Cork, Kent And New Jersey: Homes Of Featured WAWA Finalists

A software developer from Kent, a pharmacist from Cork and a publisher from New Jersey all featured as finalists in the ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards’ (WAWA) competition on the theme of ‘Endings.’

Meanwhile, our latest writing competition on the theme of ‘Power’ has just closed and stories have been sent to the judges, so make sure you become a Friend of the retreat (it’s free) to be the first to learn who the winners and finalists are. 

But right now we’d like to put the spotlight on those wonderful writers selected among the top ten top finalists in a previous WAWA competition. 

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TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE SUCCESS OF ALL FINALISTS IN ANY OF OUR WAWA COMPETITONS SO FAR, WE'RE DELIGHTED TO ANNOUNCE A 10 PER CENT DISCOUNT TO ANY OF OUR WRITING RETREATS, AMOUNTING TO 265 EURO.

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David Charles Hollick

Finalist in flash fiction category with story ‘The Sister's Hand.’

David’s academic career began early in life - he was born in a schoolhouse.

A finalist in the flash fiction category with his story, ‘The Sister's Hand,’ the 60-year-old senior software developer involved in digital television systems lived in many countries before settling in West Sussex, close to the sea.

Father of four children and grandparent to three, he has been with his partner, Kathryn, for over 20 years.

Unlike many people, David has had to deal with poor eyesight. “Six years ago, I became visually impaired which has had a dramatic effect on my life, but is something I am reconciled with now.”

Asked where the idea for his story came from, he said, “I’m a little unclear where my inspirations come from. I’m constantly coming up with ideas for new writing projects. I’m well-travelled, well-read, fascinated by people and places. That is where the ideas come from perhaps.”

As to the main challenges facing him writing his story, he said, “Other than coping with the vision difficulties, this story came together smoothly. This is not always the case. I wrote the title as a placeholder initially then sat looking at it for some time after I’d finished writing. In the end I liked the dual meaning of ‘hand,’ a hand of cards, and having a hand in an enemy’s downfall. The title stuck.”

Upon hearing the news he was a finalist, David said. “I was elated, chuffed to bits, it means a great deal to me. As a so-far unpublished author, it’s incredibly reassuring and positive to be a finalist in this competition. It gives me the confidence to push on and make it as an author. The WAWA prize is prestigious and I had no hesitation in entering. Thank you.”

As to his writing strengths and weakness, “I’m very good at plot arcs, they come to me easily. My stories are fast-paced and always about people with depth. My weakness is that I often have to reign myself in to take time to paint in the scenery, to ensure my reader can see what I see.”

Fantasy is the literary genre David likes most, with his three favorite books being, ‘Night Watch’ by Sir Terry Pratchett, ‘The Expanse’ series,’ by James SA Corey and ‘The Dark Tower’ series by Stephen King.

The Sister's Hand

by David Charles Hollick

Alexander smiled. It was the smile he reserved for someone new arriving at the table with a pile of chips. It was the smile of a predator who wishes his prey to believe that everything is fine. It was also fortuitous timing as his three current playing companions were now fully fleeced. His heap of chips lay in a mix of stacks and drifts in front of him. It represented a fortune. The new player, a woman, introduced herself as Sylvia. She was silver haired but with bright green eyes that gave nothing away. The others stood to leave but she bade them sit back down. To Alexander's amazement she divided her chips amongst them, leaving herself with an equal portion. He shrugged. It was her chips to waste.

The cards were dealt, the game begun and soon carefully judged piles of chips were moving to the centre of the table. Alexander won. He was no fool and drew no conclusions from this event. The other players were cautious, but slowly his winnings grew, as did his confidence.

More cards were dealt. After a few further cards were acquired and released, Sylvia pushed all her chips forward. Alexander could not resist his feral grin as he matched the bet. Sylvia stared at him without a flicker of expression, then turned and spoke to the other players. She quietly asked if they would loan her their remaining chips. Without a word, they did so. She collected them together and pushed the new pile forward to join her existing bet. Alexander met her gaze and with deliberate slowness, matched her, then gave a snort and pushed all his chips forward. She called over a supervisor, spoke quietly to him and was shortly furnished with enough chips to match the bet.

As he laid down his cards, he said "I do hope you can find further funds, my lady, because I am enjoying this and the night is only just beginning."

