Young Writer of the Year 2019 - North West Words
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NORTH WEST WORDS
FINALISTS
Young Writer of Cornelia Brown
the Year Frances Coleman
Alisha Crawford
2019
Jessica Duffy
Alannah Ferry
Tara McDermott
Sean McGetterick
Elise Carey McGibney
Sinead McHugh
Teagan Hegarty
Ruth McLaughlin
Sean O’Boyle
Siobra O’Callaghan
Anushka Pathak
Agnete Pavilone
William Stokes
Monica Thorne
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NORTH WEST WORDS YOUNG WRITER OF THE YEAR, 2019
Contents
Editorial
My Magnificent Imagination Frances Coleman
Mischievous Teagan Hegarty
Invisible Tara McDermott
Judges Notes on Primary Poetry Finalists
Primary Poetry Finalists
The Halloween Horror William Stokes
On the way Home Tara Mc Dermott
Sparky’s Story Cornelia Browne
Judges Notes on Primary Fiction Finalists
Primary Fiction Finalists
Recipe for Disaster Agnete Pavilone
My First Year in PCC Sean McGetterick
Wasteland Elise Carey McGibney
Judges Notes on Junior Secondary Poetry Finalists
Secondary Junior Poetry Finalists
Wild Flowers Alisha Crawford
The Fall Siobra O’Callaghan
Elliott Barnes and the Girl who wasn’t There Anushka Pathak
Judges Notes on Junior Secondary Fiction Finalists
Junior Secondary Fiction Finalists
Gross Working Capital Sean O’Boyle
Perfection Sinead McHugh
She's Alone With Invisible Company Alannah Ferry
Judges Notes on Senior Secondary Poetry Finalists
Senior Secondary Poetry Finalists
Isolation Ruth McLaughlin
Modern Age Demons Jessica Duffy
“What I Did On My Summer Holidays” Monica Thorne
Judges Notes on Senior Secondary Fiction
Senior Secondary Fiction Finalists
Gallery
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NORTH WEST WORDS YOUNG WRITER OF THE YEAR, 2019
David Roche of Pramerica with North West Words members, Deirdre Hines and Nick Griffiths
Cafe Davitt was full to capacity on Friday night, May 24th for the Prize giving Ceremony of the Pramerica /North West Words
Young Writer of the Year 2019.
Writers from across Ireland entered the competition and attended the event, but the winner on the night was Alannah Ferry
from Milford with her poem 'She's alone with invisible Company'.
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NORTH WEST WORDS YOUNG WRITER OF THE YEAR, 2019
Competition judge Deirdre Hines, Alannah Ferry, Pramerica / North West Words Young
Writer of the Year 2019 and Rhianna Stockdale, Pramerica
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NORTH WEST WORDS YOUNG WRITER OF THE YEAR, 2019
Editorial
Of the many misconceptions there exist about writers, perhaps none are so
prevalent as those which insist that age and maturity only can be the well-
spring from which great writing springs. In 1641, Francis Hawkins wrote a
book of manners for children called' Youth Behaviour.' In 1937, a novel, ' The
Far Distant Oxus ', was published to great literary acclaim. Its authors, Kathe-
rine Hull and Pamela Whitlock, fifteen and sixteen years of age respectively.
They had decided to write a novel for children by children when sheltering
from a rainstorm. There are few readers who have not heard of Anne Frank’s
'The Diary of a Young Girl ', published in 1952, by the author's father after
Anne herself had perished in a concentration camp. Dorothy Straight of Wash-
ington D.C. was only four, when she wrote ' How the World Began '. This book
was published in 1964, when she was six years of age. Susan Eloise Hinton's
novel ' The Outsiders 'was published in 1967, when she was seventeen. It con-
cerns youth gangs and their confrontations. It has sold more than a million
copies. Author Ally Elizabeth Sheedy was twelve years old when her novel ' She
was Nice to Mice ' was published. It tells the story of Esther, an extraordinary
mouse who is taken back in time through her family history to the days of Wil-
liam Shakespeare. When Jason Gaes was stricken with Burkitt's lymphoma, a
rare form of cancer, at age seven, he decided to write ' My Book for Kids with
Cansur '. His twin brother, Adam, illustrated the book, which was published in
1987. It provides comfort and inspiration to people of all ages. Books by chil-
dren aren't really new. Alexander Pope's 'An Ode on Solitude' was written, he
claimed, when he was twelve, in the year 1700.
I say this by way of encouragement to those writers who are included in this
ezine. All of these prizewinners have proved their mettle. One of the aims of
North West Words is to promote and to celebrate new writing. Diversity does
not just mean embracing the older end of the demographic. To be truly inclu-
sive, children must also be included in any such celebrations. To this end,
North West Words have run a Children's Writing Competition for the past
number of years, of which I have had the singular honour of judging.
If properly nurtured these children may continue to write into adulthood, be-
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NORTH WEST WORDS YOUNG WRITER OF THE YEAR, 2019
coming established authors.
What does proper nurturing really mean? In the first instance, it means what
we are doing here: publishing these poems and stories for the general public.
Not only does this give these young writers a publication credit, it also shows
you the reader and they the authors how highly their work is regarded. As any
writer will tell you, once something is published we can let it go, and move
onto the next piece. Although competitions are one way of garnering notice
and readerships, there is nothing quite like, compiling a file of say ten repre-
sentative poems and ten representative stories and firing them off to a pub-
lisher. I know that many of the writers in this ezine have a lot of work already
written. How do you choose a publisher? One tried and sure means is to opt
for a publisher whose list of authors appeal to you as both reader and author.
Only you will know the path that best suits you, and even though well mean-
ing loved ones may try to guide you, listen to your inner voice. I won a prize in
The Allingham for a poem called ' The Common Cold ' , but it was many years
later before I entered another poetry competition. When I look back at the
concerns voiced in that poem, I can see clearly now that a quest for social jus-
tice was always hovering in my psyche.I grew up in a different Ireland. In the
end, if you keep your sense of wonder at the possibilities that language allows
then you will always have a failsafe friend at your side. At any rate, I wish you
luck, fortitude, resilience and joy on your journey, no matter what it is that
you decide to do.
