Paper Lanterns

We are so thrilled to share the beautiful cover for our upcoming Issue 7, the Winter Issue! Our brilliant art is by teen contributor Calum Hoyne, called ‘Expression of Self’, and the cover design is by Aurelie Gallagher. 

You can pre-order your copy today!

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.

Sink or Swim by Ella Jones Bourke (aged 14) was runner-up in the junior category.

Sink or Swim by Ella Jones Bourke

As she stepped out of the (probably unhygienic) changing rooms onto the (definitely unhygienic) pool deck for the first time in nearly 2 years, Seren was overcome with nostalgia at the familiar smell of chlorine and sweat. Seren embraced the repetitive sound of the gentle waves of water lapping up against the poolside created by joyful young swimmers, in the pool purely for the fun of it, splashing in the shallow end and the competitive swimmers she used to call her closest companions, there purely -not- for the fun of it, diving in almost seamlessly. 

‘I certainly don’t miss this’, she thought to herself as she cringed watching her past coach berate one of the girls about a minor error in her stroke that no one else would’ve picked up on. She offered her a sympathetic smile as she herself was once the girl being yelled at and remembered how belittling the experience felt. The girl gave her a sheepish smile back. 

Seren had quit swimming two October’s ago with no warning on account of her (deteriorating) mental health.

After an excruciating year filled with secrecy, exhaustion and comments about her shrinking body. A year where her malnourished brain was numb to almost all emotion and even that could almost be considered a positive because it softened the blow of the lost trust and friendships restriction brought with it. A year shadowed by a loud, destructive voice that came in as a friend, a comfort, something to help her, yet somehow ended in crying parents, no personality and an anorexia nervosa diagnosis. 

Seren was forced to stop swimming and although she put up a fight, to both recovery and quitting her “passion”, she was secretly grateful underneath the destabilising fear. Grateful for the break, the moment of respite that her apologetic and comforting parents brought from the war inside her head.

No one prepared her, however, for when the emotional and financial cost became too great for her support system and suddenly she was left alone to fight off something that she felt as if it had latched onto her brain. The constant support morphed into bi weekly therapy sessions and weigh-ins

and when your therapist starts to give up on you, that’s a whole new bout of hopelessness.

Seren had minor relapses before but had been rescued from these stormy seas last minute before suffocating under water.

However, this time, when she was on the verge of relapsing and falling back into anorexia’s welcoming clutches, there was no one there to help. she was the only thing standing between her and being swallowed away by a treacherous flood.

If she hadn’t found a flickering glow of perseverance – like a candle trying to stay aglow in a breezy, dark room – within herself, she would’ve been swept away for good in a large, foreboding wave, that wouldn’t have shown any mercy. 

Seren had read many books and watched countless movies about being rescued valiantly by a significant other (no volunteers, unfortunately), a friend, a family member, sometimes an unexpected stranger. Now, that’s not to say she hadn’t acquired some endlessly supportive friends and that her family hadn’t been to hell and back to help her. Regardless, these people were on, what felt like a job rota and once their shift ended, their support went with them.

Being your own lifeguard and training your mind on how to pull yourself up before drowning in waves that are too strong for even the most accomplished of swimmers, she had come to realise was far more reliable 

because support and sheltering from others only goes so far and sometimes it’s up to you, and only you to pull yourself through the waves, even if it looks like a questionable doggy paddle (that her coaches simply would not have been able to cope with) rather than a perfectly composed stroke.

And that’s why she’s here.

After 2 years of recovering that manifested itself as struggling and grappling with incredibly dark emotions mixed with bursts of pure happiness she was back

at her second home, as she used to call it, almost completely rid of the shackles that anorexia had used to clamp her down.

