Short Fiction

Easy does. Mirror. Signal. Manouevre. Thread the steer wheel through my hands, pull into layby. Then sit with car purring underneath me like, how you say, a sated tiger. A piece of sweat run down my forehead. I wipe on sleeve so it not…

‘Coming up on Sunrise Over Britain we’ll be remembering those lost in the Bramwells tragedy as today marks the 15th anniversary of that fateful day’. Somehow transmitting a sombre tone past all too many teeth, Kate Kaye struggled.…

Canada 1822 The crack of a musket shot. Then a man screaming. Canada. Fort Mackinac to be precise, was inhospitable even in summer. Inhospitable – a fitting adjective: the hospital was a converted storehouse. Bitterly cold in…

Micro-fiction: The Not So Great Escape “ATCHOUM!... oops.” The Secret Life of Henry VIII Gay. The Abused Dancer After everyone left, she did…

HeadStuff held a competition in Our Lady’s College, Greenhills in Drogheda among first year art students to design a button for this short story. They created a series of mono-prints and drypoint prints (etchings).  The very high standard…

Robert Donnelly, Irish poet. b. Dublin, Ireland 1984 – d. Buenos Aires, Argentina 2047   Until his premature death at the hands of a primary school teacher, Robert Donnelly was something of a cautionary tale. One may argue that he…

The Holy Mother is submerged in a ball under my feet. She’s been placed on a copy of the Wexford people because the biosphere in which she has been imprisoned is now leaking. I peer down at her nervously, checking she isn’t completely…

I push through the mobbed street, walking on green flyers and ignoring fake ginger beards. I have the spawn of a headache already. The crowd watches the worst brass band of all time make its way down the middle of the road showcasing their…

Alan White has been missing for four days. He posted this to his Blog the day before he disappeared: It’s been eight months since I blogged and I feel the need to share. I’m following Gary Nash. On Twitter obviously but now…

I stand by the window of our sleeping compartment, ignoring you. The land we pass is mountainous and wild, and I know we’re high up because my ears keep popping. ‘Oh Shane, it’s really sore. Feel it, it’s burning up,’ you say. I touch the…