March 2013 Writing Contest- St. Patrick’s Day Theme

Dublin, IrelandIt’s that time again for another monthly writing contest.  As you most likely ascertained from the title, it’s a St. Patrick’s Day theme. I’ve shaken things up a bit and added some unusual twists to make things more interesting.  Writers should have a lot of fun with crafting their stories based on the stipulations.

As I stated in a recent post, a few elements have changed as to how the contest is ran, particularly with judging.  There will no longer be a poll based on popular vote to decide the winner.  Instead a panel of eight judges will vote after the finalist stories have been selected.  For the full explanation, see this post.  Other than the new voting system, most everything else is the same (such as everyone will continue to post their entries with their name in the comment section) but please do pay close attention to all the details. The stipulations and rules are listed below.  For further information, stop by the Monthly Writing Contest page to see the complete listing of rules and other information you should know (along with who the previous winners are).

You will have until March 29th at midnight (EDT) to submit your entry. On the evening of March 30th, I will announce the finalists for the contest. There are typically three, but if more than ten entries are submitted, I may allow four.  Several judges will be helping me select the finalists, but the ultimate decision of who makes it through the first round is up to me.  After finalists have been announced, all the judges will then begin the process of voting for the stories they believe are the best via private email to me. I won’t participate in the second round unless a tie-breaker is needed.  It will be the panel who decides the winner.

*As a reminder, the first and second place winners will each receive a prize.  First place will receive a $20 Amazon gift card, and the runner-up will get a $10 Amazon gift card.  Both will be announced after voting is over on February 14th. First place contestants (who are authors) are also eligible to have their book cover advertised on the front page of this blog.

Now, here are the stipulations and rules.  Follow them closely or you will be disqualified!


1) Scenario- Your main character has a run-in with a leprechaun that somehow results in them being transported to Dublin, Ireland against their will on St. Patrick’s Day.

2) At some point your character must lose their shoes.

3) The story should end in one of two ways:

a) The magic used to transport them will only keep them in Dublin until Midnight that night before they will return home.

b) They discover they are stuck in Ireland forever because of the magic.

3) Word count requirement: 800-2200 words

*Note- Be sure to proofread your story before posting.  Make sure it is broken up into easy to read paragraphs (approximately 3-5 sentences each).  You must have a title as well.  These elements work in your favor during the selection process.


General Rules:

***Pay attention to the rules as several have been changed recently***

1) No extreme language. There are people here who do not want to see it and I prefer we not have anything that might be too offensive to the average reader. Light profanity is acceptable.

2) Making me laugh will gain you favor in my selection, though it isn’t a requirement. All genres of writing are welcome (if you are erotica, try to keep it mild unless stipulations call for it to be otherwise).

3) Post your story in the comments section of this post. Do not email it to me.

4) Ensure you include your name (even if it is only a first name or nickname) and a title for the story. Neither of these go toward word-count.

5) Anyone who has won a prize in any of the last three months is not eligible for a finalist position. They can submit a story if they wish, just for fun, but they cannot win.

6) Any story submission posted here can be posted elsewhere AFTER the competition is over. The only thing I ask is that you put a disclaimer saying that it was written for a contest on this blog (a link back here would be nice).

7) Must be your original writing that has never been published or posted elsewhere prior to this.

8)You are allowed one edit where you can amend one sentence in your story after it is posted.  Contact me prior to the contest closing date/time and specify exactly what it is you want changed.  The judges will be watching these stories closely as they come in so I would recommend you request changes as soon as possible if you have them.

9) Anyone may enter the contest  but must be able to receive an Amazon gift card from an Amazon site that is in English (they are not transferable).  I will convert US currency to the currency of the Amazon country site requested, based on current exchange rates.

10) Finalists will be chosen by myself and several judges.  Winner and runner-up will be decided by a panel of eight anonymous judges where I will only cast a vote if there is a tie.  Each judge’s top selection will be awarded one full point.  A half of a point will be awarded for their second choice.  Voting totals (without the judges names) are announced along with the winners.