The place where every morning without fail she would train at 4:30 (insert exhausted parent’s sighs here) before going to school half asleep (Seren blames swimming for her dependency on caffeine) only to come back late to the pool late that evening.

a place where love triangles were messy and friendship groups were a tangle of “how could you do this to me?” and “oh my god, i wish i looked like you” and “her jumper was ONLY €50? the poor thing has no money *insert fake sympathetic smile here*” 

and relentless coaches would yell for reasons that, looking back, seem completely unnecessary 

and tears were shed when times were so narrowly missed after months of never-ending laps of the pool.

Yet, in the midst of it all there was a comfort in being part of something unique and admittedly, what many people couldn’t fathom doing considering the sacrifice and dedication.

So, unsurprisingly, stepping foot on the pool deck again brought an incredible spectrum of emotions with it.

She’s back because Seren managed to pull herself out of the succumbing current of anorexia.

She cut off old friends that glorified unrealistic bodies,

made new ones who celebrated individuality and stepping outside of the ruthless (yet somehow, normalised?) society that pressures young people into being 

thin

beautiful 

apologetic (Seren was overly so)

perfect (Seren worked every day for months to learn to cope with not being so)

and never, ever

outside of the acceptable box. 

Instead of so called “friends” and boyfriends idolising her thin, sick body, she now had friends who made her feel beautiful in a body that allowed her to lead a much better, fun-filled life that included spontaneous ice cream, train trips and coffee dates along with picnics and painting on top of fresh grass adorned with budding flowers. 

She started to call herself out on old, lingering behaviours that would only lead her to unsafe waters, replacing them with newer habits that would give her an abundance of energy and spirit to pursue the greatness she was told she could achieve from a young age 

while also releasing herself from this pressure to force herself to pursue said greatness because Seren realised that perhaps this pressure and the unrealistic expectations she had set for herself was what had paved the path that anorexia had taken to walk into her life as a control mechanism, something to truly be the best at when academics and “passions” started to fall away.

She found a balance between happiness and success.

Seren began treating herself with respect by no longer cruelly reprimanding her body that does so much for her and instead speaking to herself with kind words,

dressing and acting in a way that makes her feel at home in herself and not in a way that is purely to please others.

In front of everyone’s eyes,

Seren started to smile instead of sulk, a perk in her step replaced the drag, she began saying yes to adventurous days out instead of saying yes to the voices saying to relapse.

Treating herself with the respect that her body and mind was crying out for transformed her into an evolved version of Seren.

A version even better than before she got swept away with anorexia.

However, this journey was not without hardship. 

She had made promises and broken them before,

had these moments of convincing motivation,

only to fall through and be encapsulated by anorexic waves 

this lost the trust of her therapists 

and most importantly, 

her parents.

Whenever Seren wanted, and craved, to move forward she had to reassure her parents (and sometimes herself) that it was going to last this time.

No one believing she was recovering gave her more drive to pursue it.

And she did.

Now dressed proudly in her new uniform of red shorts and yellow t-shirt, she stands with her toes over the edge of the pool, feeling the gentle ripples fall softly onto her feet, shocking them momentarily with the cold before retracting back into the pool, a small droplet rolled down her cheek as she embraced the new beginning, or perhaps redoing, that being back at the pool would surely bring.

Only this time, Seren isn’t here to train. 

She’s here in a newer, replenished body.

She’s back with a more caring and well-rounded mindset.

She’s here for a summer job lifeguarding to earn some money and have fun (and, knowing them, probably fight) with old friends,

not to burn calories or punish herself needlessly by pushing her body to extremes.

Although she’s regretful of how her journey with swimming ended, Seren is endlessly grateful to herself for being her own lifeguard and beginning her journey to loving, nourishing and truly being herself. 

Because you can’t always expect the waves to part for you,

or for anyone else to pull you out just in time.

Sometimes, it’s up to you to swim free. 

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.

Carrowniskey Dreamer by Joe Reidy (17) was a runner-up in the senior category.