This competition would not have been possible without the support of our
sponsors. This year Pramerica sponsored us. I would like to extend a Thank
You to them and to the sponsors of previous years, The Retired Gardai Associ-
ation and Macs Bundoran, for their generosities of spirit. Those teachers who
strayed off the curriculum to support and to motivate their students to crea-
tively self-actualize also deserve recognition, standing as they do in the tradi-
tion of ollamh. The parents who posted your entries and who have encour-
aged you also deserve heartfelt thanks. And finally to those children who per-
haps are seen as strange beings that prefer a paper, pen and book to the ram-
pant consumerisms of their age and who feel at odds with the wider world,
welcome to the family. Writers of all ages, creeds and nationalities are a huge
extended family, whom I hope will always provide a shade for you to rest in. I
would like to extend a personal Thank You to the committee of North West
Words , and to Eamonn Bonnar, Maria and to Nick Griffiths in particular for
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NORTH WEST WORDS YOUNG WRITER OF THE YEAR, 2019
trusting me to judge this competition and for compiling this e-zine. Annema-
rie Gallagher is always there to help, advise and to sign those all important
winning cheques. The Bonnar sisters and Maria promoted this competition far
and wide. Thank You.
Our overall winner this year was Alannah Ferry. Her poem ' She's Alone with
Invisible Company' stands shoulder to shoulder with some of our best known
poets. A real masterpiece, and a worthy winner.
I shall leave you now with some words of wisdom from Winnie the Pooh. Who
better to guide you on your way?
..' Promise me you'll remember,
You are braver than you believe,
stronger than you seem,
smarter than you think.'
Winnie the Pooh
A.A.Milne
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NORTH WEST WORDS Primary Poetry
My Magnificent Imagination
Everywhere there are pigs that fly,
Foxes baking pumpkin pies,
Dogs trying on new suits,
Dragons making friends with newts.
Sweets in sweetshops made from gold
Desserts that are freezing cold,
Candyfloss instead of trees
Dancing carrots, singing peas.
People wearing crazy clothes,
A man with a humungous nose
All the stuff of my creation
That’s why I love my imagination!
Frances Coleman
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NORTH WEST WORDS Primary Poetry
Mischievous
I left the house one day,
and left my dog alone.
I didn’t think he would do that
much as he’s only 2 stone.
But when I came back to my surprise the house was like a pig sty,
He ripped his bed apart,
he ate my daddy’s tart,
he peed all over the hallway,
and even tried to run away to Galway.
I kicked him out of the house
to get some time to clean,
I can never understand how he’s
such a jiggle bean!
Teagan Hegarty
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NORTH WEST WORDS Primary Poetry
Invisible
He sits on a corner
Of the park near a bush,
His visitors are children
Who come for a look.
He grunts in his sleep
Startled, they run away
How were they to know
He, was like them one day
He doesn’t open his eyes
Though for sure he is awake
Maybe it was dream?
Or all a fake.
He clenches his fist,
Feels his heavy coat,
Opens his eyes,
Clears his throat.
Sits up on his bench,
Grasps his two shopping bags,
His worldly possessions
Are threadbare and scraps
Now his day begins
At twelve o’clock noon
Invisible to us
Begging for food
Yet he is ignored
Watches us pass him by
We’ve got our own life
He sighs
His life has been stolen
Taken away
He was just like us
Once upon a day
Tara McDermott
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Judges Notes on the Primary Poetry Finalists
My Magnificent Imagination
There have been many poems written about the Imagination. Pure Imagination by Roald Dahl
is one that has been specifically written for children. This poem surpasses Dahl. The images
this poet paints serve two purposes ; rhyme and sensory experience.
..Foxes baking pumpkin pies
Dogs trying on new suits
Dragons making friends with newts'
The russet colour of the foxes baking pumpkin pies create a visual harmony that allows the
reader to accept this as real. The dragon and the newt are also in visual harmony. The 'dancing
carrots and singing peas' feed a different type of hunger. Every line is joyful and celebratory
and although there is a slight mis-step in rhythm here and there, this poem stood out immedi-
ately for me. If anything I would have liked more verses. I wanted to know more about this
beautifully imagined world. This poem ranks easily with some of the best written children;s
poetry.
Mischievous
This poem made me laugh. The more I read it the more I enjoyed it. I particularly loved its
truthful response to a typical occurrence in the lives of dog owners, but was bowled over by
the originality of the poet's responses not just in language ( this poet invents a new word) but
in the handling of the line and in the precision of the poem's journey towards its conclusion. I
shall never look at the dogs in Galway in the same way again. This poem deserves its place in
any Children's Anthology. One of the most difficult things for a poet to achieve is a persona of
their own. This poet has reached what many poets never do. Brilliant.
Invisible
Poetry of Witness is quite commonplace in adult poetry, but less so in children's
writing. I fell in love with this poem and its observations on the trope of the homeless on my
first and subsequent readings. I love the way the poet invites us in to take a look at the poem's
subject with all of the children who are coming to take a look at the man on the bench. There
are two things happening in this poem, which raised it above all the other poems in the com-
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petition.
We have the subject of the poem itself and the discovered subject which seems to be to an
examination of how we look and how we do not look. Added to this invisiblity of gaze is the
stunning realisation that all adults were children once, and this shared commonality only em-
phasises the tragedy. Philosophical speculation is rare in poetry written by adults, and outside
of the line length, carefully chosen imagery ( we are given the barest of details) it is the last line
in the third verse ( addressing those who insist that all who find themselves in this situation are
charlatans), which makes the reader realise that this is no ordinary poet.
...He doesn't open his eyes.
Though for sure he's awake,
Maybe it was a dream?
Or all a fake'
A poem that deserves to be remembered in the canon. A very worthy winner.
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WINNER
TARA McDERMOTT
Invisible
HIGHLY COMMENDED COMMENDED
TEAGAN HEGARTY FRANCES COLEMAN
Mischievous My Magnificent Imagination
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The Halloween Horror
It was the end of October and Mum had got out all the Halloween stuff. Ian sifted through the
ghoul costumes, skeletons, rubber rats and cobwebs. He picked up a familiar looking book. It
was that one about the zombie wolves that chased a little boy through the woods that had
scared him so much when he was little. He shivered.