That is everything you need to know.  Come back on the evening of March 30th to see which finalists have been selected.   Judges (all of which were chosen for their impartiality) will be given two full days to decide on which stories they believe are the best, but everyone is welcome to leave comments encouraging their favorites. On Tuesday, April 2nd, I will announce the winner and runner-up.  They will both receive their Amazon gift cards via email that day.   Good luck!

~ by Suzie on March 7, 2013.

25 Responses to “March 2013 Writing Contest- St. Patrick’s Day Theme”

  1. A Dublin Despair
    To the Londonderry Air
    By the Disobedient Bear*


    Oh foolish lad, you went and crossed the leprechaun
    And now you find yourself in Dublin town
    On Paddy’s Day, so cold without your footwear on
    And all your gold he asks for a new pair


    Oh don’t you learn, you tried to cheat the leprechaun
    And now those shoes will never leave your feet
    Nor can your feet, when shod in those repulsive clogs
    E’er walk again outside of Dublin town


    * No relationship to the Venerable Bede

  2. So, Suzie, I find it interesting that your contest has ended up competing for attention with one going on in Vatican City. Each has a Catholic twist to it. Yours is more inclusive, theirs offers a bigger prize. Their “in pectore” judges can’t vote, while all your judges are “in pectore”. Yours has an indirect connection to snake removal, some groups say theirs needs something akin to snake removal. Coincidence?

  3. Hi, everyone:

    Apparently, I haven’t quite got the ice cream truck theme out of my mind, so here my as yet untitled start to a St. Patty’s contest story. I hope to finish it before the contest ends…but in the meantime I thought it might help to prime the story pump 🙂

    The March traffic on the Portland, Maine 295 was snarled with vehicles like ants on an abandoned picnic burger. Horns blared and angry drivers glared at one another, adding occasional finger gestures when the mood struck. For the most part, truck driver Russ Finnegan was not enjoying any of it. The fact that his freezer unit was on the fritz and the side doors to his ice cream truck were already starting to ooze various colors onto the pavement explained part—but not all—of his frustration.

    He wiped the sweat from his brow and groaned at the unseasonably warm, sixty-degree March day. To top things off, there was a loud bang followed by a cloud of black smoke bursting from the rusty, yellow Volkswagen bug down in front of him.

    Fire imminent, a half a dozen little men dressed mostly in green blew out from all four car doors. But then, rather than run for safety, they turned and attacked their malfunctioning vehicle. Four pairs of tiny fists pummeled various sheet metal panels, while two pairs of green boots jumped up on down on the yellow roof and trunk.

    Russ snapped his neck from side to side. A tractor trailer covered the right flank, and a red Cadillac with a USA flag on the antenna boxed him in on the driver’s side. Once traffic started moving again, he was obviously going to be screwed!

    He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. Already the cars ahead were inching forward.

    “Try pushing it!” he yelled out the window.

    Suddenly, all metal abuse stopped. Six necks turned and craned upward. Six pairs of dark eyes focused on the ice cream truck’s windshield.

    Even though he should have been able to beat all six midgets at once, Russ relaxed his angry fists and felt like crawling beneath his dashboard.

    “Just sayin’,” he mumbled.

    “Sayin’ what, fat laddy?” said the little man on the roof of the bug. He tugged his green hat tightly down around his oversized ears.

    “Yeah, sayin’ what?” came a chorus of five more voices.

    The tractor trailer to his right was starting to move forward.

    “S’about time,” Russ muttered, flipping on his turn signal and spinning the steering wheel to the right, even though it would still be several minutes before he could creep into the other lane.

    To be continued….

  4. The Paths of Dubh Linn
    by Paul Venderley

    “Where’d you come from?” Something hard and wooden rapped the table twice, then Kirk’s head. “Hey. Time to move on.”

    Kirk slowly raised his head and watched a meaty hand push a grey rag that stank of Guinness and dirty water beneath his nose.

    “Where am I?” Kirk croaked.