Carrowniskey Dreamer by Joe Reidy

Marie’s pencil scratched graphite curls into her notebook. Gulls squalled overhead as she swished and smudged. She held up her book. A sketch of a breaking wave. 

It’s a bit shit.

She wasn’t far wrong. It was missing...something. Colour maybe? Depth. How could she capture the furious beauty of the waves with one pencil? She rolled up her notebook and shoved it into her hoodie pocket. She heaved herself off the rock, her legs stiff. 

The weather was overcast and pallid. The girls shivered in bikinis, trying in vain to tan. Siobhán from school was there, of course, the big mouth on her. The lads wore football shorts and looked bored. They all drank cans. Marie eyed them with a mixture of disapproval and envy.  The aul ones walked up and down the beach unsmiling in their coats.

She noticed a tall guy walking by.  He had blond curly hair. He wore swimming togs and a t-shirt that said ‘California Dreamer’ on it. She had never seen him before and he was really hot. He belonged on Bondi Beach, but here he was, in Carrowniskey. He caught her looking at him.

He strolled over, making sure to step on flat stones.

Oh, god, oh fuck.

‘How you doin’?’

‘Good? H-Hi’ she stammered 

‘Great beach, huh?’

She looked at the grey sky. Felt the stones through her thin Converse soles. The waves thrashed.

‘Yeah’

‘Nature doesn’t hold back. There’s a, like, ferocity to it?’ His eyes moved to the horizon.

She felt a rush of bravery. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Brendan. You?’

‘Marie’

‘Beautiful name, Marie’

Wait. Is he flirting?

‘It’s alright’

‘You drawing something?’

‘Not much’ She took out the notebook and showed it to him. ‘It’s not great’

‘It’s amazing!’ He said it like he meant it. She felt her ears turn red, despite the cold.

 He turned to her. ‘You ever surf?’

She nodded. ‘School Trip’.

Transition Year. She mostly remembered falling off. And Siobhán Simons getting stung by a jellyfish.

He smiled. ‘I do a good bit of it. This picture captures something. You know?’

She looked over her drawing again. Maybe she had judged it too harshly. There was something there, in its simplicity. 

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ she asked. ‘Just along the beach?’

She felt his eyes on her. He wore a shark tooth necklace.

‘Sure’

He picked his way down the stones onto the hard sand. She followed. The ocean churned and crashed as they walked along the beach. Could the girls see? She could get a lad too. 

His eyes lit up. You know what your drawing reminds me of?

‘No?’

‘The Great Wave’

‘What?’

‘The big one. That every surfer dreams of.’

She was silent. Brendan looked at her expectantly.

‘I caught one. About this time last year. It was amazing.’

He looked towards the sea.

‘It was dark. The wind was howling, and the sea was rough’

Marie looked at the waves crashing into the shore. They looked angry today.

‘That sounds dangerous.’And pretty fucking stupid. 

‘You gotta live your life, you know?’

‘Doing my best’

He laughed, but it sounded hollow.

‘Were you by yourself?’

‘Yeah’

‘Doesn’t sound like the best idea’ 

‘If I’d turned back, I’d be in the old folks home, regretting it’

‘At least you’d live long!’ She said, hoping to sound flirty.

‘That’s not living, man!’

‘You weren’t scared?’

 ‘I suppose I was?’

She nodded.

‘But I wasn’t gonna chicken out! The big wave? The stuff dreams are made of!’

Marie never remembered her dreams.

‘So I run in the water and fall on my board. I’m paddling like my life depends on it. I feel the swell of the sea, and I’m lifted up, up up, like 20 feet easy’

‘20 feet?’

‘Yup. So, I stand up and jump’

‘Seriously?’

‘It was a trick jump’

Show-off.

‘I land on the crest of the wave and ride down the face of it. It’s crazy. The wind’s blowing in my face, and I’m surrounded by like, walls of water? I surf through the barrel, just hoping to make it out alive’

‘I’m guessing you did’

‘The wave crashes down around me as I ride out. Best night of my life’

They walked a while in silence.

