Teri Donaghy - Issue 36

Teri Donaghy is an academic and creative writer, living in North County Dublin. Her academic publications focus on her scientific research in the areas of atmospheric and environmental chemistry and education in Science. She is also a professional member of the Irish Writers Centre. A creative project – Daffodils, A Short Play, was published online during the pandemic in 2020. In 2024 she expanded her creative portfolio by publishing a short fiction piece titled The Meeting in the journal The Storms, Issue IV. Also in that year, she was awarded a place on The Northern Soul Roadshow by the Irish Writers Centre and the CASHEW Research project in the University of Limerick. In 2025 she was both selected for the Irish Writers Centre National Mentoring Program in June, and was a bursary recipient for the John Hewitt International Summer School in July. Her current creative writing projects focus on completing her historical fiction novel set in 1970s Northern Ireland as well as writing short stories where her characters face challenges of their time.

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Slippery Slope

The pain in her head was intense. She squeezed her eyes to see if that helped. She wondered if her head exploded, here, on the street would she make the evening news. She felt sorry for the shop keeper who would have to scrape her brains off their window and maybe the bus stop opposite. No chance her brains would direct themselves into the blue waste bin. Exploding heads were not tidy, that she was sure of.

She couldn’t pinpoint when the pain started. Yesterday had been an unusual day in that it wasn’t the normal Sunday. Things had started to slide when her husband locked her out of the house. By mistake, of course.

Earlier he mumbled a verbal list. Things To Do hung in the air including the work he needed to complete in advance of his trip and black socks. Christmas socks wouldn’t do for a sales meeting - in February. Tesco on a Sunday was sure to be quiet so he’d go there.

There was no joining the dots in his head between her going for a walk and him going to Tesco for socks until she got back to find the back door locked. A quick phone call, pointing out that her car keys were hanging at the back door and did he not see them precipitated his speedy arrival home. She used the time well, testing the washing on the line to see if there was any reduction in dampness and doing her heel raises at the back door step, out of sight of the neighbours in case they asked her in. it was no problem she had said when he barrelled around the corner, Tesco bag in hand.

She made a delicious, healthy lunch for them both. A rare thing before the Sunday roast diner.

After the roast was in the oven and the kitchen tidied, she decided on a shower. Shivering in her towel, the water temperature changed from tepid to cold. A further slide down the slippery slope. She wore a hat to hide her hair, explaining the water was freezing in response to his raised eyebrows.

Dinner was nice. Beef cubes slow cooked in red wine gravy, boiled potatoes and carrots. A satisfying collation indeed. Other than eating Sunday evening dinner wearing a woolly hat, life was OK.

The third and final slide was the missing hob nobs.

Mindless eating in her house was a thing. Cake, biscuits, chocolate, never fruit, were inhaled without thought of time of day or ownership. She was reduced to hiding the hobnobs in her office cupboard. Thinking there were four and finding only two rendered her speechless. Standing in the middle of her kitchen, wrapper in hand she queried their absence.

Apparently, declining a biscuit at the time of offer was not a hard no. Instead it was not just now and if I fancy one later I will help myself. Thanks.

Plucking up the courage an hour or so later asking are you cross with me? turned the key in the lock of her patience.

A vented head must fill with something. Today it was pain.