John Armstrong - Shortlist for RTE Short Story Competition

Elder son John is going from strength to strength with his writing. One of his short stories features in the latest edition of Howl - New Irish Writing and he was down south on Friday to promote that and to read from his story as part of the Cork International Short Story Festival.

As you may recall, he won the Wild Atlantic Words Short Story Competition last year. 

Now he is on the shortlist for the RTE Short Story Competition in honour of Francis McManus. His story will be read by Andrew Bennett  on RTE Radio 1 at 11.20pm on Monday 26 October and he will also be on the Arena Arts Programme to discuss the work either this week or next week. (Update this when you know, Ken).  Awards night is on 30th October. 

John has an M.Phil. in Irish Writing from Trinity College, Dublin so he knows his stuff. I would describe his writing as Modern Irish Gothic but what do I know?

His shortlisted story, Inertia, is on the RTE Culture website now, along with the other nine stories. Here's a link to it, in case you fancy a look.

RTE/Culture

Rock on, John. 

A Post for Emily Suess 1980 - 2026

I hadn’t checked in on Emily Suess for a surprising number of months.

Usually, I would see her stuff pop up on Facebook and I’d always look in on it and give it a like. But I’d had my own fish to fry in the early part of the year and I hadn’t really been doing well with keeping in touch with anyone at all. It got as far as last week before it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Emily post or update or share anything in a long while.

So I checked in, somewhat apprehensively I have to say.

The last update Emily had posted was dated 11th May 2026. It simply said, “I’m entering hospice.” In increasing dismay, I looked a little further. It didn’t take long to find confirmation of what I had feared I might find.

Emily Ann Suess, 46, of Edwardsville, IL, died on May 14, 2026. She was born on March 4^th, 1980, in Princeton, Indiana. She was a loving daughter, sister, and friend. She will truly be missed by all who knew and loved her.

I was very sad to learn that Emily has passed away. I have never met her. I have never even spoken to her. But she blogged. And I blogged. And, of course, many others blogged too, but there was one small difference, perhaps, between myself and Emily and most of the other bloggers we ran into along the way.

We never stopped.

I started blogging in or around 2007, with the current blog first taking shape in January of 2008. There were a lot of bloggers back then and there were various ways in which they interacted and socialised a little online. One such endeavour was called Entrecard. No longer in existence, this was a rather quaint blogger network where users ‘dropped cards’ on each other’s blogs when they visited and thus earned points which allowed them to advertise their wares on other people’s blogs. Lots of people were there. Jim Murdoch - who has generously commented on practically every blog I’ve ever writen – was there. Celtophilia Mike was there. Acadia Einstein was there... lots of people were there.

At that time, Emily was in University. She was building a career and a life and her blog reflected it all with humour, determination, and great writing style. Then, in or around 2014, she started to have health issues which, at the time, I believe were misunderstood to be related to fibromyalgia.

In 2017, she was diagnosed with a very, very serious illness. Ever since then, she has used her social media muscle to champion her treatment, her mental health, her creativity, her refusal to ever quit, and her unbelievable strength and humanity. Her recording of her health journey is perhaps one of the most detailed and unflinching accounts of what our friends and family may go through when illness comes to call and refuses to ever leave again. Her telling of her story was personal and involving but never indulgent and never-ever relenting.

Emily may have left this world but her spirit will live on among the vapour trails of the Internet world where she told her story with grace and truth. Blogging platforms may fall and websites may become defunct but somewhere in the digital history of the world her words and her thoughts will remain imprinted, brilliantly set down, and they will remain, somewhere, forever.

Emily was many things to many people. Of that I have no doubt. To me, she was a Writer, through-and-through. A Brave Writer. And she never stopped. Even when the driver was at her door, ready to take her on the final part of her journey. She still turned one final time to her keyboard, her computer, and she wrote one final update.

“I’m entering hospice.”

I will check in on your posts now and again, Emily, and remind myself how amazingly well you set it all down. I send my kindest regards to all your family and friends, and I offer my sincerest condolences to them.

But I won’t be trying to send this post to any of them personally in any way. Instead, I will just do what I feel is most appropriate for Emily. I will post this on to my blog and let it go where it will and be seen by whoever may come upon it.

I mean, isn’t that what we bloggers do? We launch our virtual messages-in-a bottle, onto the ocean of the Internet, never knowing which way they may travel or upon which shore they may land.

And we hope for the best.

 

For Emily Suess 1980 – 2026

Theatrical Healing

One small worry I have is that I might write the same blog every year at the end of another great play run. Thanking everyone. Reiterating how damned lucky I am to get to do what I do.

This year’s new play, ‘Achill Sound’, has provided perhaps the best and most vivid experiences of all the plays, and I do want to thank everyone who made that happen. You know who you are and, at this stage, I think you have a fair idea of what it all means to me. So, bottom-of-my heart-stuff, thank you!

One interesting difference this year was a level of gentle concern for me that I sensed now and again. With my GBS recovery, I can put up a good show practically all of the time but, as the evening rehearsal draws towards a close, some of the peripherals seem to catch up with me.

“Are you limping?” A concerned cast member might ask, “Are you okay?”

It’s true that, by that stage, my legs have stiffened up a little from sitting too long and my hands and feet are buzzing a little more than they usually do. I might find myself asking myself, “Is it real, this gimping around, or am I putting it on?” I actually know it’s real and I know that I’m not putting it on, but the little taunting voice lingers, “Cut that out. Walk right, you fool.”

And so, along the way, there was an occasional quiet query which was gently emanating from some of my very best friends, more than one of them, more than two, more than three. “Are you perhaps doing too much? Are you maybe wearing yourself out?”

The answer – my answer – is twofold. The first part is ‘Yes. Perhaps, I am. I’ve pushed things a bit, burned my metaphorical candle at both metaphorical ends. It’s almost unarguable. But it’s the second part of my answer that counts most for me. It goes something like this: "What else is there to do?"

When I was laid up, I promised myself I would do whatever I could when I got back to strength. This gentle/slightly excessive pushing of the envelope is exactly what I need to make myself feel well and help myself get better and better.

And this experience, this ‘Achill Sound’ theatrical experience, has been the most healing thing of all. The wonderful people who give so much time, energy, and emotion to the endeavour. The lovely evenings and weekends, meeting up with good friends to work it all out. Mocking up a set, watching Kenn the Director blocking out an argument or a fight, laughing, joking, but always working hard at it all.

It’s hard, it wears me out. But it’s just… healing. I can feel it, in my hands and in my feet and in my general demeanour. It actually heals me. It turns out that Theatre is healing. Who knew?

Until next time, guys and gals. Thank you very much for riding the rollercoaster with me.

I may get a bit weary, but I’ll never want off.

K  x