Category: News

We’re delighted to publish the winning entries, and the runners up, from our 2021 short story competition. Young writers from all over Ireland competed for prizes of €250, sponsored by Tertulia Books in association with Spot-Lit EU. The competition’s theme, “Waves”, inspired work of an extremely high standard. The winners were selected by acclaimed YA author and guest judge Deirdre Sullivan. We thank all who entered and we encourage everyone to keep writing.

We will be publishing a story every day this week.

Éabha Coghlan (13) from Dublin was the junior winner with her story Waves.

Waves by Éabha Coghlan

Out of all the places on this gigantic planet, I must admit, never did I think I’d find myself sitting in the office of Professor Annie Murphy, the leading therapist for adolescents with mental health issues on the island of Ireland.

 “Hi everyone. My name is Evelyn McCarthy and I have anxiety.” 

I stated shyly for the rest of my group, who, judging by the mood of the room, were all about as willing to be there as I was. I heard one boy about my age say he was suffering with depression, and another girl shared that she is battling an eating disorder, but other than that I was fairly zoned out the whole time  and just sat playing with my rings. Counting down the minutes until this awful session finished. I know Mam only sent me to this support group because she wanted to help me, and I appreciate it, honestly I do, it’s just I have never been good at describing what I’m feeling. It’s like the words are there but I can’t quite… reach them.

  As far as I knew,  once our group session ended, we all had one on one sessions with Professor Murphy every week. I thank God every day that mine was straight after group so I could get it over and done with all in one Thursday afternoon. We took turns to say one positive thing that happened to us this week, and then we finished by mumbling our affirmations that we were very clearly forced to say. “I am strong. I am worthy. I am amazing, and I will get through this.” No one in the room ever believed a single word of it though, and it showed.

 I sat for ten minutes in the waiting room to let Professor M sort out her things, and then she called me into her office once again. Although this time, the colourful cushions from that afternoon’s group had been removed and left was a singular, purple, somewhat uncomfortable couch that she motioned me  to sit on.

  “Hi Evelyn! Just wanted to start this session as usual by letting you know that everything you say to me in this room remains 100% confidential and I am here to help you, so you don’t have to be scared or nervous to talk.” She then smiled hugely and I couldn’t help but feel safe. It didn’t stop my heart from beating through my chest or my palms sweating though. 

“Okay, thank you” I replied, and smiled back.

  Professor Murphy was an attractive, middle aged woman with dark hair and a fringe, and glasses which framed her face nicely. She seemed friendly but I knew better than to trust her before I was positive I could.

   “Okay just checking my files aren’t wrong,  you are 13 years old, right?”

“Yup, 14 on Tuesday” I smiled. “Oohhhh, very exciting! Birthdays are always fun” the therapist replied. She then remembered what she was supposed to be talking about and her face grew more solemn. “Okay, Evelyn. If you feel as though you can, please try to explain with as much detail as possible why you decided to visit me” It was from this moment on that I knew I could trust her. She seemed too genuine for me to believe any differently.

 “I’m really sorry, Professor,-” 

“Please, call me Annie, sweetheart” Annie interrupted. It felt weird calling someone who felt so authoritative by their first name, but I went with it anyway. 

“Okay, Annie…” I hesitated, ” I’m really sorry but I am really rubbish at putting my feelings into words, so there’s a strong chance this won’t make any sense” 

 “Nonsense, Evelyn, you’re not rubbish at anything. What do you like to do in your spare time?” Annie asked. I answered, slightly confused as to the relevancy of this question, “Oh, I love the sea. Anything to do with the sea. Kitesurfing, sailing, Kayaking, swimming, you name it, i love it”

“Brilliant Evelyn. That’s brilliant. I used to love water sports myself, back in the day” she laughed. ” Now what I want you to do for me, is try to put what you feel into words by comparing it to the sea.”

 I’ll admit, I found it extremely pointless and somewhat stupid at the time, but it was really a trust-the-process kind of thing, and so I began anyway.

 “Alright.”, I stated.

