Scrimshaw: Journal of New Writing and Visual Art, Volume 4

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Copyright Atlantic Technological University 2025 ISBN 978-1-907592-27-0 1

‘Darkness is drawn to light, but light does not know it; light must absorb the darkness and therefore meet its own extinguishment.’

-Edna O’Brien, In the Forest 2

We are honoured and grateful to present the fourth volume of the Scrimshaw Journal of New Writing and Visual Art. It is well on its way to becoming an ATU legacy. Within these pages are poetry, visual art, fiction, and non-fiction from across all ATU campuses—created by past and present students and staff from places both near and far.

Our unofficial theme this year is light and dark, which is well demonstrated in the pieces we have collated. When the world feels shadowed, art in any form—written or visual—can cast a light that guides not only its creator but also those who encounter it.

We are so proud of the work we have done but consider ourselves a small part of the Scrimshaw journey, ready to pass the torch on to the next editors. The journal is a testament to the skills we have collectively honed through the Writing and Literature programme. We are thankful to the contributors, the staff, and the previous editors of Scrimshaw.

-The Scrimshaw Editorial 2025 Team.

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C o n t e n t s 5

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Sandwritten by Zuzanna Podolová

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A Tug Of Yarn by Marc Gijsemans

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2002 by Jasmine Fleming

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Gladioli by Aoife Toner

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A Child Will Learn by Thea Downey

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He Beckled by Jonathan Gibbons

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A Self Portrait At 19 by Bella Kilgannon

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Greece 1 by Hania Zielaskowska

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The Yellow Line by Catherine Whitehead

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Bouquet of Flowers by Aoife Toner

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As Resilient As Sea Glass by Méabh Callaghan

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Oranges by Katerina Postranecka

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COWS! by Bella Kilgannon

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Frozen Entanglements by Niamh Commins Taylor

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Let Them Blame The Fox by H.G Nolan

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Emily by Chris Sparks

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False Promises by Oliver Scallon

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Handel’s Messiah by Anne Walsh Donnelly

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Ireland 3 by Hania Zielaskowska

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A Remembering by Mason O'Hagan

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Stickelback by Shane Leavy

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Greyscale by Maria May

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Flying Still by Angela Duffy

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Digiframe by Angela Duffy

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Kenneth and Nora's Wedding Vows by Shane Leavy

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Having Your Nails Done by Maria May

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The Teacher by Martina O’Connor

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Fragile Soldiers by Chris Sparks

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High Tide At Noon by Vanessa O’Malley

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Summer Of Sanctity by Tara-Fay Worrell

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Hydrangea Petal by Geraldine Feehan

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Blind Drawing With Animal Bones by Eileen Fair

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Owl by Chris Sparks

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Lough Na Súil by Marie Lavin

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La Muerte No Es El Final by Ciarán Adams

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Mother Tongue by Alyssa Bogue

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Arcane by Molly Brady

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Samia by Elaine Mears

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After Vesalius by Martina O'Connor

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Muffled by Geraldine Feehan

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It All Drops by Adam Browne

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Raze It To The Ground by Johanna O'Callaghan

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Raze It To The Ground by Stephanie Gomes

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0.4 Billion by Martina O’Connor

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All These Things That Decay by Hannah Jane Reilly

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Garavogue by Geraldine Feehan

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Singing In The Rain by Una Parsons

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Stop Calling It War by Jessamine O’Connor

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John’s Cap by Seamus Grogan

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Her First Fight by Leigh Gurney

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The Strawman by Liv Andrea Banner

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Twisted Transmissions by Erin Porter

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Entwined by Kerrie Lee Gallinagh

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Womanhood by Jasmine Fleming

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Thrushes by Catherine Whitehead

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Make A Wish by Teresa Mulholland

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Weboon by Eileen Fair

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...and we're off... by Marc Gijsemans

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Solitude by Molly Brady

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Are You Sitting Comfortably by Adam Browne

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Green Lego Box by Adam Lalwani

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Breathe by Karen Keaney

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Tree Felling by Carmel Reynolds

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Polka Dot Shirt by Gerri O‘Brien

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Jumper For Seamus by Gerri O’Brien

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In The Dark (An Extract) by Marie Lavin

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Long Walk by Eileen Fair

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Moonlit Scenes And Depictions Of The Night In Irish Art by Dr Marion McGarry

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Bursting Into Life by Eileen Fair

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Shirley by Catherine Whitehead

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Good Friday by Con Connolly

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The Picture House by Karen Keaney

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The Perfect Way To Die by Shauna McDonnell

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Ephemeral by Conor Joyce

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Why I Write by Emily James

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Mad About You by Martina O'Connor

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The Work Of A Moment by Justine Kniesburges

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Biographies

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Sandwritten Photography Zuzanna Podolová

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A Tug of Yarn there’s a tug on an unseen fibre from your spool of yarn, still there after twenty-five years how I long to comfort you wired to your hospital bed and tell you all has changed instead of moral obstacles we’ll conquer dark seas with our constant love I’ll bring you home, to the fire kiss the salt from your cheeks throw a blanket over your legs and we’ll never grow old beyond those seas when your yarn unspools and flutters away into the dark will I still feel its tug?

I’ll follow it everywhere even there Marc Gijsemans

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2002 Talcum powder and milk breath fill your nostrils and heart.

You keep me close, feeling every exhale and inhale.

It was hard. The hardest thing you ever had to do.

You did it for me. For him. For you. For us.

You dressed me in pink, fed and soothed.

When I cried you sighed and rocked Me to sleep again. First born.

First time as a mother.

We’ll be alright.

Me and you, Forever.

Jasmine Fleming

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Gladioli

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Acrylic Painting on 40.9 x 50.1 cm woodblock

Aoife Toner

A Child Will Learn You stand in your anger like a kid in his dad’s shoes, not something that comes naturally but something you choose.

You watched your father with bright open eyes as he raged drunk and blind, you vied for his approval yet the well was dry.

Poor little boy, I hear you cry, Desperate to please and eager to try, your father beat violence into you until it was all you knew.

Little boy will grow to be a man scared of love and trust, he has learned to gut a dove to secure a bit of scran.

A two-faced jester I perform the role of Madonna and the Whore, nurturing, doting, battered and bruised all just a hole for the man to use.

I became his mother and a lover over the covers I rub his back calm down his tantrums, and bear the attack.

He can only be vulnerable when I am not tied to him, when I’m labelled I’m insufferable when I’m detached my name’s a hymn.

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The man hates the little boy forced into submission, weakness exploited, ruined ambition.

The boy is shut in the attic while the man becomes an addict, listless and vengeful yet still stuck and static.

I’ve never met your father but my idea gets clearer, as I stand behind you while you gaze in the mirror.

Yet I see the little boy deep inside, even if he’s the man I despise swallowed by clothes that aren’t his, but are a matter of pride; I hope someday he’ll take off the suit jacket, the trousers, the shoes, put on galoshes, and put them to use.

Down the stairs and out the door, feel the rain start to pour from the sky, from your eyes, Let the boy live a little more.

Thea Downey

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He Beckled Jonathan Gibbons

I came upon the word in a novel. The novel was one of those classics, the first of its kind, which built the foundation for all those within the genre. Films too.

Thus, it was a novel full of clichés, whose plot, acted out by two-dimensional characters, I had experienced before. The novel might not have offered something new to a modern reader, but it presented something I had never seen before. A word. Or, to specify even further, a verb. I came upon the word in the following sentence… Ah! First, I should give further context. In doing this, I can attempt to replicate my initial confusion.

I happened to find it between one book and another and that was how it started.

The writing itself isn’t much good, but one can’t expect much from a novel written in the mid-eighteenth century. But never mind that! On to the story. Now, the word appears in chapter four, page sixty-eight. I don’t find it necessary to expand the entire novel. I will recollect up to when the word appears. That should suffice.

Not much can be said of the world in which the story takes place. A vague old indistinguishable land. Not England. Not Russia. Perhaps, Norway… Whichever the land, the story revolves around a prince, a princess, and a king. (No castles, though. I must stress this. This is no King Arthur. This is before that. PreCivilisation.) In truth, the land could be Pangea. The lone continent. You see, the names of our heroes and villains seem to blend cultures. Steffan Nkuna. Otis Zhung. Of course, these are simple examples. There were no details in this novel worth remembering. Nothing but that word. Back to the plot. The prince, the princess, and the king begin the novel within their respective kingdoms. There may be more kingdoms; we aren’t informed of such matters as a reader. As you may have guessed, the prince and the princess are destined… No! Doomed. The prince and the princess are doomed to fall in love.

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Chapter one, which is really more of a prologue, introduces us to the world on the brink of war, teasing the recurring themes with little effect. The main point is tensions are high. It is in chapter two where the action begins. We open in the midst of a heated argument between the princess, who is destined to marry, and her father, an ageing man, who has chosen her two suitors. It’s all a ploy, of course. A ploy within a ploy. Fate has been eliminated in the princess’s decision.

The chapter ends and as we turn the page, we meet the prince. He is a terribly boring character whose actions throughout the novel are all in the name of love.

The prince wishes to marry and save his failing kingdom. Naturally, the prince will set his eyes upon the princess and sink into a deep unwavering love.

What really interests us is towards the end of chapter four, on page sixty-seven and one-third: The villain of the story, the king, paces the length of the dinner table. With his face hidden behind a mask, he plots aloud to his mother.

The book reads as follows…

‘Ay, mine own lief moth’r! Why attendeth this event. This, contest of love. With a face liketh mine, I has’t nay chance of success. But! No pair of eyes has’t lay upon me.

Has’t they, moth’r?’ The rueful king paused.

‘Servent! I knoweth what best be done with thee…’ He beckled.

There it was. He beckled. I thought it strange. I’ve read books that have refused to belittle themselves down to the simplicity of he said. Now, in a book as plain as this - he beckled. I believed it to be a mistake. Surely! He heckled, perhaps. He cackled, even. But as the plot continued and the servant, as expected, attends this contest as the king. He heckled lacked sense.

I thought of it with every page I turned, all two hundred and twenty-six of them. As the plots of love and mischief unfolded, I couldn’t take my mind off of that word. He beckled. Even in its climax, with hero and villain slashing at one another, dagger to sword, sword to flesh, the word perplexed me. With the princess’s father, the true villain, winning in the end, all I could think of was that 17

word. He beckled.