Sylvia regarded the King, Queen, Jack, Ten and Nine of Spades lying on the table in front of her opponent. She didn't smile. This moment had been too long in preparation, pain and loss as she sought vengeance for her brother's suicide. Alexander had not just taken his money one awful night two years ago. He had taken his hopes and dreams too.

The colour drained from Alexander's face as the Ten of Diamonds was laid down by Sylvia's delicate fingers, then the Jack, Queen, King and finally the Ace. All Diamonds.

"I am afraid the night is not just beginning for you Alexander. Quite the opposite."

She drew the enormous pile of chips to her, separated out smaller but generous amounts and slid them to her friends, for such they were.

Alexander had been royally flushed.

Jennifer Berger 

Finalist in creative nonfiction category with story 'Weighing My Options.’ 

Jennifer worked in publishing, but as her child was on the autism spectrum she devoted herself as a “a full-time mother and his full-time advocate.”

Having grown up in New Jersey, she currently live in Queens, New York

and has been married for over twenty years. She returned to work two years ago as an administrative assistant and direct support professional in a residence for adult women with developmental disabilities.

Describing why she entered WAWA, she said, “I’m on the email notification list and the topic spoke to me. My son’s move to a residential school forced me to look at myself and address a lot of issues that I now had the time and emotional energy to address.”

Part of a writing group and having completed inner child work with her life coach, Jennifer said, “I then put the skills I learned in both arenas to use in this particular challenge. The most difficult challenge was writing about something I never talk about; my writing teacher says that the hardest things to speak of are the topics about which one should be writing.”

Jennifer, in her early 50s, said she was excited to hear she was a finalist in the WAWA creative writing competition once again - she was also a finalist in the WAWA competition on the theme of ‘Hope’ with her story “A Loving Gamble.’ “This was the first time since my son’s autism diagnosis that I had entered something solely about myself, so this made it particularly special.” 

As to her writing strengths and weaknesses, “Strength would be my memory for detail and description. My weakness would be tending to spend too much time on these details and not enough attention on the feelings involved in the scene that is taking place.”

Memoir is her favorite literary genre and the three books she has enjoyed most have been ‘The Prince of Tides’ by Pat Conroy, ‘The Still Turning Point of the World’ by Emily Rapp and ‘Expecting Adam’ by Martha Beck.

Weighing My Options

by Jennifer Berger

I step off the elevator of Macy’s Herald Square away from Manhattan’s chaotic activity. It’s the week before Christmas and I’ve managed to escape the store’s ground floor, both bright with twinkling holiday décor, and heavy from dank perfume mists clouding the air. The seventh floor is festive, but quiet. Its’ been years since I’ve ventured into a department store preferring to shroud myself in sweatsuits. This year I’ve decided to venture out and celebrate the possibilities that 2025 may have to offer, and clothes with elastic waistbands covey neither festivity nor optimism. 

“What are we doing here?” a voice softly squeaks from the recesses of my mind.

“We’re shopping,” I tell her. I know that voice. I’ve named her Ivy. Some mental health professionals have called her my inner voice; others, my inner child. Either way, she’s always with me. Ivy is six-years old, extremely sensitive, and terrified of being bullied or looking foolish. We’ve spent our entire lives together and I understand her perfectly. I just don’t think she understands the person I’m becoming, and it confuses her.

“The sign says ‘plus-sized’,” she whispers anxiously.

“You’re right. It does,” I confirm, heading towards a rack of jeans. I haven’t worn jeans since my adolescence. I wonder how they’ll look.

  “Does that mean we’re fat again?” she asks tearfully.

I release a soft, breathy sigh. Neither of us likes having these conversations, but I refuse to be afraid of this anymore. In my mind I bend down and meet her at eye-level. No one has every talked to her about this, and she needs help processing it…truth be told, so do I.

“Are you thinking about the times when Mommy called us fat?” I ask.

 “The mean kids we went to school with too,” Ivy nods, her pigtails bobbing in time with her head’s movement. 

“They were cruel. Our weight has fluctuated over the years. That means it’s gone up and down. Sometimes we’ve been slimmer, at other times heavier. Today we’re on the heavier side. That doesn’t mean we’ll always be heavy; it just means it’s where we are today.”

“Is that why you’ve started exercising?” she questions.

