaves, crossing the carpark, arms swinging.
18:10
Now the teenagers are passing around a bottle. The girl’s movements are exaggerated, like she’s being controlled by a puppeteer.
Tom, my ex-husband’s Corolla parks beside me, a surfboard strapped to the roof.
‘Daddy,’ Dylan shouts, dropping the phone into the back footwell.
‘Dylan, buddy,’ says Tom. His hair is damp, and I can see salt crystals sticking to his arms.
‘Claire. Yeah, sorry I’m a bit late.’
‘Since when did an hour classify as, “a bit.” You chose this stupid meeting-point so you’d be on time.’
‘Take it easy. We said six, its only ten past.’
‘We said five. We’ve been here over an hour. Dylan thought you weren’t coming.’
‘I knew you’d come,’ says Dylan.
Tom grabs Dylan and swings him onto his shoulders with an ease I envy.
There’s a harsh shriek. Day-glow girl is in between two of the boys who are half lifting, half dragging her. The two others follow them into the trees.
‘Tom,’ I grab his arm and point.
‘Leave them be, Claire, you’re always getting involved.’
‘Tom. There are four of them.’
‘Take it easy, they’ll sort it out themselves.’
I take off across the carpark and into the coolness of the woods. A strangled cry leads me to a clearing. There’s a scalded patch of ground with buckled drink cans strewn around it. The dry earth is trodden flat.
Two of the boys hold her down. Another holds her legs, as the fourth pulls at her shorts and knickers. I can see her pubic hair, pruned into a landing strip. She can’t be more than fourteen.
‘Stop,’ I call.
The girl’s eyeballs flick from side to side, huge under her fake eyelashes.
Two older lads appear. ‘Hey Stacey. You never said you were bringing your Mam along. The more the merrier, eh?’
They laugh, a hard sound.
‘Let go of her,’ I say. But there’s a burning on my upper arms and I hit the ground.
‘Two for the price of one,’ says the biggest boy, the smell of cheap cider on his breath.
コメント