As soon as the novel hit the table before me, read from one cover to the next, I grabbed a dictionary. I scrolled through the list of Be words, becard, becharm, beck, becket, beclasp… No beckle! I even searched for an alternative spelling, beckel, beccle, bekle. I found nothing. After that failed me, I turned to the more modern methods. The Internet. Beckled. And, to my surprise, there it was. Well, sort of.

Matthew Beckles. Born in 1974.

Current residence - Eugene, Oregon.

Job - Professor of 18th Century Linguistics at the University of Oregon.

Relationship status - Divorced.

Matthew has two daughters, Sarah and Chelsea although I didn’t know which was which. He has a cat named Popeye. On August thirteenth, Popeye killed a fish from the bowl that sits upon Matthew’s hallway table. His mother passed away in June and was laid to rest with her husband. All this, I found on his Facebook page.

Of course, there were other Beckles. Darcie Beckles. Solomon Beckles. Brian Beckles. Lois Beckles. Carmen Beckles. Not that I stalked them all, there were hundreds, after all, thousands even! Five. Maybe six of them. But Matthew shared a curious connection with my search. Professor of linguistics. But, not just linguistics, eighteenth-century linguistics. I thought, with the peculiar connection, I ought to send a well-crafted email. I’d line out my query and give him references and a more rounded description of the novel. And I did. It was quite a good email, too. I received no reply. It seems Matthew Beckles doesn’t work at the university anymore. Fired. Retired. Dead. I’ll never know.

Disappointing as it was, I did find another possible answer. An encyclopaedic book on the lost words of the English language, written by Matthew H. Beckles. A different Matthew of course, queer coincidence both are in the field of linguistics.

That’s life, though. There are about 70 or so Matthew Beckles in the world.

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Perhaps, 73 of me. 81 of you, maybe.

I searched for the book on Amazon. No luck. Out of stock. Not back on sale for another two weeks; too long of a wait. On top of that, £32! I get it’s a niche market, but surely not.

I was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, of he beckled. I made my way to the nearest bookstore—ran to it, in all honesty. When I arrived, I was huffing and puffing my way down the aisles.

There it was, the last copy. The Lost Words & Phrases of the English Language - collected by Matthew H. Beckles. I flipped to the end cover, leafing backwards through the index. My eyes passed through the letters X, P, I, D, all the way back to B. Almost there, yes, Bu, Bo, Be. Here we are! My finger and eyes worked in unison up and down the list. I scanned it once. Twice. Three times! Until finally…

It wasn’t there. I may wear glasses, but I’m not blind. There was, at least according to Matthew H. Beckles, no such word, verb or otherwise. I grabbed another book, Learn to Love Latin by James R. Roberts. I checked its index. Nothing. I went for another - The Language of the Roman Empire by Elena Moreno. Again, nothing.

I tried another and another. Germanic History. South American Colloquials.

Viking Slang. Nothing contained, referenced, or hinted towards the word beckled!

It didn’t exist. I had exhausted the books before me. Beckled is not and was not a word. I headed towards my exit in defeat. As I passed through the aisles, I found myself amongst the classics of literature. The Odyssey. The Cather in the Rye. Dracula. The Count of Monte Cristo. And then, on the bottom row, pushed into the end by the great mass of Ulysses, was the novel that began the search. I picked it up; its cover unrecognisable from my copy. I flicked through its chapters, the pages differing from my own. I reached the scene on page seventy-one and… impossible.

‘Servent! I knoweth what best be done with thee…’ He heckled.

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A Self Portrait at 19 I don’t know how I still have hair on my head Dyeing it since 13 Bleaching it since 15 Pink, purple, black, blue The substitute for a personality Always too harsh against Mum’s model home Uneven eyebrows One surprised One resting Heavy eyeliner A permanent fixture on my eyes Thick black frames Contrast my pale face Rosy cheeks Too red My makeup is always too sheer to cover them Big nose With a bump A scar runs down the middle from a drunken piggyback Small lips That hide a piercing that is slowly destroying my teeth Three grand spent on braces One chipped tooth from a drunken piggyback A Taylor Swift reference tattooed on my shoulder Matching with my sister The only person I’d get a matching tattoo with 20

A Fleabag quote on my arm forever Just one line but if I could I’d have the entire script Soft hands Silver rings Nails bitten to the quick The top of my left-hand fingers are calloused Hardened by making soft sounds A note short from a piano player’s reach White knuckles Gripping onto a version of myself that no longer exists I’ll reduce myself to my hands like an aunt in an Adrienne Rich poem and make references to the relationship with my mother through my chemically engineered hair And we’ll forget there’s more to me than that.

Bella Kilgannon

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Greece 1

Photography

Hania Zielaskowska

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The Yellow Line Catherine Whitehead

She rubbed her foot right and left as if trying to erase the warning: Stand Behind the Yellow Line. I noticed her first because of the coat. It was long and brown and heavy, quite oversized on her. That was not in itself what was odd, but the fact that the day was the hottest on record in the city, 38 degrees. Everyone around us was sweating and fanning themselves in the stifling heat of the underground. She seemed unaware and continued rubbing her foot over and back on the yellowpainted letters. A few people stood between us. A boy whose music pulsed from headphones shook his head to the beat and dragged his left palm over his cotton shorts, immediately dampening the material. Another, a woman with shopping bags filled with groceries, looked fit to collapse. She wriggled the plastic handles of the bags about, no doubt hoping for momentary relief from their cutting into her fingers. I stepped to the right to get a better view of the girl in the brown coat.

Her hair was long and fair, partially braided towards the tips, loose and messy nearer to her head. She was on the other side of the yellow line now, peering down the dark tunnel. Strangers were talking to each other about the heat. An elderly man tried to engage me in conversation, but I could not bring myself to reply to him. Instead, I took a step forward and then another until I was up against the yellow line. I heard the whistle and the rumble of the approaching train. She took another step. I reached out both my hands and grabbed her arms.

My relief, though, was short-lived. I looked at my hands and realised they were only holding an empty, heavy brown coat.

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Bouquet of Flowers Acrylic painting on 23 x 20 cm wood block

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Aoife Toner

As Resilient as Sea Glass How many times were you caressed, Until your sharp edges wore away?

How many lips pressed against you, Before you were thrown away?

Allowed to break, Cast out to sea, Swept away by the tide, That brought you to me.

Too many ignored you And your beauty, Passing without a glance.

But beneath your frosted surface, You still glow, When given the chance.

Méabh Callaghan

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Oranges Katerina Postranecka

She wore the same cotton pyjama pants for a decade; the elastic waistband stretched loose over the years, the knees faded into soft ovals like the handprints of a ghost.

I quietly observed her, standing with my bare feet on the cold kitchen floor leaning against the kitchen unit, as she reached for the chamomile tea in the upper wooden cabinet, the pyjama pants sliding low enough from her waist to reveal the scar.

I flinched at the size of it–the pink curve stretched startling in its length, suddenly laid bare, its existence I had become aware of only then.

Heat rose in my cheeks as I stared at the scar, its significance striking me suddenly. I had never put two and two together before, the sudden awareness of what I’d been–too young or too oblivious–to realise. It made me turn away, ashamed of my ignorance.

I was twelve when my brother got his umbilical cord tangled all around his neck and almost suffocated himself before he even had the chance to see the light of day.

When they pulled him out, his tiny body was painted in every shade of blue and purple. He was placed into a large box, entangled in a terrifying web of tubes invading his nose and stomach, a box where time stood frozen, and the monitor’s relentless beeping overshadowed the baby itself.

My mother sat crumpled on the metal hospital bed in her white patient robe and only slightly raised the corners of her mouth as we clambered onto her bed.

My dad leaned over the crib for a good minute first, before he turned to my mother.

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I ran my finger over the plastic bracelet wrapped around her wrist. The silence of the room felt unbearably loud to me. I opened my mouth to tell her we brought oranges from the supermarket, only for my voice to crack and trail off.

I pointed at the red mesh bag sitting on the bedside cabinet with flaking white paint. She nodded her head slowly without turning around, whispered some sort of ’okay’ response and rested her head on the pillow that looked like a giant marshmallow.

It seemed to me that she moved in slow motion, each movement required enormous effort, each time she moved, she clenched her jaw.

She avoided making eye contact, her eyes were sunken into their sockets, and I tried to not stare at the dark rings beneath them–brown and purple, like the shadow of a bruise. Her skin was pale and stretched almost too thin, swallowing the light, blurring in with the sterile whiteness of the room.

All the warmth was gone, and I blamed the alien-like creature lying in the crib next to her, wrinkled, red like a baked pepper.

My father said my baby brother was in the primal state of a human, who was about to grow up to be just like me and I said I doubted it. I felt no interest in observing him and when my mother whispered to go take a look, I dug my nails into my palms until they made marks, red half-moons.

It wasn’t until years later, when I observed my mother reach for the loose chamomile tea in the upper cabinet, that the full scale of the horror of motherhood struck me–and it occurred to me, I have never once heard my mother complain about it.

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Cows!

I love the way that Girls yell ‘Cows!’ when they see them They should know they’re loved Bella Kilgannon

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Frozen Entanglements 29

Photography

Niamh Commins Taylor

Let Them Blame the Fox H.G Nolan

We are at the edge of the woods. My brother is pacing the lip of the embankment where the gravelled fire road meets the forest floor. We wait, listening. It was unlike her to stray far—at least, not when she was with him.

I hadn’t told him she’d run off when I took her out the other day. We’d gone too far, and, trying to get home, I decided to cut back through Mr Greene’s field.

She must have picked up a scent because she was gone in an instant. I called her name over and over until, finally, she came bounding towards me with something clenched in her jaw. I was so overjoyed to see her that I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around her neck before realising she was covered in blood and chicken shit. She dropped the bird—a limp pile of feathers—at my feet and sat back proudly. I was then covered in the mess.

I took her home, lifted her into the bath, and scrubbed her for ages. It felt endless, watching the blackened blood flowing from her white coat. Then, I peeled off my dirty clothes and hopped into the tub and let the water run over me until I felt cleansed. Once the house was quiet that night, I let her into my bed. She rolled on her back, wiggled her slim body, and pawed the air. I wondered how such a docile creature could do such a violent thing.

Stepping a foot into the forest, my brother calls her name, ‘Blondie.’ And I call her too, ‘Blondie, Blondie,’ but the forest seems to swallow our voices. So, we stand there, waiting and listening.