He was looking for ideas to impress his friends at this year’s town firework contest. His dad
had already bought him some materials to make a firework but he wanted his one to be ex-
traordinary, a pyrotechnical masterpiece.
He took the box to the shed and got to work. His dad had measured out the chemicals and
powders and put them in a paper package. Ian needed to put these in a tube, add a fuse and a
launcher.
He rolled the scary book into a tube and taped it. He attached the tube to the handle of devil’s
pitchfork from last year’s costume to make a launcher. For finishing touches he added fake
blood, eyeballs and an evil pumpkin decoration. “That ought to do it”, he thought.
On Halloween night Dad dropped him to the park with his friends. Everybody was dressed up
and had gathered around a huge bonfire eating fat sausages and toasting marshmallows.
When it was time for the firework display, his friends launched some snake and starburst rock-
ets. Great, but not as great as his would be. He planted his firework in the ground. He had
named it The Halloween Horror. He lit the fuse and it shot high into the sky. At first, nothing
happened. Ian started to panic but suddenly it erupted into a magical sky scene of silver zom-
bie wolves, spiders, skeletons and evil faces. It hung in the air for a second while the children
clapped and cheered. Then the zombie wolves started to swoop down on the town.
The zombie wolves wreaked terror. They set fire to trees and shot beams at the town’s ani-
mals and made them disappear. Ian called for his dog, Sniffer but he didn’t come. Suddenly
the power went out all over town. The bonfire in the park went out with a hiss and lots of
smoke. The town was plunged into darkness. People started to panic and went for their cars
but they wouldn’t start. There was screaming and crying.
This is a complete disaster, Ian thought, and it’s my fault. I have to fix this. Using the faint
light from the glowstick on his wrist he stumbled his way to his dad’s car and found a torch in
the glove compartment. He ran home as fast as he could, thinking hard on the way. He need-
ed to make a good firework full of good things – kind thoughts and happy memories. He
hoped the good rocket would fight the evil firework.
He searched his house. He went to his bookshelves again and picked one of his favourite
books, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He gathered some of his treasures; pages from a
Christmas book, his Communion prayer, a photo of Sniffer, glittery dust that he found around
the Christmas tree last year that he had swept up and put in a jar labelled Santa’s magic dust,
confetti from his mum and dad’s wedding day and finally his beloved Grans’s cookie recipe .
She had passed away last year and Ian missed her terribly.
He stuffed the rolled up Charlie and the Chocolate Factory full of his treasures and taped it to
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a stick. He sprinted back to the park so fast that he would have shamed an Olympic run-
ner. Things were still desperate. He set the firework and lit it. It shot into the sky and explod-
ed. Nutcracker soldiers lit up and swarmed across the sky, shooting at the zombie wolves. A
picture of his Communion hung in the air. Confetti , sweets and cookies rained from the sky.
Santa streaked across the moon.
When all of the zombie wolves had been rounded up, the fireworks exploded into a magical
scene of bright colours but the cookies, the sweets and the chocolate stayed. The town’s
missing dogs re-appeared, the fires went out and cars could drive again. Ian was a hero. He
got into the Guinness book of records for having the best firework in the world and his record
was never ever beaten.
William Stokes
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On the way Home
Peter listened to the crunching of his feet on the crisp golden leaves as he trod down the lane
on his way back home. Over hanging bare branches looked over him, as if they were pro-
tecting him and he could hear a robin tweeting his goodnight from high above and a stream
flowing peacefully perfected this autumn scene. A dogs high pitched barking echoed over the
lake to his left. It was nearing dusk now. He looked to his right and saw the tree he used to
climb when he was younger, younger and gullible. He would have believed anything you’d
have told him back then; fairies under every seventh leaf, the great green goblin under the
bridge and his favourite, things that came alive at night time. Twigs that grew thin lanky legs
and blackberries that suddenly sprouted wings from their juicy spines. He had begged until he
was nine to camp out and see what nature did under the cover of darkness. But he had never
had the chance.
He suddenly felt the urge to run and climb to the highest branches of his tree. He wanted to
read the messages he had carefully etched into the bark with his school ink pen, and camp
out for the whole night to find the fairies and wonderful beings he had imagined throughout
his childhood. But now he was eleven and couldn’t believe in babyish stuff and anyway, he
had to go home before his gran started
worrying and called the guards. Soon helicopters might be hovering above with special heat
sensors to find him.
He kept walking. He heard cars speeding in the distance and began to rush. He realized how
scary it actually was to be alone in a forest in the middle of the night. He could hear trees
creaking and began to run. But then he stopped. Peter stayed still for a very long time. He
blinked. He was up on the sturdy branch of his tree. There was an abundant amount of fruit
hanging by the red and orange and yellow leaves. Peter felt like he could sit up there for hours
just to wait for the magic, but what magic? He waited anyway. He checked his watch, though
it had stopped working. That was funny, he thought.
He heard mysterious creaking noises, though he wasn’t scared and he heard laughs, no gig-
gles, ones the girls did at school when they had a secret. But there was no one else around.
Just him. A slight breeze began to get stronger and he swayed and fell from his branch. He hit
the ground softly and his head lay on a little mound of moss. That would have hurt if it were
real, he thought, so it must be some sort of dream. Peter thought he could hear fairies flutter-
ing and angels whispering.
Oh but this was just ridiculous. He was eleven years old and couldn’t believe in baby stuff any-
more. And he was a boy for goodness sakes, fairies were girlie things. What on earth was he
doing lying on the ground in the middle of the night
anyway? There was no such thing as imaginary creatures. That why they were called imagi-
nary, because they were not real. NOT REAL. He repeated this to himself throughout the night
but he still wouldn’t get up. He just kept waiting. For what? Peter did not know, but he knew,
just knew that something was going to happen.
At dawn he was crestfallen. He had waited here all night; his gran was probably pulling her
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hair out with worry and nothing exciting had appeared. But then something happened.
Something magical. Pixies came out of their hidey holes, burly goblin let out ferocious yawns
and fairies twittered above him. Everything was happening too fast, Peter wanted to suss out
what was really happening, and take in every detail of what was happening around him. He
tried talking to the creatures but he was ignored as they set about on their early morning
tasks. Hundreds approached trees and entered through breaks in the bark, smaller ones hud-
dled in groups under bushes. One, tough looking one approached Peter. He was no bigger
than Peter’s thumb, but spoke in a rough voice.
