The first workshop of the New Year – no pressure! The Writers’ Society Flash Fiction workshop, hosted by the talented Tara O’Malley, truly kicked off the second semester last Thursday evening. Attendees were asked to write fiction pieces that totalled 1,000 words or less before the well-known Writers’ Society alarm sounded at the end of a twenty-minute sprint.
Flash Fiction proved to be a daunting new medium to most who gathered for the workshop, held remotely via MS Teams, a direct result of recent COVID-19 case numbers in Galway city. Beginning a piece in a new medium is always the hardest and most daunting stage of any artform. However, a short outline of the rules of the genre, relayed by Tara, inspired confidence and set the scene for many shaky first attempts. In the end, once the writing muscles were at last warmed up, the ever-evasive muse at last settled on the shoulders of those gathered and began to sing, resulting in strong and intriguing short narratives by the end of the second timer. From commentaries on climate change from the perspectives of young beach-goers to midnight dips at gunpoint, the response to the picture prompts was as varied as each writer in attendance.
Of the evening, attendee and fellow committee member Daisy Houghton had this to say:
“After attending Thursday’s Flash Fiction workshop, I have a much better understanding of the key components of Flash Fiction as well as how to incorporate them into my writing. I especially enjoyed using picture prompts to ignite my imagination and experiment with the form.”
A traditional Writers’ Soc ‘Line By Line’ game rounded up the evening, remaining with the nautical theme, bringing the workshop to a familiar close at 9pm.
A huge thank you is well in order to Tara O’Malley for her words of wisdom and guidance throughout the evening, and congratulations to all who took their first steps into the world of flash fiction. The pieces written on Thursday evening are more than acceptable as entries to this year’s Writers’ Society annual publication, as they related to this year’s theme of ‘Submerge.’ members of the wider NUI Galway community are reminded that there is now just one week left to submit remaining entries. We wish you all the very best of luck.
November is a month for writing. It lodges itself between October’s eerie tales and December’s cheery accounts of friendship and family. The night lengthens and the mind wanders. In the long dusk old myths drift again into our consciousness. November saw Writers’ Soc and Classics Soc join together to present the legendary November Writing Competition 2021. We put out a call for myth retellings and listened eagerly to the unique array of voices that echoed back. Transcribed from the ancient form of email, Classics Soc and Writers’ Soc present the competition winners.
Sorcha Gleeson won first place with a partial retelling of the witch of Aeaea’s tale in Circe.
Plight of the Pigs
Coarse, wiry hair against coarse, wiry hair. Pink, flaking skin scraping pink, flaking skin. An incongruous choir of oinks, squeals and suppressed cries of the agonised. She had shut them in, the witch that is, barring them from their God-given right to the world. Rotten wood keeping them from all the wine they could drink and all the women they could whore. But the worst part was the smell. Oh, the stench of it. Sweltering faeces crushing under curling hooves, setting the maggots and flies free to wriggle and writhe, then die under the thick sun of Aeaea, just as humans grace the earth momentarily to suffer, then sink below to the realm of Hades. It would wipe even the vainest man of his pride, but these were not men, these were pigs.
‘Similar enmities, though different all the same,’ Circe told them softly.
She spoke to them regularly, usually just as the sun was splitting across the horizon at dusk, spilling vast streaks of pinks and purples across the emptying sky. This was when her loneliness started to creep up on her. Every night, like clockwork.
‘You know, I think the most beautiful thing in the world is the night sky. The stars, the moon, the comets,’ she pondered. ‘So, it is only strange then, that they are so alienating, so cold.’ She paused. ‘You can be looking up at the very same sky as your lover… and yet, you can be so very far apart. Lives, and dimensions apart even.’
She turned her eyes then on the pigs and they flashed more harshly than ever. Hatred welled in them, deep within the pupil, gathering and swarming as locusts in the Summer, as if the Gods had sent forth a mighty plague.
‘Do you know why I tell you this?’ she whispered, eyes wide and lips quivering. ‘It is because you will never see the stars again. Your anatomy will not allow it… and you deserve it.’
As much as the pigs strained and turned and wound their stumpy necks, they could not so much as glimpse the spectacular canvas of darkness, nor the raging balls of burning fire that danced across it.
What an amusing thing it is, her thoughts murmured to her, caressing both her ears and ego, that the rapists should finally realise that the world is not entirely their own.
Casting one final saccharine smile over her prisoners, she turned her back and strode away, eyes filling with tears.
The pen was thick with sweat that night as the pigs fought especially hard to free themselves from their restraints. The scent of salty sea air teased them, and they bemoaned the knowledge that the fine, sweet sand of the beach was so tantalisingly close. The Gods did not deign to help them in their plight. These were only men after all, not heroes, and the Gods only interest themselves with heroes. They could grunt and pray as loudly as they dared, but this existence of theirs, was as good as nihilist.
Guests visited the Island often, and on such glorious occasions, Circe served medleys of rashers, sausages, black pudding and many such delicacies. Waste not want not. Men, women, nymphs, monsters and heroes all passed through the Island and Circe’s hospitality. She welcomed them with open arms and bid them adieu with a warm heart. Excluding, that is, the pigs. Well, they were people, but she could feel the immorality burning within them and so she simply materialised a shade of their being that was not previously visible. Her potions turned rapists to pigs. She was ridding the world of an infestation, carrying out, what she thought, should have been the work of the Gods.
