The Hall
The hall is wide and has white tiles, that show up everything. Like a mirror. These are slippy when wet, a mat is placed at the entrance to ward off any catastrophic accidents by children flying as they rush in and rush out. Like the wind that seeps in under the door. The hall, when paid attention to, shines up brand new. Usually between the hours of 9am to 1pm. School bags thrown to one side, often directly under the child level hooks placed there hopefully by their mother. Shoes kicked off, aimed everywhere but the shoe rack. In an effort to welcome people, a side table is placed with fresh flowers and two small framed baby photos. This table is often consumed by pencil sharpenings, Lego pieces and refused hair clips that have been thrown aside in a flurry to get out the door. It becomes a dumping ground of post, keys and water bottles. Both young and old are to blame. In the middle of the night when a young child takes a fancy for a glass of milk, the street lamp shines so bright through the hall frosted window, that we find our way hand in hand for that mid-night treat. The hall allows us to tip toe unheard by the big brother sleeping close by. This time, everything is left as it is, and in the morning, it has kept this visit a secret, until the next night. The hall, like the swinging front door, very easily converts itself back to its status quo.
Carnage.
Creative Writing Clonmel
The hall is wide and has white tiles, that show up everything. Like a mirror. These are slippy when wet, a mat is placed at the entrance to ward off any catastrophic accidents by children flying as they rush in and rush out. Like the wind that seeps in under the door. The hall, when paid attention to, shines up brand new. Usually between the hours of 9am to 1pm. School bags thrown to one side, often directly under the child level hooks placed there hopefully by their mother. Shoes kicked off, aimed everywhere but the shoe rack. In an effort to welcome people, a side table is placed with fresh flowers and two small framed baby photos. This table is often consumed by pencil sharpenings, Lego pieces and refused hair clips that have been thrown aside in a flurry to get out the door. It becomes a dumping ground of post, keys and water bottles. Both young and old are to blame. In the middle of the night when a young child takes a fancy for a glass of milk, the street lamp shines so bright through the hall frosted window, that we find our way hand in hand for that mid-night treat. The hall allows us to tip toe unheard by the big brother sleeping close by. This time, everything is left as it is, and in the morning, it has kept this visit a secret, until the next night. The hall, like the swinging front door, very easily converts itself back to its status quo.
Carnage.
Creative Writing Clonmel
My Morning Walk
I live in Ballyporeen, a beautiful village nestled in the picturesque Vee Valley between the two majestic mountain ranges, the Galtees and Knockmealdowns. At 8.30am each morning I drive the 3kms to pick up my friend Eleanor for our daily walk around the historical Shanrahan.
Our starting point is in the car park of Shanrahan Cemetery which is home to a medieval church and also the final resting place of the famous Fr. Nicholas Sheehy who was hanged by the British forces on trumped up charges in Clonmel gaol in the 18th century. Our walk is never boring as each morning we keep our eyes peeled for the Grey Heron, fishing at the bank of the Dwag River as it meanders through Clogheen to join the river Tar.
We have been enjoying the same country walk every day experiencing all four seasons for the past 5 years. I have learned that each season has its own beauty. The springtime brings new life to the country, the baby lambs frolicking with their pals in the fields, their mothers frantically calling to them as she watches on, fearing for their safety. The buds bursting out on their sockets on the branches of the trees, the snowdrops and daffodils as they stretch up through the earth after their long sleep.
Occasionally Eleanor grabs my arm and pulls me into the side as a car or truck passes by, me being as deaf as a post, completely unaware that I could be killed. She tells me that she now owns my life having saved it so many times. The hills are bathed in the beautiful purple of the Rhododendron bush. The extremely invasive Rhododendron has gone from arch enemy number one to a celebrated friend since it first appeared on the Knockmealdown Mountains as the successful local Summer festival is named in honour of it.
Our greatest enjoyment is experiencing the hedgerows changing from producing their wonderful summer flowers to their bountiful autumn harvest. The autumn mornings are becoming much darker now but occasionally the beautiful sunshine comes out to greet us accompanied by a magnificent rainbow.