    “Hiding in a booth at the back end of my bar.”

    Kirk let that answer sink in for a bit. He and the guys had gone pub crawling for Saint Patrick’s Day. They’d started at Brendan’s for beer and a succulent corned beef, then had gone over to Muldoon’s for beer and karaoke. He recalled finishing the night at The Auld Dubliner, but with its cold brick walls and scuffed wood floor, this pub looked nothing like the Dubliner.

    “Uh-huh,” he sat upright and grinned disarmingly at the bartender. The bartender pointed a wooden spoon in the direction of the door at the far end of the room. Kirk slid out of the booth, walked the length of the bar and through the front door into a cold and gloomy alleyway.

    “What the…?”

    In place of a parking lot for The Auld Dubliner, tightly knit buildings loomed over a narrow cobblestone lane. When Kirk turned around to look for the Dubliner, he found an unmarked solid wood door set into a brick wall, flanked by two braziers.

    Kirk pounded on the locked door of the pub.


    “I was just in there!”

    “Don’t care!”

    “Look, I need to know how I got here!”

    The bartender didn’t respond. Kirk resumed pounding on the door.

    “He’s most likely calling the police.”

    A bit below and to Kirk’s right stood a wizened little man dressed in a forest-green three-piece suit. He waggled his fingers at Kirk, smiled, and pushed a pair of square-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. With his other hand he waved a knobby, twisted stick at the locked door.

    “What’re you wanting to go back into that dive for?”

    Answers rattled around in Kirk’s brain. He’s in a strange city. He had been in that pub when he’d first noticed that he was in a strange city. Obviously, he needed to get back.

    What he said was: “I’m an American.”

    “Welcome to Dublin.”

    “I’ve got to get back.”

    “Through there? That’s not the way, lad.”

    Kirk stared at the door sullenly.

    “Look on the bright side! You’ve come to Dublin on the perfect day.”

    “Why’s that?”

    “Why, it’s Saint Patrick’s Day!”

    “That was yesterday.”

    “It’s definitely today.”

    “And I was definitely drinking way too many green beers. Yesterday.”

    The little man sized Kirk up with a narrowed eye and pointed his stick at him. “Let me see if I can summarize your situation. You are now mysteriously in a city you’d never had any intention of visiting.” He paused, waiting for confirmation.

    “Uhm, not exactly. I remember me and the guys last night, we were shouting that we should totally go to Dublin on St. Patty’s Day.”

    “Ah-hah! A wish!”

    “It wasn’t a wish! It was a bunch of drunks talking shit.”

    “Circumstances aren’t important. What you have is a wish fulfilled, and you’ve travelled back in time.” The little man waited again for confirmation.

    “Is it 2013?” Kirk asked.

    The other nodded.

    “Then, yeah.”

    The little man clapped his hands together and whooped. “The answer’s obvious!”

    Kirk waited for the answer.

    “It’s magic!”


    “Lucky for you, I happen to know a little bit about magic.”

    “Why’s that?”

    “I’m a leprechaun.” The little man did a brief tap dance and held out his arms, as if for applause. “Ferguson, at your service.”

    Kirk gave out a sour laugh, leaned back against the door of the pub, and slid into a seated position on the sidewalk. “Of course you are.”

    “I most certainly assure you that I am. Now, get up, and let’s get to walking so I can think this puzzle through. I’m much better at thinking when I’m walking.”

    Ferguson tapped Kirk’s shoes with his crooked stick, and Kirk found himself standing and following the little man down the street.

    They walked down the alley for nearly a block, the leprechaun muttering to himself in a language Kirk didn’t recognize. Where the lane ended, another onto the Dublin Castle grounds began.

    The leprechaun asked: “What time did you get here?”

    “No idea. Last I can remember seeing a clock was at 11:30.”

    “Ah. We can probably round that up to midnight. A lot gets done in that ‘witching hour.'” The leprechaun winked as though they were sharing a secret. They walked through the open gates onto the castle grounds.

    “I assume that we would need to get you home before anyone misses you.”