‘Hai you, yes mister I’m talkin’ to you. Who d’ya think you are lyin’ on top o’ that pixie school
there, thinking you can just lie there ‘cause you’re a thousand times bigger than us, well your
wrong.’
Peter was stuck for words. He hadn’t really taken in what was happening. He was struck by
this creature’s appearance.
It was absolutely nothing like he had imagined, instead of fluttering dainty wings and green
tights to go with a turquoise top he was staring at an ugly creature with a leaf wrapped
around him and a mushroom-like orange hat.
‘Where’s yer tongue got to boy, you’re not scared are you?’ Peter slowly nodded his head
and waited for his reaction, ‘well boy. You might have just made my day, most o’ the folk
‘round here think I’m the boring one and never allow me to go around scarin’ them village
people how did you git here?’
Peter had heard many stories of villagers waking up in the middle of the night to find ugly
trolls at the bottom of their beds. He had always hoped it would happen to him one day, but
this was even better even if it was a bit odd.
‘I was walking home last night and I fell out of that tree and then…’ Peter began.
‘All right I never asked for yer life story did I? Now best git you back home.’
Peter wanted to stay for longer and find out all about these creatures, but the creature who
turned out to be a miniature goblin called Oliver insisted he returned home. He even re-
turned him to his doorstep to make sure he didn’t sneak back.
‘Will I ever be able to come back to see you again?’ Peter asked.
‘Probably not, and if ya do you probably won’t be able to find me. I know yer wonderin’ why
no one else noticed ya but us wee creatures are half blind when we wake up, lucky I was up
early to collect that moss. Anyway no more questions now, you go on inside and make sure
not to breath a word of what you’ve seen to anyone, right bye for now.’
He jumped off the palm of Peter’s hand, and Peter made his way through the glass front
door. He was worried that his gran would be crying, but she just offered him a glass of or-
ange juice.
Peter looked at his watch. It was working again.
Tara Mc Dermott
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Sparky’s Story
Life was great in Precious Pets (which is a pet shop) until one day disaster struck! So it all start-
ed when a family came into the pet shop. I wasn’t that pushed naturally, I try to be as ugly and
unpetlike as I can while other pets go out of their way to be cute. Some dogs are so dumb,
who would want to leave Precious Pets (not me!) The family walked around for a bit, but when
they got to me, the girl jumped up and down. “That one, that one!” she cried. “Really Angela,”
said her mum. “She’s not very pretty,” said her dad. Probably because I was making my ugliest
face ever. “Well it’s up to Angela, so we’ll get this one,” said the mum. So they went up to
Becky who owns Precious Pets. ‘We’ve picked our dog,” said the mum. “Which one?” said
Becky. “That one, over there,” Angela said happily, pointing to me. “Her name’s Sparky,” Becky
relied. “She makes ugly faces when people come in, but she’s really a dear. I’ll go get her.”
I barked so loud and said, “No! Don’t you want me to stay here forever?” But humans are so
dumb and don’t understand their own language. So that was that. I was picked up by Becky, a
collar and lead was put on me and I was given away to Angela, like I was just an animal.
Like I was just a dog.
Okay, I may be a small whitish, grey, patchy beast – otherwise know as, a dog.
But, on the inside I knew myself to be wild, and reclusive and untameable, just like a snow
leopard. A loner. Yes, just like the snow leopard I was a loner. I did not need a family.
But I have to admit, it felt kind of nice when I was plonked into Angela’s arms and
she hugged me.
Still, I made an ugly snarly face and for a moment her parents looked worried.
And I barked and barked when they actually started to march out of the shop with me. I was
about to leap down, and run back to my kennel and hide. But Angela’s mum had bought my
favourite chewy treats and she tossed one into my mouth.
Immediately, I forgot about barking and began to chew. “Mmm,’ I may even have murmured.
Still, they would never tame me! They could never own me! That night I planned to escape and
make my way back to Precious Pets. It would involve stealth and diligence. Determination and
cunning. All qualities I shared with the snow leopard.
I could see it now, just a few hours away and I would be racing back up this very street. The car
interior was warm, the movement of the vehicle soothing. I tried to ignore Angela’s inquiring
face, she kept talking, saying sweet somethings to ease my nerves. I needed to watch outside, I
had to learn the route so that I could return.
I was still making my fiercest face. Maybe they would have second thoughts and bring me
back. I tried to snarl. But instead I emitted a snore. I had fallen asleep. This was not good. How
would I find my way back?
But, hey, even snow leopards slept a lot.
It was my inner wildness which knocked me out like a light.
Because I was truly wild, and a loner. No family could claim me.
Their house wasn’t big at all, but it was bigger than what I was used to. So I spent the evening
hiding behind an armchair.
Angela said, “don’t worry, come out!” Don’t worry, I think, how would you like it if some aliens
abducted you from your home. So you hide and they say, don’t worry, come out! Like as if
nothing has just happened.
I wasn’t having any of it. I remained hidden.
They tried to entice me out with a ball. They all got down on the floor and played
with it. The dad even barked. I must say it did look tempting, the colourful ball twisting and
bouncing on the carpet. I wasn’t taking any chances. I remained hidden. But I enjoyed peeping
out and watching the family have fun.
Later when it was time to go to bed suddenly the armchair was whipped away right in front of
me. I whined but Angela took me into her arms and everyone said kind soothing things to me.
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They were a nice family.
But I was still going to escape.
It was decided that I could sleep in Angela’s room. On the way I noticed that the bathroom
window was open. That was it! That would be my escape route.
Angela put me down just outside her bedroom door. “This is my room,” she said, “from now
on we’ll share it.”
When I walked inside I was amazed. Angela had posters of snow leopards plastered all over
her walls, alongside the many paintings and drawings of snow leopards she had made. There
were snow leopard cuddly toys, a snow leopard bed cover and pillow set, lampshade, books,
even a big snow leopard clock. Best of all she had built a snow leopard den out of blankets
and tent poles in the corner of her room. “I love snow leopards and I picked you because you
look just like one,” said Angela. “So I think I will change your name to Snowy.”
