Happy Monday!

I’m pleased and excited to announce that Wild Atlantic Writing Awards in Ireland named me as a finalist in their recent flash fiction contest with the theme word of “HOPE”. Contestants were asked to write a very short piece on the theme, but without using the word “hope” more than once.

Here is my interview with them, followed by my flash fiction piece as published on their site. You will also find this piece on my new Substack - www.rosemarymcguireberry.substack.com, and on my blog www.irishmomwriter.blogspot.com, where you may read more of my writing. I hope you enjoy this short excursion into fiction!

Married with two daughters, Rosemary McGuire Berry, in her early 50s, was named a finalist in the flash fiction category with her story ‘Glistening Lights.’

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Q: Tell us about your life.

A: I’m from Connecticut, descended from Irish immigrants who settled in the area, and I now live in Colorado. I've been writing since I was twelve years old and have been a newspaper journalist, a flight attendant, a library assistant and a bookstore liaison with authors. Now I homeschool my daughters and write part-time for WifeSavers. I am currently seeking a publisher for my mystery novel, ‘High Expectations,’ and my inspirational nonfiction on the Saints and their temperaments will be published in Winter, 2024 by TAN Books.

Q: How did the idea for ‘Glistening Lights’ emerge?

A: Your contest theme really spoke to me and I was excited to share the message of hope. In today's crazy world, we often feel our hope slipping away. I looked at the website several times before deciding to enter but the theme kept returning to my mind. I sat down with my laptop to see what happened and the words just flowed.

My friend is writing a series of books on miscarriage and infertility grief and it made me think of my own journey to motherhood and the travails of so many women I know. As I thought of the progression from pain to hope to joy, Mary and Joey's fictional story emerged.

Q: What were the main challenges you faced writing your story?

A: Completing a full story arc in such a brief space. I also had to be careful not to use the words hope, hopeful, or hopeless. I wanted the reader to connect with my protagonist and to make every word count. I had originally planned to use the word ‘hope’ in the title but in the end the Christmas lights were clearly a symbol of hope throughout the story so I used the lights in the title instead.

I revised my story about five times over the course of a week or so and shared it with a friend, using her feedback to enhance it.

Q: How do you feel about being named a finalist?

A: I am so excited and honored and feel a connection to my literary brothers and sisters in my beloved ancestral homeland of Ireland.

Glistening Lights

by Rosemary McGuire Berry

She clutched at the front of her shirt where the pain throbbed, trying to ease the tightness and heartache that filled her chest cavity. She had exposed her heart again, and for what? Despairing tears flowed.

Ever since she was two years old playing with her doll 'Rosie-Anna,' she had wanted to be a mommy. At 37, after fifteen years of infertility, she and her husband had turned to the potential of parenthood through adoption. But time and again, they had applied to agencies, filled out football fields of paperwork, and spent thousands, only to be told that the adoptions had failed.

“Why? Why?” she wailed, falling to her knees beside the bed. “Why this unbearable longing, this ache in my heart for a child I’ve never seen, I’ve never known? Why did God give me this desire only to deny it?”

Her mobile rang. She snatched it, thinking to throw it across the room, but saw her sister’s name on the screen. She slid her finger across it to answer.

“It’s hopeless,” she sobbed. “It will never happen.”

Her sister made comforting clucks. There were words mixed in, but she didn’t hear them. After a while, she murmured in closure, and disconnected. Then she flung the phone against the wall.

Christmas lights were blinking and sparkling on the homes along her street, and as the room grew darker, the lights outside grew brighter and beckoned.

She dreaded Christmas. It meant a Baby. It meant the joy of a Baby’s coming. A joy she would never feel. A light that for her was fading, perhaps to be quenched forever.

Crawling over to the window, she dropped the blinds with a bang so she wouldn’t have to see the lights. They meant joy and expectation for everyone else.

Soon her husband would be home from work, and he would find her lying on the floor, again. How many times was this? 15? 20? 30? How many more times could she put her heart and soul into the application and birth mother letter, only to be rejected, often by a pregnant teenager? If she got much older, she’d have no chance at all. Who would choose a middle-aged mother?

Her mobile rang again. Moaning, she groped along the baseboard, following the phone’s dull glowing light. Her husband was calling. She couldn’t bear to tell him, but he’d have to know.

“Joey!” she sobbed incoherently into the speaker. “It will never happen!”

“Listen to me,” he said urgently. “You know Salvador here at work? He just pulled me aside and told me his sister-in-law is pregnant. She wants to place the baby for adoption. She wants us, Mary. Can you hear me? Mary, are you there?”

She dragged herself up to her knees, and lifted the window blinds, just a tiny bit. Sparkling lights reflected on the teardrops rolling down her cheeks, and shone.

“Yes. I’m here,” she said.