The new Authority made changes.
My comrades looked on with wide-eyed but silent alarm.
We had to assert ourselves now, or we were surely lost.
I opened my mouth wide. “WHAAA!!!” I wailed at full volume.
The others joined in.
The new babysitter quickly flicked back to the children’s channel.
Mary Sheehan writes from the occasionally sunny south-east of Ireland.
Peter hadn’t inherited his father’s disease, but a child of his could. He couldn’t allow it.
“This won’t hurt,” the doctor promised. It bloody did! He deserved that for not telling Clara, who desperately wanted a baby.
A year later, Clara announced, “I’m pregnant!”
Seemed she had a secret, too.
Mary lives and writes in southeast Ireland.
He put a rabbit’s foot in his pocket, scoured the garden for a four-leafed clover, and hung a horseshoe on their front door for luck.
Sarah suggested he hang the horseshoe points up, to keep luck from leaving.
He ignored her, yet again.
So she left. She had warned him!
Mary is Irish, superstitious, and a believer in luck coming in threes.
She loved the beach.
Yesterday I found sand in my shoes.
Today, flecks of seaweed clinging to my clothes.
Now the scent of her coconut tanning lotion traces the air.
I haven’t gone to the beach in the year since she drowned.
I wonder what she’s trying to tell me.
Mary lives on the coast in the south-east of Ireland, where the sea has a habit of seeping into her writing.
I watched him grow.
A fern leaf opening.
A curious child.
His face searching for… reflecting the sun.
“What’s in the schoolbag!” I gasped at its weight.
“Rocks,” he said.
I thought his wit a bit dry for six.
Only… it was rocks!
“I’m collecting them.”
Mary Sheehan wrote this story.
“Isn’t Darryl joining us?” I ask my host.
Otis grunts, gnaws on a BBQ rib. Should ribs be that big?
They’d argued… I heard thuds. This is hillbilly country!
A bruised Darryl appears. “Dang, Otis! Don’t freak our dinner guest.”
Then he stage whispers, “You know fear spoils the meat!”
Mary Sheehan hails from southern Ireland and is vegetarian…
“Coming through!” I yell, negotiating the thronged station.
“Last call for Dublin,” the Tannoy booms.
My case bounces, overturns and spills its contents.
The train doors hiss shut.
“Hard luck!” someone says.
That’s more sympathy than yesterday.
Tomorrow I might just have to trip and fall.
Mary Sheehan lives and writes in the sunny south east of Ireland. Unfortunately, she spends too much time doing both just in her head.
He left her a widow, alone… bereft.
Left no will… only debt.
The Repo men left only his urn.
He’d left her in the dark about his ‘little pad’ in the city. It boasted eight bedrooms, a mistress, and three children.
She left his ashes in the bin outside it.
Mary Sheehan lives in what’s known as the sunny south-east of Ireland. Her stories are getting shorter and shorter, probally due to lack of sunshine.
“I’m sick!” the stranger whispers, in the hospital lift.
Fear takes my breath.
“A sniff a day… prevents… you know?”
“Okay.” I breathe.
He hunkers down.
Wrestles off my left shoe.
The doors ping.
“You’re sick!” I yell, furiously hoping my diagnosis will be infectious.