Snowy, I thought I like it!
I am still wild and untameable but snow leopards like me need families too.
Cornelia Browne
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Judges Notes on Primary Fiction
The Halloween Horror
It is extrememly difficult to write an original story about Halloween. I must confess I groaned
inwardly, when I read the title, but this writer surprised my expectations and not only weaved
an original plot, but also did so in beautfully constructed sentences that were as original as
they were well crafted. I enjoyed this story immensely, and I know that you will too.
On the way Home
..' He would have believed anything you'd have told him back then; fairies under every sev-
enth leaf, the great green goblin under the bridge, and his favourite things that came alive at
night time. Twigs that grew thin lanky legs and blackberries that suddenly sprouted wings
from their juicy spines'...
This story proves that the old beliefs are still alive and thriving. In writing that is as beautifully
descriptive as the best fantasy writers, the author of this story diverts our incredulity by saying
he too is too old for such ' babyish stuff'. This is a small tale beautifully told that brings us the
reader down to eye level with the hedge and their occupants. Reading this story will allowyou
to remember what it is like to be a child. Wonderful.
Sparky's Story
This story is beautifully crafted, has perfect pacing and introduces a character into the canon
of the short story that will be remembered long after this competition is over. I loved every
turn and twist of it. It is original, wryly funny and ironic all at the same time. Humans will not
seem quite the same after reading this story. Although the traditional happy ending has fallen
out of favour in recent years, this story warrants nothing less. Perfect
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WINNER
CORNELIA BROWNE
Sparky’s Story
HIGHLY COMMENDED COMMENDED
TARA McDERMOTT WILLIAM STOKES
On the Way Home The Halloween Horror
21 Return to ContentsNORTH WEST WORDS Junior Secondary Poetry
Recipe for Disaster
Ingredients
A ridiculous amount of phobias (I recommend anything involving people, clowns, water,
heights, mirrors, touch, the unknown, etc.)
Four types of anxiety (social anxiety, panic disorder, mild OCD, generalised panic disorder)
Depression
Being an introvert
Eating disorders
Paranoia
Insomnia
Massive stress
Pyromania
Apparatus
Blender
Bowl
Spoons
Electric balance
Oven
Method
1.) Take all the anxieties and blend them well for approx. how long a panic attack lasts.
2.) Fill your bowl with said anxieties.
3.) Measure an unhealthy amount of each phobia, and place it in the bowl.
4.) Mix the depression well into the mixture, not so much where it’s suicidal, and not too
much past self-harm.
5.) Take the mixture and knead it well, adding being an introvert, insomnia and stress.
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6.) Sprinkle some eating disorders on, and knead again this time adding an unhealthy amount
of paranoia.
7.) Finally place your dough into the oven soaked in pyromania.
8.) Cook for about 14 years. (The last 3 years is when it fully develops)
9.) Take your dough out of the oven, and sprinkle on any added ingredients that developed
during those years/
10.) And congratulations, enjoy your sad, lump of a person.
Agnete Pavilone
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My First Year in PCC
When I walked through the doors of PCC,
There were so many interesting things I could see,
Science labs and a library full to the brim,
With books by Tolstoy and the Brothers Grimm,
There was also a gym, art room and football pitch,
And the principal who is, lets’ call her a witch
I met all my teachers and my fellow classmates,
We learned about algebra and the United States
They taught us the rules, now we’re up to date,
There’s a fight in the canteen and the teachers are irate,
We have so many classes its hard to keep check,
Such as Maths, English, Irish and Home Ec.
When they hand us our tests, we are all at a loss,
We spent every class, on the doss,
If we score less than forty percent,
The principal’s office is where we are sent,
When they hand us results we all shed a tear,
Our teachers say we haven’t learned this year
There’s a lot of different cliques in the school,
Such as the jocks who think all sports rule,
On the other hand, you have the bookworm geeks,
Whom everyone else thinks are walking talking freaks,
Now there is one group that scares me the most,
They don’t go to parties if I’m the host.
They talk about boys and braid their hair,
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Every time I talk to them, they just stop and stare,
Now that’s the end of the school year, I’m almost done,
There were some sad moments, but it was mostly fun,
Now I’m ready for 2nd Year nothing can burst my bubble
I’ll be fine, well… as long as I don’t get into trouble
Sean McGetterick
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Wasteland
A cattle carcass
lies in dusty soil.
The earth, cracked,
its desolate tributaries
meander like memories
of the old river.
A circling vulture preys,
eyes the fleshy bones
of the fly ridden cow.
The natives pray for rain,
as tears streak their
filthy skin.
The last crop seeds,
the last drop of hope
clenched in the hand
of a young child.
Overhead, dark clouds loom
a welcome shade of grey.
Elise Carey McGibney
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Judges Notes for Junior Secondary Poetry
Recipe for Disaster
This poem broke my heart, not just for its bravery its attempt to highlight the mental health
difficulties faced by so many, but in the form the poet used to show what she was trying to
say. It is rare that form is so well addressed in one so young. The buzzword of today's times is
how we are constructed, and this poet takes that literally by presenting her form as a recipe.
The last line is challenging and poignant, and is by no means a soft ending. I have re-read this
poem at least a hundred times since first encountering it, and on each re-read I find some-
thing new to think about. In 2017, the Poetry School and Nine Arches Press launched their
nationwide Primers scheme for a third time, in search of exciting new voices in poetry, with
Hannah Lowe and Jane Commane as selecting editors. One of the discovered poets was
Romalyn Ante. This poem stands strongly in the tradition of her poem ' Half-empty'. I look
forward to reading more of work from this exciting new poet. If I had any quibble I think this
would be a stronger poem if it ended on Instruction 8. Still, exciting and innovative. A great
find.
My First Year in PCC
This is a great poem. Written in rhyming couplets the poem's ostenisble subject is the poet's
first year in Secondary School, but it veers before the end into another place altogether. The
shyness of a young adolescent in front of the opposite sex. There is a wonderful celebratory
ending, and the whole poem has a wonderful rhythm and metre that many poets never
achieve. This is a poet of whom I am quite sure we will hear much more of in the future. I
loved the choice of Brothers Grimm and Tolstoy nestling side by side in a line and on a school
library shelf. This poem would sit well on just such a shelf in any Anthology of Poetry.
