Postcards, Pancakes, Funerals And Ghosts

An animation artist, a former sports therapist, a retired real estate agent and a social worker were among finalists in our Wild Atlantic Writing Awards (WAWA) on the theme of ‘secrets.’ 

Their backgrounds, experiences and unique views of life helped them create stories we hope will inspire you. 

Dara Griffin

Pancakes may not seem like the sexiest of subjects for a good story but Dara Griffin made them so and won a finalist spot in the flash fiction category with her story simply entitled, ‘How To Make Pancakes.’

Born in Rochester, Minnesota, Dara moved to Galway as a child and now lives in Wexford, with “two fabulously hairy dogs, Ripley and Newt.” A background artist in Dublin-based animation company, Treehouse Republic, she works on children's cartoons.

Dara’s story was born out of the relationship between herself, her partner and cooking. “He is an excellent chef and really thrives in the kitchen while I, on the other hand, am better at eating food than making it,” she said. “The difference between our styles is an odd reflection of our relationship as a whole. He loves the artistry of cooking but his day-to-day job is in law, a rigid field. My job is very much about creativity, but it doesn’t translate to spontaneity in the kitchen. If he dies before me, I'm afraid I may be eating cereal for the rest of my life.” 

While she didn’t elaborate, Dara said writing her story “definitely hit on a few truths about my own insecurities, and that was uncomfortable for me. Story-telling can often show you a little too much about yourself and I felt that in some small way with my character, Meredith.” 

Title choice was easy for her. “I wanted to name it after a food that everyone knows. A comfort food, one likely to invoke fond memories for the reader and for the main characters, so I could then crush those expectations with the discomfort of a bickering relationship.” 

Dara said being named a finalist made her ecstatic, “It absolutely made my week. Writing is a muscle I hadn't stretched in a long time, not since choosing art as my career. Over the last year I’ve tried to dedicate myself to rediscovering my voice through short stories. WAWA seemed the perfect opportunity to put my writing out into the world again, something I hadn’t done since secondary school.”

In terms of her writing style, she said, “I’m pretty good at exploring humanity through the supernatural. Most of my writing has some element of magic or other-worldliness to it. My greatest weakness is slowing down to structure my story. I write what I think and that can come out disjointed sometimes.” 

Dara is a big fan of fantasy, saying, “I figure if I'm going to use books for escapism I might as well escape big.” Her favorite books are The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss, The Assassin's Apprentice by Robin Hobb and Dungeon Crawler Carl by Matt Dinniman.

How to Make Pancakes

by Dara Griffin

“You can’t just make-up measurements,” he snapped, “You’re gonna end up with slop.” 

“We can add more milk,” Meredith shrugged. 

“Jesus, Mer, why can’t you just follow the recipe?”

 “It’s pancakes, Steve. Relax.” 

Meredith tipped the carton and splashed a generous amount of milk into an already very full mixing bowl. 

Steve threw his hands in the air, “How’re you goin’ to mix that? You’ve completely overfilled it. We’d feed Africa with this much batter.”

Meredith shrugged again, grabbing the wooden spoon, “So we’ll clean it later. It’s not that big of a deal.”

She moved the spoon around the overflowing bowl. The milk slopped over the sides, spilling out onto the marble top and leaving a murky puddle. The ingredients struggled to combine in so little space. 

“You see? They aren’t gonna mix like that. God, sometimes I think you’re just like…” he cut himself off with a shake of his head. 

“Go on,” Meredith’s voice was low and dangerous, “Say it. Just like what?”

“You’re gonna turn this into a fight,” Steve muttered under his breath. 

“It’s already a fight. Say it.” 

“No. I’m not going to have you make this my fault just because you bake like it’s jazz instead of science,” he huffed. 

“Say it, Steve.”

“You want me to be the bad guy? Fine. You’re just like your mother, Meredith. You’re impulsive and illogical. And you’ll probably end up just as lonely and mad as she is.” 

Meredith threw the spoon across the kitchen. Steve ducked and it crashed against the extractor fan, spraying watery pancake batter all over the appliances and walls. Steve looked at the mess in disbelief, “You’re a fucking basketcase.”

“I’m not crazy!” Meredith screamed, balling her hands into fists. 

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a knocking. Both froze. A moment’s silence, and then a second knock. Meredith wiped her floury hands on her pants, rushing to answer. She opened the door a crack. On the other side was a woman with smile wrinkles around her mouth and puffy white hair.

“You alright, Mer? I heard shouting.”

“Oh yes, I’m fine thank you, Carol. Just doing a bit of baking. Sorry if it got a little loud,” Meredith smiled reassuringly. 

The woman frowned, craning her neck to see past Meredith, “Oh I see. If you’re sure you’re alright then…”

“Perfectly fine. Thank you for stopping by,” Meredith started to close the door.