    “Why? What happens if we don’t?”

    “You’ll probably be stuck here, then.”

    “Stuck here in Dublin?”

    “Might be, might not. You might have the whole of Ireland to call home.” Ferguson studied the expression on Kirk’s face. “A good many people have found Ireland to be a lovely place to spend their lives.”

    “I’ll be stuck here forever?”

    “Oh, I doubt you’ll be here forever. We all die. Ah! Here we are.”

    They stopped in front of a little wrought iron gate cut into a weathered stone wall. The leprechaun touched his stick to the left of the gate, where the words “Dubh Linn Garden” were inscribed.

    Beyond the gate was a large circular lawn with paths set into the grass by grey rectangular flagstones. They curved and looped through the lawn, forming meandering roundabout patterns with no rhyme or reason that Kirk could see. Muttering in his strange language, the leprechaun stepped onto the flagstones where a path began close to the edge of the lawn and beckoned Kirk to join him.

    Kirk obeyed, asking: “What is this?”

    “The gardens of Dublin Castle,” Ferguson announced, waving his stick at the castle standing behind them. “Centuries ago the black pool from which this city took its name – Dubh Linn – sat in this very spot. It was a powerful place, filled with magic. The pool is gone, but the magic lingers. I like to come here for my walks, let my mind roam free, reflect.”

    They strolled along a flagstone path. Around them, other Dubliners sat on benches reading newspapers or drinking coffee. Few walked the paths, and the route Kirk and Ferguson followed was clear of other pedestrians.

    Ferguson hummed a little tune that was strangely familiar to Kirk. He tried to remember where he’d heard it, most likely in one of the bars he’d visited the day before. Not Brendan’s, they were showing a rugby game. Not Muldoon’s, everyone was singing rock ballads. In the Dubliner, perhaps…

    “I’ve got it! We can get you home in my shoes!” the leprechaun’s voice broke Kirk’s reverie. Kirk laughed out loud.

    “What’s so funny? I’ll have you know that a leprechaun’s shoes can walk over land and water.”

    Kirk did not hide his skepticism. “How?”

    The leprechaun shrugged. “Who can say? They follow where the path leads them. Magic.”

    Looking at the castle that towered over the peculiar lawn on which he stood next to a leprechaun, “magic” made as much sense as anything else at the time. “OK,” Kirk sighed. “I suppose I’ll give it a try.”

    The leprechaun nearly danced out of his shoes – small, worn brown loafers that curled up at the toes – while Kirk bent over to unlace his sneakers. Kirk had to shove his feet into the snug loafers, but they expanded and wrapped around his arch when he stood up.

    Ferguson immediately grabbed Kirk’s shoes and sprinted across the lawn. Kirk tried to follow, but his feet wouldn’t move off the flagstone path.

    “Ah! That. You’ve got to stay on the path for the magic to work,” Ferguson called from a park bench, where he was tugging Kirk’s sneakers onto his feet.

    “Really?” Kirk took a hesitant step forward on the flagstones. “Weird.” He followed the path to the edge of the lawn. But the shoes stopped abruptly at the path’s end, as if affixed to the flagstones. Kirk flailed forward with a disconcerted squawk.

    “Why can’t I step out of here?”

    The leprechaun appeared before Kirk.

    “I’ve told you the shoes can walk over land and water. And I’ve told you that they can do so only if they’re on a path. Here’s where it gets tricky. It’s got to be your Path. This…” Ferguson waved his stick in the air. “…is not your Path.”

    “That’s a path. Right there.”

    “That’s a road. A Path is something more. A destiny, like, but that’s oversimplifying things. A Path is the route you take once you decide upon your destination.”

    “My destination? I want to go home!”

    “Aye, but what’s the home you want to go to?”

    “MY home!”

    Ferguson chuckled. “Don’t you worry. It usually takes some time to figure this out.”

    “You know what? Never mind.” Kirk bent down to take off the loafers. “Give me back my shoes.”