She carried on like this for centuries, until she came upon a scene of absolute and unmitigated horror in the pig pen. The blood became sludge in the thick dirt and oozed lazily, as lava from a volcano, into the green shrubbery and undergrowth, to infect her beautiful Island. A scream shrieked though her lips and trembling, she brought her hands to her face as if to protect herself from the terror. Bones littered the cakey ground, plucked clean and stripped raw. Guts and gore heaped about in steaming mounds of rotten flesh, and the few remaining pigs lay moaning and injured. They had eaten each other, ravaged each other, and all that remained of the lost souls were singular eyeballs, pointed heavenwards and floating along in the red, festering streams. Dropping the feed-bucket, she collapsed to her knees and cried. She cried for the lives she hadn’t meant to let go, she cried for herself and the loneliness that came raging back, and she cried for the person she hadn’t meant to let herself become. Turning her eyes to the stars, she prayed, for perhaps the first time in her life, but the Gods did not so much as glance back, they laughed from their Olympian Thrones and revelled in human insolence.
It could be said that we fear that which we don’t understand. As humans, we fear everything, just a little bit. We hate that which we fear.
Second place is Tara O’Malley’s beautiful retelling of Orpheus and Eurydice.
Swan Song
His song reached the ends of the world
Charmed ice heart and broken soul,
And so an entrance quickly unfurled
To land below, of Hades’ control.
Though he searched for her far and wide,
Her shade was hidden further afield,
Her life was promised if he complied
Leave, don’t look back or her fate is sealed.
She had withered under his pride,
But death had let her build a shield.
She prayed that he would gaze upon her
And as he did she breathed a sigh,
Pulled back to Elysium to heal,
His silent prisoner no longer.
Michaela Shaw secured third place with her intriguing and intense retelling of The Garden of Eden.
Outlier
A whisper on the wind caught her hair and tugged hard. She crouched low behind the bush and watched the trial take place. The snake returned, coiling around her feet. A strange warmth strangled her toes. Her eyes snapped back through the foliage. There he was, standing smaller now in the strange light, shrinking away from the looming figure. His head receded further and further into his shoulder blades like a turtle retreating into its shell from the scorching midday sun. It was a pitiful sight and she though then that they were doomed. Why? She wasn’t so certain about that. She only knew that there was an intense burning in the air, as if the clouds were smoking. The snake curled tighter around her ankles. She didn’t know why it had been wrong, what she did.
What they did, she reminded herself.
She wasn’t alone in this, at least.
A building feeling grew in her stomach and she felt that if the ground were to open up right then to form a great big chasm like a hippo’s mouth and swallow her up, she wouldn’t mind so much. What was that feeling she felt? She had no name for it yet.
Her man stood taller then, despite the thunder that seemed to be making the air hang heavy, and dark, so much darker than before. It was not the sort of stance that betrayed defeat. His expression was calm, even witty, as if he was preparing to tell her another joke, as he often did. He had a trick, she thought then, a fabulous and genius idea how to save them from what would come next. He was always so much smarter than she was.
‘She made me do it’, left his lips as smoothly as honey running down your chin. He had a trick alright, that same snake hissed through the vines of her hair. A trick to save himself, not you. The snake coiled around her ankle, creating a patchwork of scale and root. She became chained to that bush, unable to look away from the small clearing of trees that was growing darker, and darker.
‘You are for the lion’s den’, the snake hummed to her in the gathering dark, before slithering off to leave her to face her retribution alone.
Heartbreak and betrayal dug a finger between each pair of ribs and cranked them apart, splaying them out like a fan. The leaves tickling her nose could not hide the look of satisfaction on his face. A look that breathed cunning and pride. A look full of purpose. The growing dark could not hide the crackle of fury in the air, the venom that had started to ooze out of the branch she desperately clung to. The dirt began to contort beneath her feet. Roots churned the soil to rubble. Lightning forks rift the shy, and she saw his face, at last. She met it with confusion. So much anger and fury lay in the lines of his brow. She would find no forgiveness with him. What had she done? She didn’t understand. It wasn’t just her who had overstepped.
It hadn’t only been her.
The ground rumbled and she fell to her knees, stone imbedding itself in her fleshy shins. She saw the snake dart for cover under a shrub.
The instigator.
The Tempter.
She shot a glare at its writhing form, then stopped. Were they not crafted by the same hand? The same hand that was clenched into a fist by the figure’s side now, inches above her bowing head. Were they not all the same? She raised her head, only slightly enough to see that clenched fist, and all the rage it held. She had raised it only slightly enough to also see the smirk on the face of the man that stood behind, sheltered and protected.
No, she thought then, you are not like us.
We are not the same.
Hope you enjoyed these Classic retellings that will get you through the long, cold nights of winter.
Dia dhaoibh, a scríbhneoirí! Hello, writers! Tara here, your friendly neighbourhood publisher.
(Did I adapt the Eurovision greeting for the beginning of my first article? Why, yes. Yes I did.)