‘Are you going in today? They’re renting boards up there’

He considered.

‘It’s the weather. The waves just aren’t big enough’

‘Ah come on. They’re pretty fierce’

He gestured at the sea. ‘See those waves? They’re choppy but small. Like a chihuahua.’ He turned back to her. ‘I need big and steady. A Great Dane’

She studied the sea. She could almost imagine chihuahuas just under the surface, snapping. Like chubby piranhas. She noticed a young boy struggling on what looked like a surfboard. She pointed.

‘Sure, isn’t he out surfing?’

His eyes followed her finger.

‘Woah! That’s a bodyboard!’

‘Sorry?’

You did not just call that surfing?’

She flushed red. ‘What’s the difference?’

‘You don’t stand up! You just lie there and paddle. I mean, what’s the point?’

They walked on some more. The sun was getting lower in the sky, and they were almost at the end of the beach.

‘That kid’s pretty far out’ Marie said. The child was paddling fiercely, as a wave swelled beneath him.

‘Yeah’

‘Do you think he’s ok?’

He looked out to sea. ‘Sure. That’s how you learn.’ 

The wave crashed, and the boy was swept off his board. She jerked away from him.

‘Brendan! Help him!’

‘He stood still, as if paralysed. The kid made a grab for the board, but it was snatched away. She turned to him, and screamed.

‘Why aren’t you helping!’

His face was frozen. He seemed to forget how his tongue worked. Then finally-

‘I’m not’ he gulped. ‘great at swimming’

‘What?’ But you just said-’

‘I might have got carried away. I was trying to impress you’

Her stomach flipped, and she clenched her fist. He stood there, a statue.

‘Fuck you’ 

A wave engulfed the child, and he disappeared. What felt like an age passed, until he came up, spluttering. Marie pulled off her hoodie and ran into the violent water. It was biting cold.

Where were the parents?

When it was up to her knees, she fell forwards and started swimming. It was far from the controlled technique she’d learned in the pool. It was something desperate and primal. The waves crashed into her, and she swallowed water. The salt stung the back of her throat.

The kid was a mess of thrashing limbs and gargled screams. She grabbed his arm and lifted him up. But he was panicking. He grabbed her t-shirt. He was heavy and pulled her under.

She ripped his hand off her clothes. He screamed. A wave hit, and the salt water stung her eyes.

Oh God. Where is he?

He surfaced again and she saw someone catch him. Brendan. He’d come. She swam towards them, and taking one of the child’s arms, together they began to pull him to shore. 

A small crowd had gathered on the beach. The boy ran into the arms of a teary couple, who couldn’t stop thanking them.  The people from school were there, and the aul ones, whispering.

Siobhán ran up to Brendan, gushing about what a hero he was. Brendan had a slightly dazed smile on his face.

Well, she can have him.

‘Marie?’ It was a crowd of popular girls from school with some lads she didn’t know.

 ‘Fair play to ya’ said one of the lads.

‘Do you want my towel?’ Saoirse from Home Ec asked. She’d never spoken to her before. Marie nodded, shivering.

‘Come up the rocks. We’ve got hot coffee as well’

‘Thanks’ 

She picked up her hoodie and her notebook fell out. She ripped out the wave sketch. It really wasn’t great. She rolled it into a ball, and followed Saoirse.

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.

Ella Conway (15) was runner up in the junior category with the short story Without A Second Thought

Without A Second Thought by Ella Conway

This tale begins on Glassilaun Beach, where seagulls cry and the ocean sings, she sat on a rock with the wind in her hair and what she breathed was crisp salt air.