The lone Holly tree standing like a sentry atop the immaculately cut hedgerow as if waiting for the birds to feast on its abundance of juicy red berries. The berries which are nature’s food providing a plentiful supply for all the birds and animals that live in the wild, Holly berry, Rose hips, Hawthorn, Rowan, black berried ivy and many more. Through the years we have encountered many strangers along the road and initially we would nod with a polite “good morning”. Now all of these years on, those strangers are among our fondest friends meeting up occasionally for a cuppa and welcome chat.
Creative Writing Clonmel
I live in Ballyporeen, a beautiful village nestled in the picturesque Vee Valley between the two majestic mountain ranges, the Galtees and Knockmealdowns. At 8.30am each morning I drive the 3kms to pick up my friend Eleanor for our daily walk around the historical Shanrahan.
Our starting point is in the car park of Shanrahan Cemetery which is home to a medieval church and also the final resting place of the famous Fr. Nicholas Sheehy who was hanged by the British forces on trumped up charges in Clonmel gaol in the 18th century. Our walk is never boring as each morning we keep our eyes peeled for the Grey Heron, fishing at the bank of the Dwag River as it meanders through Clogheen to join the river Tar.
We have been enjoying the same country walk every day experiencing all four seasons for the past 5 years. I have learned that each season has its own beauty. The springtime brings new life to the country, the baby lambs frolicking with their pals in the fields, their mothers frantically calling to them as she watches on, fearing for their safety. The buds bursting out on their sockets on the branches of the trees, the snowdrops and daffodils as they stretch up through the earth after their long sleep.
Occasionally Eleanor grabs my arm and pulls me into the side as a car or truck passes by, me being as deaf as a post, completely unaware that I could be killed. She tells me that she now owns my life having saved it so many times. The hills are bathed in the beautiful purple of the Rhododendron bush. The extremely invasive Rhododendron has gone from arch enemy number one to a celebrated friend since it first appeared on the Knockmealdown Mountains as the successful local Summer festival is named in honour of it.
Our greatest enjoyment is experiencing the hedgerows changing from producing their wonderful summer flowers to their bountiful autumn harvest. The autumn mornings are becoming much darker now but occasionally the beautiful sunshine comes out to greet us accompanied by a magnificent rainbow.
The lone Holly tree standing like a sentry atop the immaculately cut hedgerow as if waiting for the birds to feast on its abundance of juicy red berries. The berries which are nature’s food providing a plentiful supply for all the birds and animals that live in the wild, Holly berry, Rose hips, Hawthorn, Rowan, black berried ivy and many more. Through the years we have encountered many strangers along the road and initially we would nod with a polite “good morning”. Now all of these years on, those strangers are among our fondest friends meeting up occasionally for a cuppa and welcome chat.
Creative Writing Clonmel
Frosted Glass
Elsie sprinted down the narrow hallway. Her feet sinking into sun-bleached carpet, a desaturated blue. Individual tentacles reaching up trying to grab her toes but she was too quick for it to catch her. The walls had markings of where frames once hung, except one. Elsie couldn’t bring herself to take down the portrait that came with the house. A solemn man with a blood scarlet coat and a black shirt.
She bumped up against it as she swung around the corner now the front door in site. Elsie abruptly stopped when she caught a glimpse of the figure haunting the glass. her body still in motion like a rocking horse swaying back-and-forth, going nowhere. chest pounding, as she held her breath in isolating silence. WAP, there was a loud thud on the door, jolting Elsie back into her body, a long nailed, skinny fin[1]gered hand, caressed the glass. Elsie shrieked, her breath shallow now taking in quick sniffs of air.
None of it going further than her tongue tasting the cold sharp air with every attempt. Elsie was a mouse trembling in terror as an almighty cat watched in delight. Looming over her every move, stealing all light from the hall[1]way. This glass door was the hallways only natural light source and this figure consumed every crevice. I can’t think straight. She thought. Her mind becoming as distorted as that frosted glass.