‘Should we walk back to the car?’ I ask him.

‘No, she’ll keep going up the hill.’

So, we start back up the fire road, taking turns calling her name.

The day after Blondie killed the chickens, Mr Greene came by the house to tell my brother’s wife that a fox must’ve gotten into the coop.

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‘It was such a brutal scene,’ he explained. ‘All I could do was count the leftover feet.’

When my brother came in from the farm, his wife retold the story, and I didn’t want to get in trouble, so I just let them go on blaming the fox. That night, I traced back my steps through the dark field, and once I found the bird, I buried it.

I hadn’t brought a shovel, so I dug a hole in the soggy ground with my hands.

‘Maybe she’s run after an animal? A rabbit or something,’ I say to fill the silence between us.

‘Maybe,’ he responds and calls her name again.

The fire road ends, and we start up a steep and muddy trail. I have to use my hands to steady myself while we climb. As we climb, a concrete cross on the summit looms over us.

He stops and nods at my bag, and I understand to pull out the flask he stashed in there before we left the house. He takes a few good sips, gritting his teeth after each swallow. He passes the flask back to me, and I pretend to take a swig but push my tongue against the opening, so nothing actually comes out. I put the whiskey back into my bag, feeling its weight against my shoulders.

That cold, astringent taste makes me think of Bobby.

Bobby, with his big white smile. Bobby, with the low, roaring rumble of his car as he slowed it alongside me. We all knew the sound of his car. He was always idling at the convenience store across from the high school, revving the engine when the girls’ field hockey team came out to run drills.

It was with Bobby that I tried whiskey for the first time. But that first day, I couldn’t believe it when he stopped his car to offer me a lift. I had started walking home along the main road instead of taking the shortcut through the woods— ever since some older boys started hanging out back there, smoking. The last time I walked by them, they started shouting after me, ‘DOMO ARIGATO, MR ROBOTO!’ and ‘ME LOVE YOU LONG TIME!’ 31

When he pulled up beside me, I was already nearly home, and I told him that, but he just smiled, said he didn’t mind, and leaned across the seat to open the passenger door. When we got to my house, he cut the engine, and we sat in silence for a while. I wasn’t ready to face my dad’s daily admonishments, and Bobby didn’t seem to mind waiting with me, stretching out our time together.

‘I am sorry about your mom,’ he said after some time. ‘My mom had cancer too.’

He was gripping the wheel with both hands. I stared at him. I didn’t know what to say.

‘It gets better,’ he said. And he put his hand on my knee.

My brother and I continue to climb in silence, too out of breath to speak. As we get closer to the top, the wind whips up around us, no longer buffered by the trees. I can feel my sweat starting to cool. At the top, we sit under the cross, a hulk of cement blocks stacked on each other. I pull the flask out and hand it to my brother.

‘You know,’ I say, picking up some stones—hard and cold in my hand—and throwing them one by one.

‘Mom actually died twice,’ I tell him. ‘Her heart stopped, and the doctors had to bring her back.’

We’d never talked about Mom—not even when he came home for the funeral.

It had been years since I’d seen him, and even though we spent the entire day beside each other, we barely spoke. At one point, he jabbed me in the ribs and whispered, ‘Stop it’. I’d been absentmindedly picking at my black nail polish. And then, when everyone left, he left too.

‘Dad never told me that,’ he said. He was fidgeting, first with his wedding ring, then with the cross he wore around his neck.

Sitting on either side of Mom’s shrinking body became a ritual for Dad and me.

He would read from his bible, and I would sit quietly, watching her. She was so 32

securely tucked into the hospital bed—like a baby, swaddled and diapered and helpless. In the beginning, she made faces at me, winking or sticking out her tongue like she did when I was a child. All the while, Dad had his head down, reading or praying. But after we almost lost her, when she slipped into death for a few moments, she stopped making faces, and I stopped expecting them. After that, we both would stare into the nothingness while Dad went on.

Each night, before heading home without her, we held hands in prayer. Dad and I reached across her tiny body. He prayed over her in Korean, in words that felt so familiar, but I could no longer understand.

Slowly, her grip on my hand weakened. The lighter her touch became, the harder Dad would pray, his hands, white knuckles, gripping us hard. And the stronger he clenched my hand, the more I would cry. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to tell her to buck up. To keep fighting. I wanted to shout at her, at both of them. At him for wasting away our time together and at her for giving up. For letting go.

Instead, I cried. Sobbing like a child not getting what they want—full of anger and disappointment and just wishing for someone to put things right again.

My brother takes a sip from the flask, leans against the concrete cross, and sighs.

A tear wells up and falls, a cold streak down my cheek. He passes me the flask again, and this time, I drink and let the whiskey sting my throat.

‘Dad wouldn’t be too impressed,’ I say, shaking the flask. My brother crosses himself, clenches his fists, and closes his eyes tightly, furrowing his brow.

‘ABEOJI! ABEOJI!’ he summons, mimicking Dad’s preaching voice.

‘You just never learned not to get caught.’ He winks at me, takes the flask back and drinks again.

I couldn’t tell Dad about Bobby. But it became our thing—Bobby picking me up from school and driving around until my dad was due back from the church. He drove fast, windows down, and the radio loud. I never asked him about his mom, 33

and he never asked me about mine.

Then, one day, when he said we should head back, I said no. So, we drove out to the lake, lay on the grass, and drank from a bottle of whiskey. The sun got low, but I couldn’t feel the cold because my blood felt hot from the drinking. When I tried to stand, I couldn’t. The world just kept slipping under my feet. And suddenly, I started to get sick. He must have carried me back because I woke up in my own bed stinking of vomit. Dad was asleep, slumped against the wall, head lolling, sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor. His bible lay open on his lap.

Blondie bounds out from the woods, her tongue spilling from her mouth, breathing fast, joyfully. I’m relieved she has no animal between her teeth. She leaps at my brother, nearly knocking him back. She twists her body left and right until she settles between his bent knees. He pats her hard with both hands, saying, ‘Where’d you go, you silly girl?’. His voice was high and melodic. He says it over and over like he’s expecting her to answer.

I tuck the empty flask back into my backpack and we make our way back to the car. I open the passenger side for Blondie and she jumps in beside my brother and I get into the back. He fidgets with the radio until he finds a song he can sing along to. I can smell the whiskey on his breath.

After dinner, Mr Greene comes back to the house. My brother’s wife offers him a cup of tea, and he again starts recalling the scene of the massacred chickens. He speaks of each bird so fondly, recalling them by name and noting their unique markings which he had used to identify the feathered bodies.

Blondie sits under the table at Mr Greene’s feet, hoping she might get snuck some scraps. Her tail wags, thumping softly against the floor.

34

Emily Thanks for coming Emily–secretly–of course– appearing in some silly daytime TV show and later in the bottom-shelved book in the cobweb corner of a seldom used room–a spare room bedlam of boxes and blankets where you sat hidden burrowed but waiting– to be borrowed and taken– for fingering through– for the watchful eye of some wounded soul who’ll whisper words of otherness with you– where I once read you to me and became myself–a poet Chris Sparks

35

False Promises I could live forever, in the misty fume of freshly bloomed coffee. oils and aromas once locked in form, now floating between the notion of lifting the liquid to the lips and the initial sup, the inhale and slurp as the clock strikes 9, warmth spills through the window. morning’s glacial whisper kissing my nerve endings, making its presence known.

O, if only it could be like this. but it is the way of winter to promise more than it can give, the light is fading fast, and the day is getting on.

Oliver Scallon

36

Handel’s Messiah Each time we meet, hours slip into minutes.

You often tell me stories I’ve heard before, but I don’t interrupt.

I’m content to listen again, to watch your body shift with each word, the tilt of your head, soft slump of your shoulders.

Sometimes I find myself telling you stories, I’ve told before, like me, you don’t interrupt.

It’s no longer the words we speak that matter, it’s being in each other’s presence.

Words are just noise, like the clamour of a football crowd, drowning a transcendent melody.

I wonder while we are blathering, if our souls are communing, perhaps singing Handel’s Messiah, delighting in their presence, and laughing at the walls we’ve built to protect ourselves.

Anne Walsh Donnelly

37

Ireland 3

Photography

Hania Zielaskowska

38

A Remembering Mason O'Hagan

Cigarette smoke. It grew even more pungent with age, sinking into the furniture like a murky poison. It stuck to the walls, cloud by cloud. It burned, scarred and blackened the lungs. It filled arteries and clogged the heart. But when woven into clothing and mixed with that amber blend perfume, it smelled just like her.

Walking through the oak door frame I saw Granny sitting on her sofa chair, a cigarette stuck between her index and middle finger, with white smoke swirling beautifully out of the end. The tall ashtray covered in foreign comic strips beside her. No matter how often my mother cleaned that, it still stunk of ashes.

My mother had a collection of her woolly jumpers that she always wore. It had been eight years and she still resprayed the same floral perfume on them. It’s just a jumper, I used to think, there’s no point in keeping it if she isn’t here to wear it.

But, looking back, I think I was just jealous I didn’t get one.

There are memories that will live on forever: Her memory lingered in the kitchen; a tea towel draped around her shoul ders as mum redyed her hair blonde so the grey wouldn’t show.

The paper roll of polo-mints that we kids would get every time we hugged her.

The metallic biscuit tins leftover from Christmas that we were allowed to pick from when our parents weren’t looking.

The blazing fire, burning coal and timber logs, was constantly alight in the sitting room because the house was too cold.

The smell of old coins we would be given to go and buy sweets from the shop down the road.

Her memory became the smell of a freshly embalmed body, and the most elegant oak wood coffin Grandad’s money could buy because it was all he 39

could give her anymore.

Suits that had not been worn in years stunk of wardrobe. Even more than the leftover residual smoke that clung to every inch of the room. Hands of people who once knew her clasped and unclasped in sorrow again and again and again.

Grief climbed its way into your nostrils and seized hold of your throat. The room was full of people and death.

So, I walked outside and sat on the shoddy wooden bench my grandad had fashioned years prior. The air around me smelled damp and the dark clouds hung low. I never thought I would wish for my airways to be full of smoke. Looking around the bench, I noticed that cigarette butts were scattered all around. They had been smoked right down to the filter before being discarded, left to degrade in the recent downpour.