You may have seen a special little announcement recently on our socials…
I’m quite excited to start reading your entries – thank you to everyone who has already submitted!
Submitting to a publication can be intimidating. However, it’s an essential part of getting your work out there and making your name as a writer. It’s also pretty cool to see your work in print. With all this in mind, I’ve compiled a few tips to help you along.
1. Read the requirements
This is a no-brainer, but it’s worth the reminder. Submission calls will tell you exactly what a publication is looking for – everything from word count, to theme, to where they would like you to send the work. These can vary from place to place, and publications often won’t look at pieces that don’t fit the requirements. It’s important to take note of exactly what they want.
2. Note the deadline
Most submission calls have a deadline, and they will not take work after this date. Make sure if you want to send work somewhere, you know what date the call closes. Don’t get caught out!
3. Editing and formatting
Just like an academic essay, presenting your work well is half the battle. An editor is going to be reading many submissions, so make their job easier for them. Editing/spell checking, formatting your document neatly, and using a clear font like Times New Roman, Arial or Calibri makes your work look more professional and readable.
4. Address the editor
When submitting to a publication, make a habit of addressing your email to the editor/publisher if you can find out their name. It shows interest, as you went to the trouble of doing a bit of research, and that interest makes your submission look more favourable.
5. Handling rejection
Unfortunately, sometimes your work does not fit with a certain publication. Sometimes they’ll offer feedback, and sometimes they won’t. The key thing is to not take the rejection personally. Even famous writers have had pieces rejected many times before they found their home. Let it hurt for a bit, and then submit to other places. That acceptance email will be all the sweeter for it.
Now that you’re well on your way to submitting a piece, why not submit to Submerge? The call ends on January 31st, which means you’ll have the whole holiday break to dive into the depths of your imagination. You can find all the details in our previous post here. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.
(Also, I may have set up a Pinterest board of inspiration to help you all dip your toes in, which I will continue to update. Take a look if you want…)
Have you ever wanted a slice of chaos? Do you want your own shard of the mirror that captures Thursday evening meeting bizarreness? Have you heard of the word-per-minute game?
A word-per-minute is exactly what is sounds like. You write a story with a word thrown at you each minute to blend in. This takes confidence and trust you weave chaos to sound normal. The words chosen last Thursday were from descriptions of the moon:
Minions
Cheese Orb
Mysterious
Expensive visit
Serenity
Gerry’s friend
Could you do it, write for seven minutes with one of these words tossed out each minute?
Here is Nel Delarue’s masterful blend of fitting this selection into an everyday scene:
“We’re not watching The Minions.”
Niamh very stubbornly looked down on her younger brother, who was still holding up the movie.
“But you promised I could pick anything!”
“Yes,” Zira came in, standing beside Niamh and putting her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder, “but she actually meant anything but that.”
“We could just watch that movie again, what’s it called, Cheese Orb?” Zira burst out laughing. “Cheese Orb? What’s that about?” Niamh turned to her.
“Seriously? It’s like a cult classic at this point.”
“Sounds very mysterious to me,” Zira giggled, putting down her bowl of popcorn.
“Well I don’t want to watch that,” Niamh’s brother said, crossing his arms angrily. It looked quite funny to see the seven-year-old look so serious. “I wanted to see the new Moon Boy movie, but no, the cinema is an ‘expensive visit’.”
Niamh sighed, letting herself sink down onto the sofa in between her giggling girlfriend and gloomy brother. “Still though. What’s so fun about The Minions? Can’t I just have some peace and serenity instead of little yellow dudes talking gibberish?”
Zira almost choked on her popcorn as she started laughing again.
“I don’t know what ‘serenity’ is, but no you can’t. I want The Minions!”
“Yeesh, fine! I’ll put it on already!” Zira high-fived her brother.
“Hey! I thought you were on my side here,” Niamh huffed.
“Hey, I’m just being Jerry’s friend.”
Here’s Michael Quinlivan’s take on the six words:
As Robin entered another of his favourite books, he once again tried to find another escape from the usual drama of life, with it all seeming too much. That’s why the girl of his dreams is perfect for him… for now.
See the catch with being able to enter the world of any book is that it means they can’t really grow beyond the work. They have a set arc and they’re living through it every time. He thinks she remembers him, maybe, but there’s always a kind of glassy eyed nature to everything she says, every word in mostly the same intonation.
In short, she’s in a rut.
He’s tried to break her out of it, use all kinds of extreme emotions to force her to react, but every time she just snaps back to what she was like before as she slingshots back to what she was meant to be doing at this point. I can move between the pages and watch her at different points along her arc, from the scared stable girl to the knight of the realm to her heroic sacrifice, but ultimately that’s as far as I can go. I can’t change how she reacts every time she sees me, can’t change her fate, can’t leave a lasting impression. It’s like falling in love with and then trying to alter the tide. It’s beautiful and you can try but every time it returns and I can’t do anything about it.
As she looked at me with those big doe eyes again, and as she once again asked him to help her save the realm he just yelled, at the top of his lungs. The frustration was rife. His regular life was unendingly bleak and in here it’s doomed from the start and he knows that but the story doesn’t change. She’s the memory of an author who’s now long dead, the context of her own existence stripped with his death. She looked hurt, scared and terrified, as she tried to ask who he was and what he was saying, she couldn’t remember. To her he’s just some young vagrant who came to her rescue as she most needed him. He can’t handle it. She won’t ever change.
