A Story of the Other Side
The Ballykillduff Breach: A Story of the Other Side
It began, as all strange tales from Ballykillduff do, with something entirely ordinary.
Mrs. Kitty Donohoe had gone out to hang her washing.
It was a breezy Tuesday morning—brisk, with a sky the colour of an old milk bottle and the smell of turf fires drifting lazily over the hedgerows. Kitty, who had lived in Ballykillduff since before anyone remembered it was even called Ballykillduff, stepped into her back garden with a wicker basket and a peg bag around her waist, humming the tune to The Fields of Athenry.
But as she reached to hang her husband’s massive corduroy trousers—thick as an ox and twice as heavy—she noticed something peculiar.
There were two suns in the sky.
One, the usual old fellow, was low in the east, doing its best to rise over the Killybawn Hill. The second, however, was smaller, paler, and bobbing slightly to the right, like it had lost its way and ended up in the wrong sky.
“Well now,” said Kitty. “That’s not usual.”
She went back inside, made a cup of tea, and by the time she returned, the second sun was gone. But the breeze smelled faintly of oranges—and no one in Ballykillduff had grown citrus fruit since the Great Lemon Incident of 1972.
That’s when it started.
Part One: The Ripple
Father Mullarkey noticed it next. During his Wednesday mass, he paused in the middle of the “Lamb of God” to sniff the air and declare:
“Why does it smell of toast?”
Old man Clancy muttered, “Because you forgot your breakfast again, Father,” but that didn’t explain the way the crucifix behind the altar began to shimmer—like it was underwater.
The townsfolk began spotting oddities: sheep standing on their hind legs reciting poetry, puddles that reflected things that weren’t there (Mrs. Byrne swore hers showed a shopping mall where her dahlias should have been), and letters delivered before they were posted.
No one panicked, of course. This was Ballykillduff. They’d survived the Upside-Down Tuesday of 1986, and the week the scarecrows refused to work due to “unfair hay rates.” But even by local standards, this was peculiar.
Part Two: The Mirror Bally
Enter Derry McGlenn, Ballykillduff’s self-appointed historian, conspiracy theorist, and collector of slightly haunted objects.
“It’s a breach,” he declared, storming into the pub one evening with a battered folder of clippings and a pocket radio tuned to static. “A soft spot between realities. We’re leaking into our counterpart—Mirror Bally.”
“Mirror Bally?” asked Seamus behind the bar. “Is that the one where I remembered to take the bins out this morning?”
“No,” said Derry, lowering his voice. “It’s the one where you don’t exist. Or you do, but you’re made of glass and run a fishmonger’s in space.”
This did little to ease tensions.
Soon, more signs emerged. The school clock ran backwards but still told the correct time. Road signs blinked Morse code in ancient Greek. Cats began walking in slow motion, only to speed up when no one was watching. Miss O’Shea’s donkey, Beelzebub, developed the power of limited speech (he mostly discussed carrots and his views on taxation).
Part Three: The Department Arrives
Naturally, the Department of Anomalous Affairs took an interest.
A sleek, green-black van rolled into town with a quiet hum and parked beside the community hall. Out stepped a man in a beige trench coat and a woman in a lab coat embroidered with the phrase Reality Is Optional.
“Lovely weather,” said the woman, handing out business cards made of vaporised fog.
“We’re just here to monitor the leakage,” said the man, tapping on a clipboard that floated half an inch above his hand. “No need for alarm.”
“What sort of leakage?” Kitty Donohoe asked.
“The kind that swaps realities like a magician swaps playing cards.”
When she returned home, Kitty found the inside of her house had rearranged itself. Her fridge now dispensed hot chocolate instead of ice. The wallpaper changed daily—on Tuesdays, it showed migrating wildebeest.
Part Four: Crossing Over
The breach widened.
One morning, the people of Ballykillduff woke up to find that the entire village was duplicated on the opposite side of the river. Not reflected—duplicated. There were two pubs, two post offices, two Gertie Faheys (though one had violet eyes and spoke only in riddles), and even two parish priests.
Father Mullarkey met himself at the altar and politely offered him a turn at the sermon. They argued about which one should handle confession that week, and eventually compromised by rotating daily.
The Mirror Bally people were much the same—but subtly different. Their jam tasted of cloves. Their weather came in cubes. Their version of Beelzebub the donkey wore glasses and taught philosophy.
After a brief village meeting (chaired by both versions of Kitty Donohoe), it was agreed that both Ballys would coexist peacefully, provided no one tried to marry their own alternate.
Part Five: The Festival of Both Sides
To celebrate the new duality, the Ballykillduffs hosted the first Festival of Both Sides. There were mirror-dancing competitions (won by a child who could walk backwards through walls), a shared céilí where partners swapped realities mid-jig, and a fireworks display using stars borrowed from the Mirror Sky.
The highlight was the unveiling of the Monument to the Breach—a large, floating mirror framed in turf, garlic, and pub receipts. It reflected your best self—or your worst—depending on which side you approached it from.
Epilogue: Still Leaking
To this day, Ballykillduff remains twinned with its alternate. Some mornings you wake up and your socks are already on your feet. Some evenings, you find your cat reading a book about you.
The Department still visits from time to time, mostly to conduct “routine paradox recalibration.”
As for Kitty Donohoe? She’s perfectly fine with it all. She gets two birthdays now, after all—and on clear days, she still hangs the washing beneath two suns, humming her tune as the breeze rustles in from both realities at once.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 