Wasteland
The title of this poem is evocative of Eliot's Wasteland, but is set instead in either an apocalyp-
tic future or in a country in the global south, where drought and hunger bring famine. I loved
its opening line ..'A cattle carcass/lies in dusty soil'. The cracked earth and 'its desolate tribu-
taries' 'meander like memories/of the old river'. This is mature writing, well beyond the scope
of many a practiced poet. The poet has invited us in to a harrowing scene without people. The
second verse introduces the only water available, in the tears of the natives. Who are the na-
tives? A young child holds the last seeds, as overhead dark clouds loom promising rain. The
ending is masterful as it ties the whole poem together into a unified whole. We have begun in
an arid landscape which is about to change. Like Frost's ' The Road Not Taken' the poem can
be read on two levels, and the wasteland can be as symbolic as the reader wishes it to be.
Well done.
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WINNER
ELISE CAREY McGIBNEY
Wasteland
HIGHLY COMMENDED COMMENDED
SEAN McGETTERICK AGNETE PAVILONE
My First Year in PCC Recipe for Disaster
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Wild Flowers
Babygirl,
When I see you
My heart doesn’t skip just one beat.
It skips two.
P.S. I love you
my beautiful buttercup.
Babygirl, Babygirl,
You are my Forever isn’t
Everything! long enough
P.S. I love you P.S. I love you
my dazzling daisy. my proper primrose.
“Why do you always refer to me as a wild flower?” I asked. “Babygirl, understand that, wild
flowers you have to stop and pick.” Looking down with his beautiful, captivating greeny-grey
eyes, he smiled and gently kissed my forehead and replied, “I pick you.”
Darkness always follows sunshine. On this day a year ago, my world fell apart. I answered your
call for the last time, smiling to myself as the picture of your goofy face popped up. It wasn’t
you though. From the sobs and the tears I just heard enough to know that you were in the
hospital.
10 minutes to the hospital felt like 2 hours. I just wanted to hold your hand. I felt like a human
cloud, I was just floating. Hospitals are not cold places but I was shaking. I entered your room
and your mum and dad rose to greet me. They told me that you had a bleed in your brain and
the next 24 hours were critical. The tears stopped because I knew that for the next few hours,
I had to be strong for you.
I sat down beside you. I placed my hand inside yours. I whispered to you that I was here,
please don’t do this now, don’t leave me. For someone so tall, that day you looked so small.
For someone so strong, you looked so weak. I closed my eyes and did something I haven’t
done in a long time. I spoke to God. I bargained, reasoned, pleaded and begged. Unfortunately
sometimes prayers go unanswered.
At exactly 4:23am your perfect heart stopped beating. I never got to look into your eyes one
last time. I placed my head on your cool torso and love fell from my eyes in the form of tears.
That night if love could be absorbed, you would have taken all my love with you.
Alisha Crawford
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The Fall
I sensed a tingling sensation down my spine long and chilling, stinging, as acerbic air swept
my hair whipping it, across my already frozen strawberry-red-nosed face. sunset was ap-
proaching fast; the midnight blue sky streaked with hues of maroon red, azure blue, butter-
scotch yellow, Persian blue, and fiery chili red. I hoped that night would soon be upon me. I
gazed onward, a single seagull`s recognizable silhouette appeared grey against the sky.
The never-ending smell of salt subdued any other scent for miles. The aquamarine sea was
like a perpetual wave of emotion; the foam protruding towards me like a myriad of formida-
ble cavalry. Foam, froth, fizz, whatever you wished to call it. The sea battled against the
white cliffs of Dover, white cliffs, so iconic yet still being eroded more as, they battled in, one
of the greatest battles of them all. Land against sea, these two elements, the sea assisted
dramatically by the wind, like a supporter screaming in the stadium of the elements. The
seagull cried a long piteous cry as it soared through the air, its silhouette soaring up and up
as I gazed out over the vast, picturesque landscape of the Cliffs of Dover.
FLASHBACK
I heard the pitter-pattering of rain and the tip-tap of my leather school shoes on the hard
cobblestone pavement. I ran laughing and giggling as I stuck my tongue out catching a few
droplets of rain, with my friends Lucy, Ruth, Barbara and Linda. We dragged our heavy bags
along as we tried to have a competition to see who was the fastest at running in circles.
We ran past women with strollers carrying screaming toddlers and wailing babies. We
rushed into the local sweet shop which was across the road from the artisan cheese shop.
The walls were filled with brightly coloured jars filled with all sorts of sweets; some in wrap-
ping, and some not. The sickly-sweet aroma filled my nostrils as I inhaled a deep breath of
that wonderfully magic sweetshop smell. I gazed in wonder around the sweet shop looking
for my favourite penny chews, fudge and liquorice. I piled them into the striped paper bag.
The chubby elderly man behind the counter weighed my bag and asked for my money. I
counted my pocket money very tentatively as I was saving up for a single chocolate bar for
my father who was away in Paris, France serving our country and her pride.
I was already rehearsing what I was going to say when I finally saw him. Each time trying to
picture a man, my father who was fading out of my memory fast; too fast for my liking
though. All I can remember when he left, was his voice saying ``it will be alright I will be back
before you know it''. Those words sounded meaningless back then but now comforted me in
my times I needed him.
I ran back up the road towards our cottage waving goodbye to my friends. I opened the gate
and ran towards the front door, clutching my bag of sweets. I opened the door to see my
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mother clutching my brother`s latest letter to her heart and rocking back and forth. Her com-
plexion had paled, her eyes were red and puffy, and she was sobbing hysterically. ``Mother
what's wrong’’ I asked, scared.
``Your father’’ she told me holding out the tear stained paper to me. I snatched the paper
from my mother's shaking fingers as her chest heaved as she kept on sobbing. I read the heart
wrenching letter in under a minute as there was only a paragraph of tear stained lines.
He wrote `dear mother and little Victoria, I'm sorry to inform you that father has been killed.
He was trying to save his comrade during the recent bombing in Paris. His comrade survived
but unfortunately, he wasn’t so lucky. Your loving son & brother Ernest ‘.