And yet he sighs as he once again accepts her quest to save the realm from the tyrant. Her face immediately lights up as she begins to explain her plight as the young daughter of a murdered knight and her plan for revenge against the evil lord.
He sighs as he picks up the large sword to his left and begins walking to the fortress on the hill.
That’s right, we’re back with talk of a publication. This year’s theme is (drumroll please):
Submerge!
We want you to write on the topic of ‘submerge,’ whatever that word might mean to you. You may submit fiction or poetry – we’re particularly interested to see your flash fiction this year. Flash fiction generally comes in at 1,000 words or less. Are you up for that challenge?
Further rules: Fiction entries should be no more than 1,500 words per piece. You may submit more than one piece separately. if more than one of your entries are chosen, only one entry per person will go forward to the publication stage.
For poetry: a maximum of 25 lines.
Entries with a word or line count over these limits will be disqualified without consideration.
We will format your work ahead of publication and recommend edits where we see fit. However, please present it tidily, with attention to spelling and grammar, before submitting it.
The deadline for entering is the 31st of January 2022. You do not have to be a member of the NUIG Writers’ Society to submit an entry, however, you MUST be a student or member of staff at NUI Galway, Ireland. This competition is not open to the general public.
Friday 29th October, 7pm. The doors opened to a crowd we hadn’t been able to envision when we saw the number of signups on the google form. Our collaboration with Dramsoc and Anime and Manga Soc meant we were able to cater to far more people, each of whom seemed excited for a night of in-person fun and games, one of the first since the recent reopening of evening events. We were blown away by the sheer talent and effort that people had put into their costumes for the night, for the simple game we had organised.
Signups complete at the makeshift front of house desk, people settled as Sahil and Daisy introduced the first promising details of the story and the practical side of staying COVID safe for the night. That done, the game commenced with everyone in high spirits and eager to solve the case.
The evening continued in a similar fashion. Budding detectives could often be seen huddling together in their groups, fiercely debating how all the clues we laid connected with one another. Some chose to think long and deep about everything they’d picked up at the individual tables, while others tried to start arguments between characters to see if it would lead to any extra clues. In some cases it worked: we saw the beginning of romances between some characters, and the messy final moments of friendships between others.
Overall, everyone moved smoothly, complying with all the guidelines we set out. Masks remained on faces and, after only a little reminder, social distancing was observed. Committee member Ava (unofficially AKA ‘Sherlock Bones’) directed people to the waiting station as teams moved in an orderly fashion around the different tables. All the while, fun was in no short supply.
In the end, we only had a certain number of prizes. If we could have rewarded everyone who came along, we honestly would have done so. It was very good of Elliot from FearDearg Crafts to make resin gifts as awards. We hope the winners enjoy them and remember a night of fun and games whenever they look at them. If you didn’t manage to bag yourself a prize, check out Elliot’s etsy page, linked above, to support a local small business with products of exceptional quality.
In the end, Group 6 were the closest to the correct answer, we deemed Group 3 to have the craziest answer, and Group 8 had the answer we wish we’d come up with. Ursula, dressed as the fabulous Artemis, took home the prize for best costume. The decisions for these categories were often difficult to agree upon, with so much talent gathered under one roof. Another big thank you, this time to Dramsoc and Anime and Manga Soc for teaming up with us and putting up with our crazy ideas for two weeks! The actors were fabulous, tying the whole evening together with convincing narratives that kept contestants guessing.
All the decision making and organising had us exhausted by the end of the evening, but it was well worth it to see everyone having the craic.
We’ll see our members in person next Thursday. For members of the other two societies who came out to support our collab, we encourage you to join us over at Writers’ once yourspace is back up and running. Until then, we will cling to the memories of Friday night; after all, who knows what next Hallow’een will bring.
To get into the spooky season Writers’ Soc began this month with a call for gothic, horror or ghost inspired fiction. Many people heard this call and called back with great entries. Flash fiction, poetry, short stories, dramatic dialogues and even a creative non-fiction haunted our email inbox. Now we present you with the top three entries. So sit back, sip on you beverage of choice and settle into the long dark night with shiver inducing tales…
First place was won by Beatriz Langowiski’s ‘The Violinist’s Song’. This short fiction took on an enthralling repetition and intriguing ‘rumour-has-it’ bases.
The Violinist’s Song
by Beatriz Langowiski
I once heard the story of a violinist who got on a bus. He made the driver feel cold and weary, with those grey eyes of his. He made the other passengers stare at his light grey suit, the colour of his eyes. He was a stranger in a little town not used to them. I heard that his violin was the colour of bone, and no one would ever dare touch it to check what it was made of. The chords were as black as his hair, but not even the bravest man would stroke them with a lover’s hand.
I heard that the violinist got up on the bus and started playing. The bus would shake with every hole on the ground, but the slender man stood tall, still, and put his instrument to his face, his ghostly eyes looking at all and none.
