creative writing competitions ireland

W riting Competition 2024

The 2024 Write By The Sea Writing Competition closes Friday 21st June 2024

The winner of each category will receive a cash prize of €500 and a free weekend pass to Write By The Sea festival 2024.

All four winning pieces will be published in the winter issue of The Waxed Lemon Literary Journal.

The runners-up in each category will receive €300 and third place will receive €200.

C ategories

There are four competition categories:

1. Fiction Short Story (maximum 2,500 words) 2. Flash Fiction (maximum 700 words)  3. Poetry (maximum 40 lines) 4. Memoir/Personal Essay (maximum 1,000 words)

The independent panel of judges will select the winners and each category winner will be invited to read their work at a public event as part of the festival.

R ules and Conditions

• Entries must be the original work of the entrant and should not have been previously published in any format, online or print, self-published or paid.
• Entries must be  double-spaced   in Microsoft Word, 12 point, Times New Roman font  – please do not include images or coloured fonts – and should be saved as .docx or .doc documents. The name of the entrant should not appear anywhere in the document.  (see Note A below).
• Entries must be submitted via the Online Entry Form on the Competition Page of the WBTS website,  writebythesea.ie  where entrants will upload their names and contact details.
• All entries must be in English.
• Entrants can submit as many entries as they wish at €10 per entry, or enter 3 pieces, in the same or different genres, for €25.
• Should your entry win a prize or be published elsewhere, please let us know so that we can remove it from the WBTS 2024 Writing Competition.
• The decision of the judges is final and no correspondence/contact will be entered into and no feedback will be given to individual entrants.
• Entrants should retain copies of their work as entries will NOT be returned.
• Committee members and relatives of committee members of the Write By The Sea festival, its agents, contributors or sponsors are not eligible to enter the competition.
• All non-winning entries will be deleted from our records after three months from the date of the announcement of the competition results.

Note A: It breaks our hearts when we have to disqualify entrants who break the rules. Sadly, each year we have to disqualify a significant number of the entries for disregarding simple rules such as not submitting text in double-spacing or including their names and addresses in the text of their submissions. Please remember to spell check and proofread your work. We look forward to receiving your entries and we wish you every success in the 2024 competition.

• Saturday 9 th March 2024 – submissions open through writebythesea.ie
• Friday 21 st June 2024, competition closes at 11.59pm
• Friday 2 nd August 2024– shortlist of the winning entry titles will be posted on the WBTS website, writebythesea.ie
• Sunday 1 st September 2024 – winners will be notified by WBTS
• Each category winner will be invited to read their work at a public event as part of the festival.
• October 2024 – the winning pieces will be published on the WBTS website

Welcome to Booth.

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Opportunities for Writers

Competitions, awards, calls for submissions, residencies and open mic opportunities for poets. If you would like to advertise an opportunity for poets on our website, please email media @poetryireland.ie

Calls for Submissions

Irish pages: “war in europe” issue call for submissions, cathalbui poetry competition 2024, eat the storms podcast, working-class writing archive, two meter review, seashores, haiku journal, rochford street review, the haibun journal, dodging the rain submission call, a new ulster, stepaway magazine, the flexible persona online journal, poetry ireland review, the orphic review submissions open, competitions & awards, sean dunne poetry competition, new irish writing, hour of writes - weekly writing competition, goldsmith festival poetry competition 2024, write by the sea literary festival writing competition, writers group ranelagh, seminar (online) | songlines: engaging people with dementia through poetry & song, forms and features workshop presented by hua xi, re-introductions: poetry and performance masterclass with jessica traynor, life stories: literature as biography, autobiography & beyond, the creative writing breakfast club, writing prompts by post, big smoke writing factory, poetry kit online courses, creative ireland awards 2023, patrick kavanagh fellowship, open mic opportunities, belfast - purely poetry at the crescent arts centre, cork - hungry hill poetry friday, cork - live words, cork - ó bhéal poetry readings & open-mic nights, cork - psoken wrod, derry - the speakeasy, dublin - dolcáin’s cellar, dublin - fingal poetry festival’s monthly slam, dublin - lemme talk, dublin - slam sunday, dublin - staccato, dublin - takin’ the mic, dublin - the circle sessions, dublin - the intercollective, dublin - the new romantics, dublin - the sunflower sessions, galway - over the edge open readings, kerry - ‘literary listowel’ readings, limerick - ‘on the nail’ literary gatherings, limerick - the whitehouse poets, meath - the co club, online: lime square poets, online: not the time to be silent open mic, sligo - illuminations, sligo - the word, the living poetic, waterford - spokes open mic, residencies, anam cara writer’s and artist’s retreat, arvon centre, avondale retreat, greywood arts, half door writers’ retreat, kilcoe writers’ retreat, molly keane writers’ retreat, old rectory retreat, schull writer’s retreat, the garsdale retreat, the tyrone guthrie centre at annaghmakerrig, writers' groups, creative writing groups at dublin city libraries, diverse poetry collective, maynooth, lexicon writing group, belfast, midleton writers group, cork, mountrath writers group, laois, muse writers group, down, navan creative writers, meath, navan creative writing group, meath, oldcastle writers group, meath, shalom writers, belfast, sixpens writing group & weekend writing retreat, westport, co. mayo, the poet’s place, belfast, tir chonaill writers, virgin slate cork, waterford writers, co waterford.

Young Writers

Vanessa o'loughlin.

• 12 December 2010

Are you a young writer? All the authors we talk to here at writing.ie started just like you – writing diaries and stories – and those who stuck with their writing are the ones whom you are reading today.

Keep writing and keep reading and one day you could have that Number One Bestseller!

We are planning a whole section dedicated to young writers here at writing.ie, with competitions, tips and resources to help you with your writing.

If you live anywhere near Dublin, Fighting Words is one place you MUST visit!

Fighting Words is a creative writing centre, established by Roddy Doyle and Sean Love. Inspired by 826 Valentia in San Francisco, Fighting Words is located on Behan Square, Russell Street, Dublin 1, very close to Croke Park. Fighting Words helps students of all ages to develop their writing skills and to explore their love of writing. They provide story-telling fieldtrips for primary school groups, creative writing workshops for secondary students, and seminars, workshops and tutoring for adults. All tutoring is free – tell your teachers about Fighting Words and ask them to book your class in!

The Fighting Words fieldtrips and workshops are created and run by volunteers. The volunteers include professional writers, novelists,  screen-writers, journalists, poets, aspiring writers, student teachers from DCU and all the Dublin colleges of education, retired teachers and many more people who are just keen to be involved in creative work.

For more information about the fieldtrips and workshops on offer for primary school groups, secondary groups, or adults visit  www.fightingwords.ie

Here are links to some great websites dedicated to helping young writers achieve their dreams – get your stuff published online, get tips and advice, enter competitions and get in touch with fellow young writers.

You-tale.ie  is a brand new online magazine written  for  and  by  children in Irish Primary Schools and supported by  Childrens Books Ireland , providing a very welcome outlet for their literary work. The site regularly features a wide range of creative writing and reviewing competitions with a great range of prizes. To find out more visit their website.

Childrens’ Books Ireland’s  magazine  INIS , is now online! The flagship publication of Children’s Books Ireland, here you will find a rich array of children’s literature articles and reviews as well as up to the minute news and information. By combining CBI’s substantial archive of print issues with new online content,  Inis  magazine continues to be the leading publication dedicated to children’s books in Ireland.  Inis means both ‘island’ and ‘tell’ in Irish and is pronounced ‘inn-ish’.

MySchoolWriting.ie  is a resource that allows your school to set up a secure website where students can post and review their creative writing, get info on competitions and tips from writers. Well worth a look!