Fiadh had longed for a beach day like this; open, tranquil and completely empty. No matter what she was doing here, her time would never be wasted. Her dress ruffled in the wind, while she was sitting on the rock in all her solitary glory. She closed her eyes and listened to the gentle rush of the waves, it sounded so angelic and just the mere noise of it gave her a brilliant sense of nostalgia. Each memory she made here as a child was so precious and filled with happiness. As she opened her eyes, she could almost see the ghosts of her past self jumping over waves, chasing them, and even trying to climb the rocks.

Little moments of freedom were a huge part of Fiadh’s life and she feared that since she became a teenager, those innocent days had been slowly ebbing away. That feeling of fear reminded her of the many times she failed to climb to the highest rock on Glassilaun Beach. She wanted to fulfil her childhood goal while she was still young enough to find motivation to do so.

Without a second thought, Fiadh turned around to make her way up the rocks that towered above her. As she climbed higher, her worries seemed to dwindle away. She adopted a joyful countenance and grinned wide, unfamiliar of any danger. She felt free again, that was until she started to feel a slight pain in her feet, but it gradually got worse until eventually she had to see what was wrong. She realised how silly she was to have climbed the rocks as they had grazed her feet quite badly. She remembered an incident from eight years prior, when she fell on the same rocks and injured herself. She sat down to take a rest since she was in such pain; just like what she had done all those years ago.

Fiadh only intended to stay a few minutes resting, but the minutes turned to hours, until the only trace left of her pain was the red cuts on her feet.The sky had turned dark and calm as it displayed faint outlines of stars behind indigo clouds. It was evening now. The sound of wind and waves surrounded the beach and the smell of salt air was stronger than ever. Fiadh wore a dissapointed look on her face as she knew it was time to go home. She wouldn’t get time to climb to the highest rock and stare down at the beach after her great accomplishment. She smiled in spite of her failure though, as the view was so lovely. As she reluctantly stood up to make her way down, a rush of panic filled her bones: the tide had risen, blocking her way back to the sand. Fear flew through her body, it wasn’t the kind of light fear she experienced earlier, but rather, a deep, scary, real fear.

Fiadh looked down to see that her dainty sundress was torn. Her mother gifted her that dress. Saddening thoughts of her devastated mother searching the beach for her started to haunt her mind.

Large ghastly waves hit the rocks. These weren’t the gentle, nostalgic waves, these waves were catastrophic and mean. The waves were getting crueler by the second and the tide was now creeping up the rocks.

Fiadh stood silent, closing her eyes to stop the tears. She did the same thing when she was trying not to cry when she was only little.  For just a mere few seconds, the sea went silent and she opened her eyes. The brief moment of calmness didn’t last long as it was soon interrupted by one of the biggest waves Fiadh had ever seen. It soaked her from head to toe. The colossal wave had made her slip and suddenly she was falling freely into the sea.

Falling was the easiest part of the past hour. The falling was peaceful. The abrupt crash that came afterwards was the most difficult part. The ice-cold water felt rock hard as Fiadh splashed into it. The pain was excruciating. Waves smashed over her head as she frantically moved her limbs to stop herself from drowning. The taste of salty water filled her mouth as she shivered ferociously. Her delicate tears added to the endless, open ocean.

As the minutes flew by, Fiadh felt almost half dead in the water, gasping for air. This wasn’t her idea of freedom. The waves were slowing down a bit. The life drained from the sea, just like it was draining from Fiadh. She thought about what a morbid death she was yet to approach and how it was almost unavoidable. She didn’t have any memories of drowning. The many occasions she previously shared with the waves had always been friendly and fun. Nothing about this encounter was friendly or fun though. She wondered what she had done to the waves to cause this quarrel. Maybe she just grew up.

Forcing herself to keep her eyes open, Fiadh saw a blurry shadow of a torchlight shine from the distance. She wasn’t sure if she was hallucinating or not. She tried to call for help, but no voice left her mouth. The light seemed to be coming closer to her. She forced her freezing self to move slowly towards the light. She noticed that the sea-level had lowered since she first fell in. Her eyesight had gone blurry, but she made out a distant figure on the rocks, that jumped into the water and swam towards her. A hand grabbed Fiadh’s hand and dragged her almost lifeless body to the rocks.

