‘The Berg’, by Richard Smyth

The One No One Else Can Read (Yet):

I know, I know, this is cheating – but sometimes you read a story that’s so good you want to simultaneously jump for joy and quietly give up writing, and this was one of those times. Smyth has known what he’s doing for a while. He’s a fantastically sharp nature writer, and a great short story writer (he was a finalist in last year’s Galley Beggar short story competition), and he gets Narrative Voice better than just about anybody – and in this story, the details of which I won’t give away unless anyone steals it, he combines all three.

It’s beautiful and funny and sad and daring AND YOU CAN’T READ IT YET. But hopefully you will soon…

Theres a Cormorant comeing by us off the larbord bow. A black and ragged looking Bird flying bearly above the waive tops. Like somone threw a hand rake. Devilish harty apetites they have. There was a pickture of a Cormorant in a boke I had as a boy. The boke was Millton I beleive and was an Alegory but weather the Cormorant was Christ or the devil I cant recal.

The Penguine makes a croke.

Hallo I say.

The pore thing chafes at its chane.

He is the propety of our Biscayan a fello named Ineko or similar who got him in New-found-land while hunting Whales he sayes. The Penguine is as big as a goos tho’ like all of us he is Thin. He has the look of a Gillimotte such as we see at Flamboro’. Black and wite and a beke like a Cleaver. He doesnt have a Name. He is onlie the Penguine.