“One of the reasons,” I admit. “But I’m older now and want to be as healthy as possible. I don’t want how I feel about myself to be determined by a number on the scale. I want to look in the mirror and feel pretty, no matter what size I am. And if that means shopping in the plus-sized department to buy clothes that fit my current body properly, that’s what I’m going to do. It’s time to stop worrying about how I look to others and be concerned with how I look and feel for myself. Do you think you can help me do that?” 

Ivy shrugs. “I can try,” she offers. 

“Good. Let’s go try on dresses,” I suggest extending my hand, which Ivy slowly takes. I give her a smile, and we tentatively walk across the room. 

Terry Kerins

Finalist in the flash fiction category with her story ‘Holidays.’

A pharmacist from Macroom, southwest Ireland, Terry describes herself as a “proud solo parent by choice to an eight-year-old daughter.” Terry also worked as a Special Needs Assistant on a year off from pharmacy and hosted creative writing courses for neurodivergent adults. Obviously a talented writer, she was also a finalist in a previous WAWA competition on the theme of ‘Danger.’

Now living in Cork city, she said her story emerged after she had taken part in a prompt-based three-hundred-word-a-day challenge. “I had the shell of a story filed away and it seemed to fit the theme,” she said. “It give me the incentive to start editing it for the competition.”

Terry had a wide range of titles to choose from for her story, “After doing the three-hundred-word-a-day word prompt I saved them all without editing or expanding a lot of them.”

Asked what was the most difficult challenge writing her story, she said, “getting the story tight and keeping within the word limit whilst also being creative. I find that I know the story in my head but making it clear on paper is most challenging for me.”

As for her response after being notified she was a finalist, “Delighted. It’s so nice to get recognised for what is usually a solitary and unquantifiable craft.” 

Asked what her greatest strengths and weaknesses are in creative writing, she said, “I find it hard to get a first draft down but once I have this, I persist with editing and keep editing, so I suppose in brief, procrastination and perseverance.” 

Fiction is her favorite literary genre, “Sometimes real life has enough reality for me,” she added.

Her favorite three books are ‘The Bee Sting’ by Paul Murray, ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’ by Harper Lee and ‘Antarctica’ by Claire Keegan.

Holidays

by Terry Kerins

It is the eighteenth of July, and it is hot. The calendar that hangs on the back of the kitchen door, the one we get each year from the bank, has a big red ring around today’s date in permanent marker. Since the school holidays, I have been crossing out the days of the month with thick red Xs. 

Mam and Dad are out the front, loading the boot of the car for our summer holiday. I am lying on the carpet of my parent’s bedroom, trying to stay as still as possible, so I won’t get even hotter by moving around, or worse still, wake my baby brother, Dylan who is cutting teeth and has flaming scarlet cheeks.

The curtains are closed, but the windows behind them are wide open and I can hear Mam and Dad talking on the driveway below. ‘Make sure the spare tyre is inflated. Remember what happened last year on the way to the ferry port’. Mam’s voice drifts into the room.

Dad’s laughter follows it in and tickles me. I smile, then frown: Funny that he finds it funny now but was so angry at having to phone a garage then. 

Dad slams the boot closed and Dylan wakes up, yowling. He stands and grabs the bars of the cot like a small prisoner. His fat fists tighten, and he jumps up and down with the effort of trying to escape. I get up and lift him out, although I am not allowed to on my own. His hot fists beat on me, his vest is damp. ‘You don’t like that cot, do you Buddy?’ I say, and he gurgles. I put him down on the carpet and he starts crawling, tearing around the room, as if he really was set free. 

‘Jack, Love, come pick out your books for the holiday’, Mum calls from downstairs. 

I look at Dylan, quiet now, with one of Mam’s red shoes in his hand. I close the door like they told me to, so he won’t fall down the stairs, and smile to myself at how responsible I am and how much fun the holiday will be.

In my bedroom, I look at the shelves of books, trying to figure out which will be best for the trip. My room is at the back of the house and there is a tiny breeze coming from the open window. My bed is in the shade, and I lie down with one of the books I’d got for my eight birthday, one I haven’t started yet. I open the book on Chapter One, but the heat makes the words blur, and my head feels heavy. 

Both Mam and Dad are in the house now.  

They do not see Mam’s red shoe falling onto the roof of the car. 

They do not see Dylan standing at the open windows, stretching his arms out into the first-floor air, grasping for the shoe, leaning his tiny body into the void.