A couple of recent successes:

In December 2023 We Are Birds That Fly places third in the Writing Magazine Grand Prize. I was going to post that here but they were to do a publicity post and that never seemed to happen.

Also, my flash fiction ‘The Drop’ was a finalist in the Wild Atlantic Writing Awards flash fiction. Again they were supposed to publish news and a bio but I’ve seen nothing, so probably no harm dropping my story here:

There was a weird yoke in the car park. Some kinda rusted metal pole, bent in the middle, a zig-zag on the end, the letters of “Killala Quay” stood out. 

– Poxy art shite, he said to nobody, and spat at the pole.

A car pulled in behind him, scattering gravel. Black Audi Q5 Sportback. He took a last drag and flicked his butt out into the water. 

– How’r’yeh, he said as he pulled himself into the passenger seat.

– Respect, Eamo.

– Respect, Pluto.

Peter “Pluto” Shortall kept himself well. Head and face close shaved, clean white teeshirt stretched over formidable muscles. He was short, but there weren’t many could stand up to him in a straight fight, and he never fought straight. He could have been any age between twenty and sixty. He might be immortal.

– Yeh keeping the head low?

– Yeah. Bleeding bored off me tits and all. 

– Better bored than dead.

– Pigs still looking for me?

– Wouldn’t be worrying about them pigs, they couldn’t catch the clap from a hooer’s fanny. Them Salley Hedges boys are out for yeh, but. 

– Yeah.

He watched a bunch of ducks landing on the water just out from the quay. His girlfriend Annie would love it here, she was into all this nature shite. All he could see, though, was poxy water and poxy dunes and poxy boats.

– Way I’m seeing it, Eamo, it’s that wan Maggie yeh have to worry about. She’s the one won’t let the Salley Hedges boys leave off, like. 

– The fucking ould dragon.

-Yeh know what they say about dragons, though. Yeh cut the head off.

– Is that what they say?

– Bleeding is.

There was a poke on his leg. He looked down. Pluto had pulled something wrapped in a plastic bag from under the seat. He was pushing it on Eamo.

– Ah, Jaysus, no, Pluto, no.

– Yeh’re not gonna be able to hide out here forever.

– I can’t do that, Pluto. It’s not me, like, yeh know. And a woman, and all. I couldn’t bleeding do it.

– Yeh’re a Shortall, Eamo. Yeh’ll bleeding do what yeh have to.

There was a moment, an eternal moment. It could have gone either way. He saw the rage in Pluto’s black eyes. He saw the fury in the taut muscles of his arm. The message was clear. You’ll take the gun, one way or the other. You’ll get one end, or the other. 

He grabbed it, shoved it up his jumper.

– Good man, I’ll send Billyer for yeh when we’re ready. Keep yer burner phone charged, but. 

Pluto reached over, pulled him awkwardly into a manly hug.

– Respect, Eamo.

– Respect, Pluto. 

Eamo got out. Pluto drove off, tyres screaming around the corner. Eamo was mad for some curry chips and a pint, but he’d have to drop the piece home to his airbnb. 

– Poxy art shite, he said again, spitting.