Short story competition winners 

The students of Hartstown Community School Adult Education Creative Writing course have kindly shared some of their best Christmas short stories with Northside People.  

We enjoyed each of the very impressive stories, but our task was to pick a winner, and after much deliberation we decided on the following:  

Winner: The True Spirit of Christmas in the City of Joy by Moumita Paul.  

Second place: A Finglas Christmas, 1957, by Paul Murphy  

Third place: The Late Shift by Rebecca Lydon   

Here are three stories:

The True Spirit of Christmas in the City of joy by Moumita Paul 

It was a beautiful Christmas evening in the City of Joy, Kolkata.  

The Indian winter was pleasantly cool and the entire city was shimmering like a newlywed bride and adorned with enchanting Christmas lights at every corner.  

In front of the churches, throngs of people gathered, including local Hindus.  

I marvelled at how beautifully a predominantly Hindu country could celebrate Christmas, embracing different communities under the canopy of shared joy.   

I am an Irish nurse and my name is Ivy.  

I travelled all the way from Ireland to visit a friend and to witness the Indian Christmas.  

I had heard a lot about Park Street, the heart of the city, which transforms into a mesmerising wonderland during Christmas.  

Eager to experience Park Street firsthand, I booked a cab.  

The driver spoke to me in clear English, pointing out different streets and sharing their histories, much like a tour guide.  

Perhaps it was my jet lag, or the festive atmosphere, but I found the entire experience fascinating and addictive.  

When we reached Park Street it was illuminated with Christmas lights, filled with music, and lined with amazing restaurants.  

The streets were crowded with millions of people.  

I could never have imagined how the Christmas spirit could be so vibrant and unreal in India.  

The driver received a call on his phone.  

He panicked, abruptly turning the cab in the opposite direction and speeding off.  

I asked him if everything was alright.   

He looked distressed. “You mentioned you are a nurse. Can you please help me?”   

“Of course, I can,” I replied quietly.   

He drove like crazy through a few small lanes until we joined a wide road impressively lined on both sides with tall and luxurious 7-star hotels.  

He turned into a side lane behind one of them and drove to where the garbage bins were stored.  

He stopped, jumped out of the car and ran towards a group of kids.  

A small street girl lay on the road surrounded by the other children.  

They spoke to the cab driver in their language.  

I got out of the car and approached to check the girl’s condition.  

They told me she had fallen ill after eating leftover food from the hotel’s trash.  

I reassured the driver that her situation was not too bad and wrote down some medicines that she would need.  

He sped off while I stayed with the kids who spoke to me in their broken English.  

In all there were about twelve of them, they told me, all orphans.  

And the person who looked after them – all of them – was my cab driver.  

I was amazed.  

All I could do was remove all the cash from my wallet and hand it to one of the kids, asking her to share it out among the others. For Christmas.  

Back in my hotel I felt emotional. I had experienced the spirit of Christmas – in Kolkata – and in a way I had never imagined, with a mix of joy and sorrow.  

The kindness and resilience of the cab driver, and of the children, had left a deep impression on me, reminding me of the true essence of Christmas – love, compassion, and the spirit of giving. 

A Finglas Christmas, 1957 by Paul Murphy

As I sit here thinking about what presents I am going to get for my grandchildren, I can’t help thinking of another Christmas.  

 I was 12 years old at the time.

Two older brothers and my sister were coming home for Christmas.  

My father had gone to collect them from the B&I ferry.  

In all we were a family of ten: six boys, two girls, and my father and mother.  

There was a lot of excitement as we would be together as a family again.  

 My mother was in the kitchen preparing the Christmas dinner.

The ham was in the pot on the cooker and the turkey was only just out of the oven and sitting on a plate on the table, cooling.

The back door was open to let the steam out.  

 My mother was expecting the insurance man.  

Meanwhile, the neighbours next door had a big Alsatian dog named Champion that my mother had adopted.

She used to feed him scraps and they were very close. As usual, he was sleeping outside on the mat.   

There was a knock at the door. It was the insurance man.

My mother went to the door to pay him and then returned to the kitchen.   

That’s when I heard the scream. I ran in to see what all the fuss was about.

My mother had her hands on her head and was looking everywhere for the turkey.   

 “I was only gone a few minutes,” she said. “Where did the turkey go?”  

 Then she noticed the dog was gone.