KidPub  was created in 1995 as a safe, fun place for kids to improve their writing skills by sharing their stories, poems, reviews, and other creative writing with a worldwide audience. It’s one of the oldest web sites still in operation.

KidPub is a membership site. They charge a small fee, $12.95 per year, that helps them verify that a parent has given permission for their child to be on KidPub. It also helps pay for their servers and maintenance. Membership is only required to publish stories…anyone can come to KidPub to read, and thousands do each day. Members can also enter our writing contests, comment on stories that they have read, leave notes for other members, and add to our never-ending stories.

Writing competitions every month,  Kidworld  is a great resource where  all the stories get published on the website. You can also read other people’s work and find ‘keypals’ your age.

The Young Writers Club  is based in the United States and  is dedicated to quality educational programs that challenge and motivate young journalists with constant discovery and excited learning. The Club encourages and inspires children at schools, home-schools, and after-school programs to learn about the great authors; emulate their examples by composing their own written works; build confidence in the writing process in different genres; develop as lifetime scholars who are self-motivated to read, write, and enrich their families and communities

Cyberteen’s  goal is to create and promote youth community worldwide, and give teens a voice and an interactive place to express their creativity. Art, poetry, and short stories.

If you go to school in the South Dublin area, check this out and tell your teacher about it! The Write a Book project has its own website at  www.writeabook.ie

Keep checking back here to see what we have for young writers – and we’d love to hear from you. If you have an author you’d like us to interview, let us know. Have you read a great book by an Irish author recently? Tell us about it! Send you review to  [email protected] !

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02 April, 2024

Opportunities and competitions april 2024.

Photo credit: In 2024 we are spotlighting all the amazing independent bookshops and booksellers in Ireland simply because we love them and we think you should too! To mark International Children’s Book Day (Also Hans Christian Andersen’s Birthday) we are celebrating one of the only dedicated children’s bookshops in Ireland (And definitely one of the finest!) Halfway Up the Stairs. Scroll down to look around this dream of a bookshop and find out a little bit more about them. And, as always, if you’re ever in or around Greystones make sure and pay them a visit!

Each month we update our  Competitions, Submissions & Opportunities webpage, along with our Bursaries & Funding , to ensure that we are connecting our writers with the best upcoming opportunities. Here are a few deadlines we want to highlight this April.

Submissions:, ormond art studio’s zine fair for palestinian aid.

Deadline: 9th April 2024

Ormond Art Studios is hosting a Zine fair for Palestinian aid on the 12th and 13th of April and they are looking for submissions! They are accepting all forms of artist books, publications and zines from zine makers and artists! All proceeds will be donated to E sims for Gaza,  https://gazaesims.com/ . E-sims are a crucial way for Gazans to communicate with each other and the outside world.

Interior of Halfway Up the Stairs (Photo by Ger Holland)

Poetry with Pride (Belfast Pride)

Deadline: 1st July 2024

Submissions are open for the Poetry with Pride Magazine. This annual publication promotes emerging and established queer poetry from Belfast and beyond. Poems must be no longer than 30 lines. You can submit up to three poems. To submit email [email protected].

Competitions:

The bridport prize.

Deadline: 31st May 2024

With categories in Poetry, Short Story, Flash Fiction and the Novel as well as a list of previous winners that includes Kit de Waal and Kate Atkinson, the Bridport Prize is one of the most exciting creative writing competitions you could submit to right now. This year Wendy Erskine will judge the short story category, Liz Berry will judge Poetry, Jasmine Sawers judges Flash Fiction and Ross Raisin will judge the Novel. Applications close on the 31st of May so make sure to check out their website for rules and instructions on how to apply.

Halfway Up the Stairs do a really brilliant Book Subscription service (Photo by Ger Holland)

Residencies:

Mirror lamp press x the complex writing residency.

Deadline: 15th April 2024

This new writer-in-residence programme aimed at early-career visual arts writers based in Ireland. This programme is designed to help writers develop their practice by inviting them to produce up to five new critical responses to the Exhibitions and Events programme at The Complex in Dublin.

The residency will run from May – September 2024, during which time the selected writer will receive:

€1,500 fee (€300 per text). Half will be paid at the beginning and half on completion of the residency.

€500 production budget to disseminate thinking and research through means of either an event, DIY publication, video recording, podcast or other activity.

€300 budget for mentoring.

Ongoing editorial support from the Mirror Lamp Press Editors.

Publishing through the MLP website and dissemination through the MLP and The Complex channels.

This programme is aimed at early-career artists or writers who have not yet published widely and who are looking to develop their writing in response to an art space or exhibition programme.

2024 John Broderick Residency

Deadline: 17th April 2024

The Westmeath Arts Office and Arts Council invite writers across Ireland to apply for the 2024 John Broderick Residency.

This unique writer’s residency series is designed to honour Athlone writer John Broderick. The series provides support to a selected writer while increasing the awareness of John Broderick, his works, and his engagement and generosity to the people of Athlone.

€16,500 will be granted to a selected professional writer for a 10-week period beginning in September 2024. An additional accommodation stipend of up to €1,200 will be made available where accommodation in Athlone is necessary.

The John Broderick Residency is open to  professional writers  in all genres. Writers must be over 18 years of age and resident on the island of Ireland.

Writers must demonstrate an ability to mentor emerging writers, young people and those interested in developing their writing skills.

Another shot of that fun and welcoming interior (Photo by Ger Holland)

Arts Council of Ireland Agility Award

Deadline: 25th April 2025

The Agility Award aims to support individual professional freelance artists and arts workers at any stage in their careers. You can apply for up to €5000 worth of support. You must register with the Arts Council’s online services at least five days before you apply so even if you are planning on submitting close to the deadline make sure you register as early as possible! The Arts Council are running a series of online clinics to help answer any questions you might have about making your application. You can find out more info about these clinics on their website! There’s one coming up on Tuesday 9th of April as well as Wednesday 17th April before the last clinic on the 22nd of April.

Irish Writers Centre Opportunities:

Irish writers centre/belfast book festival young writer delegates 2024.

Deadline: 3rd April 2024

The Irish Writers Centre are inviting ambitious young writers aged 18-26 to apply for this extraordinary opportunity to attend and contribute to the Belfast Book Festival 2024 as Irish Writers Centre/Belfast Book Festival Young Writer Delegates. The Young Writer Delegates will spend five days (four nights) at Belfast Book Festival 2024 from Thursday 06 June, 2024 to Monday 10 June, 2024. The programme will include mentoring from local writer-mentor Deirdre Cartmill, the opportunity to attend festival events, the chance to take charge of the Young Writer Delegates official Instagram page as well as a public performance at the Young Writer Delegate showcase.

What a lovely storefront! (Photo by Ger Holland)

About Halfway Up the Stairs:

Halfway up the Stairs Children’s Bookshop in Greystones, County Wicklow, south of Dublin is one of the only dedicated children’s bookshops in Ireland. They stock books for children of all ages – from babies up to Young Adults. Last year Halfway up the Stairs won Bookshop of the Year at the Irish Book Awards and was named winner for Independent Bookshop of the Year (Ireland) at the British Book Awards. With a team of five dedicated children’s booksellers, the shop strives to find the right book for each child, regardless of their need, circumstance or ability, something that is more important, now than ever.

Please get in touch with Administrative Assistant Tom Jordan at [email protected] if your organisation has a  competition, submission, bursary or funding opportunity for writers that you would like us to include in our monthly round-up blog post. 

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All Ireland Scholarships Alumni Association

2023 winners & runners up.

All short stories submitted to the 2023 AISAA Creative Writing Competition have now been read and assessed and a shortlist of six Scholars has been devised.

Each of the six selected have distinguished themselves in terms of the quality of writing, the structure of story and the originality of voice.

The general standard of the longlist of entries was wonderfully high. The judges were impressed with the diversity of subjects and styles that this third year of the Competition has uncovered.