I heard that the first note was so long, it sounded like the wail of a child. The melody that the violin built up after that was a series of long notes, one sadder than the other. It made stomachs churn with grief and chests heave with hopelessness. The world faded and all that there was, was the grey violinist and his sad eyebrows and his absent eyes. And people were drawn to him, to his music, to his strange violin. And his lament ended with one last note that resonated through his audience’s bones and made them feel like they would never be whole again. And he put his violin back on the case with his long, pale fingers, and left the bus.
I heard that, as the days distanced themselves from the violinist’s visit, the people started distancing themselves from their own minds. Their eyes lost their colours. Their hearts lost their passion. And every single member of his audience met again in the hospital, but they had left that world long before.
The person that told me this story is no longer sane, but he warned me to never take the bus in a small town again. Because a violinist with grey eyes and long, long dark hair may pay a visit. His song is the lament of souls imprisoned in eternal servitude, wishing to get out. And from the moment the first note reaches your ears, you become a part of his repertoire.
The creepy short story ‘Chipchowchilla’ secured Maureen DeLeo second place. This tale gives a glimpse of strong characters and a distinctive setting.
Chipchowchilla
by Maureen DeLeo
The trio of men laughed loudly at their crass joke at the waitress’ expense. She told them with a sneer framed by her cheap, waxy red lipstick that men like them make her sick before turning away to see to the only other occupied table in the diner. One of the men got up to make use of the facilities, his pencil thin legs bowed slightly as he headed toward the back of the cramped place. Sipping his coffee, Doc looked over at the man at the other table as he got up and followed him a moment later. He returned his attention to Billyjack’s thick face lit up with excitement at the belief that he was ensnaring Doc with his colourful description of what he got up to last night with the seven that was in the big brown Cadillac that was pulled over on the side of the road. Doc sneered into his coffee. From what he remembered the girl kicked him so hard that Billyjack nearly lost his cool and got them caught by that passing sheriff.
Fifteen minutes passed. Doc turned his watery eyes toward the direction that Wade passed through. He must have gotten cold feet in the end. He was always a coward, never even had a sliver of a spine. It was just as well. He looked across the table at Billyjack shovelling his grits into his mouth like some starved hog. It would be less complicated this way.
‘Wade ain’t comin’ back,’ Doc announced. ‘And we gotta get.’
Billyjack, to his disgust, spoke clumsily around the food in his mouth. ‘How you know that he ain’t comin’ back? Wade’s loyal.’
Loyal. That was a big word with no meaning. Doc tapped the growing ashes of his cigarette into the dregs of Billyjack’s milk. ‘Time to get goin’. Come on.’
Wade probably managed to slip his skinny ass out from a window in the bathroom. He was too smart at least to run to the authorities and alert them as to their whereabouts, if only for his own sake. When they got out Doc knew that he was going to split shortly after they got out. He didn’t trust either of them and he was right to feel that way. For a moment he coolly regarded Billyjack as he sucked a little too harshly on his cigarette. Wade’s departure certainly made things a hell of a lot easier for him. Feeling a pair of eyes on him, Doc slowly raised his gaze to see the man at the other table watching him. There was no expression in them nor was there any on his face. There was nothing worse than seeing nothing in a man’s face because that meant that there was a whole lot of something behind it and that something was more dangerous than anyone could comprehend. The man lowered his eyes and reached for his mug as he studied the flimsy plastic menu before him. Doc dropped his cigarette in Billyjack’s grits and, ignoring his child-like protest, told him to get up. He tossed a few crinkled bills on the table and followed Billyjack’s lumbering, rotund form out from the curved booth. The tiny bell above the glass door jingled to signal their departure. The moment the door shut behind them, the waitress went over to refill the man’s coffee just so she could tell someone that she just hoped that those swine left her a decent tip. The man said nothing.
Billyjack played endlessly with the radio as they drove down the flat, empty stretch of road with brown tobacco and cotton fields on either side. Doc sneered as the only station that came through was one of those flashy preachers who kindly say that for only a small, very small really monetary contribution you not only guaranteed an act of charity that God would smile down upon but you were also helping him keep spreading the Word. Evidently the Word manifested itself through false veneers, bad toupees, and pastel spandex suits that were a little too snug in certain spots. People didn’t know nothing because they were nothing more than swine. He looked askance at Billyjack rubbing the heel of his meaty hand against his short snout. Once they got to some woods it could be done.
‘Hey,’ Billyjack suddenly said with the blind enthusiasm of a child. ‘Hey, look, you see that man there hitch-hikin’? Let’s pick him up.’
‘You lost your mind?’ hissed Doc. ‘Pick up some stranger?’
‘Come on, it’ll be fine. It’s hotter’n hell out, he can’t be out in the sun.’
‘Since when do you care about other people?’
‘We can let him think we’re doin’ him a favour and rob him blind once we had our fun.’
‘Fine.’
Turning off the radio, Billyjack rolled down his window as Doc stopped alongside the man. Asking him if he needed a ride, the man agreed with a wide grin, saying they sure were nice fellas.
‘I don’t really mind the heat,’ the man said as he climbed in the back, sliding over to take a seat behind the driver’s seat. ‘But it’s nice to get out of it.’