I was shocked as a new revelation that my father had been killed by a Nazi soldier trying to
save someone's life. I ran out of the door, furiously wiping back tears as I whirled past some
women coming out of the factory that manufactured ammunition. I continued running for
what seemed like years. Until I reached the spot where I used to look over Dover`s white cliffs
with father. I gazed over the landscape. The same landscape where we shared an ice- cream
or a big bag of sweets in the summer. Where he would wrap a scarf around me when I was
cold and bring me lukewarm hot chocolate.
Things would never be the same now he, my father was gone. Lost forever as i my eyes glazed
over remembering the days of happiness and joy. If only he was here … if only. A seagull`s long
sorrowful cry broke the silence. As I remembered the fallen solider who was my father.
Siobra O’Callaghan
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Elliott Barnes and the Girl who wasn’t There
If you knew Elliott Barnes, you’d know that he absolutely could not survive in the morning
without his daily mocha latte. And that’s how he found himself in the obscure hipster coffee
shop opposite his graphic design studio in Brooklyn. This was the kind of shop that didn’t just
sell stuff like double espressos and americanos, they sold strange and obscure drinks that El-
liott had never heard of, let alone knew existed, like mocha cookie crumble frappuccino, and
chamomile tea. Elliott was having a terrible day. His cat had puked on his favourite jumper,
he’d dropped his Star Wars mug, and he’d lost his nice glasses, and had to wear his tortoise-
shell ones that made him look like a sixty-year-old librarian. As the queue shuffled forward,
Elliott caught a glimpse of the girl at the counter; and his mind was drawn away from any
thoughts of mocha lattes and whipped cream. She had burnished copper hair, bright green
eyes and had a gorgeous smile. Calling her gorgeous would be the understatement of the cen-
tury: she literally looked like someone out of one of those modelling shows. Elliott knew, in his
heart of hearts that someone like her would never, ever go for someone like him, but a boy
could hope, right? Right. All of this inner monologue really contributed to Elliott’s all-
consuming shock that, upon seeing him, her face it up, and she immediately scrawled her
name and number on his coffee cup. Elliott Barnes walked out of that same hipster coffee
shop with a smile on his face and a skip in his step. His day had taken a complete U-Turn on
the Screwy Day highway and had to drive in the direction of Best Day Ever exit.
Elliott was 100%, completely and absolutely smitten. Him and Coffee Shop Girl had been tex-
ting practically every waking moment of the day. They talked about anything and everything,
sometimes all through the night. They had arranged to meet at the Brooklyn Heights Prome-
nade this coming Saturday evening. Elliott couldn’t remember a time when he felt more excit-
ed and nervous at the same time.
The date was amazing. You know what? Scratch that, *she* was amazing. She had the same
movie opinions as him, she liked the same books as him, and she was a mocha latte aficionado
too. They had sat in a (different) hipster coffee shop for over 2 hours talking about anything
and everything. Now, they were walking down the Esplanade as the last crepuscular rays
seeped out from behind the clouds. Elliott felt really, truly happy. He vaguely considered that
he couldn’t remember a time in the last year when he had felt even half as happy as he did
today. He turned ever-so-slightly to gaze at the opalescent sky, and beside him, felt something
in the air shift. He turned to look instinctively and saw...nothing. He looked around, panic
coursing through his veins. He gazed around him, but there was no sight of her gleaming cop-
per hair. Elliott pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts and tried to call her, but to
no avail. A stark sounding message greeted him. “The number you have dialled is not in use” it
droned emotionlessly. Elliott felt confused. He had dialled this exact number, only a couple
nights ago, to arrange this outing, and now it wasn’t working? He tried to dial it again and see
if he had dialled wrong the first time, but the same monotone voice greeted him once
more. Elliott had approximately 0% of an idea about what was going on. His head was spinning
and instead of the hustle and bustle of the city folk around him, all he could hear was a soul-
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less echo of all that was happening around him. Elliott hadn’t felt so completely out of it since
when he was in college when he went out bar crawling with his roommate and best friend,
Riley. Elliott came out of his lovelorn, lonely daze abruptly. He realised that he had been star-
ing at his phone for the last five minutes, and people were starting to look at him with con-
cern. He decided that the best thing to do for the moment would be to go home, have a nice,
relaxing cup of tea, and dwell on it in the morning. Elliott Barnes trudged back to his apart-
ment with the look of a kicked puppy on his freckly face, and a soulful love song ringing in his
head.
Elliott Barnes was absolutely and completely at the end of his (admittedly quite short) tether.
He had pored over the telephone book, scoured the Instagram explore page and gone to the
hipster coffee shop to ask for her, and what had he learnt from this gruelling experience?
Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. At this point, he had basically given up. Her number wasn’t to be
found in the phone book, her oh-so-aesthetic Instagram didn’t even exist, and when he asked
for her at the coffee shop, the manager looked at him with sad eyes and asked whether he
had heard the news But before she could say anything Elliott had went on his way. Elliott
Barnes was finally completely ready to give up. And that’s exactly what he did.
The next week, as Elliott was skimming over the daily newspaper, in the corner of his eye, he
glimpsed a name familiar to him. In the obituaries section. It was her. There was a photo of
her, with her gorgeous red hair, and wonderful smile. Elliott read on. It said that she had
fought a long, and hard battle with breast cancer, and had recovered wonderfully, only to
have been killed by a drunk driver in broad daylight as she was walking towards the Brooklyn
Heights Promenade. And suddenly, it all made sense. His heart dropped. But then he realised,
with a laugh, he, Elliott Barnes had been well and truly ghosted!
Anushka Pathak
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Judges Notes on Junior Secondary Fiction
Wild Flowers
This simply written story belies the expectations. I guarantee it will stay with you long after
your first hearing. It strikes the perfect tone and is one of the shortest winning entries in the
competition. It has a sublime ending and the significance of its title resonates long after its
telling. I loved it.
The Fall
It is not easy to place a story in the past. There are many pitfalls. This writer has been scrupu-
lous in avoidance of such mistakes. The writing in the opening paragraph is poetic and gives
the reader a premonition of what is to come. Good writing avoids sentimentalising. Death is
not an easy subject, even for the most seasoned writer. I look forward to more stories from
this gifted author.