    “Nay, that I cannot do,” said the leprechaun. He watched as Kirk yanked futilely at the left, then the right, shoe. Neither would come off.

    “Look, you’re American,” Ferguson continued. “Why don’t you make the most of things and take the hero route? Mend lives, save people, the stuff of television drama.” He hummed a self-satisfied little tune, and suddenly Kirk remembered where and how he’d heard that melody before.

    “You little imp!” he shouted.

    “Please. Leprechaun,” the little man responded.

    “You were at the pub last night. When we were talking about Dublin!”

    Ferguson doffed his hat, bowed, then disappeared.

    Kirk spent several minutes cursing at the space left behind by the leprechaun. He spent several more minutes kicking at the air in front of him. Finally, he sat on the flagstone path and thought things through.

    The leprechaun’s shoes could only walk on “his Path.” Any one of the paths on the Dubh Linn Garden lawn could be his. Once Kirk found his Path amid the lawn, he might be able to follow it back home.

    “This is gonna take forever,” he groaned. “Unless…”

    It took some trial and error, but Kirk was able to follow the path he and the leprechaun had taken through the lawn. From there Kirk retraced the route they had taken to the gardens. Once outside the wooden door of the pub, he looked at the loafers’ curled tips.

    “Where did that little man come from?” he asked. He pointed the shoes towards the corner, inhaled, and took a single step forward.

    The leprechaun appeared next to Kirk. “You’re going the wrong way,” he commented.

    “Am I?” asked Kirk. “Because it occurred to me that there are two directions to any path: where you’re going, and where you’ve been. And I thought: ‘I wonder if I would understand this whole path thing better if I walked a mile in the previous owner’s shoes?'”

    Ferguson scoffed. “Finding your own Path will be better for you.”

    Kirk shrugged. “We’ll see.”

    Kirk shambled through the streets of Dublin like a person trying very hard to hide the fact that he was drunk. He took short, cautious steps, pausing when the shoes indicated that they had not occupied the space in front of him, shaking his feet in a circular motion to determine which way to turn. Ferguson became an underfoot tour guide, frequently popping in front of Kirk’s legs to point out a Dublin highlight that held hidden delights just off the path, if only Kirk would show a little interest. The people filling the sidewalks had no patience for Kirk’s slow progress, jostling and pushing past him en route to their own destinations.

    Eventually Kirk arrived at a spot on the sidewalk where he could not continue forward, but when he pointed the loafers to a brick wall at his left, they tingled.

    “I wouldn’t,” warned Ferguson.

    Kirk took one step to his left.

    The streets of Dublin disappeared in the blink of an eye. In the next blink, Kirk saw a green land, thickly forested with a shining glen in the middle. Kirk shook his feet in a circle, found that they were still bound to a path, and moved forward towards the glen. Two leprechauns appeared on the glen’s edge, surprised to see Kirk making his way toward them. One leprechaun pointed at Kirk’s shoes. The other nodded.

    “You shouldn’t be here,” that leprechaun said.

    “Then show me the way home,” Kirk replied.

    The leprechauns stared at Kirk for what seemed to be hours. Eventually the second leprechaun waved Kirk to follow him into the glen. With his stick, he pointed to Kirk’s left.

    Kirk followed his cue, and was back in The Auld Dubliner in two blinks. Through staticky speakers, the Dropkick Murphys promised to play the wild rover “nay, never, no more.” In front of Kirk stood his friends, their glasses raised in celebration. Behind them, Ferguson held his crooked stick high in the air, as if joining in on the toast.

    At the top of his lungs, Kirk shouted: “Hell with that! I’d rather do Spring Break in the Bahamas!”

