The question was ironic. The questioner was commenting on the subject matter of the three readings at the Cork International Short Story Festival at Cork City Library, one of which was by me. The event was showcasing the Smoke in The Rain Anthology, the 2017 From the Well Short Story Competition, organised by Cork County Libraries and Arts Service and it was very kind of The Munster Literature Centre to do so.
In fairness my story was probably the darkest, but Mary Rose’s wasn’t all sugar and spice either. Anne’s was a bit more uplifting, about a boy coming to terms with his grief after his father’s death – yeah, I know, says a lot about the others doesn’t it? Continue reading “Why are Writers So Happy?”
I was trying to remember the last time I was in the Blackrock End and I think it was back in the heyday of the Clare v Tipp battles. Those heady days when Clare were a mighty force on the wane and Tipperary were trying to recreate the vigour they used to exude in the early 90s. Maybe 2003. Continue reading “On Watching Waterford v Wexford in the New Páirc”
Reader, I cried.
Cop yourself on, says I, it’s only a bloody a match and it’s only a quarter-final, we won nothing. Then I looked over at Martin and a fine big tear dropped out of his eye onto his cheek and I thought, yes, why not? Why not cry after that experience, that communion, that transportation. Continue reading “Cork v Tipperary Part 2 We kept the faith.”
I wrote the piece below in early February, on the day of the first match of the year.
This morning, three months later, we make our way to Thurles to do battle with our great old enemy in their lair. We’re not confident, how hard is that for a Cork person to say, but we’re not. This Tipp forward line is something else, and those Mahers…
Anyhow, now it’s May, not February. It’s warm, not cold. The sod is firm, not soft. And there’s a lot more at stake. It’s championship. There will be blood. Continue reading “Cork v. Tipperary Part 1 – We keep the faith.”
I’m a rook, like, and I mainly hang around Rory Gallagher Square in Cork. I pecks away around the square, getting the odd bits and pieces that people drop on the ground.
I’m what you call a polyglot. That means I speak a lot of languages. I mean a lot of languages. It comes easy to birds, us rooks especially. Continue reading “The Hipster and the Rory Gallagher Square Rook “
I wrote a poem. Well I think it’s a poem, I’m not sure. I don’t really knjow what a poem is. Anyway I wrote it on my way home from O’Bheal, the poetry night in The Long Valley. They were launching the book Looking at the Stars, edited by Kerrie O’ Brien for which the proceeds were going to helping the homeless.
In O’Bheal there is an exercise where you write a poem that contains some words that are provided. Continue reading “Montgomery Clift is Homeless”
I’m the Echo Boy on Patrick’s Street. No, not that one, I’m the one across the road, outside the old Examiner Offices. I’m the statue.
I didn’t know I was a statue for a long time, actually. I used to be over on Cook Street and one day I heard a woman tell her daughter what I was, so that’s how I found out. Continue reading “The Echo Boy”