Contest #162 winner 🏆

And the Radio Said, “There’s Another Shot Dead”

Submitted into Contest #162 in response to: Write a story where a character’s life completely changes over the course of a meal.... view prompt

135 comments

Drama Crime Historical Fiction

CW: Gun violence, death

The air hung heavy with the foggy dew of a February morning. 

Through the single-pane window, dampened though it was, could be heard the regimented tramp of a platoon of British Lancers. The melodic jingle of them was harmonised by the footfall of their heavy boots. They passed by, unseen in the fog. 

The well-worn sound of sirens echoed down the street as they had done from early morning but neither of us paid heed. Nothing new for a Belfast morning. 

I sat rigid at the table, uncomfortable in the starched school shirt that was too small but ‘would see me through to the end of the year’, whilst Ma poured the cornflakes into the bowl before me. The tinkle of them played merrily against the threatening chorus outside. 

A little milk splashed free onto the table as she filled the bowl, seeping its way down the tables grains before a cloth could had. 

“Hurry yourself up or you’ll be late,” Ma said before dragging the hairbrush through my tattered mane, the futility of it lost on her - though her annoyance was clear when I ran my fingers through it, immediately undoing her hard work. 

From the counter, the little radio spat and crackled out a song my mother liked and she hummed to herself as she flitted from mother-job to mother-job; cleaning and wiping, hanging the wet clothes, folding the dry. 

I shovelled in a mouthful. The crunch drown out the world around me. 

“Ma, sugar please,” I said, mouth still full, sending a burst cornflake shrapnel into the air. 

She whisked the sugar over to me and wiped down the table once more, humming out the dying notes of the song. 

Da’s absence wasn’t even registered by Ma and I. He was never there in the mornings. 

He was the milkman, passing through the local streets in his van before the cocks had time to clear their throats, swapping empty bottles for full ones, often with only the dawning sun for company. 

He’d tut and he’d sigh as he trundled past the burnt out cars and the bombed out bars of Belfast. He’d nod to soldier and gunman alike as he made his rounds for few others were out on the streets that early. 

That’s how he was; open, friendly, peaceful. 

“We’re all born the same, we all die the same,” he’d say, “and we’re all the same in between.”

That’s how he raised me; free from hatred and division. 

I took another mouthful, much more to my taste this time, the flakes not offering as much resistance. 

“Fix your tie, will you? You look like you were reared in a field, that’s no way to be heading off to school.”

The usual scolding from Ma on a school morning. 

The song ended and the radio rang out eight bells. A familiar voice greeted us. 

“Good morning, the headlines.”

We continued our customs, me chewing, Ma cleaning. 

Crunch, wipe, fold. 

And the radio said, “There’s another shot dead on the streets of Belfast. Early reports say he died with a gun in his hand.”

Crunch, wipe, fold. 

The reporter prattled on, other disturbance, the humdrum of the politicians, the rise of fuel costs. Another Belfast morning, the same old routine. 

Crunch, wipe, fold. 

It was the knock at the door, the three heavy raps, that broke the dullness. 

I looked at Ma, her eyes as wide as my own. 

With Da on the rounds, I was the man of the house. I started to rise, but Ma’s firm hand returned me to my seat. 

“Stay,” she ordered and I obeyed. 

I watched her as she stepped from the kitchen, drying cloth in hand. 

I heard her gasp from the hallway as she opened the door. I knew what that meant. 

The chill of the foggy dew that rushed the open door seized me. 


*****


The officer stood the entire time, directly across from me in the kitchen. Between us, upon the table, the bowl lay unfinished; islands of orange flakes bobbing on a placid sea of white. 

The radio was silent now, freeing the stage for the solemn tick-tock of the clock. 

He stood there. His uniform was clean and crisp with the dark green jacket buttoned professionally. He did not remove his cap, emblazoned with a harp donning a crown. 

“I’m very sorry,” he said without emotion, “very sorry for your loss.”

Tick-tock. 