Fiadh woke up an hour or so later, still on the beach with a green, wooly blanket over her shoulders. Her mother was beside her and smiled gently as Fiadh woke up. ‘You have a rip in the dress I gave you,’ she chuckled, knowing that was the least of their worries. By some miracle, the tide had never washed away the blood stains left on the rocks by her feet, which led her mother to find her. The place was so remote that they had to wait for hours for an ambulance to arrive.

The deceitful waves Fiadh played innocently in as a child, had tried to kill her. They were the real life versions of the sea monsters she once feared years ago. She didn’t succeed in climbing to the highest rock, but after that night, she vowed to never do such a thing again. She closed her eyes, thinking about what happened earlier. As she opened her eyes, she could almost see the ghosts of her past self a few hours ago, climbing, bleeding, getting trapped and eventually, falling and struggling to survive. Of course, she had not grown too old to adventure, she had years, nay, decades left to explore the beach. She was too naive to realise that the reason she almost died climbing the rocks wasn’t because she was too old to adventure, but rather, she was not careful enough.

This tale concludes at Glassilaun Beach, where great waves crash from the freezing sea. She’ll never know how she survived, but she’ll always remember how her childhood died.

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.

Beth Ann Wilson (17) was runner up in the senior category with the short story A Man and the Waves.

A Man and the Waves by Beth Ann Wilson

For a moment I was back home. My real home. An eight-year-old boy huddled between the bodies of his older siblings and clutching the body of his little sister to him as the storm just beyond our door bashed and slammed into our home. Jean was crying, like most four-year-olds do when their mum has gone out and the world outside has suddenly become scarier than it had ever seemed before. The rain had been relentless, like bullets raining from the sky, though back then I wouldn’t have made such a connection, back when I was still a boy.

That had been the last day we’d seen our mum. The last day we’d been a family. After that we’d been spread out to different orphanages, and then even further than that. Maybe it was the thought of travel or separation that had brought the memory back to me now. I hadn’t thought about those times for so long.

With a crash of a mighty wave against the steel ship I was brought back into the present. I wasn’t an eight-year-old boy. I was 17, and in the Navy, fighting in The War for Britain.

The wind was a howling beast, and the waves were crashing in from all sides of the ship. The rain was worse than it had been when I was eight, or maybe it just seemed like that because I was out in it, with new brothers. The term felt alien to me, but as soldiers we were bounded together, even if it was by experience and not blood, maybe that made them more deserving of the term, the concept of family and loyalty always seemed to change from person to person. It was blood, it was crying together, laughing together, it was the piece of rock and soil you happened to be born on, it was something you sought out, something that found you, something I didn’t have time to stand around and think about.

I heard one of them call my name and I resumed my duties, following the protocol we’d been assigned to deal with such storms. As I looked out onto the endless ocean, the sky and sea almost identical in their shades of dark blue and black, I wondered if anyone would remember these stories. I knew in the past such storms would have been explained away through imaginings of sea monsters, or demons, or old gods bringing their wrath upon us mortals. But now more than ever we knew the world didn’t need a reason for storms such as this. The world didn’t need to provide monsters under the waves and foam, not when men like Adolf Hitler walked the earth anyway.

I carried on with my assigned tasks, not meeting the eye of any of my fellow soldiers, all too focused on getting us all through the storm. Though even in the best weather conditions I would often keep to myself. By law only men of 18 should have been able to join, and I did not need anyone on board figuring out I was still a year too young.

My hands had gone bright red from the cold, and my fingers ached with every movement. My uniform was becoming more and more soaked with each passing second, the wet material only working to slow me down. And that was how it was for that entire night. Wet uniform, hands as red as apples, fingers feeling as though they would snap off in the wind, and the wind howling, with waves crashing and smashing, as though the sky and sea were at war, just like the rest of us.

