Budding young Carroll College writer, Emma Penberthy (Year 10), was recently acknowledged in the Eurobodalla Mayoral Writing Competition, being awarded overall second place in the Year 9/10 category. Her short story narrative, Tales of Irony, cleverly explores urban themes through the perspective of a jaded bartender.

Emma’s story is included below for your reading pleasure.

Tales of Irony 

I’ve heard it all. The drunken tales of breakups, tragedies, sports bets, health issues and all kinds of other stories. I’ve become quite accustomed to these usual tales being told at the bar. As I poured out another shot and slid it across to one of the regulars, I surveyed the room. The usual group of loud punters at the back of the room hollered at a mate who lost his bet on his horse. I glanced across to a group of youths challenging each other to a drinking competition while the others film the young male downing cocktails. 

I grabbed a glass and polished it swiftly, taking advantage of the lack of customers while time allowed me to. Ducking my head down, I delicately placed the glass below the bench. When I popped my head up, a man in his forties stood directly in front of me. A serious, reclusive expression adorned his face as he placidly sat down. He demanded a scotch in a low, hoarse sounding voice. As I passed it to him, I eyed him discreetly. Something about him struck me as different from the average customer for some unknown reason. Then the tale begins. This one seemed fairly typical: the man was late to work in the morning and therefore was given an arduous task by his boss as punishment. Once he finished his rant, he simply downed his scotch, sharply arose from his stool and marched out of the establishment. I was unable to slide a single word into the tirade as a means of being polite which left me in a state of befuddlement from the momentary meeting and rudeness experienced from the strange man. 

The day that ensued began like every other: a routine gym session and lunch with my partner. As I departed the café, I felt completely at ease, until an expeditious glimpse of my watch changed this feeling. I was going to be late to work. I was never late. I felt stress gradually bubbling to the surface as I dashed to my car. Every second taken to open the car door, click my seatbelt in and ease my foot off the clutch appeared to be the longest seconds of my life. I powered through the streets, praying for all of the traffic lights to be green. Sadly, these prayers were not answered with every light turning red before I reached them. Anxiety tore me away from the state of relaxation experienced minutes before as every agonising second spent waiting at lights threatened to pull me into a state of utter panic. 

Pulling into the car park behind my workplace, I sprinted through the back doors. As I pushed them open, my hopeful heart sank. My boss stood there, arms folded with a disappointed stare to match his body language. He merely gestured to the clock and then to the crates of alcohol that sat by the back door and left without a word. I sighed and began the laborious job of shifting the new stock into the storage room. My muscles screamed from the exertion, worsened by the weight lifting this morning. My arms felt like jelly when I finally completed the vigorous task. 

I was soon back to being a bartender, observing the punters, young, old and down-and-out. When the doors swung open, the strange man appeared, sauntering directly towards me. A smile crept across my face as I offered a polite greeting, only to be met with a demand for a scotch. As I filled the glass, he proceeded to divulge a new tale. This one had a depressing tone to it. His shoulders slumped, he monotonously recounted his partner leaving him when he walked through the door of his house after finishing a long day at work. He closed his eyes and spoke of the pain of witnessing the love of his life pick up her suitcases and march out the door. His face, which was beyond his years, was contorted with affliction. Seconds after, his eyes opened and he downed his scotch, shuffling out the door without another word. Once again, I was left in a state of confusion over his behaviour. 

I slowly drove home, my body twisted with mental and physical exhaustion from the day’s punishment. I ambled up to the front door, keys jiggling as I lethargically unlocked the door. I nudged the door open and there stood my partner Amber in all of her beauty and grace. My face fell as I became aware of the pile of suitcases sitting next to her. The blood drained from my face as I locked eyes with her angry, hurt gaze. My heart felt as if someone was squeezing it far too tight as she complained about the lack of commitment and the insufficient time spent with her. 

I felt utterly shattered as I helplessly watched her accelerate down the driveway. I sank to my knees in devastation. The image of the strange man from the bar returned to me as I felt the magic that the love of my life gave me slowly fade away. The uncanny similarities of the tales from the strange man dealt a cruel hand into the game of my life. 

I slump into the bar, the weight of yesterday’s events sitting heavily on my shoulders. I feel destroyed, as if life no longer matters to me after losing the one thing that brought me happiness. I yearn to give Amber a tight embrace, for her to tell me that this was all a mistake and that she still loves me. 

I take a seat and watch as my colleague makes his way towards me. I request a scotch without any greeting. Putting my hands to my head, I sigh deeply and ignore my co-worker’s questions about my depressive state. I hear a stool being dragged out beside me and as I turn my head, I am face-to-face with the strange man in his forties.

Emma Penberthy (Year 10)