Elliott Barnes and the Girl who wasn’t There
There are some writers that are able to grab your attention from the get-go. This writer is one
of those. The writing is new, vibrant and sparky without losing any of the inherent power to
be gained from poetic descriptions and excellent pacing. Change from some sort of conflict is
a feature of good short story writing. Take this line for instance-
..Elliott was having a terrible day. His cat had puked on his favourite jumper, he'd dropped his
Star Wars mug, and he's lost his nice glasses, and had to wear his tortoiseshell ones that made
him look like a sixty-year-old librarian.'
The story rises above the ordinary in its handling of the modern phenomenon known as '
ghosting'. Ghosting is an expression used in dating terms and it's when someone suddenly
cuts all ties with the person they've been seeing. Many believe that ghosting is actually better
for the person they're ignoring because they aren't actually hurting their feelings by telling
them they don't want to date anymore.
This story raises ghosting to a whole new level and lifts it to a symbolic level.
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WINNER
ANUSHKA PATHAK
Elliot Barnes and the Girl Who Wasn’t There
HIGHLY COMMENDED COMMENDED
SIOBRA O’CALLAGHAN ALISHA CRAWFORD
The Fall Wild Flowers
35 Return to ContentsNORTH WEST WORDS SECONDARY SCHOOL SENIOR POETRY
Gross Working Capital
The many mingle upon the mouldy floor
Rushing like waves to and fro.
They swiftly scavenge for treats left for
the lords who run the show.
The crys atop the comfy couches
Hail promise from above.
To save the scavengers from despair
And the system the loafing lords all love
‘’The treats will trickle just you wait
And you can righteously rise like me
Jest, and let us hold the gate
And keep yourselves to thee’’
The lords who pounce on prying eyes,
Who deviously declare the rights as wrong.
That rodents eating is a generous gift,
Before they’re swallowed whole.
So keep the cowards in their beds,
Pampered as they thrive.
Resting upon the scavengers
Who keep the cycle alive.
Sean O’Boyle
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Perfection
The first thing you reach for
The last thing you put down before you go to bed always
A thought in the back of your head
Constant notifications
Procrastination between conversations
Always in your hand
Your personal newsstand
Keeping you up to date
With the state
Of society
Reminding you of propriety
Urging you to always look your best
Seems the world is appearance obsessed
People’s lives can look like a dream
But things aren’t always what they seem
You won’t see the original photo
The tweaking it had to undergo
Hair all done
Makeup to stun
All for a like or two
Any less than a few
Take it down
With a frown
As your confidence bursts like a bubble
Falls to the ground into a pile of rubble
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Try again later
Make this one greater
Airbrushed face
Not a thing out of place
Choose the photo with intense selection
This constant pressure for contrived perfection
Sinead McHugh
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She's Alone With Invisible Company
Surrounded by people, yet forever Alone,
Rows of seats, yet she sits on her own,
Millions of words, yet she speaks not one,
She asks herself, “What have I done?”
Smiling now, she’s Performing
Deep down, she is Mourning
Spotlights, her eyes, dimmed at night,
Turned off or leaking, not acting too bright,
Yet you don't care, you brush it aside,
Because you won't be, the one to have cried,
Last week, last night, you'll never know
And she won't change, how can she grow?
She has roots that are rotted, from over the years,
They've been overwatered, by her own Tears,
the problems she faces, could be endless,
they are harder to tackle, when you leave her friendless
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You leave her with a frenemy, on whom she can’t depend,
He's not your usual ‘imaginary friend’,
He is heavy and weighs her down,
Yet, he can’t be measured in kgs or pounds
He's invisible, not there for you to Stare,
But in her mind he sits, in a rocking chair
Rocking her feelings from sad to worse
she plays sad music, he knows every verse,
His pet Paranoia, stops her from learning,
her head hurts, her stomachs turning,
She needs food for energy, food for fuel,
But he is greedy and is cruel,
Her mind's full up, her belly’s Empty,
He says “eat more, eat more,”or that “nothing is plenty”
So she sits, her lips zipped
Until her feelings, start to dip.
A smooth face but on her Canvas skin,
Is where his Deathly painting, will begin,
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Slowly, she traces- not using a brush,
Her canvas, starts to Gush,
Gushing,Gushing in a Scarlet line,
Outlining, the scene of his crime,
She lays there, Innocently- guilty,
His fault - foul and filthy,
-Invisibly- he gets away with Homicide,
-His Victory - Her Suicide.
Alannah Ferry
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Judges Notes on Senior Secondary Poetry
Gross Working Capital
This poem has the feel of an early Shelley. Capitalism and its attendant ills are ruthlessly disas-
sembled. Poetry as Protest has a long history. This poem tried to move away from the rage of
rant, and formulate its conceits into an ordered analysis. It is commonplace to cite bravery
when a poet approaches a subject that is close to his or her own heart and mind, but when a
poet tries to look at and tackle something as large as the gap between the rich and poor,then
that is risk-taking at its most breath-taking, and I applaud it. I hope to hear more from this
poet in the future.
Perfection
Social media and its hold on us is looked at here in a poem which is written in short staccato
lines that rhyme for the most part, and that build towards the title in the last word. It sounds
like a Spoken Word poem when read out loud, but is lain on the page like a poem. Interestingly
many of the lines are as short as a tweet, and it is one of the best poems I have ever read
about the hold that social media has on us all. Well done.
She's Alone with Invisible Company
To begin with this poem is written in rhyming couplets that paint a picture of a lonely girl who
is alone with grief. That grief then is given a name- the frenemy- This atypical imaginary friend
has a pet, called Paranoia and he encourages bulimia and anorexia in equal order. He is the
one who orders her to self harm and the poem ends terrifyingly with not just her suicide but
with the frenemy getting away with her homicide. Not since Sylvia Plath's 'Elm' have I read a
poem as chillingly brilliant. The crescendo the poet builds up to in this poem is simply done,
but loaded with meaning. If this poet has not chosen rhyme as a way to hold the poem to-
gether, the reader would run away. We cannot escape, and nor can she. This is masterful
writing. The only images the reader can hold onto are a rocking chair and a painting. A diffi-
cult subject matter, that shows that such isolation does not allow for nature or other people to
salve the hurt mind. Stunning work.
42 Return to ContentsYou can also read