 “So for a lot of the time, I’m okay. I’m fine, I’m just, neutral, I guess. As though I’m looking out at the sea from the comfort from my boat. And then everything will change within a second. As if the waves come, big waves, and the ocean rises and I’m submerged in panic, and anxiety, and stress as though a huge body of water containing these emotions has come over my head.” 

 I was shocked for a minute that I had just successfully put into words exactly how I felt and I looked at Annie in awe. She definitely knows what she’s doing anyway, that’s for sure. She then looked back at me, seemingly pleased with herself, and me, for establishing my state of mind. “Well, that was very poetically phrased Miss Evelyn, you should be proud of yourself for that, that was a great first step.” she told me. I was rather proud to be honest, I have most certainly never phrased my feelings that well before. 

 “Now is the really challenging bit though. Finding out how we can stop this so it won’t continue to be such a huge part of your life. Is there any particular time when these waves come over you, Evelyn?” she questioned, scribbling something on a clipboard as she spoke.

 I didn’t know how on Earth to answer that question. I didn’t know myself, to be honest, so what was I supposed to tell her?

“Quite honestly, I don’t know Annie, sorry.” I replied.

“That’s okay sweetheart, no need to apologize, that’s what I’m here for” she reassured, and I considered myself lucky that she was so kind. 

“I want you to tell me, if you can remember, the last time you had one of these big-overwhelming-wave moments.”

I thought for a second. A long second, probably closer to a minute, really, before I spoke. “I think it was at school, when one of my teachers asked me to present something, and I started having this huge wave moment, which confused me because I used to love presenting stuff, and now it makes me want to cry.” 

“Ah yes, I understand dear. Is there any person in particular in your class that could contribute to this feeling, do you think?” she asked me.

“Yes. I think there could be.”

After telling my therapist this along with many other stories, and a lot more writing on her notepad, she decided that she wanted me to try something for her. She said she really believes I could do it and there’s no pressure if I can’t because if it doesn’t she has meds that would work as well in worse case scenario, and so I listened carefully.

“Evelyn, after meeting you, and hearing your story, I believe I know where this stems from”

she said. “You need validation from others to make yourself feel like you’re worthy, as everyone does sometimes, but you’re insecure about yourself to the point where it’s causing great panic attacks- or waves, to think people don’t like you. So I want you to try and understand something. You’re a good girl, Evelyn. I don’t know you well but from what I’ve seen today and from what I’ve heard from you, people do like you. You are a kind-hearted young woman and I know there is confidence in there somewhere, but we just have to find it!!”

I smiled, actually “smiled” is an understatement. I grinned from ear to ear that Annie said those things about me, and that maybe people didn’t hate me after all. She smiled back. 

“Wait, so, what am I to try for you?” I asked, still quite confused.

“Oh yes, I beg your pardon. I want you to take control of that boat, and try your very hardest not to let the waves overcome you. If you feel as though they are coming on, steer the boat to safety. Remember that you’re a good person, and “so what if people don’t like me, because the people I care about like me and that’s enough ” I need you to breathe, and think, and not let the waves of panic anywhere near your lovely boat, okay? And if this doesn’t work, then by all means come back to me and we can figure something else out, but I’m confident that this will work.”

 And the strangest thing is, I was confident it would work as well. I thought I could do it if I tried. Let go of all the panic inside of me as best I could, and try to think rationally instead of letting the wave attack me. I could do it. I could, if I tried. And I wanted to try. The hour of the session had miraculously gone by already, and I thanked Annie for all of her help, looking forward to seeing her the next Thursday to tell her if her plan worked. If her idea that she was so confident in would be effective and help me, or if it would fall to pieces and do the opposite. But I was willing to try though, and the fact she got me to be that motivated about a coping method was amazing enough already. I thanked Annie and said goodbye, and I walked out of her office with a small smile playing on my lips.

 Mam was waiting for me in the car when I got out. She looked worried and rather stressed, wondering what the outcome of today’s session would be, I guessed. She asked me as soon as I closed the door of the front seat, “Well, Evvie, how did you get on love?” 

I looked her in the eye and smiled.

