Creative Writing Winning Entries

First Place: “Census 2022” by Neasa O’Riordan2022-04-08T09:33:08+01:00

Ding dong. Not expecting visitors, I turned off the bubbling potato soup and opened the door just a crack. It was the census enumerator handing out forms. It doesn’t feel like five years since the last one. Or is it six? Was it delayed because of the pandemic?

I remember the last one so clearly. Sean filled it out that night for the four of us. He always handled the paperwork: bills, bank stuff, tax returns; but I always did the birthday cards. Looking back, it must have been early on in the Alzheimer’s. He struggled with the form.

‘How do you commute to work? This is crazy stuff, sure I am retired…’

He threw it on the floor and stormed off to bed, I filled it out myself when I was sure he was asleep.

It got worse after that. He would go out for the milk and come home without it; would shout at the radio because he had ‘lost’ RTE1; and the night the neighbours found him in his pyjamas, lost and crying in the middle of the road, I was mortified.

His anniversary is coming up. He was part of ‘the first wave’. I went to visit him in St. Jude’s but they wouldn’t let me in. Tried video-calling but by that stage he was lost in a bundle of wires and cables and bleeping machines. Even the bleeping machines couldn’t save him at the end.

The girls are above in Cork now: good jobs thank God. They come down the odd time, just for the weekend mind. The housework is too much for me now if the truth be told. Too many empty rooms. I keep the doors closed to stop the dust when it’s just me here.

The doorbell rings again, it’s like Piccadilly Circus here today. First the census man, now a woman, Anna I think is her name, swishes past me into the kitchen. We have met a few times around the place. She is foreign, maybe Eastern European, it seems rude to ask these days without seeming nosey.

‘This stuff in Ukraine, it’s terrible…’

I make a cup of tea as she pours out her life story. Met an Irish fella, an engineer, working in Ukraine. Moved here with him two years ago, got a job as a carer in St. Jude’s, knew Sean well… It turned out her sister is part of the millions who have left Ukraine, with three small children in tow. Anna is weeping by now, I hand her a tissue. The sister, Tatiana, is in Poland now and Anna is trying to persuade her housemates that they should take them, but the house is already full to the brim; four of them renting that small house. She gets out her phone and starts showing me photos of her sister’s family, the youngest no more than a year.

Out of the blue, and much out of character, I blurt out.

‘They will come here to this house, I have tons of space. There are empty bedrooms galore up above. It will be a bit of company for me’.

‘What? Are you sure? I didn’t mean… No, really’

‘You’ll have to do the paperwork but that’s it, it’s settled’.

And so it came to pass, that when Census night arrived, I had five names to fill in: my own, Tatiana, Borys, Viktor and little Nadya. I spilled a little bit of borscht on the form, it’s bright purple, but I am sure no-one will notice.

Second Place: “Freedom” by Anne Quirke2022-04-08T09:44:08+01:00



It is like having a comfy chair

We don’t appreciate it until it is gone

The lack of it is so unfair

Like a sun that never shone


It is more than just an open door

Or the absence of war

It is laughing or crying loudly

Walking, head up proudly


It is using your voice

Showing your age

Having a choice

of a book or a page


It is browsing in a shop

Dancing ‘til you drop

Eating your fill

Having time to make a will


It is family around you

Old and young

The spice of life

Not the end of a gun

Third Place: “Workshop” by Tom Howlin2022-04-08T09:34:29+01:00

I’d thrown the spanner harder than I’d meant to. It bounced against the granite wall with a sharp clang and rung out around the workshop. One hard object clashed with another hard object, neither relented and the result hung heavy in the air. The spanner had missed the framed photo of Pope John Paul II that, for some reason, hung on the wall, by about two inches. Eamonn wouldn’t take this well, he loved that photo.

“What exactly is it you think you’re doing firing spanners around my workshop?” he bellowed at me under the brim of his bright red work cap; “I’ll wring your bloody neck if you keep carrying on like that in my worksh..”

“Your workshop?” I said, my throat dry with indignance. I picked up another spanner and, gripping it tightly, I pressed the round end into my palm with my fingers; “Your workshop is it?” I said waving the spanner in his face; “Me here bent over these bastardin’ machines all eight hours of the day and you barking orders at me from that little office of yours. Your workshop my eye”.

“Eight hours of the day?” he said with a smirk “Is it the ESB you think you’re working for? Because I’ll tell ya, you’re a gas man with your eight hours a day. And it’s a straight face you have on you telling me this, is it? The only times you’re here for eight hours of the day are the times I don’t wake you up to go home”.

I felt the veins in my neck protruding again.

“I’m sick to the back teeth of this carry on” I snapped; “Constantly looking over my shoulder and breathing down my neck about this thing and that thing, treating me like a child. The doctors are telling me I’ve to watch my heart, ya know. If I’m here at nine, you’re giving me palpitations by ten.”

His eyes narrowed and I could see his sharp tongue working in his mouth:

“It’s a good thing you’re never here at nine then”.

The second spanner hit the wall with a toll like the first bell of the Angelus.

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