Once again, we have noted that there are some incredibly talented, creative writers among our All-Ireland Scholarship winners – with stories full of honesty, compassion and intelligence.

Their entries strike at the heart of what it is to be human, they reveal a depth of perception and insight that is simply breath-taking, and a real inventiveness of approach and language that is hugely impressive and exciting.

Below (in alphabetical order) is the shortlist of six Scholars, whose entries will be reviewed by our award-winning judging panel of acclaimed authors, with the overall winner set to be announced on Monday 10th of April.

The Finalists

Emma corcoran - winner.

A Little Bird

He walks down his favourite street.

To the unaware observer, there is nothing about this street that makes it stand out from any other street in any small suburban town. But to him, this street represents his past, present, and, if he can help it, his future. This street is the twine that binds the major and minor events of his life and anchors them onto a mere one-kilometre-long assembly of paved road and path, buildings of various design and function, intermittent but carefully planned hedges, shrubs and trees, unimposing street lamps and litter bins. Certainly, he has traversed many more countless streets than the one on which he now stands, from streets within the same town he has lived since he was born, to streets in nearby towns and further afield cities; cities within his native country and cities abroad, separated by vast swathes of ocean and land. The appearance of these streets varied greatly; they could be uneven cobblestone or smooth, painted asphalt; they could be lined with beautiful classical architecture or imposing skyscrapers; they could be dotted with flourishing deciduous trees or meaningful sculptures. Though they were often beautiful, they were not his own.

This was a street that had been his community since the day his mother carried him across the threshold into the small two-up, two-down red bricked house where his father before him was born. It was the street where he took some of his first steps; where he and his friends would play until the call for supper, before meeting each other the next morning to walk to school. It was at the bus stop on this street he would wait for the bus to take him to his first job in a bigger town, or for a lift to the dance where he would meet his future wife. It was this street he took to the corner shop for bread and milk; the path he walked to mass every Sunday; the road he cycled to a club match at the local GAA pitch. It was a house on this street he decided to buy as a newlywed and make his home, where he raised his children until they were grown, and where he helped to care for his ill wife, before she was carried back to the same church in which they had promised their lives to one another.

Although he now lived on his own, he rarely felt alone. He knew everyone’s name, origin, association; the information they were happy to share. But he knew the secrets of people, too; he was hungry for them – those tales told in faith, until you told the wrong person, or the right person, depending on which side of the secret you were on. And sometimes it was those stories that travelled the fastest, like the rush of blood through a vein. But wasn’t that just a part of it, what was to be expected when you lived in a little place like this? The smallest of places can have the loudest heartbeat, if you only knew how to find its pulse.

There is a breeze, now, as he walks down the street, and he can feel the crisp January air cutting across his face, numbing his toes and fingers. He curses himself for not wearing his thick socks or gloves but forgives himself for thinking to wear a wool hat. The streets are quiet save for the low howl of the wind and the odd rumble of a passing car. He sees a figure jogging towards him, and hears the pounding of the figure’s feet as they hit the pavement. As the figure looms closer he sees it is a neighbour from the other side of town, who he last saw in the pub on Stephen’s night, five pints and two bags of salt and vinegar crisps in, and not the better for it. He was telling a tale, of a doctor who had offered that he should perhaps think about cutting back on alcohol and getting some exercise to help his heart. Says I, doctor, my heart is already broken listening to the missus telling me the same thing. He had his head thrown back in laughter at his own tragedy. Now his head hangs forward as he gasps for air.

Further up the street he sees a woman leaving the newsagents. She is pushing a buggy carrying a small child. The child is wrapped in a blanket and does not appear to be too happy about the fact he is being subjected to the unforgiving winter air. He is wailing and fighting against the straps that are holding him in, whilst the woman tries to soothe him, promising him they are almost home and will be warm soon. The child has flame red hair; it is a lightning strike across an overcast sky. He does not know the woman very well, but he knows from the whispers that she is not this child’s mother, and that his mother is away, fighting her own demons, against the straps that are holding her down, and no one knows when she will return.

He carries on down the street, and it is devoid of anyone else that might cause him to recount the story he knows of them. Instead, he calls to mind all the tales, told and untold, contained within the buildings he passes. There is the newsagent’s run by a widow whose husband had a fondness for the drink and for raising his fists; the pub owned by a man who moved from the city to escape the fists raised at him; the parochial house that stands empty but that no one cares all that much about; the Garda station that is also empty but about which everyone cares a lot; the primary school whose principal regularly darkens the door of a bookie’s two towns over. He knows so much about this street, and he is proud of that fact. No-one knows as much as him. The things the little birds can tell you, and that you can hear, if you only open one ear.

He gets to the end of the street, to the crossroads. Left for the main road to the next town; right to the woods, his usual route. Both directions away from the street. He turns right and sets off down the familiar curved path.

A short while later, in the woods, he sees a small dog on the path between the trees. The dog is looking in to the depths of the overgrowth, and he thinks he recognises the dog from the red collar tied around its neck. It is the terrier belonging to the banker’s wife, who lives outside the town, in a big house surrounded by a tall evergreen hedge. He does not know the story of this woman, only that she has no children, is only seen occasionally on the street when walking her dog, and tends not to mingle with others. The stories that he holds dear do not seem to concern her; she has no care for the narratives of others. It would seem her community is in the confines of her comfortable home. She is in a way a symbol of that which is the opposite of him.

The little dog sees him but does not move from his post, instead turning his head back towards the trees. Following the dog’s line of sight, into the growth, he sees what has captured the dog’s attention. It is the stooped figure of the banker’s wife, wearing a fine wool coat and gloves, with a coal bucket in her left hand. Her right hand is picking up bits of fallen branches from the ground and putting them into the bucket. She must have sensed his presence, because she stands up straight and turns toward him. She addresses him without any hint of surprise or shock at being discovered doing something that is so at odds with what would be assumed of her. He does not ask her she is doing; nevertheless, she explains that she is just gathering some firewood. She says she has been doing this for years. She can usually gather enough to light a fire to warm herself for a few hours in the winter. She used to be more careful about people seeing her, but now she couldn’t care less. She is eager to tell him this, the words tumble from her mouth, anxious to be heard. She surprises him by asking him to confirm her recollection that he lives on main street. The wood and the damp earth absorb the soft vibrations of her voice. He did not know before that she knew who he was. He does not say anything, and she does not lose his gaze. She wants him to respond, to ask her how she came to be in this place, to share her secrets.

It is as though all that he does not know has been presented before him, but through a fogged window. His vision is obscured, and so he cannot full appreciate what he sees, and he cannot understand its meaning. He does not realise that all he must do is take the edge of his sleeve and wipe the condensation away. Then he would see that her fine wool coat is now well worn, a memory of its former luxury, and hangs loosely from her frame. He would see that her once carefully maintained hair is greying at the roots, and that her boots are scuffed. He would see inside her house, and find that the contents of the fridge and cupboards are sparse, the rooms are cold, and that it is a long time since the woman’s husband had sat in his place at the top of the table. All this he would see if he could only open his mouth. But he does not, because he knows he will be the one expected to respond, to empathise, to care, to offer help. And he knows, within him, that he is not capable of doing this; and perhaps, even deeper within him, that he does not want to. He can listen to and recount the story of the hero, but he cannot wear the cape. He can only be a gatekeeper to this woman’s story, and he is choosing to keep the gate closed.

He bids farewell to the woman, and her unspoken words, and turns back towards his street, his sanctuary, leaving her alone with her little dog in the depths of the woods.

Sinead Greenan - Runner-Up

On Neurotypicals

A sentence that appeared when researching the term neurotypical: neurotypicals often assume that their experience of the world is either the only one, or the only correct one.

