Microfiction Three Line Tales: Going home

Late with Sonya’s photo prompt this week.

photo by Brian Gaid via Unsplash


She kept her eyes fixed very firmly on the shamrock that winked at her from the wing tip.

They had all promised they would go back, two generations of them, and none had ever scraped together enough money for more than a quick visit, a love you and goodbye again, then back to the land of work and jobs and a scratched living.

They had all died with their faces turned into the sunset, their eyes full of tears, foreigners in a foreign land, but she would carry their longings with her—she was going home.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

18 thoughts on “Microfiction Three Line Tales: Going home”

    1. They had such a sense of drama too. Probably unconsciously. My mother’s father died at Morecambe because he was too ill to make the trip to Ireland. He claimed he could see the Dublin mountains from the beach.

      1. Course he could. Whether anyone else could, it depends. I don’t suppose your average punter digging in the sand ever even bothered to look. My grandma saw them. I would too now, I’m sure.

      2. My first husband worked as under-gardener at a private hospital in North London when he left school to fund his aspirations to be a world famous film writer and director. The Head Gardener was from Kerry. He commented often ‘if they burned you for a fool, Dominic, they’d find very wise ashes’. This makes total sense to me and I can only deduce that it’s the Irish bit that understands it because when I recant to the average English person they stare blankly at me.

      3. I’m sure that’s right. The old bugger also used to pee on the tomatoes and then present them with a sweet smile to the Matron who was his nemesis, claiming he had washed it very particularly for her …. why bother with snide insults when you can have the joy of imagining a battle axe munching on a urinated tomato!

      4. That reminds me of the story Geoffrey Grigson tells about the curé of Trôo, a greedy bugger like many of our favourite curés de campagne. He asks the valet to fetch him a couple of pears from the tree, one for him, one for himelf. The valet peels his, the curé gobs his peel and all. He reproaches the valet for his wastefulness to which the valet retorts that on the way back into the house he dropped one of the pears in a pile of sheep muck and he couldn’t remember which one it was.

    1. Thank you 🙂 It’s a very strong impulse. Possibly strongest in the generations that saw their situation improve only marginally in some ways, and deteriorate in others.

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