‘Where you headed?’ Doc asked, glancing up at the rearview. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Were you at that diner outside of Chipchowchilla?’
‘No, but I have been in Chipchowchilla for a long while. Time to get goin’.’
Unconvinced, Doc returned to his original question as he continued driving. The man looked up at him in the mirror. ‘I’m headed all over,’ he answered.
Billyjack grinned. ‘You’re a man of the world, friend.’
‘Sure.’
Silence fell over them. Every now and then Doc looked up to find the man staring at him in the mirror, swaying a little from side to side in his seat. Billyjack resumed searching for something on the radio, but now even the preachers couldn’t break through the thick static. The sound seemed to steadily get worse and worse, voices garbled to the point that they didn’t sound like human voices at all and the odd guitar coming through so warped as to sound like they were being tuned on air. Doc winced as Billyjack went from station to station, the fuzziness and loud punctuations of sound seemingly working in earnest to split and crack open their skulls. Suddenly it reached a high pitch frequency like a prolonged screech that had Doc and Billyjack gritting their teeth, clenching their jaws, and, in Billyjack’s case, covering his ears and digging his blunt fingernails into his temples. Doc shouted at him to turn it off and although Billyjack wanted to keep his hand over his ear, he was more terrified of the pain Doc would cause him than the sound from the radio. Thrusting his hand toward the dial, he quickly shut it off. Both sighed in relief. The man in the back said nothing.
‘You from Chipchowchilla?’ Billyjack asked as he shoved his thick finger into his ear and moved his hand back and forth in a jerky motion.
‘Kinda… From everywhere, y’know,’ the man returned.
Doc looked up in the mirror to find him staring though he now sat still. There was some comfort in that at least. There certainly was none in his face.
‘We’re from Dalton,’ Billyjack said. Doc sneered. He thought he was being so clever giving the name of the state penitentiary without actually disclosing that was where they came from. He had nothing going on in that head of his and that was dangerous.
‘That so? I’ve been down there.’
‘You like it?’
‘You ever hear about the Chipchowchilla Mud Prophet?’
Something about his tone caused Doc to look up at his reflection again. The man finally turned his eyes to Billyjack. Just because his eyes were on him didn’t mean his attention was as well. Billyjack lit up with the excitement of a child as he told him, no, sir, that he hadn’t never heard of such an individual.
‘The Chipchowchilla Mud Prophet was a self-styled prophet,’ explained the man. ‘His real name was Elijah Johnson, aged sixty-three, resided on a small bit of land in the woods to the west of the town proper. In his care was a boy, Abedoah Disgrace Dooley, aged fourteen, who he was preparing to become the next Mud Prophet. The Lord doesn’t abide by false prophets. There is no authority except that which God has established. Elijah Johnson’s sins include this, but also assault, battery, kidnapping, forgery, lechery, and gluttony. I will not go into the details because details are vulgar.’
‘What happened to him? What’s “vulgar” mean? Momma used to say I was vulgar for – ‘
‘Shut up,’ spat Doc, hoping he kept his panic out of his tone.
The man slowly rolled his neck. ‘I killed Elijah Johnson.’
Before either of them could react to this revelation, the car slowed down before coming to a creeping halt as though it was finally empty of the last bit of fuel in its tank. Doc’s grip on the wide steering wheel was so tight that his knuckles appeared as though they would break through the skin of his hands. Billyjack’s heart raced as he desperately looked to Doc to come up with something to get them out of this situation. The man in the back stared at him through the rearview.
‘You like stories, don’t you, Billyjack Foley?’ the man asked. ‘An ignorant man child who plays with pain and suffering like they’re dolls. And you like dolls, don’t you, boy? Like your sister when you pressed your thumbs against her eyes because she called you a bad, bad name. You pressed so hard that she cried and screamed for help in that little shack you grew up in but your momma was out and your daddy was out so no one could help her.’
Doc watched in frozen terror as Billyjack’s body shuddered and his hands raised shakily to his face. He mumbled and stumbled pathetically over his words as he begged for Jesus’ help and told the man to go to hell. Slowly he ground the heels of his palms into his eyes.
‘That’s right,’ the man said. ‘You kept goin’, too, because you liked her pain. And you didn’t like that she was tellin’ you the truth about yourself. If anyone injures his neighbour, whatever he has done must be done to him: fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.’
A low groaning sound rumbled in Billyjack’s throat, rising upward until it began as a slow, agonised scream before his hands shifted to press his fingertips against his eyes. His body rocked and shook as his fingers seemed to be intent on getting through into his sockets. Doc could say and do nothing to stop it. Blood trickled down his ruddy cheeks and along the sides of his piggish nose. Finally he stopped moving all together, his fingers buried in his flesh, muscle, and tissue.
‘And you,’ the man started without any trace of emotion or feeling. ‘Seymour “Doc” Sevier, thirty-four, escaped convict from Dalton State Penitentiary. On the run for the past four days with reasonable success, though there was that incident on the road last night getting this car. Robbery and the murder of your wife and father.’
‘You’re the devil,’ Doc said, his fingers wrapped securely around the steering wheel.
‘No.’
‘How do you explain this then? How do you know what you know?’
‘I don’t answer to you or anybody else.’