A heavy fog within, dragging her further down. ‘You’re imagining it’ she hissed to herself ‘it’s not real, just, just stop!’ Remember what Dr O’Shea said, don’t disappear again. Do not get lost in your head. It’s not that hard he would chastise her… pick a spot on the wall feel the texture of your clothes. Let the smells around you enter through your nose.
Elsie raised her pointed nose to the sky. Like a fox hunting, to find a trail to follow. What hit her instead was the reek of rotting garbage, vegetable scraps growing hair in the sink, mouldy bread with maggots inside and to top it all off, a swampy brown liquid seeping across the floor. T
his isn’t helping… all Elsie could think about was an animal carcass being torn apart by vultures who circle above. Although her breath did soften to a gentle whimper. Elsie was trying to choke back some tears. Tap. Tap. Tap. The stranger taunted her now, as if growing impatient from being kept waiting. Tap. Tap. Tap. Rattling in a rhythmic succession speeding up each time. The metal in the door frame echoing each time.
Elsie’s hands trembled by her side, clacking against the brass toggles on her coat. ‘PLEASE’ she screamed out. Her voice cracking, des[1]perately trying to blink away the tears that swelled up inside. Elsie felt paralysed, she scrunched up her face, closing her eyes, hoping all of this will be gone soon, hoping it’s all in her mind.
Creative Writing Clonmel
Elsie sprinted down the narrow hallway. Her feet sinking into sun-bleached carpet, a desaturated blue. Individual tentacles reaching up trying to grab her toes but she was too quick for it to catch her. The walls had markings of where frames once hung, except one. Elsie couldn’t bring herself to take down the portrait that came with the house. A solemn man with a blood scarlet coat and a black shirt.
She bumped up against it as she swung around the corner now the front door in site. Elsie abruptly stopped when she caught a glimpse of the figure haunting the glass. her body still in motion like a rocking horse swaying back-and-forth, going nowhere. chest pounding, as she held her breath in isolating silence. WAP, there was a loud thud on the door, jolting Elsie back into her body, a long nailed, skinny fin[1]gered hand, caressed the glass. Elsie shrieked, her breath shallow now taking in quick sniffs of air.
None of it going further than her tongue tasting the cold sharp air with every attempt. Elsie was a mouse trembling in terror as an almighty cat watched in delight. Looming over her every move, stealing all light from the hall[1]way. This glass door was the hallways only natural light source and this figure consumed every crevice. I can’t think straight. She thought. Her mind becoming as distorted as that frosted glass.
A heavy fog within, dragging her further down. ‘You’re imagining it’ she hissed to herself ‘it’s not real, just, just stop!’ Remember what Dr O’Shea said, don’t disappear again. Do not get lost in your head. It’s not that hard he would chastise her… pick a spot on the wall feel the texture of your clothes. Let the smells around you enter through your nose.
Elsie raised her pointed nose to the sky. Like a fox hunting, to find a trail to follow. What hit her instead was the reek of rotting garbage, vegetable scraps growing hair in the sink, mouldy bread with maggots inside and to top it all off, a swampy brown liquid seeping across the floor. T
his isn’t helping… all Elsie could think about was an animal carcass being torn apart by vultures who circle above. Although her breath did soften to a gentle whimper. Elsie was trying to choke back some tears. Tap. Tap. Tap. The stranger taunted her now, as if growing impatient from being kept waiting. Tap. Tap. Tap. Rattling in a rhythmic succession speeding up each time. The metal in the door frame echoing each time.
Elsie’s hands trembled by her side, clacking against the brass toggles on her coat. ‘PLEASE’ she screamed out. Her voice cracking, des[1]perately trying to blink away the tears that swelled up inside. Elsie felt paralysed, she scrunched up her face, closing her eyes, hoping all of this will be gone soon, hoping it’s all in her mind.