He cleared his throat and looked between Ma and I. She was still crying, but it was silent now. Her reddened eyes bore the pain which was spilling over blotched cheeks. 

I was numb. 

I stared at his tie. It was fitted right up to the collar, neat to his neck. He wasn’t reared in a field I thought. 

“How-” Ma started but was ambushed by a sob. 

The officer cleared his throat again. 

“He was seen walking up Fitzgibbons Street with, what I’m told, was a revolver. The army opened fire and he… well, he…”

The officer blinked hard and cleared his throat again. 

Tick-tock. 

“I’m very sorry,” he repeated. 

The silence that fell rotted into an intolerable discomfort, putrefying the air. Another throat clear did nothing to shift it. 

Tick-tock. 

“No,” I said though my throat was dry, “Da wouldn’t have- he couldn’t have- he didn’t have a gun. He wasn’t involved.” 

The officer nodded to pacify me but his eyes betrayed his lack of belief. 

“We will, of course, carry out a full investigation once the army have completed their assessment.”

Empty words I thought. 

Tick-tock. 

The officer saw himself out and in his wake was left the true absence of Da. 

In the bowl, the cornflakes were sodden. 


*****


It took twelve years. Twelve tormenting years and an independent commission for the truth to come to light. 

Corruption. 

Collusion. 

Cover up. 

Call it what you want. There was no gun. 

The solider had mistaken a bottle of milk for a revolver and had opened fire without a word of warning. 

My Da. Dead. Over a bottle of milk. 

They say there’s no point crying over spilt milk. I hate that saying. 

Ma never got over it, went to her grave without the truth and now lies beside Da, just like they did in their bed. Born the same. Died the same. 

I enlisted as soon as I could. Not to free my country, not for injustice. Just for revenge. 

I have done awful things. Terrible things. 

But I make no moans about it. I do not apologise for it, to any man or god. 

We are born the same. We die the same. But we are not the same. 

I am not the same as I was. I changed at eight o’clock that February morning. 

So now here I lie, in the foggy dew of the morning, with my rifle, awaiting the jingle of an oncoming platoon. 

I wonder what the radio will say. 

September 09, 2022 23:52

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135 comments

Cindy Strube
19:04 Sep 17, 2022

Seán… who would think of using cornflakes as a focal point? It works perfectly! What a fantastic, poignant story - well told. Such a mundane background as a family going about the daily routine amidst a troubled society, lets us know that something is bound to change. I figured that Da would be involved, but the turn of events wasn’t quite what I expected. Which is good! Wonderful, heartrending story. Many congratulations - you deserve the win!

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Seán McNicholl
11:57 Sep 23, 2022

Thank you so much Cindy!!! Really appreciate it! Still can’t believe it!

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Mohammed Nahir
18:48 Sep 17, 2022

GREAT STORY. INCISIVE and overwhelming

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Seán McNicholl
11:57 Sep 23, 2022

Thank you so much!

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Riel Rosehill
09:46 Sep 17, 2022

Sean, I'm super late but congrats again for this well-deserved win! 👏 This story was so good I wish I wrote it! Brilliant.

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Seán McNicholl
11:57 Sep 23, 2022

Not as late as my reply Riel! Thank you so so much!!!

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21:20 Oct 07, 2022

Congratulations on your win— Well deserved. Your use of narrative voice and language is excellent. As sad as this story is, you do a great job with comic relief when the narrator notices the officer’s tie.

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Nocti Lucera
08:37 Sep 27, 2022

What a compelling story, and I adore youre writing style. Btw, this story reminds me of the song "no milk today"..

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Seán McNicholl
16:08 Sep 27, 2022

Thank you so so much!!

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Parker Henry
09:37 Sep 25, 2022

Great story, nice read. Well deserved!

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Seán McNicholl
16:11 Sep 27, 2022

Thanks so much!

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Ana Frey
21:51 Sep 23, 2022

The pacing is impeccable. Loved every second of this. Congrats on winning!

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Seán McNicholl
16:11 Sep 27, 2022

Aww thank you so much! Really appreciate it!

