Innsbruck by Daniel Dilworth McCarthy Fiction Prize Winner May24

Innsbruck by Daniel Dilworth McCarthy Fiction Prize Winner...

It was two days after the due check-out date that the hotel staff realised the British tourist was still officially a guest of the hotel. The maid gained access to the bedroom shortly before midday. The drapes were fluttering, the window thrown open. The bed sheets had been overturned and a bedside lamp in pieces on the floor. Inside the en suite there were splatters of blood on the wall by the bath and, inside it, lay the cold, motionless body. The tourist arrived on the flight from Gatwick in the morning and made his way to the hotel in the Altstadt. It was grand, a remnant from the days of the Hapsburgs. He moved to the desk, put his case down on the marble floor and picked up a brochure on the countertop. Flicked through it. Put it down. Picked up another one. Glanced briefly at it, put it back. The receptionist noticed him. ‘Wie geht’s?’ How are you? ‘Gut, danke.’ He smiled. ‘I have booked a room.’ ‘What is the name?’ The tourist told her. She went searching on the computer. ‘Yes, sir, room 212 is waiting. Dirk will bring you up.’ ‘Vielen dank.’ Dirk came up behind him. ‘I’ll take your bag.’ ‘Thanks.’ As they walked to the lift the tourist started gazing up at the vast ceiling. The artwork was sublime, the plasterwork beautifully surrounded it, the walls were- ‘Watch where you’re walking!’ The tourist was brought back to earth. ‘I’m terribly sorry. The man, in his forties, looked hard at him with his bright blue  eyes. ‘This isn’t a museum, so please stop having your head in the clouds.’ ‘I am so sorry.’ The man with the blue eyes pointed to a bundle on the ground. ‘Look what you...

Monologue: Rossmore Drama...

Two picturesque girls are standing three feet apart with their backs to the red-curtained stage: the first with a thick mane of blonde hair and full lips; the second very different but no less intriguing, more like a greengrocer’s daughter. We’re on the hill at the back and people are filing in and going up and down the aisle trying to find a coveted perch from where they’ll get an advantageous perspective on proceedings. My father and our guest are looking through the €3 programme, wondering where Moyne is. There is a troupe from there performing tonight. A man in the row in front turns through 30 degrees stiffly to tell us it’s near Thurles, Tipperary. There are a lot of bespectacled drama fans and bald- headed men. A girl walks along with a clear Tupperware box selling raffle tickets. The two girls at the door are offering the programmes; the prettier one has a badge saying “Usher”. I was disappointed that it didn’t reveal her name. On the way here the conversation began with warfarin, a heart disease drug discovered in Wisconsin when farmers found their cattle were bleeding from the stomach. They managed to extract the vital ingredient from the cattle feed and test it on rats and make rat poison. Our guest takes it for his arrhythmia. It thins the blood and in the right concentration will kill rats or treat your heart disease. He remembers the dying mice in the floor when he lived in Tomes, a small village near Macroom. Whatever it was they were using to kill them made them writhe in agony, shriek and cry. Then the car stops and my father points to a farmhouse about two hundred yards away in the middle of a green...

“It’ll Do” by Joseph Dilworth: McCarthy Fiction Prize Runner-up May24

“It’ll Do” by Joseph Dilworth: McCarthy Fiction Prize Runner-up...

Blankness. A mental void. Emptiness. Where to start? A look around the site yields, in order: pretty blond; muscular sportsman; pretty blonde; pretty blonde; muscular sportsman; muscular sportsman. I fly through the rest of the site. Something catches my eye – two blondes have the same picture. My face wrinkles. Liars. Like all of their kind. I look at the fakes  again. Not the best agency. It’ll do I start where I always do: “Hi, my name is Dave.” Delete, “It’s James.” Delete. “How’re things going? My name is Francis.” Delete. “The name’s David.” It’ll do. “I’m forty-seven.” I look around the site again. A pack of lies. Delete. “I’m twenty-seven.” It’ll do. I’ve a criminal record. I shot five cops and knifed two more.” Delete. “I’ve a criminal record- of picking up chicks.” It’ll do. “I’m a serial killer who lures whore to their deaths.” Delete. “I’m a serial satisfier who lures women to their beds.” It’ll do. “My wife was unfaithful and I blame the world.” Delete. “I’m faithful.” It’ll do. A picture of a muscular young guy. Delete. A picture of a fit – but not overly so – man. I click post. It’s probably the most honest thing on this site. It’ll do. “N.Y.P.D! Open up you motherfucking bitch!” I grab a loaded gun and point it at the door. It’ll...