“I’ve got my boat”, I said, “and I’m ready to sail it”.

 Mam looked confused but didn’t question me any further, instead she just bopped her head and smiled at me, and so we went home for dinner.

---

Hi! My name is Éabha, I live in Dublin and I love reading and playing instruments and singing. I go to Westport every Summer and I saw this competition on the window of Tertulia so I decided to enter it! It’s been a while since I put my mind to writing, so I thought I would give this a go as I love challenging myself and it seemed like great fun. I really enjoyed writing my story, and thank you so much for this opportunity!

We’re delighted to publish the winning entries, and the runners up, from our 2021 short story competition. Young writers from all over Ireland competed for prizes of €250, sponsored by Tertulia Books in association with Spot-Lit EU. The competition’s theme, “Waves”, inspired work of an extremely high standard. The winners were selected by acclaimed YA author and guest judge Deirdre Sullivan. We thank all who entered and we encourage everyone to keep writing.

We will be publishing a story every day this week.

Eavan O’Keefe (17) from Kildare took the senior prize for Our Footsteps in the Sand. The story was published in Issue 6.

Our Footsteps in the Sand by Eavan O’Keefe

“Can you hear it?” you ask, whispers warm against my cheek – a refuge from the hostile breeze of the Atlantic.

I turn to you, our bodies so close that they become one. Only here can I feel safe. “What?”

Your smile surfaces – that smile meant only for me, that can speak without saying a word. My heart grows wings and flutters off into the wisps of cloud languidly wandering through the evening sky above. “The ocean – it’s breathing,” you answer.

Over the rocks, strewn about as if by vaunting giants, and across the beach where sand meets sea, the fading summer sun paints this ocean of secrets in vivid watercolour hues. I hear its breath. Gentle, almost like a sigh of sorrow, as the waves advance and retreat, advance and retreat – never ending. Immortal, as we wish we could be, in this moment. 

“I don’t think it’s alive, though,” I reply, staring at your eyes; piercing like an eagle’s yet as warm as roasted chestnuts. 

Everything about us, from how we look to how we love, is a dichotomy. You, with tense muscles, curled hair against pale freckled skin. Me, body at risk of being stolen away with a strong gust, the colour of my skin telling a story that some people in this town aren’t sure if they like or not. Two opposites, breathing each other’s breaths, our hearts like a lock and key, wondering quietly who told us that our sacred secret is a sin, and why.

I turn to the ocean. I can’t bear the intensity of your eyes. It’s like a fire burning through me that I never want to extinguish. “It’s not alive. It doesn’t cry, or laugh, or love,” I whisper, adamant that living and being alive are as different as dying and dead.

Your calloused hand drifts up to my cheek, grazing my skin, raising goosebumps. So soft with me, yet around others you turn from a delicate flower into something so brutal, so defensive; a castle to hide in, the walls your façade. 

Vulnerability scares you. 

It’s why you hide your art under your bed, isn’t it? For how could a tough boy in west Ireland create such unguarded beauty? And for what other reason would we hide our secret from the world and only show it to the hulking, wind-battered cliffs that enclose this secluded beach just like your hands closing over mine?

“And do you live? Do we?” Your voice is thick and musical, sounding discordant when intertwined with my own.

I glance back to those eyes I could swim in. Just as deep as the ocean, yet twice as tumultuous. You pretend the question means nothing, but you’ve already let me past your stone walls, and you know that I’m not a fool. 

There’s a giddy power in knowing I can set your heart ablaze. So my gaze drifts down to your lips, and I answer.

***

I wake up to a shout cutting through the sleep-laden air of the dark room – my father, waking me up for work at the restaurant. In the stillness, I hear the shallow, relentless echoes of the clock’s feeble ticking.

I’m late.

Unlike me, my father never sleeps in, never truly rests. Nor is he one to look back and ponder where the waves have taken his footsteps. For him, it’s a matter of survival. Fleeing to a foreign country, he never forgot the burden of having to tirelessly dig into the hard soil to plant roots, for fear that tomorrow they could be ripped up and leave us to wither.