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Ashlynn Rose
20:33 Sep 23, 2022

wow, I love this!

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Seán McNicholl
16:11 Sep 27, 2022

Ah thank you so much!

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Magan Rodriguez
19:20 Sep 23, 2022

Intense and beautifully written.

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Seán McNicholl
16:12 Sep 27, 2022

Thank you so much!

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Sophia Ivers
17:46 Sep 19, 2022

what is this about

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Seán McNicholl
12:05 Sep 23, 2022

It’s set in Belfast in the 1970s, at the height of what’s known as The Troubles. A lot of sectarian and political violence. Centres around a shooting, a milkman is mistaken for a gunman, and the impact that has on his son, who in turn becomes a gunman himself for vengeance. Hope that makes sense!

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Tommy Goround
02:58 Sep 17, 2022

Yep. Sorry I missed this earlier. Has all the layers of a good story. More for: it's important. Nice job.

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Seán McNicholl
11:56 Sep 23, 2022

Thanks so much Tommy!

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02:49 Sep 17, 2022

Chilling and beautiful. Told ya you'd win soon, my friend! Congratulations and well deserved. :)

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Seán McNicholl
11:56 Sep 23, 2022

Yeeeeeaaaaa boy! Still can’t believe it!! Thanks so much!

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Jennifer Bowers
01:28 Sep 17, 2022

Amazing story. Congrats!

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Seán McNicholl
11:56 Sep 23, 2022

Thank so much!

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Amanda Lieser
00:24 Sep 17, 2022

Hi Seán! Wow! This piece did not go the way I had feared-when I read the CW and the first few lines I was worried it would be a school shooting story. I thought the way you approached this tale was tasteful and poignant. I also really liked the way you introduced the piece and went back to the theme. Thank you so much for writing this! Congratulations on the well deserved win!

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Seán McNicholl
11:56 Sep 23, 2022

Thank you so so much Amanda!

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Kelly Sibley
23:27 Sep 16, 2022

Wow! I was blown away the first time I read it and I'm so glad you won. Well done!

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Seán McNicholl
11:55 Sep 23, 2022

Aww thank you so much for your lovely words Kelly!!

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Wilma Segeren
22:58 Sep 16, 2022

Great description. Intense feeling and relevant story. Congrats on the achievement !

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Seán McNicholl
11:55 Sep 23, 2022

Thank you so much Wilma, really appreciate it!

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Melanie Hawkes
22:58 Sep 16, 2022

Just wow. The title grabbed my attention and your story was captivating. I hope it is fiction, but written with such conviction and imagery that it felt real. I love the use of repetition throughout (tick-tock etc). Congratulations and very well deserved!

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Seán McNicholl
11:55 Sep 23, 2022

Thanks so much! Fiction but in part it was a reality for far too many, sadly.

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20:50 Sep 16, 2022

Wow

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Seán McNicholl
11:54 Sep 23, 2022

Thank you!

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AnneMarie Miles
20:03 Sep 16, 2022

Wowee! A poetic story. So many wonderful lines here, but I loved this: '“How-” Ma started but was ambushed by a sob.' As simple as it was, the ambush of a sob is so easy to imagine. Thanks for sharing, and congratulations!

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Seán McNicholl
11:54 Sep 23, 2022

Thank you so much Anna Marie, really appreciate it!!

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Pamela Brown
19:32 Sep 16, 2022

Thank you for this story, Seán. I felt full of fear as I read it. The whole process of the boy's life grew from the nagged schoolboy to the man with the gun. The every-day domestic routine contrasting with the life shattering change in a moment. The language structure, sentences etc., were sharp as was appropriate, and yet there are such metaphors: 'They say there’s no point crying over spilt milk. I hate that saying.” Brilliant! All in such a short story. A masterpiece Seán. Well deserving First Place. Congratulations.

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Seán McNicholl
11:54 Sep 23, 2022

Aww thanks so much Pamela! Really appreciate your kind words! Thank you!

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