Eleven-year-old me collected them one by one depositing them into the tall ashtray when I finally went back inside. A feeble attempt, I suppose, at making a game of things to take my mind somewhere else. It soon dawned on me that maybe that’s what killed her after all.

Months after she died, I had a dream about my Granny. I walked into the carpeted dining room and there she was, sitting at the end of the table.

I was so eager to see her. My heart lifted from my chest at the thought of being able to talk to her. Her golden glasses sat on her nose as she smiled at me, her cheekbones prominent and shaded a light pink. I pulled out the chair and sat down, as giddy as ever.

Her lips moved to speak to me, but no sound left them. The worst part was, she didn’t seem to realise that no sound was coming out. She kept on talking as if I could hear her. I furrowed my brows and relentlessly clicked my fingers beside my ears. It was no use. I still couldn’t hear her. She didn’t seem to notice I was crying.

She just kept talking at me, so silently.

40

I awoke from the dream to the realisation that I had forgotten the sound of her voice. With no way to retrieve it, I knew my memory had failed me.

When someone dies, you think, I’ll remember everything about them so they can never be forgotten. But as the years go by, and more people barrel through your life, you do end up forgetting the little things. Like all the other details I probably left out of this story.

41

Stickleback ‘The river, well, the stream, across the field, is always good for stickleback,’ I said.

My brother Tim proposed a subtle build: a dam of limestone boulders.

So, we fled between the thistles to the sunlit water, down past the Tarpeys’ meadow where the light lounged in indulgent heat, down where my father said he had seen a fox cub, dripping wet.

We crept through hanging alder to the stream, determined on our plan, but then Tim paused.

I halted.

Sunlight shimmered in a screen of hazy heat and thistledown that crossed in clouds.

The crickets buzzed strange verses for us, and all the meadow songbirds roared the chorus.

Shane Leavy

42

Greyscale Perhaps some cultures have it right, when Grief is not black but white Black the comfort of soil, soft crumbling memories Where worms and microbes dream hidden sacred dreams Black: a place we can be still, where existence and energy are Unconfined, free, all around White the millisecond of wrenching truth After my gut, heart and brain has once again been fooled into feeling That like Schrödinger’s cat, YOU might still be here Friday last it happened four times, four startling Optimistic registrations by my corneas, nostrils, ear canals Skinny hunched shoulders Pulled up against the wind on the way to the bus stop Work boots standing square At the end of long legs in trousers made for welding A waft of jacket smelling like forge smoke, sweat Metal and hard-won victories An avalanche of laughter, shrill, unapologetic Confident beyond measure Blinding white with nowhere For my gut to relax, heart to expand, brain to hope Perhaps, some cultures have it right Grief is not black But white I will settle for a sliding greyscale for now Maria May 43

Flying Still

44

Acrylic on wood 22x25cm

Angela Duffy

Digiframe

45

Acrylic on wood 25x22cm

Angela Duffy

Kenneth and Nora’s Wedding Vows Shane Leavy

I’m pressed against my armchair, half-listening to the rumble and clink of the pub, when Betty lunges forward and prods her glass on my knee, saying: ‘I wonder about cheerful people.’

‘How d’ya mean?’ says I. Betty’s an old friend, we used to go to the dances together, see all the showbands, before she married Martin, and I married my John. We worked together for years, then, in the hospital.

Betty’s eyes glaze, gawping at the suds of her pint and she flicks up a finger to the barman for another. ‘Cheerful people can’t go dark.’

Ah, she’s a philosopher when she’s on the drink.

‘Can they not?’ says I, and I lean back and take a slug of my stout. I’m smiling, thinking I’ll get a good laugh out of Betty, but there’s an edge to her when she’s on the sauce, so I can’t say which way it’ll go.

‘No. And d’ya know why?’

‘I don’t.’

‘They’ve no practice.’ Her eyes fall onto me, half-shut, and then up as the barman slips her the card reader to pay for her pint.

‘Go on,’ says I. ‘Grumpy oul’ birds like us whinge at everything and nothing,’ says Betty.

‘We do.’

‘We’ve practice. That means that when something’s seriously bad, we can whinge.’ She takes another glug. ‘And get it off our chests.’

She sits back, satisfied. I catch the barman’s eye, and he starts pouring a pint. I finish the last dregs of my own and fumble the glass onto the table, where, to my surprise, it pushes my purse sideways. I must be half-plastered. I don’t even remember taking it out.

‘Now your Nora,’ says herself.

‘Oh, Nora.’

‘She’s cheerful,’ says Betty.

‘She is.’

‘She doesn’t have practice complaining.’

46

‘I suppose not.’

‘You don’t hear her complaining about things, do you?’ Betty demands.

‘You don’t.’

‘And that’s why she puts up with Kenneth.’

I nod.

‘And his barbarities,’ she adds, and I just tilt my pint and let the creamy cool glug down my throat.

We sit in quietness for a bit. The barman drops down with the new pint and I fumble with my card while Betty orders another. I’m trying to not think, but thoughts intrude anyway. I want to think–ho, Betty’s on a fine bender today!–but all I see when I watch her draining her pint is Nora, bouncing the grandchild on her knee, denying everything.

And Nora, in a polo neck in June, long-sleeved. And the phone buzzing with Nora’s apologies: whoops, can’t quite make it this time, Mam. And the nights when the text never arrived at all and I’d wander the house and stagger at last to the kitchen sink, fishing the bottle out from behind the u-bend, shaking like an oul’ one in the ward. I see me and John kissing after the dance with our lives in front of us and no notion that we’d fail our child, our sweet girl Nora, that we’d let her race like a rabbit into the snare.

And Kenneth, yellow-fingered, thin as a greyhound.

‘But you and me can go dark,’ I hear myself slur.

‘Hah?’ says Betty.

‘You were saying that cheerful people can’t go dark,’ I say.

The pub seems far away now, it’s like looking down the end of a telescope. ‘But we can go dark. Grumpy oul’ birds.’

‘We can,’ says she.

‘The things we’ve been through,’ I say, and I’m sure Betty sees the decades we spent in the ward with screaming patients, the scalpels and forceps, jets of blood, vomit, bile, the bodies broken and healed under our fingers. ‘So, we can do something about him.’

‘Now?’ says Betty.

I finish my pint and stand as the pub reels around me.

‘Now.’ 47

Having Your Nails Done Did you know that fingernails are Susceptible To grief?

After losing you, Mine grew white crescent moons.

Delicate perfect arches of white, Marks of unimaginable days, Formed in a time when food felt Impossible to eat.

The throat kept closing in on itself Swallowing One small piece at a time, Concentrating, So as not to choke.

My fingernails branded By thin arched lines.

And if I sought respite, My nails Would not give it freely.

There at the end of my fingers, They spoke of no relief.

The white shapes moved ever so slowly, Arched on towards their demise, Until, Many months later, nothing remained.

Strangely enough, I started to miss them.

The visible signs of my grief that Gave me permission to Feel.

When the last slither had been Cut away, Was I still Allowed to Mourn?

Maria May 48

The Teacher, 2021 Acrylic on paper size 20cm x 30cm, 2021 Martina O’Connor 49

Fragile Soldiers It’s only when I hold somebody I love–like you– that I take measure of my self As I wonder at your precision– your glory-form– fine hairs all along your arm living bone curling curves down your back rounding to ribs brittle sticks fragile soldiers–sentinels to your blood-beat heart Only then– can I let my hard set self– come apart Chris Sparks

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High Tide at Noon We know their dream; enough to know they dreamed and are dead W.B. Yeats, Easter, 1916, (1920) I An infant in a stable laid its head on gentle straw and breathed frankincense Mixed with myrrh; left all His sin behind him.

II A midwinter tide tumbled itself to shore To face angry accusations. A mob Cast curse on each other, on sea.

III At high tide, the sun came out in light cascade Not bright enough to pull out meaning.

But whole enough to know it had been there.

IV Heaven opened its cast iron gate Sifted salt from turbulent dark water Threw common cockle and limpet to ground.

V Sand became heavy as an angel’s breath Teasing gold and silver hummed a melody In the wind; that took from the heart all hope.

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Vanessa O’Malley

Summer of Sanctity Tara Fay Worrell

I spent my first summer as a teenager at a stay-away bible camp. I felt different from the rest, like a scruffy mongrel amongst thoroughbred chihuahuas with diamanté collars.

Sitting crisscross on the floor of our dorm, each night, we divulged what troubled us to our leaders. In exchange, they would offer us guidance and perform a sway and pray combo upon us. One night, I said, ‘I am a bad Christian, I have not lived a religious life, my family are non-believers, we are going to hell.’ The leaders sat swaying, holding my hands. ‘You can save them, and yourself,’ they said and began to chant. Inspired by redemption, my mind darted, ‘Do dogs go to heaven?’

I blurted, interrupting them. They looked at me angrily and shouted ‘NO’!’ before continuing their heavenly callings.

At 7 pm each day, we hurried into a bustling hall for our evening readings. I filed in behind the boy who held my hand in secret while we sang hymns the day before. I recognise this now, as a ‘crush’, but at the time, I thought we were drawn to each other due to our spiritual devotion to God and not because he had tanned skin, big brown eyes, and Justin Bieber hair.

After exchanging a smile with my Bible Camp Bieber, I looked to my right. The tall boy beside me had an alphabetised bible. We had all been talking about people like him. Rumours had been swirling about his type. What kind of person would read the word of God in an order not intended by God? Unannounced throughout our evening prayers, a leader would shout, ‘UNSHEATH YOUR SWORD!’ and we would grab our bibles with stern battle faces and extend them out in front of us like weapons. Then they would shout out a bible verse, for example, ‘Matthew 25’ to which we would start ferociously searching for the page. Whoever got it first would raise their sword to the sky, 52

and the leader would announce, ‘SHEATH YOUR SWORDS’. The Christian conqueror would be crowned reader of the verse and would stand and preach as we all sat and listened intently. To preach was the greatest honour of all.

Many kids had alphabetised bibles. The alphabetised bible-swords won victory after victory, and we regular bible folk would exchange glances with one another while they read. During week two, parables began to circulate in hushed tones in corridors. ‘Hosea 10:13: You have ploughed iniquity; you have reaped injustice; you have eaten the fruit of lies.’ We had found proof of their sinful ways.