Dressing, stomach moaning, I check my phone and see your string of texts. I read them just once, and everything—everything, changes. Your words turn my heart inside out, wrenching it out of my chest, baring my fragile beauty to the rough world outside.

shit
my mam knows about us
she found the necklace you gave me and your top in my room

call me

Our secret – our delicate, twisting cathedral of hidden beauty, crumbles to the ground. The chambers of my heart twist, tightening like the knot of a rope pulled taut – the pain of it like glass shards slicing at my bone.

What does this mean? The answer is a poison that lingers in my mind. I try to call you but my fingers won’t let me, held back as if by the strings of a marionette.

Another shout – rising anger, two knocks on my door like gunshots. 

I can’t do it…

***

Your mother came to the restaurant that day.

Her eyes, those orbs of deadly righteousness, stare down at me. She is one who wields her weapon and slaughters without mercy.

We both know why she’s here. She offers a smile. Her eyes linger for just a second too long as she pays.

A warning. A threat. 

I’m powerless. 

The air sparks with the tension of a secret known but never spoken—never spoken. That’s the one thing she makes sure to tell me, with those blood-drenched, grinning lips and eyebrows like steel daggers.

How much of her blood rushes through your own veins? Do you despise the clay from which you are made? Is that why you came to me, so I can remake you? But I’m no god, just a beast in the wilderness, and you can’t change what’s inside you when you aren’t sure if you want it gone.

***

At last I call you, those cheerful ringtones mocking me. Your voice answers – different. 

Empty. 

Dying. 

You’re wearing that façade, even though it’s just the two of us. You ask, “do you remember my uncle, the parish priest?”

I do.

The word sin – a lie – is too sharp to get past the narrow constrictions of my throat. It chokes me.

You say we won’t be able to see each other: you haven’t been spending enough time with family, you need to train more. Whose words are these? You are cruel now to be kind later, yet there’s no such thing as a painless death.

We say goodbye. Just a single word. Nothing more.

Tears well on my cheeks, sorrow as deep as the ocean at midnight.

Yet all I hear is silence.

***

Summer is now a withered autumn leaf barely clinging to its branch, and the weather has grown vengeful and vindictive. Last time I saw you, in this small tomb of a town that seems to be made mostly of walls and pedestals and gallows, you were changed. You’ve become addicted to your masquerade, treasuring it like a panacea.

But then, out of nowhere – as strange as hearing birds singing at midnight, I see your name on the pale blue glow of my phone.

meet me at our beach

please

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t say no.

***

Our cliffs seem more like a cage than a sanctuary when I see them now. Everything seems entirely—painfully, ordinary. Our secret made no marks on the ancient moss-stained rocks, the waves washing away every trace of our history on the sand.

When I see you, standing at that same spot where our bodies used to be as intertwined as fate itself, I think you are someone else.

Hair cut with brute force using a blunt scissors, wearing that cursed necklace out over the front of a treasonous t-shirt – the downfall of our cathedral of fragile possibilities. Dried tears stain your rosy cheeks – or maybe it’s the sorrow of the heavens raining down. 

No matter. Your eyes are aflame and as determined as a spark of lightning. No doubt, no uncertainty, no more war raging between who you are, and who they say you are. 

“Seán,” you whisper, making me believe I was given this name just so you could call me by it.

“Cian,” I answer, the word sounding strange on my tongue, like the scent of a flower I haven’t smelled for years – a memory of a moment lost to time.

Jaw tense, you say; “I’m going to America, to art college. I don’t want to hide this. I know it’s right. I know we are right.”

Silence lingers. The air is heavy, weighed down by my thoughts and your hopes. 

You look out to the ocean and let out a sigh you were holding ever since I first kissed you. “Can’t you feel that this town is stifling?” It’s all I’ve ever felt. “No one here is alive, they’re all just ghosts – reflections, imitations. We’ll breathe our final breath in this cage if we don’t leave.”

Survival. That’s what it’s all about. That’s why you came to me.

