Paddy Gillies

The Ballad of Oranmore (or When Your Grandmother Knew I was the One)

I’d never seen her without the other girls before, but there she was under the awning of the Roxy blowing blue clouds into the Galway rain like a blazing-haired Deidre in wet corduroy. I tossed a prayer of intercession in the rough direction of Saint Raphael and bummed a ciggie from a fella walking past. She looked up and smiled. I ached to take those calcite hands and kiss them warm again. She was chewing gum and looking down the street. May Dagda and all the gods of my forefathers let me smoke without coughing. Have you got a light? 


This story won the People’s Prize in the February 2022 Monthly Micro Competition.

About the author: I live near the end of the line in the wild Southwest, writing and trying to stop my rescue dog harassing the local sheep.