 “I’m so sorry for your loss, hun. I only just heard last week. If you need anything at all -,” Carol said the last part in a rush as the gap in the door shrank. 

“No, no, it’s all fine. Thank you,” Meredith clicked the door shut before Carol could finish her sentence. 

She leaned her forehead against the inside of the closed door, letting out a heavy sigh.

“No, you’re not crazy at all,” Steve said behind her, “It’s completely normal to argue about pancakes with your dead husband.”

Elaine Banfield

Born in Dublin, now living in the mountain foothills nearby, Elaine Banfield was a finalist in the flash fiction category with her story ‘After The Funeral.’

Her thought-provoking idea focused on a funeral, but not your normal kind of funeral.

“Irish people love a good funeral and I’ve unfortunately attended too many,” she explained. “But I wondered what could happen with a family after the funeral of their abuser takes place.”

Elaine has enjoyed a varied working life with positions ranging from sports therapy to dental practice manager to book reviewing. After returning to college eight years ago as a mature student, she gained a BA in English Literature and is completing a young adult novel, which was selected for the National Mentoring Programme at the Irish Writers Centre.

Married to Ray, and mother to two children, Nicola and Mark, and grandmother to Ava and Zara, Elaine was delighted at being a WAWA finalist. “It came on the back of being named last week as a finalist in the Bath Flash Fiction Award so I feel my hard work is coming to the fore,” she said proudly.

Keeping to the 500-word count was her biggest challenge. “My story started out at a thousand so I had to chop it back to the bare bones.”

On her writing strength and weaknesses, she said, “My head is full of ideas and my imagination is vivid. But it’s trying to work out what is plausible in a story when I put pen to paper. Needless to say, I have a lot of unfinished stories.”

Elaine is most interested in contemporary literary fiction and her three favorite books are Solar Bones by Mike McCormack, The Green Road by Anne Enright and Foster by Claire Keegan.

After the Funeral

by Elaine Banfield

It was a dank November afternoon, the day of my father’s funeral. I sat in the stained cubicle of Doyle’s Bar. It was finally over. 

Glancing over at my brother Fergus, who was slouched up at the bar, nursing his pint, I suspected there was no solace for him. He had to deal with the consequences of our father's actions for the rest of his life. The jagged scar down his face and the invisible scars hidden beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

Across the bar I watched my sister clutching a bottle of wine in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. She caught me staring and her thin hips swaggered across the pub towards my table.

“Well, look at Sister Agnes, sitting here all alone, sipping her fizzy water. He'll do us no more harm, Ag.” She raised the bottle to her newly plumped lips. 

 I barely raised my eyes to look at her. Her skirt twisted up around her waist, her white blouse stained with red wine. She leaned down, her stale breath in my face.

“Get lost, Steph,” I said.

 She knocked my glass off the table before walking away. The glass shattered across the floor, landing a savage glare from my mother. 

Old Maurice Hannigan leaned towards my brother who was now slumped across two bar stools. He patted Fergus's narrow shoulders and offered, I imagined, words of comfort. Maurice, more of a father to us kids than my father ever was. It was he who saved Fergus from the beating not too long ago, taking the stick from my father's hand and lifting Fergus up into his jeep, driving him to the hospital. No fuss, quiet like.

We waked my father in the house overnight. He may have been silent in death, but he still evoked a thunderous response in each of us, which tasted and smelt like fear. A nauseating unease deep in our bellies, but no one dared mention it.

“Aggie, you take Fergus on home,” my mother instructed.

“I'm not going home. Ma,” I said.  

“What do you mean you're not going home? Sure, where else would you be going?”

“I’m going away, Ma,” I said stealing myself for an onslaught. But she turned away.

Earlier that day, my brother performed the eulogy in the church. My mother insisted. 

“Just say no,” I told him. “For once Fergus, stand up for yourself.” 

He shook his head and sobbed, “I can't, Aggie, I really can't.”

When I heard Fergus speak in the church, it was as if he were talking about a stranger. He described my father as loving and kind. I gulped back the lies my brother vomited. Afterwards, Fergus couldn't look at me.

I was leaving and never coming back. When the autopsy results are released, the Guards are sure to come knocking. This, my final contribution, as the eldest in the family. A payment in kind, before I go, where they will never find me.

Laura Ruth Loomis

Though Laura Ruth Loomis prefers writing comedy, the story that won her a finalist place in WAWA’s flash fiction category on ‘secrets’ is far from that.

In short, ’Souvenir Postcard’ is about a particularly ugly part of American history. 

In her 50s and living in Washington State with her wife “and an absurd number of pets,” Laura recently retired from social work and has written two science fiction novels, ‘The Cosmic Turkey’ and ‘The Star-Crossed Pelican.’ 

Asked about the origins of her WAWA story, she said, “While the story is fiction, postcards like the one described in my story were horribly real. In the early 20th century, they were sold as mementoes of racist violence. I saw one from a museum display, and the image never left me.”