    • Awesome story, Venderleys. I really enjoyed the journey you took your character through and the method you used to get him home 🙂

      • Thank you! I enjoyed the writing challenge, and I even enjoyed editing to keep he tale within the proscribed word count! I hardly ever enjoy that stage…

  5. Now that the smoke has cleared in Rome, attention can return to the important contest …

  6. Happy St Patrick’s to y’all

    THE LITTLE FELLER by Mark Henwick

    The little feller came in just before dusk and climbed up onto the bar stool. Really up.
    Another time, Annie might have asked for his ID, he was that small. She eyed him dubiously. Not exactly dirty, but none too clean either, with the sort of grime that kinda wears into a feller’s hands. Damn, and she’d thought things were on an upturn around here. She chided herself. Given the theme of the bar and the day, it was the least she could do to put an effort into her welcome.
    “Top o’ the evening to ye, sir. And what’ll you be wanting?”
    The man’s face scrunched up like he had constipation.
    “That’s the most appalling Irish accent I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear, and I’ll tell you this, I’ve drunk in English pubs.” He leant elbows on the bar.
    “Well,” she replied, almost angry except he had the brightest gleam of humor in his eye and a genuine Irish lilt, “welcome to Annie’s Bar, the best Irish pub in Louisiana. I’m Annie. It’s St Patrick’s Day, and we have Guinness and Jameson at half.”
    He squinted up at her, grinning. “You’ll not be giving me a glass of Guinness, and I’ll not be paying you half for it.”
    She wasn’t sure what that meant, but while she was working on it, she poured a Guinness and placed it in front of him, sliding the mat underneath with practiced ease.
    “Now that’s welcome,” he murmured and took a thirsty swallow.
    Annie sighed. Jokes aside, she felt a responsibility to small strangers coming into her bar today. “I’d drink that and move on,” she warned him, her voice returning to its habitual Louisiana twang.
    “I liked the accent,” he said, frowning. Then he reached across and patted her jaw. “And why would I be moving on when I’m just getting meself comfortable, lass.”
    “Well, and you’ll be attracting notice, what with your size, and all. For the competition. Now you’d not be wanting that, I’m thinking,” she said in broad brogue. Annie’s mouth closed with a snap and her eyes crossed as if they were trying to focus on her lips to see who had moved them. Where the hell had that come from?
    “Much better,” he said. “And that’d be the Dwarf Hurling Competition, would it now?”
    Annie’s mouth opened to answer but it was too late. The door swung open and Bart came in, head bent down to fit through the opening. His eyes lit up and he came and sat down on the next stool, towering over the little feller.
    “Bart, you’ll not be harassing my customers today,” she snapped.
    “Wow! Awesome accent, Annie. You must have put some hours in,” Bart said. “A Jameson for me and another Guinness for my friend.”
    “I’m thinking I’d not be a friend if I didn’t accept that drink,” the little feller said.
    “And a friend—”
    But before Bart could fill the little feller in on what a friend would need to do for him, the door opened again. A slight and tidy figure stood framed by the lights outside, her glasses glinting.
    “Bart Manus, I have caught you red-handed,” she said.
    “Evelyn, come now, he’s just sitting down this very minute,” Annie said in her weirdly good Irish voice.
    “And how long does it need? He’s—”
    The little feller spun on his stool. “And who might you be, lass?”
    “Evelyn Merriman, County Deputy for Health and Safety,” she said stiffly.
    “Merry by name, merry by nature,” muttered Bart swirling the Jameson under his nose.
    “And I am here to prevent disorderly, discriminatory and unsafe conduct, namely the so-called competition conducted here under the auspices of this establishment—”
    “Evelyn, I haven’t run the competition since the time the window was broken,” Annie said.
    “He’s here,” Evelyn stabbed an accusing finger at Bart. “And there was a sign outside.”
    “Sure, and it’s not my sign.” Annie lowered her eyes and polished the bar unconsciously. It wasn’t her sign and technically it didn’t happen in the bar. It happened in the yard behind the bar. Only sensible after that small guy was thrown right through the window. And she didn’t run it. She just sold food and drinks to people who came.
    “Of course it’s not your sign.” Evelyn sneered. “I have confiscated it anyway, on the grounds of discriminatory language against people of lesser physical stature. And you,” she turned on Bart, “I’m not allowing you to recruit an unknowing bystander to replace your colleague.”
    “And just why would you be needing to replace a colleague, in this event we cannot name?” the little feller asked.
