Category Archives: Short Stories 2

Short Stories

Summer Holidays are here

Summer Holidays are here

The echoing slam of the door reverberates

My ten year old’s schoolbag hits the hall floor

He stands tall and strong

“Ready for Donegal and the caravan Mum?”

. For him

Shrieking seagulls dip their wings in the frothy foam of a fresh flood tide

Laid out like a bride’s lacy veil on moist golden sand

My son sees none of this.

His feet are racing away from me

The thrill of adventure gripping him

Agile as a mountain goat he climbs the sheer cliff face.

His mind set is on jumping from its highest peak

Body arched he flips into the Atlantic Ocean far below

Its turquoise eye tracks his descent impassionedly

He hit the sea with a victorious shout

Disappears beneath its swelling foam

From behind the fingers covering my eyes

Frightening seconds slide past.

The cries of the sea fowl is loud, plaintive

My breath stills in my breast

Will he come up from beneath

Then, hair plastered against his skull

His heads  parts the heaving swell

Breath returns to my starved lungs

Bobbing like a cork on the swell of a breaker

The sea’s buoyancy carried him towards me

And safety

His wet triumphant footsteps trample over

The delicate edging of the sandy bride’s veil

For my son summer has come

Gemma Hill Dec 2016 ©

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Days like these. This is one of them  Is it time to ring the bell?

There are day  wish I was a knitter and not a blogger. Todays is one of those days. I have lost my edit page and my mojo for writing.

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Loves Sweet Dream

Loves Sweet Dream

 

The dance floor was crowded. Girls still stood to one side of the Orchid hall in Lifford Co Donegal pretending not to notice the men who were trying to pluck up the courage to cross over the wide expansion of dance floor to ask them to dance.

I looked around for Tony and spotted an Irish soldier dancing cheek to cheek. It wasn’t him. A cluster of giggling girls glanced in my direction. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the huge glassed picture of some past owner of the dancehall I turned away. My sister’s had backed combed my blond hair into a tall beehive and I felt self conscious in the new green dress and stiletto heels I had ordered out of my auntie, Kay’s shopping catalogue with a promise to pay in for them at five shillings a week for the next twenty weeks.

Tony was late. I wished he’d come. I felt self-conscious standing alone..

“Dance?” a voice asked. I shook my head. The girls giggled again. My face flamed. Then, Anne, an old flame of Tony’s detached herself from a group and tottered across to me; her high heels and tight skirt slowing her steps.

“You waitin’ for Tony?  You needin’ bother. I saw him get into the back of a n army transport lorry,” she said.  He’s away to sign on for another three years,” she smirked.

I could feel my face beginning to crumple. Feeling as if every eye was watching me I ran for the cloakroom.

I stared at the thick, matted black, eyelash liner and thick black eyebrows my sister’s had applied to hide my fair, almost invisible eyelashes and eyebrows. It looked stupid under the harsh overhead light.  The youngest of five sisters, they were always trying to make me look more glamorous.

“Who’s going to want you – looking like you,” they’d say.

Tony wanted me. Tony loved me. He told me so. I’d think as they combed my long blond wavy hair this way and that and plastering my almost translucent skin with Pan Stick In the end I’d scrub it all off again and let my hair would go back to hanging over my shoulders in waves like it always did.

Sarah, the woman who gave out the cloakroom tickets peeped out at me from her seat behind her counter. “Did he stand ye up?” she asked.

I rushed into the toilet and sat there gulping back tears. After a while they overflowed and ran unchecked down my face. Tony loved me but he hadn’t bothered to tell me he was leaving.

My sister’ were right. Who would want me?

Tony had left. He had abandoned me; rejected me. Maybe… maybe it was because I had set limits. He’d sulked when I’d made it plain I wanted to wait until we were married before we made love.

.From under the toilet door I could see feet moving and hear girls’ voices chattering excitedly as they came in and out to fix their hair and reapply their lipstick. After a while I pulled a wad of toilet paper from the tin dispenser on the wall and wiped my face.

“Here, come in to me a minute,” Sarah called as I sidled past a bundle of coats she was pinning numbers on.  Taking a compact from her handbag she flicked a film of powder over my red cheeks and carefully dabbed the black eye shadow drips from under my ear. “You don’t need all that stuff on your face. You’re beautiful as you are, natural like,” she fussed.” There, you’ll do,” she said. “Green suits your fair complexion. Now hurry up and get out there or they’ll be calling the last dance,” she said giving me a gentle push.