On her writing strengths and weaknesses, she said, “You'd never know it from reading ‘Souvenir Postcard’ but I'm at my best writing comedy. As for my greatest weakness, it's procrastination. Writing is like exercising: getting started is the hardest part, but eventually I hit my stride.”

And on being a finalist, “Very excited. It's amazing how storytelling can connect people all over the world.”

Laura likes both fiction and nonfiction, but specially science fiction and fantasy. Her favorite three books are Woman on the Edge of Time by Marge Piercy, The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood and Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston.

Souvenir postcard

by Laura Ruth Loomis

Hard to tell from the photo, but it looks like my grandfather.  The men are all young and pale, in 1920s clothes, crowding to make sure no one’s left out of the picture. It’s on a postcard that sold for a penny.  I’m told they were common souvenirs for events like this. The man waving his hat might be him, craning his neck to be seen. It’s a grainy old black and white picture, but the nose and chin are right. And the smile, the proud smile like all the other men, fishermen showing off their hanging catch.  The incident is in the history books I use to teach my high school students, but not the picture. My grandfather gives a small scholarship to a minority student from my school every year. He’s as white as the other men in the photo, though my sons aren’t. My grandfather only spoke of the incident once, and never said if he was there. He said you couldn’t understand unless you’ve been in the middle of a mob, that it becomes a single mind, a single pair of hands. But the men in the picture are smiling, pointing proudly to the lynched body, a black man accused of speaking lewdly to a white woman, and toward the edge of the picture, I think the one with the biggest smile is my grandfather, but I’m not sure. 

Brenda Letson

Ghostly goings-on was the subject of Brenda Letson’s story ‘At The Harbour,’ a finalist in the flash fiction category.

Divorced with two children, Brenda, 69, was born in Yorkshire but her family moved to Australia when she was young. She later worked in human resources and payroll before becoming a registered real estate agent, now retired and living in Ireland.

About her story she said, “I began writing about the seaside and found it too boring, so I changed it into a story about the harbour with a secret at the end. I also like a bit of humour in stories so I hoped it might make judges smile.”

Her original title was ‘Take A Hike Along The Sea Shore’ but said, “After many drafts, I scrapped the whole story and began to write about the harbours in Ireland and eventually wrote ‘At The Harbour’ and settled on the final version.” 

Her writing strength is “making up something so it sounds like it could really happen” and her weakness “consistently changing chapters and re-doing my work.”

She added, “I’m very excited about being a finalist, it has given me more incentive to continue writing.”

Brenda’s favorite genre is crime and her favorite three books are Cover her Face by PD James, Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett and Postmortem by Patricia Cornwell.

At the harbour 

by Brenda Letson

There was no-one in the harbour office when I went to visit my brother William, so I called out ‘HELLO’ but there was no answer. I walked over to the harbour windows and peered out.

“There he is loading cray pots as usual,” I said quietly.

I put the kettle on and stepped outside, “Hi Michael, I’m looking for William have you seen him?” I ask wondering what answer I will get today.

Michael is a big burly lad, dressed for cold weather with thick dungarees, heavy boots, an old woollen jumper and a woollen beanie pulled down low over his head. He is quite handsome and I can see his thick red hair poking through holes in his beanie. At age 24, his face is weather beaten from the harshness of the Irish weather.

“Nay, I haven’t seen anyone today,” he answered.

I thought about how to respond, “I thought he might be out here talking the craic with you Michael.”

“I haven’t seen anyone today miss,” he replied.

As I turned to walk back to the office, Michael called ‘WATCH OUT FOR THE CAT.”

I looked around expecting to see a cat at my feet but there wasn’t anything there. “Where?” I asked, “I can’t see a cat.” But Michael wasn’t listening, he just kept working.

As I walked into the harbour office, William was pouring tea into two mugs, “I was looking for you” I said, “I was just talking to Michael but he’s not very talkative today.”

“Not again?” exclaimed William huffily.

“Down at that fishing boat, he’s loading it again.”

“There is no fishing vessel docked this morning, they are all out and not due back till tomorrow,” said William.

I walked to the window and saw water but no boat, and no Michael.

I am fascinated and let out a small grunt and smirk, “What’s going on William? He was just there and I was talking to him. He was loading cray pots right there.”

“Here, drink your tea” said William, passing a cup to me.

“Where were you when I came in?” I asked.

“In here, you obviously didn’t see me because you walked out again.”

“What? Why didn’t you answer me when I called out?” I asked.

“I did but you were engrossed in peering through the window.”

“I did see the boat William and I did talk to Michael, I am not making it up he was right there, why don’t you believe me?”

“Because every time you do this, I do not see anything Anna. Michael was a deck hand on a ship over 60 years ago that had an accident and died. End of story.”

William is angry and upset, “You are not here Anna and neither is Michael, you need to move on and take that cat with you.”