‘Then what are you?’
‘The wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth. By His wounds we are healed.’
Doc tilted his head back against the headrest. Around his throat was the same tightening that his wife probably felt. He closed his eyes. Opening the door, the man stepped out and closed it. He walked onward down the road, seeing and feeling nothing.
Earnan Macoireaghtaigh’s poem, ‘An Ode to October 2021’ was a fun quick read capturing the spirit of a modern Halloween.
An Ode to October 2021
by Earnan Macoireaghtaigh
Freddie Kruger’s got a booger
to scare you with tonight,
sitting down at a gig
waiting for a lover or fright,
subliminal messages in horrors
is it wrong or is it right?
Time to go back to the pagan rave
and dance with all our might,
In the darkness the file
will always shine the light,
keep it satirical and lyrical
nil is agaim shite,
the ghost is see through
not always white, and b.t.w
the latex is too tight,
P.S. consumerist adds too bright
on the blue screen dream
the truth is in sight,
Sublime inside the turnip g’night.
Writer’s Soc got many amazing entries and this is just a small selection. Unfortunately, there is not enough space to showcase all the amazing entries. Keep an eye on our WordPress to see more of what our members have to offer.
Wonder no more. Today, I give you insight into our humble gathering (Thursdays, 7-9pm and currently online). Down below I will grace your eyes with a transcript of a line-by-line. A line-by-line is where one person says a sentence to start the story and the second person says the next line to add to the story, followed by the third person and so on (Other versions of this game are Frankenstein or Fortunately, Unfortunately).
To read the following masterpiece grab six friends (or hostages) to read a number each. Or find someone who is good at voices and on you go. The prompt was a music prompt. We took a line of Paramore’s “Let the Flames Begin”.
Have you ever wondered what creative geniuses write when they congregate together?
Madi Hughes’ photo, ‘Writers’ Soc Meeting’.
1: This is how we’ll dance when they try to take us down;
2: break-dancing, crumping, twerking, you name it, we’ll go out in style!
3: In glitter coats, baby! Let’s burn this school down!
4: We’re still not sure how this stylish dancing will save us when they come at us guns blazing, but at least we’ll be having fun when they do!
5: And if the shit really hits the fan, I might have to break out the chicken dance
6: cause when the world’s burning, why not bust a move?
7: At least that might come as a surprise for their guns and their minds.
1: This is how we’ll stand when, when they burn our houses down.
2: Someone call the goddamn fire brigade
3: because we’re flammable as corpses- thank you corona variant 57- Zombies all the way!
4: The zombie apocalypse is really just a rave in disguise – and one so good the building vibrates from all the dancing!
5: As a wise man once said- you know it’s a good party when it registers on the Richter scale
6: One of the perks of being zombified is fatigue is a thing of the past
7: and not just that, unwelcome guests are easily being removed by just one or two bites.
1: “One or two bites and the disease transmits – hard to call it a disease when all it does is give you limitless energy – what if we let people get it, we could revolutionize the world as we know it-” the scientist is trampled by the rave and their notes lost forever.
2: The old gods are dead. Where they went, we do not know. our only hope: the lost book of notes.
3: The ink of those notes smudged by the shuffle and the sideways stamp. We can’t stop the adrenaline. We can’t stop the dance. We can’t stop!
5: The ink is smudged to the left… smudged to the right… criss cross… cha cha real smooth.
6: They danced themselves to death in Strasbourg in the middle ages. but the undead can’t die.
7: And to some surprises (or not) one of the Strasbourg dancers made it all the way into the midlands of china, where it caught some bats for dinner, but one poor thing could escape with a bite in a wing only to be cooked in a soup.
Feel free to add to our genius tale with your own wise words! Join us Thursdays 7-9pm. We’re currently online. You can find the link to join our Thursday meetings in our Discord or in our weekly emails.
by Éadaoin Counihan, Writer's Soc Vice-Secretary
To begin the 2021-2022 academic year, Writers' Soc decided to collect words of wisdom from returning to campus (or setting eyes on campus for the first time after the long haul year of online Zoom classes). We disguised our noble pursuit as a raffle. A raffle where the entry fee was your favourite quote from any form of fiction. Novel, autobiography, your grandmother, a film or a notorious tv series that ran season upon season. Then plucked from post-it notes of wisdom we settled on Aoife Ryan's entry:
"Dum Spiro Spero"
"While I breathe, I hope" (for those of you who don't casually read Latin.)
From Jennifer Estep's Mythos Academy.
Next a random grab of fingers brushed along the universe’s chosen one, Aleksandra Chodola’s quote claimed the other raffle prize:
“I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye.” From Yann Martel’s Life of Pi.
With the promise of a mysterious and coveted prize (a notebook) the entries gave us a glimpse into this year’s profile of Writers’ Soc. To give you a brief overview here is my personal favourite of the quotes submitted:
“What, you egg!”
From Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
Good life advice in general:
“Gardening is only a waste of time if you don’t enjoy it.”
-John Green
“Please believe that one single positive dream is more important than a thousand negative realities.”
From Adeline Yen Mah’s Chinese Cinderella.
Looking for some classic quotes and look no further than these entries:
“Life moves pretty fast if you don’t stop and look you might miss it.”
-Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
“Do not go gently into that good night […] Rage, Rage against the dying of the light.”
From Dylan Thomas’ Do not go gentle into that good night.
Quotes that have us concerned for humanity (and maybe a little amused):
“Real stupidity beats artificial intelligence every time.”
From Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather.
“90% of the people in this world are fools and the rest of us is in great danger of contamination.”
From the Musical Hello Dolly.
Starting strong and ending strong, this profile of this year’s Writers’ Soc members closes with a quote fit to be a writing prompt by itself:
“Honour is dead, but I’ll see what I can do.”
From Brandon Sanderson’s Words of Radiance.
Mission complete. Words of wisdom collected and documented for the benefit of all. If you want to let us know what your favourite quote is why not join us on Thursdays (we’re currently online) between 7-9pm. The link to join will be up on your yourspace calendar!
Starting college? Returning to university? Looking for word prompts and a chat? Writer’s Soc is the place for you!
Auditor
Sahil
Hello! I’m a first year medical student and I’m happy to be auditor for this year! I’m excited to be back in person after over a year online. You can catch me writing fantasy, sci-fi or working on my detective project (or snowed in by coursework) with a unifying theme of characters having a bad time. Writing has always been near and dear to my heart and if you’re not careful I will rant for far too long about it. Always open to discussing any ideas, however big or small!
Vice-Auditor
Hello hello hello, I’m Madi (they/she)! I am the Writers’ Soc vice-auditor this year, and I am so incredibly excited to get to work with my fellow committee members to provide you a memorable year with our society. I’m a 2nd year psychology student but I’ve held a love for writing for nearly my entire life. My favorite genres are fantasy/Sci-fi as I’ve always held a deep love for magic, but I am always open to discussing and exploring other genres. Don’t be afraid to come say hi!
Secretary
What’s up! My name’s Kiera; you can find me lurking around in the discord, usually doing absolutely nothing related to writing. My course is commerce with Spanish and my hobbies include art, reading and world domination. I’m this year’s secretary! I enjoy any amount of power and long romantic walks on the beach.
Vice-Secretary
Hi guys, Éadaoin here. I’m a final year arts student and this year’s vice-secretary. Previously I’ve been apart of radio script writing and hosting, organizing a Murder Mystery and UniSlam. If you’re interested in spoken poetry I hope to get a team together. If not, come for the chaos. Join us for word sprints and chats!
Treasurer
Diane
In charge of the money. Terrible with deadlines.
Publisher
Hi! I’m Tara, I’m a final year arts student and this year’s publisher. When I’m not doing socs stuff or slaving over essays, I like to write poetry. I’m also fluent in Irish, so don’t be afraid to use the cúpla focal if you have them! Looking forward to meeting you all ☺️
PRO
Hi! I’m Pippa, this year’s PRO for Writers’ Soc. I’m a Creative Writing student, in my second year, also studying English and Celtic Civ. I primarily write fantasy, especially if it’s inspired by Irish mythology, and have an addiction to daydreaming. I manage to make every academic essay, whatever the topic, about agriculture, and give all my animals bizzare names for the craic. I am yet to develop a coffee addiction, but it’s not out of the question.
Health and Safety Officer
Welcome to the Writers’ Soc WordPress! My name is Daisy Houghton and I’m a second year student on the BA Connect with Creative Writing course. I am also a Writer’s Society Ordinary Committee Member (OCM) and Covid-19 Officer. As OCM, I help out with Writers’ Soc activities, events and meetings as well as helping to lighten the workload of other committee members at busy times throughout the year. Now, as Covid Officer, I will take care to ensure that Writers Soc events and meetings are always compliant with public health guidelines. I’m really excited for another great year of Writers’ Soc, its a wonderfully welcoming society, hopefully with lots of new faces and some truly terrible puns!
COVID-19 Officer
Hello, all! I’m Beatriz, and I come from Curitiba, Brazil. I’m a first year English and Creative Writing student figuring out how to live alone 10,000 km away from home. I love fantasy, and when I’m not writing something for classes, you can find me deep into my ecocritical fantasy novels. And if you start talking about pets with me, brace yourself. I will not stop talking about my dogs.
1st Year OCM
Hello. I’m Ava and I am a 1st Bsc Geography and Geosystems student. Creative writing is my 3rd favourite passion- right after bunny hugging and committing dramatic crimes. Fantasy and sci fi are my all time favourite genres to write about and the mission I have unintentionally been bestowed is to somehow make every story I write have a upsetting and dark ending.
2nd Year OCM
Hi, I’m Diarmaid. This year, I’m the 2nd year OCM. I study computer science and I love to read and write. I’m interested in poetry, novels, short stories and also the story writing process for video games.
3rd Year OCM
Heyo, I’m Elliot and I’m one of the OCMs for Writers Soc this year! OCM stands for Ordinary Committee Member, and the job involves doing the odd bits that are needed like putting up posters or getting snacks for the society, or helping other members out. I do creative writing, history and English, and have a strong affinity for koka noodles. I own a small business called Fear Dearg Crafts (am shameless when it comes to plugging said business) and have had a few things published.
NUIG Writers' Society 