Outside My Room

Joe Duffy lives outside my room

In the hallway

So, I’ve been staring at this cup of plastic forks, and I’ve definitely been here too long. I know this because some guy comes to clear his tray and looks at me funny. I know he remembers seeing me when he got his cutlery. I should just take a fork, but they’re all prong side up.

His familiar voice booms through the walls And invades my headspace

Weekdays, from 1:45 pm

Talk to Joe

Until

And then comes the “Sorry s’cuse me”, this girl pushes past me to grab a plastic fork, she squeezes in knocking me back a step onto someone else’s foot and I’m like “Sorry so sorry”. I hate how crowded it is in this canteen, but maybe it just feels crowded because I haven’t been out in so long.

I feel like I can’t breathe as I watch this girl’s hand fumble at that couple of plastic forks. They’re all slotted together, huddled like sheep in the corner of a field. She finally grips one and pulls it out; puts it straight into her mouth; wipes her runny nose on her hand; then grabs a plastic knife. I am so glad I’m wearing a mask because I’ve never been able to hide my facial expressions. Anyway, she leaves and I’m still just staring at the cup of forks.

Why does this cup of plastic forks scare me?

I am afraid to die. The earth is slowly dying. It’s being choked to death slowly at the hands of the human race. I know it will take us with it when it goes. There is no escape. We’ll all die too. We’re all dying anyway.

I’ve been hearing lately that we ingest a credit card of micro-plastics every year and it’s estimated this amount will only continue to increase. I mean that’s terrifying - micro-plastics have even been found in human blood samples. I’m an awful person to even think to take a plastic fork.

But pollution has nothing to do with my fear of forks.

Then there’s these two other girls behind me, talking about what physics is.

‘I think I know, it’s like chemistry, right? But for the physical things?’ and the other one says,

‘I love how your mind works’.

Then they both laugh. But that wasn’t funny, was it? So, what are they laughing at?

They’re clearly laughing at me: this frozen statue of a person staring at a table of condiments and cutlery; a mask wearer amongst a sea of people breathing freely. I’m a mess, and somehow these two strangers know that.

My therapist would say this is the beginning of a spiral. Notice, acknowledge, and let it pass. I’ve gone wrong and I need to change the conversation with myself.

I am out of the house today. I have attended my first day at college. I have succeeded today. I did the thing. I did the thing and so this little upset is okay because I did the big thing.

I still need a fork to eat my salad. I definitely won’t be taking a metal one. I’ve no idea if they’re cleaned properly or… what if I was to take one that fell on the ground, and they just put it back in the…?

I wonder if they wash their hands, the people who put the clean cutlery out. I mean I’m sure they do, but what if they don’t? What if… Shake the thought away. Shake it away.

Someone next to me is looking at me like I am… insane. They’re right of course, but it still hurts.

I say, ‘Sorry. Just the shivers you know?’ But they very clearly don’t know. Their eyes dart about a bit before they just nod.

They hurry away, leaving me here, with my mind. And the forks.

My stomach is growling now. Loudly. So embarrassing. I’ve used two straws as chopsticks before… I can do it again. I’m glad I’m finally parting ways with the cutlery table. I’ll go to the other coffee place too. I’ll feel less idiotic asking there.

‘Could I have two straws?’ I didn’t even say hi, I’m rude, but like… I’m on a mission.

‘What?’

‘Two straws right there.’ I’m pointing at the sealed cardboard straws behind him.

‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Uhm. No. Just… Just the straws please.’ I’m such a bitch. ‘And an americano, sorry’.

I’ll concentrate on something random, while he makes the coffee, like that cloth under the machine. I can smell the damp, rotten milk and stagnant water. No, I can’t smell it from here. I’m so stupid.

I already know I won’t even try to drink the americano. The fact I’m trying to eat is a huge deal. My coffee is on the counter, and he turns, his hand reaching upward. My shoulders… they’re relaxing a bit… this is the home stretch… we are good… I can eat… where is his hand going? He’s passed the sealed straws.

Breathe.

He is giving me two loose plastic straws.

My chest is burning, my heart hammering in my ears and I feel sick. I feel so sick.

I’m so hungry. No, it’s fine, I’ll deal with…

He just grabbed the other end of the straws with his opposite hand. Like what is this?! Is he in my head and trying to…?

Both sides have been touched. And my eyes are burning. Just pay, I didn’t even hear him tell me the price. My card won’t tap. I’m fr-frantic. I’m shaking. Calm down.

‘Are you okay?’

I have no oxygen left in my lungs to answer. My payment is authorised. Go, go, go.

I feel so bad, incredibly bad for leaving the americano, that I never even wanted, sitting on the counter.

I’ll just go to the car. Why did I even get this salad? No utensils to eat it. I can’t eat with my hands. I can’t. No amount of therapy has changed that. Clearly, no amount of therapy has changed anything. I should eat it right from the bowl like a dog. Like the dog I am. Not even strong enough to hold in my tears anymore. What a failure! This isn’t that great first day I thought it would be… The day I met my new class and felt like I could finally belong somewhere.