    Bart went pale and Evelyn glared down her nose at him triumphantly. “Go on,” she said, “tell him.”
    “Well, it was a mistake, y’ see, I was spinning round with Little Jim when my ankle twisted and I let Jim go too early.”
    “You were disqualified?” the little feller said.
    “Yes, that too. But the problem was, y’ see, it was the Alligator Creek Hurl. He’s alright,” Bart went on hastily. “On account he can swim real fast.”
    “Lucky Jim,” the little feller took another swig.
    “Yes, and lucky you,” Evelyn said, trembling with self-righteous vindication.
    Bart’s shoulders sagged. He’d trekked around every bar in town before coming here. The little feller had been his last chance. And what a chance! Bart was certain he could hurl him clear across the yard and into the field behind, sore ankle or not.
    “Well now, I’m betting there’ll be no actual law against people enjoying the craic,” the little feller said.
    Evelyn’s eyes bulged. “What do you mean by crack? Are you—”
    The little feller reach up and tapped her ear gently.
    “Oh, the craic,” she said, as Annie and Bart looked blankly at each other. “Of course the legislation doesn’t specifically exclude legitimate amusements. But this competition is evidentially—”
    The little feller sighed and reached out to tap her jaw.
    “Sure, and I’ll just not be having the humiliation of smaller people in this town,” she concluded and frowned at the sound of her own voice.
    “You’ll be stopping the competition then,” the little feller said, grinning.
    Evelyn scratched her head in puzzlement, wondering at the words bubbling up inside her and trying to get themselves said. She was, wasn’t she?
    The back door slammed open and a blast of horns signaled the start of the event. A crowd was gathering outside under the jury-rigged floodlighting. They were starting to jump up and down on the spot and chant.
    “Hurl! Hurl! Hurl!” they yelled.
    Evelyn ran out, waving her arms and shouting in an Irish accent, and made more friends than she’d ever had before in her life, even though they couldn’t actually hear what she was saying.
    Annie opened the back window and organized the staff until they were clustered there like bees, relaying orders and selling Guinness and Jameson by the tray-full.
    The little feller slid off his stool and wandered out. For want of anything better, Bart slouched disconsolately after him. There was no chance of getting a dwarf to hurl at this late stage, and the little feller had been put off by Evelyn, whatever she was going on about now.
    He staggered a little. There were a lot of bars he’d visited in his search for a victim… err… partner, but even the alcohol didn’t take the edge of his misery. Hell, he was about to lose his title for want of a partner. It wasn’t even as if there were alligators in the pond out the back here, but Jim had been adamant. He’d had enough.
    It looked to Bart as if the competition would go to Big Bob Massey, or maybe the Australian. They were hanging back, waiting for the no-hopers to finish landing their dwarves in the middle of the pond. Not a single one had managed to reach the mats on the far side yet, but the crowd was loving it, as always.
    The little feller tapped his leg and Bart knelt down to hear him.
    “Are you any good?” asked the little feller.
    “I’m the champion,” Bart sighed and burped. “At least until the end of the competition.”
    “You’ll not be throwing me half way across the pond,” the little feller said, chuckling.
    The meaning of which statement Bart was still trying to work out, when he lined up, little feller alongside.
    “Don’t be taking your shoes off for better grip,” the little feller said. “And whatever you do, don’t be spinning round three full times before you hurl me. You’ll be remembering to let go too.”
    Bart thought it was damn sound advice. The launch area had gotten muddy. He threw his shoes aside and felt the mud between his toes.
    “How far you think you’ll get, mate?” the Australian shouted out, trying to put them off.
    “Oh, doubling,” the little feller replied.
    “Twice the distance? Dream on.”
    Bart spouted the advice you were meant to give a first-time contestant, but he was running out of time and garbling it all. The little feller gave him a slap across the jaw and the words were still tumbling out in Irish when the announcer called them out.
    “AAANNDD NOW. The one. The only. Your very own Bad Bart Manus and …” The crowd screamed and Bart reached down to get a good grip on the little feller’s wrist and ankle. No one noticed the little feller hadn’t been named.
    Bart squinted up at the far side of the pond. Big Bob’s dwarf had made the second mat, but the Australian’s had made the third. Sure and hell and he was going to spin round three times and he wouldn’t be tossing the little feller only half way across the pond.
    It was only as he spun round the third time he remembered he was supposed to do something else too. Or not.