“Champ must have taken it,” she said. “I will kill him if he has.”  

 We searched and called his name and got no reply.

Finally, my mother sat down and started to cry.

And at that moment the door opened.

My brothers and sister came in after being collected from the ferry. They enveloped my mother in their arms, so happy to see her.

We all sat down and the story came out: as they were driving up the road my father had nearly knocked down a large dog with something big in his mouth.  

After everything settled down my mother began to relax and see the funny side of it.

The family were all back together, there were a few drinks, all was good.

Christmas morning was wonderful, all the presents and all the stories.

That night the relatives arrived and the neighbours called in.

Some had heard about what happened and brought a few slices of turkey to help out with the Christmas dinner.

It wasn’t long before the sing-song started and a good time was had by all.

It was a wonderful Christmas for everybody. 

The Late Shift by Rebecca Leydon

The screen flickered.  

She blinked, jolted back to her current reality: positioned in front of a computer in an empty office on the 4th floor of an almost deserted building.  

The timer at the bottom of the monitor mocked her with its seeming inertia, showing a mere four minutes had passed since she’d last checked, and five hours yet to endure of the graveyard shift on the eve of Christmas eve.   

She felt herself drowning in self-pity.  

It was the fourth year in a row that her straw was the shortest and had landed her on the Christmas work roster, each year marking a further decline in her sense of festive cheer.  

Her attention drifted once more, lost in childhood memories of herself aged eight, nine, or ten, and just how much she had always looked forward to the Yuletide period.

She remembered the comforting aromas of freshly baked mince pies, straight from the oven and waiting to greet her as she arrived off the evening bus from school; the merriment had by all when decorating the family’s wonky Christmas tree; and the pure unadulterated excitement of waking up on the 25th of December to presents and treats and sitting around the television to enjoy all the annual favourites.   

When did Christmas become just another milestone to mark on the calendar and get over with before normal service could resume?

She lay the blame for her dissipated sense of wonder on the workplace and on the endless daily drudgery of adult life.

But she also questioned if perhaps the issue ran deeper.   

She turned away from her tinsel-adorned workspace, the bobblehead Santa parked beside her stapler, and looked out the window.   

From her vantage point four floors up she could see the throngs of people milling about the city centre in a frenzy of last-minute shopping and socialising.

The bitter chill in the air had clearly dissuaded no one from joining the crowds and enjoying the run-up to the big day.

She didn’t know if this enraged her or instilled in her some small sense of hope.

Although she struggled to feel any sense of excitement, her malaise was her own. It was fine for others to mill about in good spirits.  

Her shift ended, finally, and she logged out of Outlook for the final time in the calendar year.

She was now free until the New Year, her leave extending to January 7th as reward for working these last few days.

She made her way along the corridor, buttoning up her winter jacket and weaving a heavy woollen scarf around her neck as she stepped into the elevator.

It was empty, leaving her free to consider her reflection without judgment (or, rather, with only her own judgement).

She looked pale, wan and, frankly, sad, already dreading the crush of the evening commute as the city made its way home again.  

“Can I interest you in a ticket for our annual Santa fundraiser?”   

The young man looked so hopeful.

Her train wasn’t due for another six minutes, so she rooted around in her purse for the emergency five-euro note she knew was lodged between her library card and an expired gym ID.

She found it and handed it over.

There was a sudden blast of trumpets that ricocheted around the platform, followed swiftly by more instruments and she recognized the tune of ‘Last Christmas.’

Stunned, she turned back to the man who now sheepishly handed her a golden-hued envelope.

A round of applause broke out across the platform and she realised a crowd had formed, their cameras and mobiles clicking and flashing.   

“Congratulations!” beamed the young man who now seemed to be on autopilot.

“You are donor number 1,000 and you have just won an all expenses paid trip to the Big Apple for New Year’s!”  

She took the envelope, too shocked to fully absorb the message.

She had won something? And not just something, but a once-in-a-lifetime trip to America, all paid?

As the message started to sink in, her fellow commuters continued to clap and cheer, and the swell of the live band’s soaring notes filled the air.

She, too, could feel her own heart beginning to sing.

Her lens of darkness was now shifting somewhat, and her long buried but never quite forgotten seeds of festive cheer were fluttering up   

Maybe she was not a lost cause.

Maybe she could – and would – love Christmas again.