Creative Writing Clonmel
Letter from Mary Culleton to her husband James
March 1911
Dear James,
I hope this letter finds you well - as well as you could be in that dreadful place. I walk by Mountjoy jail most days and still cannot bear to think of you inside those walls and me just outside – so close and yet so far. Me and Teddy blow kisses and hope that the bitter winter wind will carry them over those barbed walls, and you will feel a little bit of warmth from our love.
Oh why did you do it Jim? Sure I know well why you did, it was only out of your love for us, and trying to keep us warm and fed. I wonder every day how different life would have been if the factory hadn’t closed. Would we have had the money to pay for little Mikey’s medicine? Maybe we could have kept him with us a bit longer – and we’d still have you! I know, my love, how hard it was for you to see your fine strong son ailing, and the pain you felt having to turn the doctor from the door – sure how could we afford such things?
You have always been a fine honest man, and I know that it was an act of sheer desperation to do what you did. You never meant to cause such upset; it was only one time, one coat, one bad decision which has now made our situation worse than ever. And all for what? Mikey, may he rest in peace, was never going to get over his ailments, poor little mite. We could have struggled on, and at least we’d still have each other and young Teddy. Now I write this from my lonely chair, heartbroken over the loss of ye both. I try to carry on for our son as best I can, and I pray for the day when you return home to us, and I pray that God will keep you safe from all harm,
Your loving wife,
Mary
March 1911
Dear James,
I hope this letter finds you well - as well as you could be in that dreadful place. I walk by Mountjoy jail most days and still cannot bear to think of you inside those walls and me just outside – so close and yet so far. Me and Teddy blow kisses and hope that the bitter winter wind will carry them over those barbed walls, and you will feel a little bit of warmth from our love.
Oh why did you do it Jim? Sure I know well why you did, it was only out of your love for us, and trying to keep us warm and fed. I wonder every day how different life would have been if the factory hadn’t closed. Would we have had the money to pay for little Mikey’s medicine? Maybe we could have kept him with us a bit longer – and we’d still have you! I know, my love, how hard it was for you to see your fine strong son ailing, and the pain you felt having to turn the doctor from the door – sure how could we afford such things?
You have always been a fine honest man, and I know that it was an act of sheer desperation to do what you did. You never meant to cause such upset; it was only one time, one coat, one bad decision which has now made our situation worse than ever. And all for what? Mikey, may he rest in peace, was never going to get over his ailments, poor little mite. We could have struggled on, and at least we’d still have each other and young Teddy. Now I write this from my lonely chair, heartbroken over the loss of ye both. I try to carry on for our son as best I can, and I pray for the day when you return home to us, and I pray that God will keep you safe from all harm,
Your loving wife,
Mary
The Doll’s Day Out
We fought about her oufit, and her chosen name,
Her Dad says that we only clash ‘cos we’re one and the same.
But secretly I love those rows, as it shows her sparky spirit,
Her eyes alight, her shoulders squared, no way she’d let me win it!
My scruffy little sports girl, who will not wear a dress,
Her football shorts, mud-covered knees, and her hair all in a mess.
But today she’s spit and polished, not a muddy knee in sight,
Still no dress, but oh so pretty, her hair in plaits, so neat and tight.
My mind is swamped with memories as I look her up and down,
It really doesn’t seem that long since she wore her Christening gown.
She used to dream of elves and fairies, which made her so delighted,
Now her nights are filled with dreams of playing in goal for Man Utd.
And though I cherish seeing her independence growing so strong,
I can’t fight that pang of loneliness that soon she’ll be grown up and gone.
So today we reach the Church, and she runs in haste to meet her peers,
These lovely friends who’ve been with her throughout her blossoming years.
Families united as we watch our children pray,
Grandparents, aunties, cousins, who we don’t see every day.
The sacrament received, the Holy Spirit now descended,
We head for home, because this special day has not yet ended.
Balloons and banners, sweets and cake, all my cooking, cleaning and hassle,
I wonder does she know of this, or does she only see the bouncy castle?