    Damn and who had been about leaving the dustbins here? And who turned the lights out?
    Bart tripped and fell over. One bin, balanced on another, tottered, and with wonderful inevitability, emptied over him.
    “There he is,” came a voice behind a searing bright light. “Drunk as O’Malley. Out you come, lad.”
    Bart managed to get to his feet. The law may speak with different words in different countries but only ever in one tone, and it was a tone that Bart knew. He didn’t think this was Sheriff Clay, but it might well have been a cousin.
    “Now, lad, what’re you doing?”
    Bart squinted into the blinding light. “Well, and I was just tossing the little feller here,” he jerked his thumb back to where he hoped the little feller was, and stopped when he realized he wasn’t.
    “I see.” The tone of the law took its most ponderous, and words started coming in italics. “You were just sitting here, tossing your little feller.”
    “Well, sure, and we started out the back of Annie’s Bar on account of she won’t let us toss inside, and I… don’t know how I got here,” he finished lamely, suspicion dawning like the sun through the fog of alcohol in his head. “Where am I?”
    “Round the back of the Bridge Inn. About a mile from Annie’s.”
    Bart knew every bar within ten miles of Annie’s. There were no Bridge Inns. And the little feller hadn’t said ‘doubling’ at all. At all.
    “In Dublin?” he said.
    “Of course you’re in Dublin, eejit.” There was a sound from behind the bright light. A sound that Bart knew. The sound of handcuffs. He licked his lips. Time for desperate gambles.
    “You’ll be arresting me for indecency and being disorderly, then,” he said, holding out his hands.
    There was a sigh and the light clicked off. “Piss off home,” said the gardai, turning and walking away.
    “You’re a natural, an’ no mistake,” the little feller said, emerging from the shadows.
    Bart knelt down and looked at him. “How come there’s no magic sparkles when you, y’know… do things?”
    “On account of I’m not fooking Tinkerbell and this is not a flaming Hollywood vampire movie neither.”
    Somewhere, a bell tolled.
    “How does it work? You say not to do something and the person has to do it?”
    “That’s the oldest law of laws. Do what I tell you don’t.”
    “And the garda just said to go home, so I can’t?”
    “He’s not got the voice.”
    Bart rubbed his face. “Why? And why me?”
    “It’s a grand way to travel, d’you not think?” The little feller whipped out a glass and a bottle of Guinness from somewhere, pouring it slowly as the bell continued its tolling. “You’ll be getting thirsty,” he said. “Stay and have a drink.”
    Bart shook his head to clear it. The hell with that. His hand was reaching for it anyway when the twelfth bell sounded and he fell into the glass.

    “Wake up, mate,” roared the Australian in his face. “You’ve won again, you canny, drunken bugger. You slung your dwarf so far across the pond they can’t even find him. I reckon he’s done a runner.”

  7. Hmmm … your readers seem to be more inspired by sex than by leprechauns …

    • It may be that interest has just waned. With so many writing contests out there now, it might be prudent to make this one the last one. At least it will go out with a couple of really good stories!

  8. […] were a couple of other entries that did not qualify, but were fun to read.  You can see them here.  Thanks to everyone who submitted their stories.  The following contestants are the ones who are […]

  9. […] their gift cards in their email.  Thanks to everyone who participated.  We had some awesome entries this month that certainly made this competition a nice one.  I look forward to seeing more in the […]

  10. […] a couple of other entries that did not qualify, but are worth checking out.  You can see them here.  Thanks to everyone who submitted their stories.  The following contestants are the ones who are […]

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: