Woman On Irish Farm And Man Linked To English Funfairs Win WAWA

Settle back, have a drink and meet writers, Jane Gormley from the Republic of Ireland and Martin Barker from the south coast of England who won our latest ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards’ (WAWA) on the theme of ‘Power.’

Both writers win 500 euro in cash or a 1,000 euro discount to any of our week-long international writing retreats in France, Ireland or the UK.

Jane Gomley

Jane, born in Dublin, grew up in Wicklow and now lives on a farm in Allenwood, Kildare that has been in her husband’s family for generations, edged out competitors from countries including New Zealand, the United States, Australia and Canada.

Her story ‘Mother/Mathair’ which won the creative nonfiction fiction category, takes place in the maternity wing of a hospital and focuses on a woman who has just given birth and stands up strongly for her rights in the face of bureaucracy. 

Explaining the inspiration for her story, Jane said, “When I was in hospital having my first baby, one of the new mothers in the ward caught my attention quite a bit. There was a situation with her baby's birth certificate form and her reluctance in filling it out. Since then, when I had my own daughter, I came up against some unsavoury state documentation I was asked to fill out as my husband and I weren't married then. I've also had first-hand experience of mothers' making their own personal decisions around what to write on their children's birth certificates, some of which I think needs addressing. Birth certificates are incredibly powerful and very personal documents.”

Speaking about her writing strengths and weaknesses, Jane, married to Willie and mother to two children, Paddy and Clara, added, “I try hard to write how I speak, or how other people speak. I use simple language. I love reading things where I can hear a human voice. Human hesitations. I don't know if I always achieve that - so that's probably my weakness. My strength is that I keep trying.”

Jane prefers to read memoirs and the three books she has enjoyed most have been I Remember by Joe Brainard, Stone Mad by Seamus Murphy and Life Class by Diana Athill.

Hearing the good news about her competition win, Jane, who has held many jobs in her lifetime including recruitment and event management, said, “I was on my last night of a holiday in France, with the family, and had my phone off most of the time! Turning it back on to catch up on missed work, emails and different things was made brilliant by this being the first email I saw! I couldn't believe it. It's my first writing win, so I'm really happy. My first book is due later this year, so the timing of this has really made me more comfortable and confident too.”

Martin Barker

Martin, from Poole in Dorset in England, is the son of a travelling showman and spent many years working along the south coast with his family’s funfair, then led his own engineering company for 30 years before retiring.

Martin’s story, entitled ‘The Cloud-Cutter and the Painter of Butterfly Wings,’ is a comic fantasy story focusing on the creation of Earth by Gods, and won first prize in the flash fiction category in the ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards.’

“I’m not sure where the idea for my story emerged but climate crisis, war and Man’s seemingly irresistible urge to ruin the planet would have influenced the ending,” he said. “My first draft title was ‘The Cloud-cutters Apprentice’ but I loved the idea of a creator painting butterfly wings.”

His writing strength is “Getting across emotion in very few words,” his weakness, “letting it fall apart when I try to write longer fiction.”

Martin says he reads all genres from Charles Dickens to Dan Brown, Sebastian Faulks to Stephen King and is especially fond of dark humour.

“My favourite three books would be Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings for pure writing craft, Gormenghast by Melvyn Peake for its imagination and descriptions, and Salem’s Lot by Stephen King for its slowly building sense of terror.”

Hearing the good news about his WAWA win, Martin, father of two daughters, said, “I am absolutely thrilled to have won this award. I had learned about your competition while researching writing retreats. As my partner Jo and I recently spent three weeks touring Ireland and loved the country, its people and especially the scenic Wild Atlantic Way, this win was particularly special.”

Mother /Mathair

by Jane Gomley

I hesitated at her curtain. Pausing for a few moments to try to hear a sound. 

Most new mothers would have enjoyed the ward more. Would have by now have taken that first, hot turn in the shower room. Bouncy with relief. Refreshed and energised by wafts of mint around them. Fancy post-birth plans all gathered in their washbags.  This mother hadn’t behaved like this. We had barely seen her over the last few days. Curtains tightly shut around her bed. Brief, occasional visits to the bathroom. Dragging the little light wheeled cot with her. I had used this moment this morning, reminding her again, and leaving the form and the pen by her bedside when she’d left the bed this morning. Waited in the corridor for her return to tell her it was there. She had nodded in response and then pulled the curtains again. 