But when the day is finally done, and she’s lying in bed so quietly,
I ask her “Well how was your day?” and she throws her arms around me,
“Mom I had the best time ever” she whispers with a smile,
Oh how I love you, little doll, you make everything worthwhile!
Creative Writing Clonmel
We fought about her oufit, and her chosen name,
Her Dad says that we only clash ‘cos we’re one and the same.
But secretly I love those rows, as it shows her sparky spirit,
Her eyes alight, her shoulders squared, no way she’d let me win it!
My scruffy little sports girl, who will not wear a dress,
Her football shorts, mud-covered knees, and her hair all in a mess.
But today she’s spit and polished, not a muddy knee in sight,
Still no dress, but oh so pretty, her hair in plaits, so neat and tight.
My mind is swamped with memories as I look her up and down,
It really doesn’t seem that long since she wore her Christening gown.
She used to dream of elves and fairies, which made her so delighted,
Now her nights are filled with dreams of playing in goal for Man Utd.
And though I cherish seeing her independence growing so strong,
I can’t fight that pang of loneliness that soon she’ll be grown up and gone.
So today we reach the Church, and she runs in haste to meet her peers,
These lovely friends who’ve been with her throughout her blossoming years.
Families united as we watch our children pray,
Grandparents, aunties, cousins, who we don’t see every day.
The sacrament received, the Holy Spirit now descended,
We head for home, because this special day has not yet ended.
Balloons and banners, sweets and cake, all my cooking, cleaning and hassle,
I wonder does she know of this, or does she only see the bouncy castle?
But when the day is finally done, and she’s lying in bed so quietly,
I ask her “Well how was your day?” and she throws her arms around me,
“Mom I had the best time ever” she whispers with a smile,
Oh how I love you, little doll, you make everything worthwhile!
Creative Writing Clonmel
Hellelil and Hildebrand, the Meeting on the Turret Stairs by Frederic William Burton (1864)
The subject is taken from a medieval Danish ballad translated by Burton’s friend Whitley Stokes in 1855, which tells the story of Hellelil, who fell in love with her personal guard Hildebrand, Prince of Engelland. Her father disapproved of the relationship and ordered her seven brothers to kill the young prince. Burton chose to imagine a romantic moment from the story before the terrible end: the final meeting of the two lovers. Although he never painted in oils, the intensity of hue is similar to that of an oil painting. The precise layering of watercolour reflects his early training as a miniaturist. What happened to Hellelil and Hildebrand? Learning of the liaison, her father dispatched his seven sons to kill their sister's paramour. Somehow Hildebrand managed to cut down six of the brothers before Hellelil intervened to save her last sibling, but her lover subsequently died of his wounds, and she soon after, from a broken heart. The small flower symbolizes forbidden love. Burton has also placed a decaying flower on the steps to represent the mortality of our hero and the end of the love affair. The flower reminds us that life and beauty are fleeting, like the bloom of a flower.
Creative Writing Clonmel
The subject is taken from a medieval Danish ballad translated by Burton’s friend Whitley Stokes in 1855, which tells the story of Hellelil, who fell in love with her personal guard Hildebrand, Prince of Engelland. Her father disapproved of the relationship and ordered her seven brothers to kill the young prince. Burton chose to imagine a romantic moment from the story before the terrible end: the final meeting of the two lovers. Although he never painted in oils, the intensity of hue is similar to that of an oil painting. The precise layering of watercolour reflects his early training as a miniaturist. What happened to Hellelil and Hildebrand? Learning of the liaison, her father dispatched his seven sons to kill their sister's paramour. Somehow Hildebrand managed to cut down six of the brothers before Hellelil intervened to save her last sibling, but her lover subsequently died of his wounds, and she soon after, from a broken heart. The small flower symbolizes forbidden love. Burton has also placed a decaying flower on the steps to represent the mortality of our hero and the end of the love affair. The flower reminds us that life and beauty are fleeting, like the bloom of a flower.
Creative Writing Clonmel