In the neurotypical world, one must instinctively know about unwritten rules. About things not said but which must be assumed. About lying to spare someone’s feelings on an honest opinion that they themselves asked for. About smiling and saying kind words that are dropped the instant a back is turned.

One must know that ‘on the dot’ doesn’t mean look for the dot, that ‘around 7pm’ could mean any time in the hour before or after 7pm. Or that ‘see you later’ could mean they have no intention of seeing you later. They might intend to, you don’t know (but you should).

In a neurotypical’s world, hidden meanings are written between lines, behind texts, under breath. Conflict, arguments, battles are generated from this.

Damaged toes squashed into heels, scratchy jumpers forced on schoolkids, stiff shirts and ties on men in certain professions. Everyone expected to adhere to a start time of 9am and finish time after 4pm, with a half hour for lunch.

One is expected to turn up to work, school, meetings, regardless of energy level, emotional status, or physical capability that day. To sacrifice oneself for appearance. Resulting in unwarranted tempers towards others. A decline in health. Deterioration in relationships. One is supposed to answer phone or house calls without warning, without context, without knowing the person even. Draining the battery and running on auto. Calling in sick or resigning from work without being able to tell the truth as to why, because everyone should be capable of coping with the exact same pressures.

What if neurodivergent’s experiences were the correct ones?

Rules written down are abided by. Isn’t that what rules are for? Words have legitimate meaning. Things are spelled out as they are. Nothing is said behind anyone’s back. Rather, opinions are given directly, honestly and without malice or intent to harm. Neurotypicals have the biggest issue with this, even when they’ve asked for it.

Time can be strictly kept to or wildly defied, depending on the neurodivergence and state of mind in that moment. Often, the anxiety of leaving the house can make us overreach or completely freeze

There is a deep understanding amongst fellow neurodivergents. Not of each other’s exact experiences, as that completely goes against the point of the word divergent. But of each other’s experience trying to exist in the majority’s world. This creates a fellowship of a kind not seen in the neurotypical realm. No, we do not have to stare at each other over a coffee table once a week. Or talk on the phone for hours. Or chat about the weather, kids, or the bad news story of the day to make small talk seem like deep friendship. We can co-exist in silence whilst knowing there is a level of respect and connection there, that someone understands. A little thread to somebody like us, outside the busy skein of our mind. When overwhelmed with the demands of work, home, lights, noises, people, we would love to collapse under a weighted blanket and shut the world out. Recharge the power and go again when full. This is what some of us do, if we can. Some work places and home companions understand and allow for this. A select few I suspect. Most expect us to trudge along like the neurotypicals do, everyone jammed together on the hamster wheel of life.

We can have intense focus on a topic of our interest. A lot of us create a career around this. Sometimes it might be the only means to getting and keeping a job. Until the burnout comes, that is. We may be extremely successful and productive in our work projects, but lunch times and social gatherings drain our spirit. The intensity of our focus also speeds up the emptying process. Burnout literally feels like a spent body battery, like the juice has poured down to your feet and out the bottom. The energy normally used for getting dressed, brushing teeth, washing hair is gone. Let alone that which is reserved for getting to work, saying hello to colleagues, phone calls, completing tasks. It can lead to a deep melancholy. Devoid of capacity for productivity, joy, even eating.

It is a difficult way to be, neurodivergent, but only because one must live in a neurotypical world. If only we were allowed to express ourselves how we wish, speak to those we want to and when we want, state our truth, rest when we need, spend time with our animals and special things, sleep when our bodies desire. Be accepted for who we are and our needs. Surely neurotypicals desire some of these things too? Neurodivergence is classed as a disability, but disabilities are only so because the world makes them that way. Lack of accessibility, accommodations, and understanding dis-ables people. If we were en-abled to live how we need to, there would be no disability.

I do not wish to be neurotypical. Quite the opposite. I love how I experience pure joy from the simple things. Turning my face up to see candyfloss clouds hang in the sky, being hypnotised by a fire crackling in the stove, having my dog twitch in her sleep beside me and imagining what her dreams are made of. My intense curiosity and focus have allowed me to learn so much about so many things, read hundreds of books, and build a successful career. My strong sense of justice has enabled me to speak up about things that are wrong and given me robust moral values.

What we need more in the world is a profound improvement in the acceptance of difference. Respect towards each and every person, animal, thing, and our environment. I don’t have high hopes that the world at large can change. But if somebody reads this and sees someone struggling in the future, neurodivergent or not, they might have a bit more compassion for their experience. Just because a certain behaviour might be deemed socially inappropriate (by neurotypical standards), that doesn’t need to be judged.

Typing this, autocorrect doesn’t recognise the plural of neurodivergent, but ‘neurotypicals’ is accepted. That red squiggly line seems to follow us around wherever we go. A mark that highlights our un-belonging in the crowd. That pretty much sums it up.

Noreen Lenihan - Runner-Up

Letters of Complaint

I wanted to write to inform you of the ill-will I have been harbouring towards you lately. Indeed, I feel as though I have been shorted a most rudimentary and minimal preparation as to my expectations of the opposite sex. Rather, I have been groomed for a reality that is conspicuously not the one I am grounded in today. Another lonely disappointment yesterday evening during my Skype call with my significant other. On outlining in some detail my journey on the emotional spectrum since I got here, from isolation and fear to intense anxiety and boredom, I gained little comfort to learn that he was uninterested - nay, downright unwilling - to book a flight to try to ease my suffering. You can imagine how this compounded my distress, and I, already on thin emotional ice. I know that if it was you I was calling, video enabled to showcase my growing divergence with sanity, you would have booked the next flight to Seoul. You would go to the moon and back for me, as you have done many times before. Like the time you rang the hair salon to see if they could rescue my dignity after a botched carrot-hue colour job by a trainee the week before the Debs. Or just about any of the nights you would collect us at 3 A.M. outside the chipper after nights out, with never a murmur of complaint. Thus, I am writing to convey my most grave disillusionment tonight with the emotional austerity of my romantic counterpart. It doesn’t seem he is of the same mould. Perhaps though, Dad, you have set me up for bitter disappointment in these stakes.

Yours, Lonely in Incheon

Sadly, you have left me despairing. I knew that I would need to attend my new office for the first day of my new job despite being ill-equipped to transport myself there. Living in the sticks now, and without having ‘adulted’ sufficiently to acquire a full driving license, I only had a few options. Bussing it did not work out due to Bus Eireann’s lack of vision or ambition. Equally, no offers to drive me there realised. It made me ponder again - I never had to ask you twice for a favour like this. In fact, I never had to ask at all. You always intuited the need before it became one. I remember the day you dropped everything to drive up to Galway to chauffeur me around to various medical outlets to help me collect research questionnaires for some underwhelming summer study. So trivial a chore to travel six hours for, but you knew I was hopeless without you. I feel alone now and as if the whole world ceases to care or want to pre-empt my anxieties like you did. Like sourcing a drive to your anniversary Mass, I came up short again. It had a distinct poignancy about it this time. This predicament applies to many things (did you know it is completely uncommon for a partner to help with suitcases or bringing in the shopping bags without an explicit request for help in these times?). I’m not sure, being in my present state, it was a good idea to shelter me so lovingly from real-world dilemmas.