Tony had arrived but he was dancing a slow number with Annie, the girl who’d told me she’d seen him leave to return to the Irish army. Bitch, I though as I self-= consciously walked towards the seats alongside the wall.

“Dance,” Looking up into the face of the boy, who had asked me earlier I hesitated, then followed him on to the dance floor.

Standing to attention for the national Anthem I felt a soft tug on the sleeve of my green dress. “What about a bag of chips…before I walk you home,” my dance partner asked.

I shook my head my eyes searched for Tony. He had danced the last dance with Annie was helping her on with her coat. Catching my eye he waved and motioned for me to wait for him as he came striding across the floor.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” he said, as we walked hand in hand down the dimly lit Bridge Street.

“You didn’t tell me you were going away again,” I blurted out the tears threatening to fall again. Stopping, Tony took my face between his hands. I could smell the clean smell of soap and the faint smell of Old Spice aftershave.

“And then you danced the last slow dance with Annie,” I said a tear sliding unbidden down my cheek.

“Come over here…under the light,” Tony said. Putting his arm around my waist he guided me over the broken flagstones on the footpath. Cupping his hand under my chin Tony smiled down into my face. Gently he rubbed the tears from the corners of each eye.

“Oh, my sweet innocent Jenny,” he breathed folding me in his arms.” I hope you never change.”

I knew the rough material of his overcoat would wipe the remaining makeup off my eyes and face but I didn’t care.. I was safe in Toney’s arms again/

“Do you know where I was tonight? And why I was late?” he asked after a while.

I shook my head from the security of his broad chest.

“I’ve decided not to sign on with the army again. But I had to be sure I had a job to go to before I decided not to do that,” he said .Untangling himself from her he stepped back. Putting his hand in the inside pocket of his tunic he drew out a small box. Catching her hand he went down on one knee. “Jenny, will you do me the honour of being my wife,” he asked.

Later over a feast of chips and mushy peas Jenny’s sister’ admired the small sparkling diamond and gave her a big hug. “I’ll be your bridesmaid – “

“No, I’ll be your bridesmaid,” they said jostling each other. Jenny laughed. “But no black eyelashes or beehive hairdos, please” she said. “Tony likes me just as I am.”

Gemma Hill  ©

www.writemewriteyou.com

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The Murlog Strike of 1918

The Murlog Strike of 1918

Author unknown

The Union Flag is waving still in Murlog’s famous hall.

Surrounded by the fearless men of heath clad Donegal,

They did unite in one true band and from many a hill and glen,

From that old hall still comes the call of Murlog’s Union men.

It was on a sunny April morn and the sky was blue and clear,

 

Those heroes’ great did congregate from Porthall and Rossgeir,

From Ballindrait and Tober, from Lifford and Glensmoyle,

They assembled there in thousands like true born sons of toil.

 

Inchany men did proudly come with a spirit bold and fine,

And Ballybogan and Camus were first to toe the line,

We are not out for battle; we have no foemen to slay,

We only ask the farmers to give us union pay.

 

Too long we have wrought for a coolie’s wage too long like slaves did toil,

The backbone of the nation, the tillers of the soil,

Some of these Clonleigh farmers are enemies you know,

They were planted here in Donegal three hundred years ago.

 

They came across the channel in the by-gone days of yore,

When you read your Irish history of them you will know more,

But let us hope the day is near when this great strike will end,

But we must trust brave Donnelly our leader and our friend.

 

When he meets the crafty farmer, his spirit is the same,

He always kicks the union ball to the goal at which we aim,

Also McNamara is bound to will applauses,

That gentleman, I understand, the mainspring of our cause.

 

And I can’t forget McGranaghan; he freely uses his pen,

To assist these noble strikers, called the Murlog Union men,

So united we stand, divided we fall,

An injury done to one of our band,is an injury done to all..

Author unknown.

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The Fall of the Leaf

The Fall of the Leaf

The Fall of the Leaf

Orange gold and brown dance playfully

Take a fluttering bow

Curling edges like praying fingertips

Carpet the ground

Crunch beneath my feet

 

Shiny brown conkers

Peep out from a bed of leaves

Transport me back

Gathered conkers in the chapel grounds

Ripened to a hard golden brown

Tangled twine threaded

Knotted drawn in

Let battle begin

 

Oh the delight

To tread amongst the golden leaves

 

Of yellow sand reds in the underside

Feet lost in autumn’s colour scheme

 

My heart sings

The cold air kisses my cheeks

I open my arms, twirl

Lift my face

Thank God to be alive.

