Premier Writing aims to showcase the best poetry and short fiction by new and emerging Irish writers. This week’s short story is by Ethel Reynolds from Tipperary.
Short Story
Building Memories
Susan’s home sat in the gentle undulations of the South Tipperary countryside, with an untidy, almost-wild garden and an old wooden henhouse tucked into the back corner. Inside lived her three hens — Snowy, Snowdrop, and Rustie — each with a personality as bright as their feathers.
Snowy was soft and white as new-fallen snow, gentle and calm. Snowdrop had golden-brown speckles and a curious nature, always exploring. And Rustie, with feathers the color of autumn leaves, was the bossy one, always clucking as if she ran the whole garden.
Every holiday, Susan’s granddaughter Ella came to visit, her pink wellies splashing through muddy puddles as she ran down the garden path.
“Come on, Granny!” Ella called. “Let’s go and see the girls!”
Susan smiled at her granddaughter’s enthusiasm and followed at her own, slower pace.
The hens greeted them with cheerful clucks, running out to meet them, hoping for a tasty titbit. Rustie strutted proudly; Snowy fluffed her feathers; Snowdrop tilted her head as if to say hello.
Susan lifted the lid of the nesting box. Inside lay three perfect eggs, each a different shade of brown — from soft coffee to deep chocolate, smooth and warm in the straw.
“Oh, Granny, look at the colours!” said Ella in wonder. “They’re beautiful!”
“They are,” Susan smiled. “No two ever quite the same — just like our hens.”
Ella carefully placed an egg in Susan’s hand and carried one in each of her own. She walked slowly back to the kitchen, trying not to drop a single one. Soon, the smell of baking filled the air. Together they mixed flour, sugar, and butter. Ella insisted on adding a little cocoa powder to the flour — “to match the eggs,” she said — and Susan cracked the fresh eggs into the bowl.
Ella stirred until the batter shone, occasionally dipping her finger in to steal a little taste. “Rustie’s egg will make them extra tasty, I think,” she said with a grin.
When the buns came out of the oven, chocolaty and sweet, they sat by the window to eat. Outside, the hens pecked happily in the sunlight, clucking softly to one another.
“These are the best buns ever,” said Ella, licking a bit of icing from the corner of her mouth.
Susan smiled, watching her granddaughter’s happy face. Her mind wandered back over seventy years to a similar scene in the kitchen of her own childhood home. She could almost see her younger self, stirring and laughing in the warm, golden light.
“That’s because they were made with love — and with the finest eggs from three very special hens,” she said softly.
In the garden, Rustie gave a proud little cluck, as if she quite agreed. Alone in the gloom of the long nettles, a sleek fox watched and waited, unseen by the humans and hens alike.
*
About the author:
Ethel Reynolds is a retired educator living in South Tipperary.
Please see our Premier Writing page for details of how to submit your poetry or short fiction.
Loughtagalla Times 
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