Orla O’Brien is an avid reader with a love for all genres of literature. Her passion for books was ignited during her time working at Chapters Bookshop in Dublin, an experience that left a lasting impression. Orla is an active member of the Naas Creative Writers’ Group and has contributed to their celebrated anthologies, appearing in both the inaugural 2019 edition and the follow-up in 2023. Her talent has earned recognition, with a shortlist placement in the June Fest Writing Competition in 2020 and a longlist achievement in the Michael Mullan Writing Competition in 2021. Through her work and dedication, Orla continues to explore the world of storytelling, inspiring others with her journey as a writer and reader.

The Storm

Shell shocked,
Noses dare to peek out of the wreckage,
Limbs are limp from hankering down so long,
Hours of relentless torrential rain,
And gale force winds
Have now subsided
for a little while, hopefully.

Storms happen every year,
Yet we are still in shock
Of their magnitude and power.
Lopsided electricity poles,
Loom haphazardly over flattened debris.
Ancient sturdy trees are now left shaken,
Splinters of their former luscious selves.

There is a clash and bang,
Random objects collide
As the wind whistles through.
Wails of sirens
Send a cacophony of distress,
Flashing strips of illuminated yellow whizz by.

Everyone caught up in this storm
Is frightened and fragile.
Disorientated.
Flailing around without a compass.
The sky’s mood has darkened
To match nature’s unpredictable temper.
Is God playing chess again?

Yet some remain unscathed,
The eye of the storm
Gives everyone a chance to
Replenish, breathe and restore,
To survive one must become resilient.

This wasn’t the first storm,
It won’t be the last,
Years of good work
Can be undone in a matter of seconds.
Clean up operations will soon commence
To mend the damage.
Perhaps the chaos of a raging storm,
Is just a metaphor for the soul.

The Little Fox

He poked his head
Out of the hollow den,
And rubbed his nose dry
Against a hind leg,
After becoming damp from the dewy grass.

It was unusual for his mother
Not to return before the dawn.
Ribbons of pastel colours
Rippled through the skies above,
As the sun emerged
And made its grand entrance,
Lifting the blanket of darkness,
Shedding light on all of God’s creatures.

He twitched and licked his burnt umber fur.
His stomach growled louder than his bark.
He yelped and craved for his mother.
Where was she?
It was feeding time,
And he was ravenous with the hunger.

She still had to teach him
The skill of scavenging,
Outrunning prey, waiting for the right time to pounce,
Snaring rabbits and rats into dead ends,
Resulting in bringing supper home each night.

He looked at his two sleeping sisters
Nestled together to keep warm.
Instinct kicked in,
He needed to provide for them.
He wasn’t going to bail on them
Like his deadbeat dad,
Who ran off with another Vixen,
The first chance he got.

Maybe his mother was caught in a trap
Or savagely ripped to pieces by hound dogs.
He trembled with terror.
But he took comfort in the fact that
The horrendous shrill of the trumpets
For a hunt hadn’t been heard,
In a long, long time.

Mother often barked about
The farm over yonder,
Telling him how she
Scooped up the mud to go under
The barbed wire fence,
That led straight to the hen house.

He began salivating
Thinking about getting his teeth
Stuck into a succulent chicken.
Maybe his desire to forage was daft!
After all he was only a little fox,
In search of his mother,
But what other choice did he have?

The Ghost on Nowhere Street

No one special and nowhere to go,
The skimpy sleeping bag
Was soaked through,
After a heavy night of rainfall.
Not enough pennies were scraped together
To secure a spot out of this frigid night.
She curled up tight like a squirrel,
Wheezing and coughing,
Behind a smelly dustbin,
To hide from the dregs,
That roamed the city after twilight.
She owed money to pimps and drug dealers.
She was at an all-time low
When her drug habit spiralled out of control.
But she’ll be damned if she took the devil’s dandruff again,
She had enough problems to contend with.

Alone in this lonely deserted dirty alley,
Sandwiched behind a street with no name,
She heard the honking of horns,
And the city rousing to life.
With the hustle and bustle
Of morning folk prim and proper,
Marching with purpose,
With their noses poked in the air,
With a splash of fragrant arrogance and importance.
She would dearly love
To stay nestled here,
But her stomach rumbled and nature called.

She rubbed the dark circles under her eyes,
She caught a glance of herself,
In a shop window and winced.
Wrinkles cracked her face
Making her look twice her age.
She lost pride
In taking care of her appearance
A long time ago.
Now it was all about survival.
She knew she looked dishevelled
From the shocked and scorned reactions,
As she belittled herself,
To beg, beseech and plead so desperately,
Her voice crackled,
She barely recognised herself.

It wasn’t easy when you weren’t fresh faced anymore.
She may as well have been a ghost.
Most people looked beyond her,
Nobody stopping,
When she stretched out
Her weathered claw like veiny hand.
It was too soggy to sit on cardboard
All day and risk pneumonia.
Her lank hair was matted from the drizzly rain,
Damp clothes hung off her bony frame.
Another day wandering aimlessly,
Another day surviving on charity soup and bread.
She tried to tally up the odds.
Would she be better off in prison?
With a roof over her head?
Guaranteed three square meals a day,
Sounded very tempting.
What use was freedom
When she had no bed to rest her head?