Gemma Hill November 2022 ©

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A Bed For The night

A Bed For The Night

A wee stayover in Donegal Town – Kathleen was home on holiday from Perth in WA. We decided to have a few days’ away – girls only – Gertie, Kathleen, Helen and Yours Truly – in Donegal Town Co Donegal.  I was under the usual threats – No book shops.  DEF no shoe shops.  And top of the ‘DONTS “don’t be encouraging complete strangers to tell me their life stories.”

Well, I never was a very obedient child – many a day I felt the swish  coming off the ‘sally rod’ our mother kept behind the ornamental china dog with the hole in its head on the mantelpiece as I flew like the wind out of her reach and the stinging rod on the backs of my legs.

We had a large family hotel room. Four beds in a row – like Goldie Locks and the 3 Bears.  Like Goldie, while the others were checking out the bathroom – shower or bath? – I tried out the beds. Bed number one was a no-no – too near the bathroom –Kathleen, Helen and Gertie would have to pass it during the night if they needed to go.

Bed 2   was in the middle between bed 1 and 3 (as it would be) – . Not a good position to be – every time I’d turn I’d be looking into either a face or an ass…you get the picture!

Bed 3 was further from the toilet but nearer the window. I bounced on bed number 4.  I knew it was the one – last in the row – nearest the window. If there was a-stirring in the night or a queue for the bathroom it would not have to pass my bed.

Next stop check out the foyer, the night’s entertainment and the dining room menu.

Everything was going according to plan until we emerged from having something to eat and decided to relax for a while on the cushy squishy armchairs in the foyer.  As we settle in,the glass door of the hotel opened and in struggled a woman weighted down with an assortment of handbags and an eclectic collection of other types of baggage.  Immediately my curiosity was piqued.  Had she just got off one of the many tour buses sporting Dutch, American, Irish, English and Scottish named coaches parked outside in the street

Hmm. Where had she come from and where was she going to next?  My antenna was well and truly up now.

The staff hailed her by name as if she was a regular. So, she hadn’t come on the tourist buses?

 

Kathleen and Gertie were looking relaxed and discussing the pro and cons of what we had just eaten. Helen was working her way out of her deep cushioned chair with the intention of going out for a smoke.

The woman who had just come in promptly sank gratefully into Helen’s seat; her bag, baggage settling in a semi-circle around her feet.

Of its own accord I heard my voice ask her had she come far just as a pleasant face staff member placed a beautifully laid tea tray on the table at the woman’s elbow.  My antenna was emitting loud bleeps of interest. Who was she?  I had to know more about her. As she poured tea into the fine white bone china cup and scooped in three spoons of sugar and topped it up with a generous splash of rich full throttle cream I noticed her cardigan was clean but shabby and her shoes were more for country wear than town wear.

Surreptitiously I chanced a quick glance of my sisters.  They were still deep in conversation with each other. I tried and failed to push down my rampaging imagination.  Flinging caution to the wind I smiled at the woman and offered to refill her white teacup.  That was all it took. Without preamble the woman began to tell me her life story. ..

Her story is not mine to tell. Sufficient to say she entrusted her most precious child to the authorities on a temporary basis on the advice of a politician she trusted and was almost destitute because all her monies had been spent paying solicitors fighting to get her much loved child back.

I left her there sipping her tea from the delicate china cup. My sisters had long gone fed-up with waiting for me and Helen, sitting opposite me, was ready for another smoke.

We found Kathleen and Gertie in a crowded, noisy put at the bottom of the street.  The thump of traditional Irish music blasted through the open window and door and into the street making the windows rattle.

We pushed our way inside. There was standing room only and barely enough space to raise the glass to your mouth or clap your hands to show your appreciation for the many singers and fiddlers.

We had a great night. At closing time we made our way back to the hotel planning what we were going to do the next day.  My plan was to visit the shoe shops.

The foyer of the hotel was quiet. The chair empty where the woman had sat finishing the dregs of her tea surrounded with her many bags.

As we waited for the elevator I wondered where she was sleeping tonight. My fussing about being disturbed as the others went to the toilet seemingly of no importance now.

 

Gemma Hill © December 2020

 

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A Poem for My Mother

 

A Poem For My Mother

 

I think of you at the oddest moments.

In the brightness of a sunny day

In the smell of a teapot left to brew

In the tilt of a woman’s head

But most of all I think of you

When I see a woman with a

Pleased smile wearing a red coat

I think about the day we went into town

You tried on the coat

And said,” What does an old woman like me

Need a fancy red coat for?” You straightened your

Back stooped with age, hard work and Parkinson’s

Squared your shoulders  Fingered the

Quality of the collar stroked the buttons

And stood proud and smiling at

Your reflection in the full-length mirror

Your smile conveyed the message

I’ve arrived. I’m a bona fide person, family reared

The red coat signified your reward.

Oh how you loved that red coat

It was the hardest thing to part with after you died

I think of you when we gather together, to celebrate,

To laugh and sing as you did despite the lack of

Luxuries in your life

I wonder did I ever think to thank you

For all the times you saved me from myself

For sharing my achievements

And soothing the pain of a first

Lost love

I think about the times I caused you

Grief and wonder did you know how much

You were appreciated and loved.

Gemma Hill ©

 

 

 

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Leaving Micky

Leaving Micky

Mary felt guilty about not telling Micky that she was leaving him. But she had to get away. Get away from the house.  Get away from the drudgery of looking after and picking up after his sons and daughters.  She wished it was an option to go back home to her home place in Donegal. But she knew that wasn’t an option. Her mother would say she’d made her bed she should lie in it.

She knew her priest Father Sam would think it wrong too.

The day was drawing on to evening but walking helped her to think and the decision she was trying to reach needed a lot of thinking. Once made and acted on it would change her life forever.  She’d be homeless.

Calling the old dog Yapper to her, she pulled on a scarf over her hair and tightening the belt on her coat she made for the road that led to Clady Bridge.

There weren’t many cars on the back road but she crossed over to walk on the right-hand side so that in the gathering dusk a car coming quick around a bend would see her in its headlights. A cow in a nearby field lamented mournfully making her jump. “Its face is as sorrowful as my own,” she muttered as she hurried on her thoughts in turmoil.

She stopped at the breast of a hill as familiar to her as the lines on her own face and looked back the way she had come. The road looked dark and dismal with only the occasional light of a house shining through a hedge here and there to break the gloom. Like my life since I foolishly married Micky and his brood, she thought.

She stood and looked at the road ahead. Bordered by high overgrown hedges it dipped into a shadowy hollow and then rose in a steep bray at the other side. The rise of the bray gave her hope.

Turning, she made her way back the way she had come, tired now.  Her steps slowed as she neared the house in the village of Urney.  As she lifted the latch on the door she hoped against hope that Micky had thought to tell his daughters to clear away the dinner things.  If they’d only help out she’d have no need to leave. But Micky never saw their fault. And they seemed to think working as flax workers in Sion Mills was work enough.  She was in the house all day. It was her job to keep the place, clean-up after them and attend them hand and foot.

Mary sighed. She knew all about hard work. She’d got plenty of it and little pay to show for it since she had been twelve; hired out to farmers and their families.  She’d thought it would be easier to marry a widow man with his family half reared. It had been foolish thinking.

The dinner things hadn’t been cleared from the table. Somebody had let the half feral cat with one blue eye and one green eye in and it was helping itself to the leftovers solidifying on the plates and dishes still sitting on the kitchen table. Pulling off her headscarf she made a swipe at it. Any guilt she felt at leaving her husband, leaving his daughters, almost women now, melted like the snow that had covered the ditches behind the house a short time ago.

She’d wait until she got the right moment and then she’d, leave get a room off somebody in Strabane.

Over the next few weeks she started to put her final plans in place. She already had made some tentative plans. Over time she had been saving small bit of money –a few shillings here and there. She’d opened up a bank account that Micky knew nothing about.

When she went out walking she began to wear extra clothes, and take her personal belongings and hide them in deep hole left in a ditch when the high wind had blown down a rotting tree.  She lived in constant fear every day that somebody would find them or a dog or some other animal would dig them up.

Now that her mind was made up she felt better. She’d think twice before she’d take on another man with a readymade family.

A pile of clothes she had spent the day ironing and hung on the backs of chairs for the girls to put away had slid off and were lying in an untidy heap on the floor. She didn’t bother to pick them up or move the dog off them when he scratched them into a pile and made his bed in them.