I tried to sit as close to my crush as possible without raising the suspicion that I was a sinner. My crush turned to me just as leader Julie was about to begin her lesson. ‘You know when Julie speaks, it isn’t Julie,’ he said. I looked at him confused and raised my eyebrows. ‘Jesus takes control of Julie; he is in her body.’ he said, smiling. My heart began to pound, I looked to Julie/Jesus, who was bending down to pick up a bible.

I felt worried that somehow Jesus within Julie’s body could smell that I was crushing on the boy in front of me. I steadied my thoughts and tried to avoid looking at the flowy Justin Bieber hair in front of me. This must be a spiritual test.

Leaning into him, I whispered, ‘Julie would never use an alphabetised Bible’.

During the second week, the time had come for my recital. I had been given a psalm to learn. From everyone else’s sunny disposition and nonchalant approach, I presumed this was not a serious exam or test of faith. I cursed my carefree attitude upon entering the canteen and seeing Julie sitting in the centre.

The canteen had been cleared, leaving a singular table with two chairs in the middle. I walked in. Why was it dark? The lights were off, and it was late into the evening. I was terrified, I remember thinking, ‘Here I am, face to face with Jesus.’

‘Upon the wicked, he shall rain coals of fire and burning sulphur, the scorching wind shall be their portion to drink. For the Lord is righteous,’ I said. Julie nodded expressionless. Silence. I bowed low, feeling it was the appropriate thing 53

to do in the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ.

We painted T-shirts one afternoon and each signed our names. On mine, I painted a blue teddy bear. Leah, my roommate, signed her name on mine the largest.

During our uncompetitive sports day, we did a sack race in large sandbags. Seven or so to a bag, each team took turns as we raced against no one. We were bundled so close together and I was at the front. I was the smallest one and everyone kept falling on top of me.

After a few falls, I wriggled out of the bag and moved to the back. That was enough touching for one day. The back seemed safer. I could cope with the barely brushing shoulders of fellow lambs. ‘Tara, link arms with us!’ they sang beside me and pulled me in under their arms. Ugh. ‘Let’s Go!’ One day we went to the beach. We entered the water holding hands, our chain link of arms spanning the length of the beach. We were a holy net, ready to trap and ensnare. I did not feel fearful when my feet no longer touched the sand below; I was a part of something. Something safe, something secure. They wouldn’t dare let go of my hand.

Later, I joined the boys playing soccer. I was the only girl. I remember running to the edge of the goalpost when suddenly the all too familiar taste of salty, sandy old football leather seized my mouth. I had been hit. I fell to the ground and lay with my arms over my head to hide. Half of my face was numb; the other half was hot and stingy. Was my nose broken? The boys gathered around me.

‘Oh, here we go’ I thought. Queue the boisterous choir! I was used to being teased, especially by boys. They approached and lay their hands on my shoulders.

Every one of them had come to my side. I raised my head. I was safe from boyish menace; this was no place for sneers or jibes.

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At the end of the week, our Messiah Julie conducted an awards ceremony. ‘For inspiring forgiveness given to her by God, Tara-Fay!’ I rose to a chorus of claps, trying my best to portray humility in the way I moved my body. Julie placed a set of blue and red floral rosary beads into my hand. Her hands were cold, and she gripped mine hard. I had taken a football to the face so courageously and had forgiven the feet that had harmed me. ‘I give my thanks to God.’ I said to Julie, before lowering my head and bringing the rosary to my chest.

When the last day came, I didn’t want to go home. Julie held me as I sobbed, her skin as cold as ever. I hugged Leah and she gave me her Facebook name, promising we would stay close. On my way out of the dorm I heard a commotion in the girl’s bathroom and I went in to investigate.

Sarah from my dorm had kissed a boy. She was now bent over the bathroom sink, crying hard and roughly washing her face with cold water. A group of older girls hung over her like gargoyles. I walked backwards out the door in big slow steps and pretended I didn’t see.

I never saw my Justin Bieber again, or Leah, or anyone. Leah died from cancer in January 2014 at the age of sixteen. She faced her illness with unwavering faith, surrounded by the constant insistence that her illness was part of God’s plan.

I watched others grow up from a distance on Facebook. They all finished school, got married and had children. I imagine my crush is also married now to a girl from his church. I wonder what he would think of me, of who I’ve become.

Would he have come with me as my date to my aunt’s same-sex marriage ceremony? Would Sarah have picketed my mum’s pro-choice rally? Would Julie have cradled me with her cold hands in St. Anne’s church as the priest tried to force me to name aloud and forgive all who had harmed me as a child? Lest I not be healed? Healing was all I ever wanted.

Around the age of sixteen, my aunties brought me to St. Anne’s church to see the San Franciscan priests. I wasn’t acting properly, you see. I recanted with them, ‘In 55

the name of Jesus Christ, renounce bad thoughts,’ we swayed together on the altar, ‘In the name of Jesus Christ I renounce self-harm.’ But that wasn’t enough.

‘Tell me their name and say, in the name of Jesus, I forgive them,’ I began to panic.

My throat constricted. I couldn’t say their name. ‘You must give them ultimate forgiveness and love.’

My aunties and the others gathered in the church looked up at me with disapproving looks. Why was I disobeying? Why could I not give forgiveness and love so willingly? The blame for every ounce of my suffering shifted onto me and the weight felt so heavy.

‘No, I do not forgive them,’ I said. As I walked off the altar and straight out the door, avoiding the glares from the pews, I felt as though I was walking through a suspended state of ultimate unknown. There was no going back now. Without realising, I had made a final decision. I had sheathed my sword for the last time.

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Hydrangea Petal Everything that is beautiful is delicate, is breakable – a petal preserved in resin hung on a silver chain, a ceramic bowl with a puddle of shiny glaze, the smile from you across to me, and everything it said.

Geraldine Feehan

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Blind Drawing with Animal Bones, 2022 Digital Print, 21 x 30cm, Photograph of animal bones articulated on a roof slate, complete with eyes shut, testing the possibility of making art when completely blind. © Eileen Fair, IVARO Dublin Eileen Fair

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Owl A feathering folds about her from the crown and down She hunkers in her umbra hide– hunter eyes brightening for what she will see in the moment of its motion Lively-busy with the business of being A little life–so small– in thrall to instinct and its living ends She moves muscle–skin stretching now–an arcing crest shifts the stuff of air–wrapped shadow-wreathed and turbulent round her wings–Strikes down the innocent thing–in a sudden kill– in the thrill of it–in the wicked dark her ruthless beauty winds in the watcher to a silent siege– I am her hostage–now Stilled by the thrill of the kill Chris Sparks

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Lough na Súil Formed in ancient times When Balor, leader of the Formorians, Fought against the Tutha de Dannan At the second Battle of Moytura His grandson, Lugh Lamhfada, Fired the fatal slingshot At Balor’s evil eye And where it fell to earth A hole burned deep into the ground And filled with water An ordinary looking lake Until it disappears overnight Not a turlough which empties yearly This lake empties to warn of Great danger World War Two ‘The Troubles’ across the border Why not now?

Is sixty-two thousand people dead in Gaza Not enough?

Marie Lavin

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La Muerte no es el Final Ciarán Adams

Walking in the footsteps of dinosaurs was what it felt like to me as a child.

Fossilised remains protrude upward beyond black bedrock beneath the feet to the extent that history almost poses a tripping hazard. This place is old, and the past seems to echo from the ground like the Atlantic swells thundering deep into caverns, undermining each step’s certainty.

Streedagh is situated roughly halfway along that part of the north Sligo coast, which forms the southern shore of Donegal Bay. It seems crucially positioned to secure the Maugherow peninsula to Ireland like a billowing jib to its mainstay.

For a locality loud in folklore, there is a silence about this place where 1100 people perished in what stands as the greatest loss of life in recorded history in a single Sligo day. After the Spanish sailing ships La Lavia, La Juliana, and Santa Maria de Visón were wrecked in a storm at Streedagh in September 1588, folklore should have formed and grown old in four centuries of telling. Yet, around Streedagh, there are no stories of ghostly lanterns waved above on headlands on stormy nights, no crumpled phantoms spotted on the rocks, no morion-helmeted spectres drifting in with the sea mist.

Is it because we carry guilt and prefer to forget? Is the burden of remembering too great? Is it because it happened to them, not us?

In recent years, local people have begun to mark the anniversary. A memorial has been installed at Streedagh and an annual series of events is held in September showcasing musical and cultural links between Sligo and Spain. In a delicate balance between commemoration and celebration, a pageant is held on the beach where the dead came ashore. One wooden cross in the sand for every life. Sailors and officers from a visiting Spanish naval vessel sing, “La muerte no es el final” and Benbulben gives birth to the moon.

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Mother Tongue Swaddle me in soft syllables And rock me to the rhythm Of your heartbeats I was a late baby, reluctant Shy child, speak when spoken to We didn’t understand each other Your eyes reflect fields Yet I hesitate to wander Freedom is too free The words aren’t strong enough to break through Alyssa Bogue

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63

Arcane

Photography

Molly Brady

Samia Textile draping, textile print, natural fabric dye on Irish linen. 90cm x 135cm Textile response to photograph by Mahmoud Bassam of Samia Alatrash holding the body of her 2-year-old niece Massa killed in Gaza, Palestine, October 2023.

Elaine Mears 64

After Vesalius,2024 Graphite on sketchbook paper, 210 x 297 mm Martina O’Connor 65

Muffled The noisy fridge is broken, freezing things that shouldn’t be frozen.

A bottle of sparkling water shattered /quietly/ in the vegetable drawer in the empty kitchen of a silent house.

Sharp daggers of green glass now presented like jewels, encrusting a cushion of bubbled ice.

Geraldine Feehan

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It All Drops Adam Browne

kids a chaos screaming their arrival things are shifted and transplanted let go from grubby hands dropping to the floor with a clatter a clang moving stuff covertly from one place to the next every morning a locked-room mystery to investigate a conundrum a whereisit the missing jacket the missing shoes the misplaced car keys the why is that here the why is that there the Hot Wheel stalled at the bottom of the toilet bowl the pants drooping from the corner of the wardrobe door the floor a half-finished jigsaw of itself watch your step you’ll catch something the sole destroying block of Lego the biscuit crumbs crumbled one string of a Cheesestring fragmented fish flakes nibbled breaded chicken goujons tossed aside missed-mouth milk and side-dribbled juice everything grabbed gnawed grazed strewn sticky and unfazed you think they’ve consumed the whole dinner plate but then they stand and shake and half of it vacates the folds of their clothes and ah that’s why they’re not putting on weight it all goes to the floor it all drops that night you wake sweating PTSD was that something falling thrown from the settee you swear you can hear it in your sleep endless things dropping thwacking clacking smacking objects and food falling mid-air you see it all and hear it declare its arrival with a giggle a snigger an immediate distraction onto the next fad what else can we drop what else can we move what else can we do

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Raze It to the Ground Do not linger in this place.

Do not hold tight to these crumbling walls, to a life that once felt warm but is now cold.

A hollowed thing.

Raze it to the ground.

Set fire to the roots.

Watch the flicker grow to flame, scorch through years of compromise.

The life you never wanted.

Burn it.

Burn with the rage of a woman.

She, who has lingered as a silent and yielding shadow, embers smouldering beneath her skin.

Let the rage devour her.

Reclaim yourself.

Step boldly onto this blackened earth.

Stand in the chaos you have wrought, do it, do it now.

You will regret nothing.

But waiting.

Johanna O'Callaghan

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Raze it to the Ground mixed media (acrylic and wax crayon) on canvas 1.10m x 1.10m Stephanie Gomes.

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0.4 Billion, 2024 Oil on khadi cotton, size 21cm x 14.8cm Martina O’Connor 70

All These Things That Decay Hannah Jane Reilly

There was a crow lying dead in the middle of the pathway behind the science labs.

I would have thought such a grossly fantastic anomaly would be celebrated by an observant circle of adolescent boys daring each other to touch the pooling guts.

Like the time the fire alarm sounded, and I saw them: 6ft lads, breaking from their lines to kick up grass and stomp on worms that popped up from the soil when it rained the night before. But no. The students walking back from the pitch just circled around or stepped over it, their faces contorting, pinching their noses in defence of that death smell that had yet to set in. It seemed the destruction of a creature bigger than a wriggling piece of string was somewhat distasteful to my classmates. I didn’t see the difference, except perhaps, that the poor bird, in its equally brutal death, might have had more dignity–being struck down in some epic air battle rather than being impaled on the stud of a football boot for no reason but the inherent boredom of four sixteen-year-olds. Then again, I didn’t know how the bird had died; it could have been hit by the lawnmower, a truck on the nearby road from Naas to Tallaght, or a stray football that flew over a wall, then pulled across the concrete by a dog or a fox in the night–its cold flesh already unappetising. Death by a badly aimed ball kicked by clueless GAAplaying children would probably be more embarrassing than the worm’s fate.

There is a mushroom called the Beef Steak Fungus, Fistulina hepatica, found on Oak and Chestnut trees on all continents but Antarctica, red-brown on the cap with a creamy-white underside, that feels like raw liver to touch and bleeds red fluid that stains when you cut it. In Australia, it grows on eucalyptus trees and infects them with a brown rot that leaves scar-like wounds. In France, it is eaten, supposedly a meat substitute, but more often than not, leaving the eager vegetarian with acid reflux and gastric upset due to its very specific collecting and cooking instructions.

I was late for class that day. I wanted to sit down next to the crow and stare at the 71

glossy sheen of its wings, the parted beak that looked like a cracked walnut shell, its dry black eyes in the shrivelled head. I always thought crows were intelligent, curious things–tilting their heads at you when you say hello or throw them a crumb, screaming and pulling a feather from each other’s backs when they’re mad, looking down at you from telephone wires. All that charm, if you can call it that, is held in their eyes. Once the little bead stops gleaming, it just looks like a bland black pebble–like when you take a stone home from the beach, and it loses all its magic in the space of the journey back to the house.

Omphalotus Olearius, or ‘Jack O’ Lantern’ is a mushroom that grows in Europe and North America. It is orange and its cap curls in waves, where it grows in clusters on decaying tree stumps and in roots at the base of hardwood trees.

It is almost identical to the culinary-popular Chanterelle, though it contains a poison ‘illudin S’, which, if eaten, causes the person’s DNA to disintegrate, or in non-lethal cases severe diarrhoea. It is called the Jack O’ Lantern, because in low lighting, the gills underneath the cap glow blue-green, and the bioluminescence doesn’t fade, even after the mushroom is cut or uprooted, and left to dry as a mycological trophy.

I wanted to draw it. I wanted to take a picture with my phone. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to bury it. I did none of those things. I didn’t mourn the death of the beautiful bird, but I did mourn that I had to leave it there to rot or be cleaned up by the caretaker. I cursed the detention I got for being late and inattentive as I stared out the window for most of the class, trying to see what would become of the little corpse.

My granny’s neighbours’ house was full of dead things. They were taxidermists or just collected taxidermal specimens. I’m not sure. I don’t think I ever asked them.

I was in their house two or three times, and I always hung around the hall for far too long, gazing at the snarling pine martin and strutting pheasant, the beautiful snowy owl right out of my wizarding fantasies, and the surprisingly soft hedgehog by the doorway, its bristles earning many tender pets from myself, as the only oddity not boxed in glass. My granny said she didn’t like them, that she couldn’t 72

imagine having so many dead things living inside her house with her, but I never understood how the soft and snuffling hedgehog, frozen in time so beautifully was any more macabre than the antlers that hung on the wall in her kitchen.

The ‘Zombie-Ant Fungus’, Ophiocordyceps Unilateralis, is right out of an apocalypse movie. It attacks whole colonies of carpenter ants, making them its little sacrificial soldiers. In dark and humid rainforests, unknowing ants step on sticky spores that attach themselves to the ant’s body and burrow through its armour into the bloodstream, replicating and replicating cells and unfolding fluffy mould inside its body. The brain is left untouched–the fungus takes control over the ant’s muscles and makes them move without the brain’s command, like a puppet, forcing it to climb up a tall tree and attach itself to a leaf. Eventually, cut off from its body, the ant’s brain and therefore, the ant dies. A tall mushroom bursts from the corpse’s head and explodes into puffs of tiny infectious spores that rain down on the forest floor below, ready to trap and enslave more creepy crawlies.

I don’t remember much of my time in school, the events and repetitive daily occurrences all blending into one image. I can’t decipher if those stuffed animals were even in that house or displayed in one of the many nature reserves’ information centres I visited as a kid. My memories dance around me always slightly out of reach, leaving just a taste in my throat or a scent in the air or the ghostly touch of incomprehensible softness. But I remember the still body of the dead crow, juvst as I can conjure images, whether from a day of my life, a book illustration or TV I do not know, of limp, dusty butterflies between dark crevices of cupboards and tiny garden-bird bodies in backyards, having crashed into the windows and gone still.

As I grew older, I began to bury these things, among many others–still appreciating the lively sheen of a feather or a peek of bone as the soil covered over them. My pockets are still full of leaves and stones and feathers, my windowsills of clean skulls. My love for dead things never died.

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Garavogue Rushing around town like an old woman, wild-haired but steady on her feet wisps of white flick round her head, deeper underneath her bitter black serge with bog brown edges.

She races around bends with speed that conceals her age.

Moving always westward to the tidal water’s edge.

See the salted glisten of whispers dissolved in the spray of her hair as she pulls towards the sea that waits, bringing home the messages, her news of life and fate.

Geraldine Feehan

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Singing in the Rain (Memories of the trip to Queen in Slane on 5th July, ’86) 10 a.m. rush, where’s the bus Here it comes, on with booze and buns Eager fans, traffic jams Off the bus, walk with the crush Open bags, only have fags Tickets please, rain through trees Music clear, we are near Muddy feet, Bangles a treat Cider drinking, people linking Rain abounds, Chris Rea sounds, Water sprays, Queen displays Clouds are breaking, heads are shaking Sunshine shows, cider flows Dance on slope, what a hope Party is over, crushed clover Squeezed and squashed, where’s my galoshes Tired feet, the bus to meet Record voucher, he’s no sloucher 3 hour wait, it’s getting late Bus edges, amid crowd wedges Journey slow, where’s Carlow?

3 a.m. arrival, what a day of song and survival.

Una Parsons

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Stop Calling It War When the sky swarms with machines and every place you go to escape explodes, when piece after piece you lose all of what makes you yourself, starting with home, it’s not war.

When you’re told to run so you run, bringing only the most treasured of things but you’re running in circles and dropping the cat, baby photos, wedding rings, parents and their last parched blessings, it’s not war.

When you stop running only once the small arm you’ve been dragging up mountains of rubble, down through pits of smoke just to end up back again where you began, when that hand you’ve been holding so fiercely grows cold, and the arm just dangles with no child left behind it, it’s not war.

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When a confetti of words falls, says to keep moving but there’s nowhere to move to so you sit down there in the dust of your city’s bones, knowing there was never meant to be any solution and every person you knew and loved and grew up with would be ground down like eggshells for their freshly sown fields, it’s not war.

Jessamine O’Connor

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John’s Cap Giclee monochrome print (70 x 100 cm) on museum archival paper 300 gsm Seamus Grogan 78

Her First Fight Leigh Gurney

Dad, can you tell me a story?

Far away, amongst high mountains and jagged peaks, where mythical beasts roam and soar, a community of dragon riders thrive. They live together, harmonious in their bonds with each other. The people raise the creatures from egg to maturity.

They are kin–one and the same. A young woman named Gwen is among these people. She is a gentle soul, though solid as a rock. She is laid back in the water of a warm pool, cradling a watermelon-sized egg in her arms. This is her dragon egg, a late bloomer.

Why hasn’t the egg hatched yet?

Well, she isn’t sure herself, but she isn’t willing to give up on it. She smiles to herself, caressing its rugged and scaley surface. A strong wind rushes around the pool. Waves ripple across its surface, washing water over Gwen’s face. Her smile fades. A giant dragon flaps its great, white wings. A man stands on top of the creature, staring down at the girl. It’s her mentor, Nile. He displays his own bond with his companion in their synchronicity as he dismounts the dragon elegantly.

He slides down its drooped neck, landing on the edge of the pool with the impact of a feather.

‘You’re still caring for it,’ he says.

Please do the voices. Please?

‘You’re still caring for it,’ he says. Gwen glides to her feet in the shallow pool, her sopping brown hair clinging to her neck. Nile’s eyes are narrow on her. ‘If it hasn’t hatched yet, it’s time to move on.’

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She doesn’t pay him much heed, and she gently settles the egg in the pool, leaving it behind as she turns to approach him. She avoids his eyes as she asks, ‘Do you trust your companion?’

‘We’ve flown together for two decades, grown side by side and put our lives in each other’s hands,’ he speaks while staring down at the girl. ‘Of course I trust him.’

‘Then you’ll understand when I say I trust mine.’ She looks over her shoulder at the place where the egg incubates. ‘Her life is in my hands; I’m helping her through her first battle. It’s a fight for survival. We’ll do it alone if we must.’

They stand in silence. Neither budge in the growing evening wind, clouds slowly drifting through the sky. Gwen decides to be the first to move, getting too cold in the chill air, and she steps back into the shallow spring.

‘What would you have me do?’ he finally utters, loosening up, and his expression growing softer, though still clearly frowning. Gwen let out a sigh.

‘Just have faith in her,’ she replies, smiling at him. ‘She will pull through, and when she does, she’ll prove herself as the strongest hatchling amongst them, emerging victorious.’

Padraig is sound asleep now. Fintan tucks the boy in and quietly moves to the hotel window with a view of the hospital across the way. Aisling is there, all alone, and that’s all he can think about. A yawn escapes him, and he resolves to get some sleep. Just a few hours, he thinks, sinking into the armchair.

They walk into the hospital at the crack of dawn. Padraig stumbles over his own feet, falling asleep standing up. Fintan isn’t much better, kept going only by instant coffee. Having Padraig by him reminds him not to break into a sprint. The elevator is empty as they step into it, and Fintan spends the rise to the fifth floor fidgeting with his wedding band. The contraption rolls to a halt, the doors glide open, and they press on. Down the hall, it’s only a few more paces. Aisling, his 80

beautiful wife, is lying in the hospital bed of a private room.

Padraig gets hugs and kisses first, and Fintan realises just how tense he’d become on the way. After settling in, he asks the question at the front of his mind.

‘Have you been able to see her yet?’

Her longing look says she hasn’t, and her eyes tear up at the prompt. A nurse walks into the room to check on Aisling, and Fintan feels a buzz in his pocket.

His phone lights up with a notification. ‘Only six weeks to go!’

The nurse informs them that the neonatal intensive care unit is in quiet time, and that no visitors will be allowed for a few more hours, reminding them that sleep is crucial at this stage.

Fintan and Aisling exchange disappointed looks. He’s scared to death, and he knows Aisling is too. Emotions start to cloud his mind, on the edge of tears, when he notices Padraig tugging on his sleeve. He’s smiling at him.

‘You should believe in her, like Gwen,’ he says, before falling into a hug. Fintan wipes his eyes and puts an arm around his son.

‘You’re right, Podge,’ Fintan replies and smiles.

‘Who’s Gwen?’ Aisling laughs weakly, and Fintan lets Padraig do the rest.

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THE STRAWMAN I would rather have the Strawman than you.

His grasp is the embrace, of a true hedonist.

He’d argue that the sky wasn’t blue.

His hands are raw, but the tag says made of linen.

A nook in his shoulder I can rest my chin on.

HØR A word I spit from the back of my throat, like a stubborn cough.

I can’t remember what I wrote.

The stubble on his cheek is rough.

His wet jade stone eyes.

Find me in the dark.

Like stars on a rainy sky.

A mellow voice, only meant to whisper, between the sheets Be steadfast Give me peace As you mumble over breakfast; “Pass me the coffee,” Please.

RASP The Strawman’s hand is clutching my nape.

His grasp is the embrace, of a true hedonist.

As he lays me down on a meadow of yellow rape.

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You are everywhere, yet I don’t remember your face.

You live in every detail about that place?

Bitter, bitter orange juice.

Nutty, nutty, black coffee.

A look across the table.

And everything is finally open.

The ice breaking on the ocean, The numbing of my skin, The fingers, I imagine are thin.

His grasp is an embrace, of a true hedonist.

Her throat, Her wrists, My heart.

Is the sky blue?

Your God complex, meant no prayer survived inside of you.

Yet the strawman survives, In the sandy curls of my children.

In my husband’s voice as he asks me, “Can you pass the coffee, please?

Liv Andrea Banner

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Twisted Transmissions Charcoal and Chalk on Raw Canvas Approx 40cm x 40cm Erin Porter

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Entwined

Photography

Kerrie Lee Gallinagh

Womanhood Walking by with your head kept low Femininity hidden by a blanket of dark clothing Hiding your curves, they attract unwanted attention Like honey to flies They sniff you out, like greyhounds hunting down foxes “Smile more” “what’s your name” “where you going” Words greasy, covering your body in slick sweat Their voices echo as you walk away Mind aches thinking what they would do if they catch you Tail in the greyhound’s mouth Hung on the wall as a trophy Must try and repress all these feelings don’t want to seem so hormonal don’t want to seem so vulnerable because that’s what they want Can’t walk at night can’t shine too bright if they touch YOU don’t get a fright, they’re just being polite.

Can’t give any attitude, if you refuse their advances You’re labelled a prude, which is worse than a slut.

All is fun in love and war Til you cry into your pillow at night Because they seem so polite when the lights are dim When they ask your name in the music drown club

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Just accept the drink, try not to think.

As his eyes undress you before you can respond Music and lights intertwine as your head becomes fuzzy The more YOU stumble the more he fumbles with his keys trying to make YOU leave. “Come home with me” But the next day, he didn’t make YOU stay YOU didn’t say no? didn’t put on a show didn’t run away you choose to stay.

You choose to let his hands consume you As you shut your eyes letting the sleep override the pain go on with your day, please don’t say anything because the world’s not listening.

But YOU can feel the kissing, the hands. try and wash it away water so hot.

Flesh washes away before handprints.

When you finally speak, your friends call YOU meek for waiting so long, YOU did something wrong.

Why didn’t YOU fight? With all your might?

Maybe your dress was a little too tight?

Everyone else goes about their day but YOU can’t look at the world the same way.

Now you smile when told, if you don’t what will you pay?

Jasmine Fleming

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Thrushes Two fat thrushes reside in the bramble garden I want them to turn and face me so I might see their pale coloured breasts speckled with tiny, upturned hearts.

I watch as sunlight illuminates hints of yellow in their plumage.

I remember when I held a different one.

She had hit the kitchen window, warm heart still beating then not neck limp I held her for a time hoping She advanced seamlessly from one world to the next my symbol for his passing, the sign I had asked for I sat by his bed listening to his breath some minutes later none.

Catherine Whitehead

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Make a Wish Watercolour, pen & stitch on paper, 29.5 x 21cm Teresa Mulholland 89

Weboon, 2021 Sculpting-wire wrapped in cotton bias binding, cotton threading, and acrylic paint, 23 x 20 x 25cm (dimensions variable), this flexible Web/Cocoon Hybrid was directly inspired by cobwebs and cocoons, after a research project on loss of habitat. © Eileen Fair, IVARO Dublin Eileen Fair

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...and we’re off... why is my heart so heavy and my soul depressed? the sea grinds a stone to sand over time why then, now, in the winter of my years is this pain not sanded away? will writing therapy quell the flames? will poetry extinguish the fire? does my soul need a hero’s journey in the linear tradition way?

I’ll buy an old bony horse, a retired fire-fighter will be my squire and we’ll be off to fight the windmills of my past.

Marc Gijsemans

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Solitude

Photography

Molly Brady

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Are you Sitting Comfortably?

Adam Browne armchair politician podcast agree-er tiktok nodder veteran x disciple social media evangelical wanker great fucking argument let me share that 45 followers and trending are you sitting up straight eating over your plate are you enjoying your fresh produce are you enjoying ignoring the kids while you share that with your 46 followers turn off sky news I don’t want to see that while I’m wasting food ugh not that ad again turn it off oh I got a like I got a new follower eat your fresh produce farm to fork ethically sourced homegrown petroleum fueled fresh to your door bung in the oven 47 followers and growing breaking through soil breached viral teased polyethylene bag over the head ransomed precision guided mortared shelled bodies strewn rubble covered flash point hospital down bruised limbs bloody eyes the drowned cries of a baby pulled from rubble can you imagine that a baby pulled from fucking rubble a brickwork womb the lulling sounds of gunfire sobs shelling and doom but enjoy your likes and your 48 followers are you sitting comfortably? then I shall begin.

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Green Lego Box Adam Lalwani On Christmas morning 2006, I woke up to find a green box in the corner of my room. No wrapping or ribbon, just the word “Lego” printed in the top corner. The main face of the box had a picture of some houses, a car and a collaboration of bricks stuck together that had an uncanny resemblance to a dog. That morning, I became a storyteller, and my life was put on a path.

There were no instructions inside. For the first time in my life, there were no right or wrong answers. With the contents of this green box, I could do anything.

This led to my first experience with creating characters and putting them in a storyline. Early plots were basic. Still, Lego bricks would be scattered all across my bedroom floor and each brick was essential to the stories I was telling.

As I got older, my collection of Lego expanded. Just as quickly as I would assemble a new Lego set, I would tear it down and reuse the bricks for my own purpose. This was also the time when I started creative writing for schoolwork. I used the opportunity to test out all that I had learned about character arcs, plot twists, and point of view. Not everything translated directly. It took time to find the words. But I was beginning to like the idea of being a writer.

Had I not seen the potential that telling stories through Lego bricks provided, I may have never become a writer. I have never experienced the same feeling from any other art form I’ve tried. In school, I sailed through creative writing exercises with ease because I already had the experience.

The day came when I told my last story with Lego. I packed up the bricks and put them on the shelf. With the natural course of life, we outgrew each other. Across the years that followed, I slowly gave each box away. Some to neighbours, some to my mother’s friends at work with children, and the rest to charity shops. It was difficult to let go of, but I knew I wouldn’t use it again. To grow as a storyteller, 94

I needed a pen and paper, not plastic bricks. I needed to give others the same opportunity to create their own stories.

When it came to the final box, the green box that started it all. I couldn’t let go of it so easily. So, I kept it. I put it back on my shelf and there it has stayed, collecting dust ever since. The box is placed tactically in sight from my desk. Although the once sharp lime green has now faded pale. Whenever those slow days come and I’m in need of motivation, it’s there. Because every time I look at it, I’m seven years old with the box emptied out on the floor in front of me, putting the bricks together and I’m telling a story.