Yours, Stranded in The Back of Beyonds

All those years, I was insulated in your walled garden of love and safety and home. Out here, there are no more simple and genuine ‘I love you’s’. All those ‘love you’s’ to the sound of a closing car door, at the end of the phone call, as you turned out the hall light - the sound of pure, unconditional love - they don’t come as easily anymore. It has been awhile since I heard the phrase delivered. I had no conception of the possible scarcity of the emotion and its assertion (at least, it is in dire supply by men native to these shores anyway). All these nutrients you provided so naturally and abundantly are so foreign outside your garden…

Yours, Loveless in Dublin

You led me to believe that my worthiness was not based on grades, money, beauty, the lot. This, I can confirm, is not a philosophy embraced by the world outside. I have lost respect, friendships and general interest since I did not claim New Fancy Job. People seem much more interested in being associated with me when I had the Big-Job-in-London going on. You always said to pursue something ‘only s’long as you’re happy’. Well, that’s no easy feat in its own right, but it seems others have attached hidden conditions to their love and friendship. I must be losing my ambition because I am rather happy in the ‘steerage’ of life. I have no great desire to climb the corporate ladder to nowhere. Like Top Gun’s ‘Maverick’, ‘I am where I belong’ , though others do not vie for the same contentment. Another lesson I am learning to harden me up for this life.

Yours, Snubbed in Soho

You certainly made this one look easy. Again, can reliably confirm the lack of feasibility to implement in real-life situations. I am still at a loss to understand how you managed to never criticise other people over such a long time period. Perhaps, it was just out of my earshot. I cannot comprehend the restraint it must have involved to see and meet people ‘where they are at’. This is well beyond my capabilities. Your faith must have created some kind of divine weather-clad shield of peace within you…is my current theory. Bully for you, but again, another impossible-to-reproduce item for me, the mere mortal.

Yours, Starless in The Gutter

Re: Life Now

You can probably deduce by now my advanced anhedonia and exhaustion with the world around me. By contrast, I remain humbled by the memory of your daily actions and words. Grief is my constant plus-one; he does not take a day off and accompanies me to all of life’s invitations, great and small. Friend or foe, he reminds me of the magnitude of my love for you, such is the emptiness your absence has created. I yearn to believe that you are, in fact, next to me, behind some kind of multi-dimensional veil, in the spirit world. But I am not there yet. At the same time, I am trying not to indulge myself in my rather enlarged misery streak, but as ever, I am a work in progress.

They say the greatest gift is that you can say you were beloved in our time here, Earthside. Yes, beloved, a gift. I get it, but it is so very hard. Send me messages through a random kind act from another or a rendition of ‘Sally Gardens’ on Marty In the Morning . But I know you will say, I have it the other way around; I need to be kind to others. I know, I know, you are right and my gut agrees. I will try to carry on as you did - kind, graceful and decent.

I am a mother now, to little Timmy. Myself and himself are managing his induction to the household well although we, at times, hold each other psychological hostage in matters of sleep, nappy changes and dishes. It is a new and vital kind of love that makes me smile from my core even when the tiredness has penetrated my bones. It makes me wonder about you first becoming a father, how you must have beamed and never stopped.

‘’Tis the good that suffer’, I remember you telling a neighbour after Mass whilst in the labyrinths of your illness. You suffered, but I hope you are soaring high now.

You leave us in your dust always.

Chat soon, New & In Love Baby Momma at Home

Shane Brennan - Finalist

Blunders Of A Rambling Commuter

Violent and urgent vibrations rip me from my sleep. My mind flounders, grasping for coherent thoughts like a drowning man flailing for flotation. I wrench myself around, arm reaching through the darkness. The fickle warmth created under the thin duvet through the night abandons me. Tongues of cold air lick my skin, as my fingers stumble across the bedside table.

Cable…table.. — BUZZ — ..book.. — BUZZ — ..table…glasses-Shit!

I feel the lens and frame flee my groping and fly with a soft clatter onto the laminate floor. The vibrations continue to blare as the soft tinkling of my alarm tone, “Forest Melody”, begins. I swing my legs out of bed and the chill embraces me. I blearily fumble at my phone while “Forest Melody” crescendos wildly. I slice it into silence with a swipe of my finger. A dreary sigh gushes out of me, replacing my usual contented yawn.

Jaysus why can’t I have the alarm without the vibrations?

Now — I’m standing in front of the mirror while my razor whizzes across my chin, dismissing the stubble of the bank holiday weekend. Autopilot is the offspring of routine. The chalking off of Monday the 4th of February has begun. Thankfully St. Brigid got rid of last Friday for me!

I choke down my smoothie while I scroll aimlessly at the kitchen table, looking for anything to ignite my day.

With a jolt, I remember.

I must check in with Philomena first thing.

3 missed calls from the principal on Friday morning. She usually only contacts on a day off if it’s important… To her!

Ah I’m there long enough, a day off is a day off. It's probably only something about my permanent contract and shur it's not as if the department was open over the weekend either.

Missed calls are never a nice thing to wake up to after a few pints.

Is ten a few? A couple is probably closer… God I'm going to bed early tonight, I’m still fair shook. Will I skip the gym? Yeah fuck it, I need the rest more.

After stealthily readying myself in the fragile quiet and pre-dawn gloom, I stand at the door, about to twist the handle.

But first, my mantra.

I’ve had it since I was in primary school, I can’t settle myself to leave before I say it.

Dressed, washed, breakfast, lunch.

I firmly push down the door and slip out quietly. I fire my bag into the boot with the confidence of a man who thinks he knows what he’s doing.

Those first few minutes can be raw, but I love the early starts. Those crisp, clear frosty mornings where I watch the sun come up as I crest the hill coming into Geashill. The pinks and oranges unfolding to push away the blacks, blues and purples. That day’s first rays spinning, running and bouncing their way across fields of glittering white. The windmills of Mount Lucas lazily waving at me across the moor.

But this morning it’s pissing rain and I’m stuck behind some bollox of a Scania spraying muck and shite all over the car.

How come there’s only ever cars coming towards me when the bloody road is straight.

Hmmm there’s no long vehicle sticker on the back of it.

Is that a broken line yet?

I know full well it’s not but I know the road and there are no headlights oncoming. I’m doing 75 in 5th, but I drop it into 4th anyway. I careen out from behind it and put the boot to the headlamp. It’s all over in seconds but my white knuckles suggest it was longer.

Jesus I hate doing that.

The car settles into 100 in 6th but I don’t and won't for another few minutes. Mammy would kill me, but she would’ve done it as well.

Ah, only for her!

The 3 other brood rats are probably getting up now. Eileen off to teach, Ciaran to create and Claire to study. Mammy is off to run the school from the typist’s chair in her secretarial office. It’s been nice having all 5 of us back in the same house again. Then again I am the only child that doesn’t have to share a room.

As my heart rate eventually gets down to normal, the sprawling metropolis of Portarlington opens up before me. I keep an eye out for the speed van. The breakfast smoothie has been churning in my stomach. I remember back to the pub on Saturday night. My throat strangling itself in its haste to get the porter into me. My lips sucking at the end of a dirty cigarette while I cough and shout over the music in The Brewery Tap.

Yeah, this is definitely a 2-day hangover.

I never know which is worse, the emptiness of my limbs while my body tries to deal with the last clinging vestiges of the alcohol. Or the stones rattling around my mind as my brain deals with poisons, real and imagined. I reach out to pause the song and the phone flashes red. 10%remaining. I groan as I realise I’ve left my charger in the bag I so confidently threw into the boot.

Right, I'll need something funny before it dies on me.

Tommy, Hector and Laurita keep me going along the meandering stretches, only to depart, so suddenly, outside Monasterevin.

The steady tapping of my feet and smooth sliding of my hands across the scarred steering wheel lead my mind down winding roads. Metaphorically and physically. My best ideas come when I'm in the car. This morning it’s a rhyme about how I'm feeling. It appears in my mind like a torch exploding with a click in a dark room.

Drip-drip. Stones-clack.

Cracking skull is bubbling black.

Seeking. Leaking, wreaking sludge.

Drowning-drowning. Will not budge.

My imagination is always roiling, like a pot of stew coming to a heaving boil. Ideas and thoughts float to the top to mate and breed, only to be whipped away before completion by the moving current. I spend most of my days chasing down half formed thoughts, only to have them slip away into sleep. It’s the curse of almost being very intelligent. I’m in a constant state of anxiety, knowing I’ve definitely forgotten something important.

There are guilty thoughts there too. Wrongs I’ve done and rights I haven’t. Favours not returned and the constant ghostly presence of the hands that have helped me up since childhood. Most of the thoughts are totally irrational. But a weekend of drink is not conducive to cold or logical thought.

And I begin to fester.

The fermentation of alcohol only really begins in the days after its consumption.

I often forget that the hands that got me to adulthood were mostly my own. Every favour as a young man felt like another brick in my bag. The weight of it made me strong. Its constant presence jades me.

But as I’ve grown, I’ve learned to juggle bricks. The bag has lightened. As long as I can keep 2 in my hands and the rest in the air, I’ll be fine.

Breathe out.

I briefly glide down the tributary of the M7 at Junction 14. The peace of the morning is pierced by flashing indicators, sudden brake lights and wailing horns. Each four-wheeled beast pursuing its prey with fierce intent. More road. I pass through the noble Curragh before the traffic begins to stiffen at Newbridge. The rain is still falling.

Not doing great for time now, I hope this gets going.

I approach two trucks, one trying to overtake another. It's like watching two prop forwards race to the sideline. A contest where the loser is whoever gives up first and the prize is getting to be first to give up. Suddenly behind them, a red mist ascends.

Those tapping feet turn into boots of cement as I ram down on the middle pedal.

Not two trucks overtaking.

Two trucks trying not to crash into each other as they grind to a halt.

Rubbernecking fools!

There's been an accident on the other side of the barrier which has caused the traffic jam of voyeurs on my own side.

I jolt to a deadly stop in the fast lane. My chest heaves like the bellows of a Paolo Soprani and I feel my limbs become light and weak.

The ticking and blinking of the automatic hazards confirm I'm still living.

Not worth it. Slower next time.

My knees unlock as the truck in front of me lurches forward and hisses to the left. I lightly press on the accelerator, my left hand trembling as I wrestle the gear stick into submission. As the cars roll forwards, I get my breathing under control and check the time.

Under pressure now.

This has been a rough morning.

The 2 lanes become 3 and I drive like a pinball in a machine until my exit.

Jesus I better not be late this morning after the missed calls.

My palms begin to sweat and my tongue dries as I leave the motorway.

What was she ringing for?

I barely notice how the countryside has begun to prickle with colour again. There are budding ash trees and gently blooming snowdrops in the meadows. All I see are the stone walls suffocated by moss and the greasy grey water on the tarmac.

I cruise around the final bend with 2 sighs. One, of relief that I got here. One, of disappointment that I’ve arrived. Like a steely hand waving at me, I see the gates of the school rise to beckon me in.

Wait… Gates…. Why are they closed?

An uneasy feeling sets in as my car crawls up to the end of the short driveway. I peer over my dragging wipers and see the car park is empty.

Was my clock wrong?

After a few minutes of losing numerous arguments in my head I decide to take out my charger from the boot.

Jesus did I reset the time on my phone Saturday night?

Ah at least I'll be able to get in early and get a head start on the week.

My phone twinkles to life and I quickly punch in the caretaker’s initials to see his number pop up.

I hesitantly push the call button. Hang up. Then ring again.

"What are you ringing me for at this hour?" Mark huffs.

"Well Mark. Jaysus I'm awful sorry but I must've reset the time on the phone and I'm here mad early. What time will you be in at?" I chuckle to mask my anxiety.

"Man what are you talking about? I thought you were meant to be sick," he barks at me.

Confusion and anxiety knock each other over the head in my brain trying to gain dominance.

"Lad, it's a bank holiday. Don’t ya know it's a day off for caretakers as well!" he sneers down the phone. "You're lucky the good wife had me painting or I'd have reddened ya for waking me. You better not ring Philomena to let you in either. She won't be happy after you not letting her know you weren't coming in Friday!"

My heart sinks down to the headlamps.

My throat constricts. "What do you mean, shur were we not off Friday?" I stammer.

Mark roars with laughter down the line. "Ya durty eegit, I knew ya had it wrong when I seen your Snapchats from the weekend. We have today off, not actual Brigid's Day." He guffaws heartily as I palpitate. "Mark… wait…. Wha… Bu….." I gurgle.

I've never missed a day of work yet.

"Listen, I'm off to paint here. You stew on that and I'll chat you tomorrow."

The line cuts out.

My eyes pinch back tears of frustration.

I swing the car around to stew on the reverse journey home.

Another blunder for the rambling commuter.

Eoin Corcoran - Finalist

Mannachán Marin lived happily below the southern footpath of Union Square, in the city’s first northern district, a short walk from the central promenade and two good stone’s throws from the river. It was not a bad area, certainly primed for improvement, but at present still better suited to the optimist’s eye. His flat, set below the 49th building of Union Square was, in fact, quite nice. It was much nicer than anyone would expect, being a basement, but Mannachán had learned from some years of invitations that people grew weary of being convinced of the place’s redeeming qualities. For in the end, it was, indeed, a basement.

The living quarters were spacious, with ample room for two couches and a 6-seater dining table, and furnished with a colourful, eclectic collection of books, an artificial stove and a knock-off oriental rug that really gave the place some personality. The living room led onto a long, staggered hall, off which sat three generous bedrooms, a closet, and a utilitarian bathroom. The apartment, however, had one inexorable flaw, that being the entrance porch; a small room between the front and living room doors, that served as a visitor’s first impression. This room, being the only part of the flat quite literally under the footpath of Union Square, was cold and damp, and had been left in this naturally decrepit state so long that the plasterboard walls had softened and were in danger of rotting away to the old stone walls beneath, a ruse the building could only entertain for so much longer. The entrance hall, the flat’s introduction to the world outside, being naturally cold and damp, was prone to a persistent black mould, that almost entirely surrounded the front door, and climbed from the skirting boards up the arching walls overhead. The mould’s presence, alive and unwell in the porch, gave a distinctly dishevelled impression of the apartment it guarded, and thereby the same of its inhabitants. Luckily, few visitors ever came to see the apartment, and those that did never mentioned this.

Being in his seventh year in the apartment, Mannachán had often noted the presence of the mould in the porch and had lamented its repulsive effects on his friends and family if they ever saw it. It had been there since the day he first received the keys to the place, and he had noted it then too, but it had received a pass at the time commensurate with the optimism that comes with a change of scenery. It was in this same vein of confidence that he was able to overlook the basement line of the address, and the less than sufficiently secured back door, for there would be ample time to fix these shortcomings; or at least two of them. Yes, his optimism, and his relief in the face of such low rent in the rapidly diminishing housing market, were enough to seal his fate, happily, in the Basement Flat, 49, Union Square South. Not a bad deal, he thought, all things considered.

It is, at this point, worth noting that Mannachán did not live alone. Over the years there had always been a host of flatmates. The basement foray at varying times consisted of strangers, girlfriends, friends, and friends of friends. All had come, usually for a year or so, and all in turn had moved on. Barring the furniture, its origins unknown, Mannachán was the longest standing and most constant fixture of Basement, 49, Union Square; or the longest standing animate fixture, with the exception, only, of the persistent black mould.