The sun was rising the following Friday when she quietly let herself out of the sleeping house. She’d have a while to wait on the wee train that took the school children and workers into Strabane. But she wanted to get away before her courage failed her.

She looked back from the end of the lane with a mixture of sadness and a sense of freedom. What would Micky think when the fire in the range wasn’t lit and he rose to a cold kitchen. Or when there was no porridge on the table for him and his daughters? Would he guess she had left him? Surely he was bound to have noticed how weary and unhappy she was with things as they were between them lately?

She was tempted to leave him a note.  She’d no complaints with him as a husband. But in the end she simply lifted her coat and headed down the road to collect her hidden belongings.

Gemma Hill© 2022

 

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Paying By Plastic

 

Paying By Plastic

“It’ll have to be the card,” I said fumbling the strip of brightly coloured card out of my purse and into the card machine hoping I can remember the right combination of numbers.

Ever careful of the scammers I shield the keypad with my hand. ” Do you want any money back?” asked the young shop assistant with an air of expectation, his hand hovering over the till. I nod eagerly my thoughts already on the sale that is on in Pound Stretcher. “Penny wise, pound foolish” came to mind. But I knew I was going to buy some gadget I could do without before I went home.

Leaving the supermarket and heading for Railway Road I started to think about all the things the stupid plastic card couldn’t do.

I passed the Ally Theatre building where the public toilets used to be; Gents to your right, near the Derry/Letterkenny bus stop with its cafey. If the bus was held up by roadworks or a traffic diversion because there was cattle or ‘something’ on the road, there was the chance of a quick cup of tea and a cream bun. The Ladies toilets were to the left opposite Miss Wrights Department Store – which I loved frequenting to try on the fancy hats in front of the wall of mirrors upstairs.

I thought how useless the plastic would have been back in the day. If I was ‘dying’ for the toilet it wouldn’t let me, ‘spend a penny. I’d need a penny to put in the slot. The best I could hope for was that the eagle eyed woman minding the toilets didn’t usher me out with her mop before somebody came out of a toilet and let you slip in for free.

As I walked on pulling my few bits of shopping in my wee shopping trolley heading for the Library I passed a knot of people waving flags and chorusing something about the cost of living. Tell me about it, I  thought. Wait until you have worked all your life and can’t afford to turn on the heating or put an extra bit of coal on the fire. Passing them I amused myself by thinking about the perplexed look that would come over their faces if I stopped, waved my plastic card and announced,” I haven’t two ha’pennies  to rub together but a penny for your thoughts on the Election”

Or what if I nudged our Joe in Charlie’s bar in Castle Street opposite the old Strabane Post Office and muttered out of the corner of my mouth,” See that bad penny has turned up again. I’d buy her a drink except it’s only the oul plastic I have with me.”

I took a walk around the charity shops as I am won’t to do. There was room in my shopping trolley for a second hand book or two. I had learned my lesson during Covid. It’s good time filler when you have a good book to read. And I’d be doing my ‘pennysworth’ for charity.

There was a woman there looking at a lovely old clock. “That must’ve have been worth a bob or two in its day, “she said to her companion.

Her friend nodded. “Aye, you’re right. You’d be ‘quids in’ if you could resell that on Strabane Sell It on Facebook.”

“Does it keep the time? And does it still chime, “the first woman asked the woman behind the counter volunteering her services free of charge.

The volunteer confirmed that as far as she knew the clock worked “It’s for charity. You pay your money and take your chance,” she said cheerfully.

The penny dropped. The two women looked at each other. The charity shop didn’t take the plastic cards.

“Ach, well, as my Ma says,” the two friends said in unison,” Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves.”

Gemma Hill May 2022 ©

 

 

 

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The Art of wordless Love

The Art of wordless Love

Artist Cara Hill 2121

Artwork sells for millions

Not mine

It’s worth much much more

My painting

Ballymastoker  Beach created

With wordless strokes

Of love

Above my desk it stands

Pride of place

Memories wrap their arms around me

The artist and I

Sandy sandwiches for me

Biscuits and juice for her

Forbidden sweeties – bad for her teeth

Blue sky above us

Golden sand underfoot softly misting

Waving grass shading the shore

I read

Write a poem

Cara  makes Angel Wings in the sand

Runs to the sea sweeping in

Dips a pink bucket

Makes mud pies

For the Angels’ tea

 

Gemma Hill 2021 ©A

 

 

 

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