The next time I would be so aware of the waves, was in America. The war was over, and my ship had been brought up to New York. We’d lost many the past few years, and I was now a man, 20 to be exact. Along the beach families were cheering, waving their American flags, their signs declaring “Peace” and “War End”, families hugging and clutching each other, and I wondered how many of the boys in the crowd had only just returned home.

The sea was calm that day, though waves still rolled in with the tide. I knew in years to come this is what I would think of when I remembered America, beaches of white and golden sand, the sea lively but not the beast I had seen before, and the crowds upon crowds of people, cheering for us as though we were heroes. And, perhaps we were, but in that moment, I certainly didn’t feel like one. I felt tired from battle, hot under the late spring sun, and the crowds and cheering families felt too much at that moment, too American for me.

But I could understand their cheers and cries of joy, after all the war was over. This battle was done, and celebrations could finally be held, and we could smile and laugh in the name of hope and loyalty, with our families reunited. And there it was again, family. I wondered for a moment whether any of my brothers, brothers by blood I mean, had joined the fight. They surely must have, those older than myself at least, and younger ones after their birthdays. Or perhaps they had joined when they, like me, were too young.

I looked out at the sea, the waves sweeping in and out at a more relaxed pace. Were any of them at sea? On a boat on some other beach, facing a different cheering crowd? And what of Jean? Was she standing in one of those crowds, perhaps waiting for someone to return home? She would be old enough now to have perhaps found a young man. Wherever they were, I wondered if they were looking out onto the water, the ocean but different waves.

I felt myself being pulled by my brothers-in-arms, or perhaps former brothers-in-arms now that the war was over, up to the edge of the ship. They smiled and waved at the people, and I attempted to portray the same role they performed so flawlessly, all the while wondering when I’d finally be able to actually relax for five minutes.

Then it was 1951, six years later, and I was on a different boat, heading for a different destination, with different company. My wife, Annie, held my hand as we stood on the deck of the ship, heading for her home of Northern Ireland. I’d been working in London as a chef, and Annie had been visiting her sister, both intending to emigrate to Australia. There had only been two witnesses at our wedding, but it was enough for us. Annie has a big family, all waiting to welcome us when we arrive. Maybe this is what family is meant to be, something that eventually finds its way to you. The wind was cold, and Annie had the collar of her red coat turned up against it. It shouldn’t be too long now before we arrived.

The waves that day were gentle, lapping up against the boat, but the winds weren’t so strong as to give any force behind them, it was just cold. Annie had insisted we come up onto the deck for arrival, she wanted to see her home as it came into view, properly into view that is, not just a rock in the distance.

I wondered if maybe I should have felt sadness for leaving my birthplace. After all, I had been raised there, fought for it, put my life on the line in the name of serving it. But I did not. Maybe I knew that England had never really been my home, nor had any of the other countries I’d been to and seen during the war. I knew when Annie and I had our children they would more than likely see themselves as Irish rather than British, as her family did, and maybe they wouldn’t want to travel like she had done. To London, Australia, America, or wherever else. I had had my share of travelling. I had spent so much of my life going from place to place, more than anything I wanted a solid home beneath my feet, and a solid family. And that was all now possible, because of a wonderful young woman called Annie.

It has been years since then now. The 1900s have been left behind completely. I am more than a husband now. I am a father, a grandfather, even a great-grandfather. It was difficult the first few years, for all of us, but in the end, I am happy with the family that found me. But only recently life has given me another blessing. My son-in-law has found someone I never thought I would see again.

I look down at the photo of my little sister, as she will always be to me. Jean smiled back at me, sitting beside her husband. I had no idea my daughter and son-in-law had been looking for her, but they had found her. In Germany of all places. And as I am driven down to the docks, where I am to board a ship and sail over to see her, I look out once again at the waves.

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.