“The Clouds Arrive to Weep” by Hassan Baker: Aftab Poetry Winner...

Between being half dressed and dressed, the clouds arrived to weep, A lost head, and the other is running, Quickly brushed with the olive comb, Fully packed before the hail could strike; A family of birds awake, A last feel of the old brass handle And a leathered figure steps out. Between home and the car The rain drums on his coat, and the thunder claps his...

“I Sit Here, Watching” by Aaron McCarthy: Aftab Poetry Runner-up...

I Sit Here, Watching I sit here, Watching, Watching. Chrysali open, Open, Victims of their own emergence. The waves whip against the rocks, Biting, Biting, But the rocks do not move. The fernery is grazed, Abolished by its master. I sit here, Watching, Watching, And then I...

Now We Wait: Competition Runner-up by SwagDaggy May24

Now We Wait: Competition Runner-up by SwagDaggy...

“Okay, let’s do this”. Andrew pressed the 10 second timer on his sister’s DSLR then sprinted over to the other side of the room. He stood, clad in an ill-fitting tuxedo, with his back to a book case filled with leather-bound books. With hair perfectly coifed, he bared his teeth in a grin and looked at the lens of the camera with a hungry look in his eye. The camera beeped in a countdown. Six. Andrew’s jaw started quivering, his cheeks aching. Five. His eyelid started to twitch. Four. A drop of spit hung on the edge of his lip. Three. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Two. Andrew’s weight bearing leg jerked. One. A fly bounced off the uncovered light bulb. With the flash of the camera, Andrew dropped his shoulders into a relaxed hunch and retrieved the camera. The photo was processing on the monitor, having transferred straight through the USB cable. As the photo uploaded onto beautifulpeople.com, Andrew retrieved the sheet of paper his mother gave him. He had tasked her with listing his best qualities. It was a painfully short list. As he stroked the beard that was confined to his neck, Andrew scrutinised the page in a vain attempt to come up with some more. Filling out the basic information, he reached the personal questions. Yes, he was single. No he didn’t smoke or take recreational drugs. The most private thing he was willing to admit? He had a midget fetish. Why should you message him? Because please. He spends a lot of time thinking about? Fedoras. He’s really good at? Turning invisible when nobody is watching. Something he has never told anyone? When he was young, his father used to dress him up in his sister’s...

It’s all a bit tragic really, isn’t it? by Conor McCarthy: Dilworth Non-Fiction Winner May24

It’s all a bit tragic really, isn’t it? by Conor McCarthy: Dilworth Non-Fiction Winner...

I was recently invited to the Rendezvous pub to celebrate the end of sixth year. Although I had to decline this offer (me drunk is not a pretty picture and I doubt that I’d be able to fight the temptation), it got me thinking about how this is the end of my time at Coláiste an Spioraid Naoimh. Every day I can sense it: more and more students are not turning up to school as they’re too busy “studying”; the teachers are now a lot more laid back and casual; and there seems to exist a silent air of understanding floating around the classroom-understanding that, yes, this is the end of an important part of our lives. It’s all a bit tragic really, isn’t it? What a good time, then, to reflect on my past. Of course, I won’t offer my full autobiography in this essay but I shall offer an extract: maybe by focusing on one of the reasons why this past year has been a very precious one to me. I’ve done a lot this past year: I’ve improved my school results; I’ve turned eighteen; I’ve helped to launch the Cloud; and I’ve been accepted into a videogames-design college in Dublin. But the thing that most interests me about this past year, and the thing that I shall focus on in this essay, is the fact that this is the year that I’ve really started watching a lot of movies and television shows, which is slightly ironic as good studying and television usually don’t mix well together. At the start of sixth year, I was introduced to a television show called My Little Pony. Although it’s not as good as it was when I first saw it, this show is a lot...