Reading the 1,500 entries for the Irish Times/Newstalk young writers' competition was a joy, writes Róisín Ingle, who was on the judging panel
GOD'S GIFTby Rory McConville, senior winner
It was the night before Christmas and God was veering dangerously close towards a mental breakdown. In less than three hours it was going to be his son's birthday and he had absolutely nothing for him. Now was the time for panicking.
High above the sleeping mortals, the Almighty paced nervously across the vast expanse of clouds that blanketed the world. His gleaming silver robes trailed behind him as he crossed over the top of Mount Everest. He cleared his mind and settled on the peak, entering a bubble of calmness.
His tranquillity was suddenly punctured as a Boeing 737 crashed through this soundless paradise, the hollowing roar of its engines almost knocking him from his perch.
Overflowing with frustration, God watched as the plane disappeared peacefully into the darkness, tempted to crash a lightning bolt through its wings. Instead, he began furiously ripping tufts of white hair from his head, only for each strand to regrow instantaneously. It was hopeless. His son literally had everything! Even gifts that hadn't been created yet.
God, as you may have guessed, didn't particularly like getting presents for people. Honestly, he abhorred it completely. He also had the tendency to overstep the mark. Case in point: once, just as a joke, he had actually gotten Jesus a life-size version of himself on the cross. That hadn't gone as well as planned. If only his son wasn't so immature.
It was his 2007th birthday and yet Jesus still insisted on acting like a 12-year-old who wanted the latest and greatest toy. The same high-pitched wail: "Where's my present?!?!?" The very thought made God want to dismantle all creation right there and then. It would be preferable to the awkward stares he'd get from everyone at the birthday party when he showed up with nothing more than a cake and a pat on the back.
All Jesus's friends would be there, too. His apostles. Bunch of punks, they always drank more than they should and rubbed their cigarette butts into the couch. Deliberately. Just to annoy him. Peter, in particular, was a complete head wrecker who blatantly stole things right under God's nose.
God cursed himself for coming up with Christmas in the first place. All he had wanted was an excuse to take a day off. If he'd known it would be this much trouble, he wouldn't have bothered.
Gazing out across the starry night, God sighed and turning his vision earthward, watched late-night shoppers scurry around like headless chickens, frantically snatching up any last-minute bargains. Lucky bastards. They thought they had it rough. Try living with the boy who not only had everything, but also never ever grew up.
Gathering his robes around him, he ruefully started on his way back to Heaven, resigned to his dismal fate. Now he knew why Santa and Mrs Claus never had children.
THE SANTA TRAPby Ruth Barr, junior winner
'Twas the night before Christmas, at about seven o'clock and the O'Dillian household were standing in the living room staring at the complicated array of strings and pulleys placed around the room. There are many customs associated with Christmas - putting up a Christmas tree for example, or kissing under the mistletoe. In this particular household there was also Dad's annual Santa trap.
Cassandra O'Dillian, a girl aged twelve and a half in years and about 1,200 in cynicism, broke the stunned silence with the words "Okay, someone remind me why this man is not at this minute being dragged away by men in white coats." Mrs O'Dillian smiled weakly. "It looks very . . . complicated. How does it work?" Mrs O'Dillian had not been Mrs O'Dillian for 15 years without learning to take a great many things in her stride.
"You see this string here?" asked Mr O'Dillian. Everyone nodded. Yes, they saw the string. "It's a trip wire. Santa triggers the wire on his way to the mince pies. That pulls this lever which in turn drops this cage right on top of him. It then sets off this alarm in my bedroom, so I can go down find out why Santa never gave me that spinning top I wanted."
His family looked at him in despair. It wasn't as if this was anything new. There had been the man trap under the chimney last year and the giant net the year before. In fact, every single year, ever since that morning 35 years ago when a five-year-old Mr O'Dillian woke up to find his stocking tragically spinning-top-less, Christmas after Christmas had brought trap after trap after trap. Needless to say, none had ever worked.
Cassandra sighed. "Assuming Santa Claus does exist . . ." Cassandra had long ago given up trying to convince her father otherwise. "Just assuming for a second that he does, do you not think he'll notice about 600 wires all over the place?" Mr O'Dillian grinned. "Ah, you'd think so, but I told him in my Christmas letter we were renovating so there might be a few wires lying around."
Cassandra gave up. "I'm going to bed. Call me if you need me." She started up the stairs then turned around and looked at her father. "Don't need me." At around three o'clock the next morning an alarm wailed through the house. Cassandra groaned. She got out of bed and stumbled sleepily down the stairs and into the living room. There was a cage in the middle of the room which contained a whole lot of emptiness and not much else. All their stockings were bulging.
Just as they were all heading back to bed in disgust, Mr O'Dillian noticed a small package on the floor. There was a note attached. It read: Dear Mr O'Dillian, I found this in the bottom of my sleigh. Must have fallen out of the sack. Dreadfully sorry. Yours truly, S. Claus.
They opened the packet. It was a bright yellow spinning top.