You reach out and hold my hand with a softness that steals my breath. I want to sink into you. “Come with me-“

“-I can’t,” I mumble, because it’s impossible to say I can.

“Why not!”

“I-I can’t!”

You shake your head and bridge the distance between us. 

I can feel your breath. 

Refuge. 

How desperately it calls out to me, like a mother’s womb. “Don’t lie to yourself! You could be whoever you want! I’ve seen your poems. You only hide them from me because you’re afraid I’ll love you more for them. And I know what you fear most is the possibility of doing what you truly love, but you don’t have to be afraid. Just come with me, please…”

How dare you speak these unspoken, blistering truths, revealing me to myself? They sting like sand thrown into my eyes, buffeted by the winds of a raging storm.

“No. I can’t…”

 Why can’t I?

“Please-!”

“-I don’t love you!”

The words slash through the air – deadly.

“Don’t lie,” you whisper.

You’re right.

I love you like a December sunrise, like a rainbow in the night, like a cool breeze called relief on a blistering June afternoon.

Yet can’t you see that freedom has a cost I can’t afford? 

In my hand, you place the necklace that belongs to both of us – a tether. My fingers close around it as you say, “I’ll wait for you,” almost like a prayer.

No. You will forget about me. Please, forget me!

Your forehead rests against mine. “As long as the water breathes, even though I’m an ocean away, I’ll still feel your heartbeat just like when my hand rested on your chest.”

If you’re holding on to me, then you’re holding on to nothing!

Your hand leaves mine. The air is empty and cold.

“I love you,” you say, turning to walk away without hiding your tears. 

Vulnerable. 

Beautiful.

Hours later, when the only thing left of you is your faint footsteps in the sand, I take the necklace and hurl it into the ocean – not out of hate, but love. 

I scream until my lungs burn, my cries of anguish swallowed by the waves as they begin to thunder down on to the beach that just lost its most beautiful secret.

***

Days drag past.

Twilight falls like a silk cloth over the water. The beach is now more a memory than a place, and the ocean is taking weak, shallow breaths. I wonder if it’s dying. 

I walk along the sand, then suddenly something snags on my shoe. A glint of silver in a sea of gold dust. 

Our necklace.

The waves return our sorrows to us, it seems.

I glance behind me and see my footsteps stolen by the water. My past, my history – gone. What lies ahead?

Nothing…

Not a single footstep ahead of me. My future is unwritten.

A fire in my chest kept alight by the slightest ember of hope suddenly sparks. 

Why can’t I?

I can – no, I must!

I deserve your love, my freedom. I deserve life!

In the sand, I write to you. The water laps at the words, hungry, eager to steal these traced letters. I let the waves take my message to you, to carry it across the ocean. 

i am coming to you, coming home.

---

Bio: I am an aspiring young writer, canoeist and artist. I enjoy exploring the hidden vulnerabilities of characters in my work and trying to reveal a deeper truth about who we are as humans, and how we treat one another. I’m passionate about delving into modern themes and ensuring there is diversity in my work to better represent our culture and society. I wrote this short story about the dichotomies and paradoxes of love, centred around a modern Irish life and identity, yet one which does not ignore some of the cruel prejudices that remain from a time we have moved on from. I enjoyed writing about the turmoil of teenage life and the inward search for hope as we aim to empower the most true version of ourselves.

We are so delighted to share our cover for Issue 6! ‘The Ship’ by Nanthini Rajarethinam. Cover design by Eleanor Brayden

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We are also thrilled to announce our contributors for Issue 6, coming out this September! We are honoured to share the work of these talented writers, artists and readers.

You can pre-order your copy today.

Creative writing submissions are now open for Issue 7 until Sept 20th!

Open internationally to writers age 13+ and adults. Please make sure you read the guidelines carefully before you submit.

And don’t forget, submissions for Features and Art are open all year!

Don’t forget, our art submissions are open all year round! All artwork will be considered for cover art too!

Send us your photography, paintings, sketches, collages, digital illustrations, and mixed media. Open internationally to artists aged 13+ and adults! Artists will receive a fee for their work.

Take a look at our art and photography submission guidelines here