Perhaps she was sleeping. I couldn’t hear anything, but the clock was ticking. 

Time up. 

“Sorry, I thought you might be sleeping, but I have to process that form before you and the baby leave later.” 

Closer now, her space felt even emptier.

The baby was barely visible. So tiny and new. Wrapped tightly like all the new babies are. Bound, sleeping and silent. Hadn’t met anyone outside the ward yet. Except her mother, who was awake and alert and not allowing visitors.  Sitting up in bed with the pen I’d left with her hours before resting between her fingers. The pen didn’t matter, but the form did. She reached her arm out to pass the pen back. I’d had to step past the curtain to reach it. 

“It’s done.” She picked up the form from the unadorned locker and handed it to. Her first smile. It surprised me. 

“Thanks - do you need us to call anyone? Is someone coming to collect you? 

I glanced at the form while I waited for an answer. 

“Oh - you’ve missed something here-” There was an empty box, I flicked the form over to see if there were other gaps. There weren’t. Just this one. 

“I didn’t miss it. I’m leaving it empty.”

I didn’t answer. I released a long breath and double checked the title of the box. 

“FATHER/ATHAIR. 

“You can’t just leave it blank.” I handed the form back to her. 

She didn’t smile this time. As she held out her hand to accept the pen I was close enough now to notice the small traces of blood on her hands. Faded, blotchy stains, presumably there since  the delivery. Tattooed between her fingers. 

I watched the fingers guide the pen through the box forming a long, firm black line. She handed back the pen. 

“I can.” She said. There was that smile again. 

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The Cloud-Cutter and the Painter of Butterfly Wings

by Martin Barker

The Gods had given him seven days; they were demanding perfection.

      Titus crafted mighty snow-capped mountains, gouged out rock to form deep ravines. He poured lakes and rivers that flowed to vast oceans. He did not hurry, for each of his days lasted an eternity. The Gods would have their planet. He was sweeping sand into endless deserts when Ophelia accosted him.

      “Oi! Dickhead, when you gonna get around to the bleedin’ jungles then?”

      Titus sighed, wiped the sweat from his brow. He wished his wife would speak to him with at least a little respect.

      “Soon dearest, I was just…”

      “Just piddlin’ around in the sandpit, yeah I know. I need somewhere for my elephants and tigers. Can’t ‘ave them wanderin’ about in the desert can I?” 

     Ophelia made the creatures. She had a flair for it. She created lions, giraffes and kangaroos; sculpted snakes (easy) and ants (trickier). She gave the pelicans their ridiculous bills and splashed pink on the flamingos. The butterflies owed their beautiful wings to her delicate brush.

        Titus forged an entire continent and covered it with jungle. The leftover rocks he cast into the sea, forming a string of islands. He was bored. He spent the afternoon cutting clouds.

       “I say, Ophelia,” he said, that evening, “Do you think that I might have a go at a creature or two?”

       “Hah! You? You’ve got about as much imagination as… as… one of these.” She held up a small furry animal.

        “What’s that?”

       “Dunno, just made it. I’m calling it a ‘wombat’.” She looked at him in that annoyingly smug way that irritated him endlessly. “What you have to understand, Titus, is that everything has to be in balance. You can’t just chuck out any old thing. Stick to making those bumps in the ground. What are they called? Oh yeah, hills, you’re good at them.”

       Titus was still seething in the morning. He stole some of her tools while she was busy making dolphins and snuck off to the jungle. He liked the apes, especially the bright orange ones, so he made a stronger one, with strong arms, and painted it blue. Then, remembering his manners, he made a female to match. Pleased with his work, he nipped off to craft a couple of volcanoes. The planet was almost complete. 

      When Titus returned to his apes, he was appalled. They’d ripped up trees and were attacking smaller creatures. They were so aggressive. He plucked them up and made their arms much shorter, so short they couldn’t even climb trees. Ophelia was calling him.

      “Coming dear,” he said, watching his apes run around on the jungle floor. They must have been stressed; their hair was falling out in clumps. Titus hoped Ophelia wouldn’t notice the ugly little beasts. He supposed they’d soon get eaten by tigers or some such, and that was probably for the best. But if they didn’t, well, what harm could a couple of naked apes do to this beautiful planet?