As the years passed, Mannachán found himself increasingly discontented with the mould’s presence in the porch. Aesthetically, it disgusted him every time he passed under it through the front door, to climb the steps and face the world. More and more, he couldn’t escape the feeling that it reflected something about himself. Mannachán had grown up with mould in his childhood home, but growing older he had come to learn how unacceptable that is to some. You can tell a lot about a person, he thought, by their relationship with mould. Some people accept it as a fact of life, whereas others may well consider it cause for demolition. He recalled a wealthy friend’s horror as they recounted an apartment viewing where the prospective landlord had glossed over the mould in the top corner of a utility room. “Imagine trying to market a rental with literal mould growing on the ceiling. That’s a health hazard. I think I should report him”. As he disingenuously agreed unreservedly, he was struck by this party’s aversion to such a common thing as mould; doesn’t every home have some such thing to a greater or lesser extent? Pondering this difference of opinion for some time, he decided to enquire into the dangers of his cohabitant. And all he researched seemed to affirm this girl’s disgust with the landlord. Study after study all corroborated the notion that mould was a leading cause of a host of deadly diseases, from pneumonia to lung cancer. How could it be that no one had told him this? It seemed to be the best kept secret among the peasants, as he knew well he was not alone in his ambivalence. His horror turned to resolve, and it became clear to Mannachán that no self-respecting social climber could do with living alongside black mould.

So began the mission to rid the basement of 49, Union Square, of its persistent black mould. The household essentials aisle of all the supermarkets seemed to predict his quest, offering up whole shelves of solutions. After studying the ingredients, he discovered that virtually all brands were using the same ingredients, a 2.5% solution of sodium hypochlorite, and some with 5% non-ionic surfactants. Going against his usual bent for thrift, he opted for the top-shelf product; just to be safe, he thought.

The instructions were clear; ‘Leave for 15 minutes to fully remove stains’. Taking the advice, the next morning he sprayed the porch in its entirety, top to bottom, applying a thick coat of the pungent foam to the porch walls. Erring on the side of caution, he let it soak for an hour before wiping away the residue. And to his amazement, it had worked. The porch walls, once shadowed in a greyish overtone, now gleamed with the original white paint, and though in his scepticism he scoured the surfaces for any remaining black stains, none could he find. Overly contented with his work, he beamed with pride to his girlfriend, Lasairfhíona, that evening, showcasing the pristine walls of the porch. ‘Las’ was duly impressed, and but for the nauseating effects of the lingering bleach odour, she was similarly pleased. Mannachán too noted the odour, but took little heed of it. A small price to pay, he thought, for such a result.

With his health hazard competently mitigated, Mannachán found himself to be more productive in the ensuing weeks. The obstacle that had stood for so long in his beloved apartment was no more, and in some strange way it seemed to bolster his confidence. In fact, the success of the first mission motivated him to remedy the second of the three ailments he had first identified, and brought him to improve the back door locks, affixing a new Yale lock in place of the old simple bolts.

Some weeks later still, coming in the door from work, he noticed a small black spot in the top corner of the doorframe. Keeping his initial discontent curtailed, he surveyed the rest of the porch for any siblings, and sure enough found multiple colonies in each corner of the room. It seemed that he had slipped in his determination to live free of his old flatmate, and hadn’t been checking for any regrowth since the first extermination. Not to worry, he thought, ‘I know the drill’. He once again got out his Mould Killer and generously disinfected the whole porch, but decided to double down on his previous efforts and so performed the operation twice in succession. He reasoned that his initial effort, while seemingly effective, must not have totally destroyed the root cause, and gave respite to a few stubborn colonies deep in the crevices of the walls. Lasairfhíona, this time, found it hard to be in the adjoining living room under the smell of the stuff, but the problem was once again contained.

Months continued to pass, but out of an abundance caution Mannachán chose to perform the disinfection routine weekly as a preventative measure, as he was determined to never again live with the persistent black mould. The maintenance schedule proved fruitful and his inspections always returned a clean bill of porch health. Aside from his girlfriend’s complaints about the near constant smell of bleach, all was well in the basement of 49, Union Square.

The following spring, after a bitterly cold and wet winter, Mannachán fell ill with acute flu symptoms, unlike anything he had suffered before. He and Lasairfhíona treated it in their normal way, with plenty of rest and fluids, but for all of their efforts, things were not improving. After five long bed-ridden days, upon Lasairfhíona’s pleas, it was decided that he must go to the hospital. Lacking both a GP and any form of health insurance, they presented to the A&E late that evening, and endured a seemingly never ending wait. Though the triage nurse had written it off as trivial, Mannachán deteriorated significantly with each passing hour. His breathing became shallower and weaker with each cycle, until Las’s urgent pleas for a doctor were met. Immediately, the doctor became very concerned and ordered that he be brought to ICU. At speed, his trolley was rushed down the halls through the ICU doors. Mannachán was placed on ventilation in ICU, and spent the night in that state, monitored closely by a host of doctors and nurses. Having stabilised by the next morning, he was abruptly awoken.

Through the harsh white lights, he could discern two figures, both handling him aggressively as they painfully removed the long tube from his throat.

“You’re a lucky man, Mr Marin”, proclaimed the doctor, with an air of accusation. “Another couple of hours and it may have been too late”.

“Too late…ehhem…Too late for what?”, said Mannachán weakly, still loosening his vocal chords.

“Too late to save you, sir. You were just about breathing, and your organs weren’t getting enough oxygen, much longer like that and you would have been dead”.

“Dead?! I came in with a flu?”, said Mannachán, his confusion growing.

“We’ve identified that you had a bacterial infection, which is what has had you sick this past week, but it developed into Acute Respiratory Distress syndrome or ARDS. It’s very serious, often fatal”, said the doctor, maintaining his accusatory tone. “Though very unusual in someone so young”. At this point the doctor paused, “I must ask, do you take any drugs?”

“No!”, exclaimed Mannachán.

“Smoker?”, the doctor continued, but Mannachán again refuted.

“Do you work with chemicals at all?”

Mannachán paused. “Well, no, but I do use a lot of bleach at home”.

“That would probably be it. Overexposure even to household bleach is very damaging to the sensitive tissues of the lungs. It’s almost certainly what allowed your infection to develop into ARDS. Anyway, your age is on your side. Your lungs should mostly recover, and we’ll prescribe a course of antibiotics to clear the infection. You should be ok within a week or so. But do stay away from the bleach in future”.

Mannachán felt relieved at the prognosis, but felt an odd sense of guilt, that this must have been his own doing.

“Are you allergic to any medicines? Penicillin?”, asked the doctor, brightly, to which Mannachán replied, “No”.

“Very good, it’s terrific stuff, really. It’s saved countless lives over the years. And first discovered serendipitously, imagine, from as unlikely a thing as mould”.

Claire O’Brien - Finalist

Searching For A Home

I gave my partner a heavy cast iron tea pot for Christmas five or six years ago. He said he will use it when we have our own place. We have still not used it. There is an alcove at the back of our bedroom stuffed with things we have no space for. Prints and posters we have gifted each other that have yet to hang on a wall. I forget I have them, and then feel sad when I look at them again. One of my best friends gave me an image of a woman blissfully floating in the blue sea. I love it but have nowhere to put it. My collection of shells, pebbles and other curious things found on beaches is wrapped up in tissue paper, inside a box within that pile somewhere. My piano is sitting in my partner’s mom’s shed, right below where the swallows nest.

We first notice the swallows building their nest in late April and we watch them, mesmerized. We try to keep our distance after they have laid their eggs in May. I creep in one day out of hungry curiosity but quickly retreat when the chicks mistake me for the return of their mom and start to cheap loudly. I leave, but not before catching a glimpse of the bright yellow inside of their beaks, eager for food. We excitedly laugh when we see the baby birds learning how to fly. Fledging in August. Then one day in September, we don’t see them, another and another Autumn Day passes by without sight of them. We realise they have left, gone to the other side of the world, where their home will be for the next season.

