MICHAEL BURKE

Hailing from the Drumlin County of Monaghan, I have always been drawn to the myths and legends of antiquity. It seemed a natural subject to use as the basis of my writing. In my work I have endeavoured to reimagine well-known myths ranging in location from the British Isles to Japan, through both short stories and poetry and retelling tales from the perspective of the marginalised characters in these sagas. These characters are also the subjects of much of my poetry.

Working with myths, I was drawing upon the similarities or common themes that appeared between different the legends, particularly death and imprisonment. I hope to provide a different perspective on these common tropes, by providing both a contemporary view and setting.

Woes Of The Bull

My name bears the curse of my birth, heralding my status as a halfbreed and prisoner.

I have only ever known the Labyrinth. A ghastly place which I’m confined to forever.

Never have I felt the sun on my flesh, nor known any kindness, just the carved cold stone.

Others come into the domain of my torment, but they do not last. Only I remain alone.

Their screams and cries disquiet me. They raise spectres of the horror that was my youth.

Assaulted by these memories, control slips. Goring them on horn and break them under hoof.

Upon seeing the carnage, I have perpetrated. One is made to wonder if this is where I belong.

Red is all my bestial mind sees, all that can soothe me is the memory or dream of a song.

Woes of the Bull

I turn around and the ghost girl is standing in front of me. She has muted auburn brown hair pulled into a ponytail and dead brown eyes. Denim jeans and a leather jacket over which I can see is the collar of a white t-shirt. She stands with a hand on her hip, assessing me assess her. I imagine we look like two boxers, facing-off in the ring. We’re not exactly toe-to-toe, but close enough that all my hair stands on end being near the spirit. A small voice in my head tells me I’m being reckless. Stomping around, calling out a ghost, whose temperament I know nothing about. I could be getting myself into trouble. Eventually I break the silence,

“Well… do you talk?”

The ghost looks a little shocked, though I can’t imagine why since I’ve been staring at her for over a minute.

“You can see me? Hear me?” Her voice sounds scratchy, like it’s been unused for a while.

I roll my eyes, “No shit Sherlock.” She huffs and clenches her fists. Then she walks right through me.

Bitch. I grab the door frame to steady myself. I’ve only experienced it a few times, my balance always thrown off-centre by the strange feeling. It’s like when you dive into the cold water of a swimming pool in summer except instead of you going through the water, the water goes through you.

“Thanks for that, I always enjoy a ghost passing through my body.”

I have been working on a novel Cailleach Dhearg, or Red Witch, that tells the story of Poppy, an Irish girl who has seen ghosts her whole life and the events that transpire when she and her father move to a new town.

I am drawn towards the ghost story, which has a long tradition in Ireland. Ghosts are liminal entities; they reside on our plane of existence but don’t fit in here. Teenagers are not dissimilar, stuck between stages, not children but not yet adults, often marginalised or invisible.

Usually my work is character driven, but as I’ve developed this murder-mystery, the plot is becoming more central. As I continue to work, I realise now the extent to which I have to create complex storylines, which is both daunting and thrilling.

Having grown up spending every free afternoon and weekend in the cinema, film quickly became the medium I wanted to tell stories through. So, I became an actor, working in film and television, and aspired to eventually write and direct my own films. I have spent the past three years honing my voice and discovering the stories that I want to tell, stories that focus on the female experience. When I started writing I didn’t explicitly plan to focus on female stories but every story I started soon morphed into a story about women. A short story that began as the tale of a blind date became a story about the friendships formed in the girls’ bathrooms. Another that started as a disjointed description of emotions became the story of a fissured mother-daughter relationship. I’m inspired by writer/ directors like Nicole Holofcener and Gillian Robespierre; I love quiet, character-driven films, and that’s what I tend to write. My television series One Day You’ll Thank Me explores the relationship between a mother and daughter and my film Everything Is Fine explores the relationship between sisters.

Grace walks out of the toilet block towards a red minivan. Beside the open driver’s door stands FRANK (60s), Grace’s easy-going dad. He’s still donning the killer safari-hat/ cargos combo, along with a t-shirt that reads ‘you don’t scare me, I have daughters’

He’s chatting and joking with another dad in cargos he met five minutes ago.

FRANK (to the man)

My eldest. (then) What happened? Did you fall down the toilet?

Grace forces a smile and waves as she goes to the car.

INT. CAR - DAY

Grace climbs into the passenger seat. Immediately too hot, she rolls down the window and fans herself. Frank finishes up his conversation and hops in behind the wheel.

FRANK Right, we all set?

Grace nods.

EXT. CAR - DAY

The car drives through the French countryside.

INT. CAR - DAY

Inside the car, Frank and Grace sit in silence. Until -

GRACE You know, I would have gotten a taxi -

FRANK - don’t be silly. Besides it got me away from your mother. She’s on the war path.

Grace smiles.

GRACE Already?

FRANK Made the mistake of trusting the GPS directions over hers you know what she’s like. She’ll have cooled off by the time we’re back.

Frank reaches over and pats Grace on the knee.

FRANK Great to see you sweetheart.

GRACE Thanks, Dad.

She shifts in her seat and turns to look out the window.

GRACES POV FROM WINDOW - A campsite comes into view. A large wooden sign reads 'CAMPING MAYOTTE’