Laois Writers’ Corner

Fiona Cooke Hogan is a writer and poet living in Abbeyleix, County Laois. This is her first collection of short stories; an eclectic mix of humorous, eerie and poignant tales that are mostly based around the Midlands. She has been writing since childhood and takes inspiration from her everyday life and experiences. Her novel “Martha’s Cottage” will shortly be out on Kindle and she is currently working on her second: a horror story as yet untitled.

‘The Lights Went Out and Other Stories’

Click here for the link to her book.

Fiona is the latest writer to be featured in ‘Laois Writers’ Corner’

Here is an excerpt from one of her longer stories:

Twenty Years

As the bus pulled out of the harbour she sank down in her seat like a fugitive in a bad action movie. She needn’t have bothered. Inside, the windows were fogged, outside; the rain drizzled an unending tide against the side of the vehicle rendering the windows a ragged one on the scale of visibility. Still she was wary; she waited for the pounding on the door. The last minute “Please, open the door, my wife’s on board” attempt to force the doors open. It never happened. The bus; a long and red glistening caterpillar swung smoothly out onto the Ventry road leaving behind the grey rain covered town of Dingle.

The tour bus trundled past stone walled fields and holiday homes at a steady fifty. She caught signs for Art Galleries and Beehive huts as they hit the scenic coast road. Ruth rubbed a porthole in the condensation and peered out at the vast expanse of the Atlantic on her left. The sea a maelstrom of white topped waves breaking rearing and crashing onto sharp pinnacles of rock stretching out of the water like the spines of prehistoric sea monsters. A low stone wall, reinforced at intervals with a steel barrier was all between the narrow road and sloping cliff edged fields. High in her coach seat she sat pinched with waves of both awe and fear.  She wondered what it would take to send the tour bus and all its chattering passengers crashing down into the sea. Just how did a person know when his or her time was up? Did the knowledge of death flash quickly across the brain when the contents of your hand bag rained down upon you and your last view of the world was of grass, sky and sea before the end came with the crunch and tear of metal on the rocks?

Or would it be dreamlike roll and crash to the soundtrack of Celtic music and screams?

As if on cue another tour bus materialised on the road in front of them. A massively wide German vehicle. Both vehicles ground to a halt.

The chattering on the bus reached a crescendo. What was going to happen? How could they pass out the bus? OMG if they tried to overtake the bus would they crash into the railing and …Would the railing hold?  Jees, could we get out and maybe video it?

But the German Bus reversed undramaticaly around the narrow corner and backed into a lay-by that had been cut into the side of the mountain a half mile up the road. A cheer went up, the driver tooted the horn and they continued on their journey.

Feeling slightly disappointed, Ruth turned back to the Atlantic.

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