I wonder if the next season will bring us to our home. It seems very unlikely we will find our own place, at least in Ireland. There is an ongoing housing crisis, and I am hugely grateful for what we do have. Among the population of this country, we are the lucky ones. The Department of Housing reports as of November 2022, the number of people accessing state-funded emergency accommodation is 11,542. This does not include people sleeping rough, homeless people in hospitals and prisons and those in Domestic Violence refuges. As of June 2022, there are a further 11,600 people living in direct provision centres across Ireland. As well as those acute cases, there are thousands who cannot afford to leave home, despite them being ready to and needing to. Families of grown adults living together and imploding through sheer stress and lack of space. But we are lucky we are together, many people are separated from their partners, their children, their lives.

It is not essential to own your own place but, it is essential to have a safe place to live and to feel certain that it is your home. I wonder where that place will be for us. My mom and Dad did not own our house growing up but at least they knew we would not be kicked out, or our rent would not go up year on year. They joined the social housing list and were given a house to rent, to call their own, in which to rear their family. That list is no longer a lifeline for people, illustrated by the fact that in March 2022 the Irish government reported that over 59,000 households were waiting to receive housing support. Many people wait years and years before they are offered housing. Housing is not something you can wait years and years for.

To me, my nana's house in Tipp and Grandad’s house in Kerry were the places I felt most at home. I knew that people in my family owned them and that my family had grown up in them. They had so much space around them, situated as they were in south Tipperary and north Kerry, respectively. And when I stayed at Grandad’s I could even sometimes have my own bedroom. The freedom of being so near to the sea and the fact that it had been Mom’s home too made me feel safe and happy. And in Tipp, Nana’s house was where Dad grew up. I had a strong feeling that I belonged in both places.

That is why now, as an adult searching for earth to root myself in, I keep dreaming of Grandad’s house and Nana’s house. Those people and those places are my roots but there is nowhere on this island that I can find to plant myself. There is no place where my partner and I can call our own, or even temporarily call our own. No place where we can hang our prints and play our instruments.

It makes me anxious where our home will be. What houses will our children dream of, after they are grown? Overcrowded ones, inhospitable and damp ones, imaginary ones, rooms that are built and designed for temporary stays. Will our children have anywhere to dream of where they felt safe and at home? Where they felt rooted and felt they belonged?

It is not about owning a place. It is about stability, and, as a child, as a person having some place you revisit over and over, where your family is, where your friends are. Without that rootedness what can we ask of people?

WRITIN G RETREAT

Let authentic experiences inspire your creative writing

WAWA Winners: Worlds Apart, United in Writing

Finalists And Winners of ‘Change’

WAWA Stories And The Writers Behind Them

Celebrating 10 Years of Literary Success

Ten years ago, it was but a dream. 

To start an international writing retreat in what is probably the most picturesque region in Ireland.

Now it’s a success beyond our wildest imagination, expanding beyond the ‘Forgotten Land’ of Donegal along the famous ' Wild Atlantic Way ' across the Irish Sea to the French Mediterranean.  

And then being voted number one creative retreat in the world by the Independent Publishing Group, Ireland " 12 creative escapes – from painting holidays in France to cooking in Galway ."

Not to mention, five years ago, being voted " ...one of the 10 best creative retreats in the UK and Europe, " by such a leading international publication as The Guardian newspaper, London.

During the past ten memorable years, we have welcomed writers from every walk of life, from nurses to lawyers, IT specialists to social workers, judges to teachers. And from so many countries including Iceland and New Zealand, Australia, the US and the UK to Germany. All lovers of words. And all ages, from young adults to septuagenarians. 

We consider ourselves unique insofar as we combine creative writing with cultural excursions and culinary experiences. Holidays with a difference that offer bus tours to historic places, scenic walks, food and drinks tastings, fascinating author talks, exclusive music performances and daily workshops. 

Before spending your hard-earned money to join us for one of these exciting weeks, take a few minutes to read about our philosophy and listen to testimonials from previous participants.

Joining ‘Ireland Writing Retreat’ means you will leave enriched in the following ways:

Confi dence - You will be part of a trusting environment, with others supporting you to strengthen your confidence, vital for better writing. 

Creative process - You will receive close guidance in various stages of your creative process, from generating ideas, drafting a plan, first drafts, revision and editing, with constant feedback throughout the week. 

Cra ft - You will learn about strategie s that will help you widen your imagination and senses, develop your observational skills and apply these techniques  to perfect your writing skills. 

Cultural experience - Aside from daily writing workshops and author talks, in Ireland you will enjoy visits to an island, a hundred-year old thatched cottage, a castle, a national park, as well as exclusive traditional Irish music performances and special food and drinks tastings. 

In France, excursions and activities include bus tours to charming medieval towns, open-air markets, an ex clusive Catalan dance performance in traditional costume, complimentary lunches, a sing-a-long evening and a guided walk through a spectacular moonscape rock formation.   

BECOME A FRIEND AND GET ACCESS TO EXCLUSIVE OFFERS

“I came to the retreat with few expectations, preferring a ‘wait and see’ approach. I could not have imagined anything more perfect. This experience has been warm, adventurous, engaging. I have gained a focus and a new writing community. I will use the tools learned and the immersion experiences as long as I am able.”

Linda Muller, Iowa City, USA.

Crime, mystery, women's fiction, magic realism, fantasy, travel, memoir, poetry and creative non-fiction, 'Ireland Writing Retreat' has attracted successful authors in these genres to teach those wishing to learn the challenging craft of good writing . 

These  award-winning authors  accomplish their task not through general lectures on theories of writing and editing that can be easily read in one of the many garden variety ‘Guide-to-Writing’ books, but through practical, hands-on teaching techniques including individual critiques of participant's own work completed before and during our week-long writing retreats. 

Not only, these authors also share specific details about their own professional experiences (including failures) in the tough world of publishing and book marketing. In so doing, they provide invaluable lessons on how participants can overcome many of the common difficulties they will probably face before succeeding in having their short stories, novels, poetry and memoirs see the light of day in print. 

“Thanks to Ireland Writing Retreat and to Sean Hillen for his invaluable editing skills and unwavering encouragement throughout the process. His support inspired me to push boundaries and explore new creative horizons. Retreat Co-ordinator Columbia provided unwavering support.

My recently self-published book, 'Wild Atlantic Way Anthology: Characters Along Ireland’s Majestic Coast Volume 1' has been receiving strong positive responses in local and regional newspapers.

I would like to express my appreciation and encouragement for others who want to embark on their writing journey with the support of Ireland Writing Retreat and Sean's expertise. I also enjoyed feedback from a diverse range of participants I met from all over the world; many remain good friends and supporters.

It is my hope that my book can inspire and resonate with readers.”

Mary Heeran  White, participant to Ireland Writing Retreat in Don egal and author of ' Wild Atlantic Way Anthology: Characters Along Ireland’s Majestic Coast Volume 1. '

“ This week was rich with local stories, informative and inspiring workshops with authors, interesting visits to traditional local sites, gorgeous landscapes, sunsets, songs and music. The people of Donegal are wonderful hosts including Sean and Columbia who welcomed us and co-ordinated and tutored a fabulous programme of events.  We were challenged to write every day and to discuss our writing with the other attendees. By the end of the week, we were sad to farewell the friends with whom we’d spent time and from whom we’d learned so much. Thank you, Sean and Columbia. It was all amazing. ”

Bridget Davidson, teacher, Dunedin, New Zealand.

“I came to the 'Ireland Writing Retreat' for inspiration and to become immersed in Irish culture. The experience was more than I hoped for. I'm leaving with the start of three new stories set in Donegal and new friends from three continents. It has enriched my writing and my life.” 

Laurie Wagner, Director of Development, Lighthouse Writers Workshop, Denver , Colorado

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Creative Writing Ink is run by Olive O’Brien, a writer and publisher.

Olive has a Masters in Journalism and previously worked as a features writer and news reporter at The Sunday Business Post and Mid-Day newspaper. Olive is also a regular blogger for hellomagazine.com…

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