No, instead it will be the day that I freaked out and cried over plastic forks.

by Kate Dowling

There’s a rhythmic delicacy to these sketches projecting from my circulatory system, fascinating for a first-timer – it’s hard to take my eyes off them once the sparkling woman with the Scots bloom in her vowels scratches patches of my torso apologetically, with a swab or is it a toothbrush - bristles on ribcage feel almost like stubbleand I hoist my t-shirt high and laugh about being glad to have worn the Good Bra the one with the gold flecks and correct measurements because I’d been warned: good bra, comfortable shoes and these shoes are a perfect ugly match for the grey gluey pads sticking skin to wires to machine and with this all done she demonstrates how to walk, where to rest my hands not grip what to expect and when to stop

I walk slowly, watch the squiggles travel leftwards, study numbers which mean nothing to me, feet speeding - thighs catching - hips barely keeping up lean into the tilt of the moving track and hope when sweat begins to brew that my pores don’t fill with last night’s drink and emit that vapour into our air but she doesn’t mention anything like that only points out the extra beats with splayed fingers the way you’d point to an unusual butterfly in the garden reassures me these are nothing to worry about

- did you feel that? Nostraps the Velcro round my bicep blows it up and up, cold stethoscope at the popping part read, release perfect I slog up the treadmill hill breathing damply through a plastic mask nose just jutting over, chatting – trying to chat – gasping before admitting that’ll do slowing down and stepping off. The floor swims like a boat, she says, that’s exactly how it is so I sit and watch the jagged scribbles continue bumpily, regular and irregular delighted with myself for owning this good blood pressure even under such conditions as an insomniac hangover and facemask, proud of my pumping heart and veins in much the same way as being proud of ancestors who you had no influence on whatsoever

The map keeps writing itself without me curling in raspberry ripple folds to the floor black trails tracking where my pulse has just been but looking a lot more like streams trickling endlessly alongside each other on and on and on across rocky ground learning during this test that abnormal rhythm is fairly ordinary not usually dangerous and really just the electrical system being a wild expanse full of butterflies beating their beautiful wings

by Jessamine O’Connor

Miriam Byrne Heart300

The siren sits, deep inside the swirling waves. Her hair fans around dizzyingly; octopus legs reaching for something unseen. It’s cold under the water but she doesn’t feel it. You – perched on the grass tussock, toes barely touching the waves –shiver as your socks become damp. You can sense, in the air, her allure but dig your runners into the soft earth, trying not to be pulled in. It tugs on your gut and your feet scrabble in the dirt, fighting for purchase. The rain-soaked mound gives, and you slide forward, ankle-deep now. She laughs, and it bubbles up to the surface. Your hands slip. You close your eyes, letting yourself s i n k into the dark.

by S. H. Tuohy

Swathes of red paint, a consonant unused A simple anarchy lights up the afternoon If needs to let you go, giving them enough The bleached flying past the mirror.

No permission to work that angle, cracked translation Mortification on several levels runs fine Cheaper by bulk, stalked into a decision Eventual forgiveness, spitefully good.

The normal child matured into recognition Some things bypassed with a by-your-leave The elusive prize, having grappled with curses My dark soul plunged into expectation.

It all works standing up, as teenagers say On solemn reflection, like it never was. Rotten declarations on a single greeting Mislaid directions are an impolite decision.

Not caring for education, travelling ahead of you, Medallion creatures insert their tawdry jokes

Perfected cries going forth and plunging from cliffs, Translated from the everyday, overall decisions.

Almost dying, best to redeem a happy persuasion Lit-up under orders to grapple with science

Spoiled and abrasive, a myriad of syndromes

Bouncing from sleep, speculating about rebellion.

by Patricia Walsh

From Truskmore to Ben Bulben’s snowy back And around to the blade of Ben Whiskin

The hillside sweeps.

The sun shines on the crooked road, A golden liquid river.

Hardy sheep on the hillside turn their backs to me, Red and blue splashes on white across the green. The gun-metal grey mast shoots up off the mountain top, A space rocket on the launch pad at Cape Canaveral. DANGER. PLEASE KEEP GATE CLOSED.

Low, stunted, twisted tree, leans from the waist, Its puff of branches extending into the gale, That it cannot block -

A keening supplicant to God.

A stream babbles, unseen, below the boggy bank And the black stones of a ruined home, Where a forgotten family once huddled Before America beckoned, Or a coffin ship.

Rotting fences, mossy green, stretch In crooked lines about the valley

And ditches fill with muck and water

Like rats alley. Visions of the Somme. A dark battalion of conifer, marches To join a larger column slanting toward the summit. Awaiting the order to advance?

Grey clouds above the bowl blow toward the coast at Cliffony or Streedagh, shooed by bossy gusts.

by Tony Keenan