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Breathe 96

Photography

Karen Keaney

Tree Felling Snarl of the saw Back and forth.

The timber groans And the last strand of bark tears from the dismembered trunk.

Creamy sap bleeds from the severed veins.

Creaking.

Crashing earthward.

Silence after the sacrifice.

Carmel Reynolds

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Polka Dot Shirt Ink, pencil, pinpricks on cartridge paper, 28.5 x 20.8 cm Gerri O’Brien 98

Jumper for Seamus Ink, pencil on cartridge paper 28.5 x 20.8 cm Gerri O’Brien 99

In the Dark (an extract)

Marie Lavin

On a stormy March night, Jamsie returned from his Friday evening sojourn to Cusack’s to find the house empty. All the lights were on, and Eileen Dunne was reading the news headlines at the top of her voice to an empty room. There was no sign of Maura. A frantic Jamsie phoned Paudie and asked him to check the few streets that made up the small town while Jamsie headed for the sea.

By the time Jamsie was nearing the end of the long promenade, Paudie had caught up with him, and together, they found a distressed Maura sitting on the last set of stone steps leading down to the beach. She was shivering in a flimsy cotton nightdress, her bare feet and thin legs were knee-high in the rising seawater, and she was repeating the word ‘seashells’ in a frightened whisper. They helped Maura to Paudie’s car and drove the short distance home in silence.

Once Maura was settled in bed, Paudie joined his father by the stove in the sitting room and eventually broke the heavy quiet between them. ‘Something has to be done,’ Paudie said softly but firmly. ‘If we hadn’t found her so quickly…’ ‘I know, I know…’ insisted Jamsie, his voice faltering under the weight of looming tears.

And three weeks later, a heavily medicated Maura moved two miles down the road to the local community hospital.

Paudie suggested that Jamsie might open the shop on weekday mornings, to keep himself busy, and Jamsie soon settled into a steady routine sorting out lightweight deliveries and chatting to the regular customers until Paudie arrived shortly after nine. Jamsie would head home by eleven, often stopping at the artisan bakery – tempted by the hypnotising yeasty aroma – to pick up a couple of freshly baked rolls, and a fresh cream eclair for his sweet tooth.

After an early lunch and a quick nap in his favourite armchair, Jamsie would drive the short distance to visit Maura and spend the afternoon with her. There were 100

rare moments when he thought that maybe she recognised him but, more often than not, Jamsie read the daily newspaper aloud to Maura while she sat in silence, a glazed expression on her softly lined face.

Paudie brought up the subject of her repeating the word ‘seashells’ the night they had found her sitting by the sea, but he quickly dismissed it as confusion. Despite living beside the sea all her life, Paudie couldn’t remember another time that he had seen his mother near the water because she had never liked the sea. Jamsie nodded in agreement, but he had other ideas. He had always been a light sleeper and, for as long as he could remember, Jamsie had woken in the dead of night to hear Maura tossing and turning in the bed beside him, mumbling the word ‘seashells’ repeatedly. It happened sporadically over the years, but Jamsie didn’t ever bring it up with her. He was too afraid of what she might say.

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Long Walk, 2020, Oil on Canvas, 60 x 30cm, this accurately measured row of houses, as seen today beside The Spanish Arch, was painted as though the scene is being viewed before the high-rise backdrop developed in this historic Claddagh area of Galway. © Eileen Fair, IVARO Dublin Eileen Fair

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Moonlit Scenes and Depictions of the Night in Irish Art Dr Marion McGarry

James Arthur O’Connor, (1792-1841) The Poachers, 1835 Oil on canvas, 55.5 x 70.5 cm National Gallery of Ireland Collection NGI.18 “Look down, fair moon, and bathe this scene” (Walt Whitman).

There is nothing quite like contemplating a full moon in a clear night sky.

Although it can often be a solitary, fleeting experience, it is deeply humbling to contemplate the exact same object that millions of others are also viewing at that very moment, that was once witnessed by your ancestors. The moon is universal, a constant companion to human DNA, an all-seeing eye, silently beholding the earth. It can also be a quite beautiful sight: a glowing white orb against a tableau of deep navy velvet–and no wonder artists have sought to depict it throughout history. As an art historian, I have often marvelled at how the moon and the night have been depicted in such a variety of ways in recent Irish art.

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Capturing an image of the moon on canvas can be practically problematic unless, of course, the artist is working from a photograph. Imagine the greater challenge of being an artist in the past, pre-electric light, memorising the scene, the glow and the light redefections, before dashing back into candlelight to instantly record it. Or even working en plein air–outside with the canvas in front of the scene–in the dark with lamplight. It’s always been considered a test of skill and a special achievement for an artist to have been able to capture a moonlit scene convincingly.

Many Irish artists portrayed the moon beautifully. One of the most famous moon scenes in art history is arguably ‘The Poachers’ (1835) by James Arthur O’Connor (1792-1841). He was a gifted landscape painter and featured night scenes with moonlight in some of his works. Poaching was a necessary but dangerous activity in rural Ireland of the past, and O’Connor’s painting marks the sudden, dramatic and terrifying moment when the poachers are momentarily exposed in their activities by the sudden brilliant illumination of the moon.

Other Irish examples include ‘Moonlight’ (1926) by Paul Henry (1876-1958) held in the National Gallery of Ireland. Here, there are no usual Henry-esque landscapes of Connemara or Achill, no looming mountains, cauliflower clouds or thatched cottages, just the twilight moon reflected in the calm sea. This is redolent of James McNeill Whistler (1834-1903) whom Henry had studied under in Paris. Whistler had pioneered the ‘Nocturne’, a term he used to describe a painting of scenes suggestive of the night or half-light. Related to Tonalism of the late 19th century that featured soft diffused light filtered through a coloured atmosphere, which gave mood and feeling to such paintings. In this manner, Henry’s ‘Moonlight’ is sparse, almost monochromatic, and one can almost hear the sea while looking.

The artist Gerard Dillion (1916-1971) was an outsider and saw himself as such: the Belfast man was considered ‘a blow-in’ to the rural Connemara communities he lived in. He was also a gay man at a time when homosexuality was a punishable crime in Ireland. The moon occurs frequently in his paintings 104

in varied ways: sometimes floating in the background or as a glowing orange orb, or massive in some paintings where it almost takes over the sky. In his ‘Moon over the Bog’ the moon is vast and given a theatrical man-in-the-moon face reminiscent of Georges Méliès’s 1902 film. Dillon’s moons are all watching, knower of secrets, sometimes bearing witness to illicit meetings or symbolic of hidden desires or longings.

A severely underrated Irish artist, in my opinion, is Ciaran Clear (1920-2000).

His moonlit paintings often feature the west coast of Ireland, with mid-twentiethcentury cottage-dwelling inhabitants seemingly clinging on to the landscape.

Clear was fond of showing moon reflections on a rippled sea – creating a dramatic high-contrast effect, capturing beauty in an otherwise grim scene, as the dark, wet, windswept nights he shows complements the harsh lives of his subjects.

Often, the scenes feature diffused moonlight behind clouds, or the moon partially obscured by clouds: how typically frustrating of an Irish cloudy night.

These days our own smartphones are capable of easily capturing a good image of the moon under dark conditions, so it is easy to forget the huge challenge for artists of the past to undertake capturing this on canvas. We should contemplate landscape painting of the past through this lens and appreciate a difficult achievement accomplished so well by artists like O’Connor, whose mastery, technical skill and composition led to scenes of such sublimity.

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Bursting into Life, 2024 Polychromos Pencils on Fabriano Paper, 52 x 36cm, Eileen Fair 106

Shirley

Catherine Whitehead

She begins life as a selection of orange, cut-out pattern pieces. They are all neatly laid out on the kitchen table. Mam’s sewing machine sits ready for the job. I walk around the table, gently running my small fingers over the orange fur. It is so soft and puffs back against my touch.

‘Don’t move anything now,’ she tells me. ‘I’m just getting organised. She won’t be ready for a long time.’

I nod and move to where the pattern drawing is. There is no coloured picture but a simple line drawing of the planned finished project, a medium-sized teddy bear. I go and sit on the armchair near the range. It’s always cosy there, and I think it will be a good place to wait for her to be made. Soon though I am asleep, and Mam wakes me to go to bed. I glance at the table, hopeful. I see two orange legs and a body lying flat and empty on the table amidst an array of threads and scissors, cloth and paper patterns. Mam sees me looking and reminds me, ‘I told you she won’t be ready for a long time.’

I’m three and a half years old and I’m not sure what a long time is. The kitchen looks different in the morning. There is no sewing machine, no teddy legs or patterns. The day is filled with household activities and neighbourhood shopping trips. It is not until evening time that all the magic reappears on the table. Before I go to bed, her parts are ready, and Mam is pushing white fluffy stuff into all the teddy sections. I see Teddy eyes sitting to one side waiting for their face. I want to stay up to see her magical birth on the kitchen table, but I go to bed and dream about her. I know her name now and I feel ready to meet her properly in the morning.

The following morning, I am not disappointed. Shirley is waiting for me on the kitchen table beside my boiled egg and toast. I am so happy. It is not my birthday.

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It is not Christmas, but it is still remembered as my greatest gift. One loving made by my mother’s gifted hands.

Shirley is bright orange in her early years, and her teddy-bear fur is as soft as a baby chicken to touch. She has little black leatherette patches for her hands and feet. Her eyes are hazel coloured, and her nose is stitched on. I am immediately in love with her, and she accompanies me everywhere. When I start school later in the year, I tell her I will be home soon, and she sits on my bed and waits for me. I tell her everything but without using words because once I look into her eyes, she knows all that has happened to me in any day, and I only need to hug her to leave all my troubles behind.

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Good Friday Glance past the darkening garden, The child’s Art Exam painting, The Dead Sister’s smile The TV screen blankly reflecting Shadows of grime in the mirror, Pictures of smiles on the walls The carriage clock from Cork, atop The mantelpiece over the empty fire, Still telling Winter’s Time The vacant armchair, the radiator That absorbed the fall, The table, semi-scraped of varnish Buddhas from 3 continents grinning In anticipation of the stereo Blaring out a half-remembered song The disconnected phone maintains A vigil in the hallway Up above the thirsty houseplants, The chipped Willow plate on the pelmet, The holiday frame from Lanzarote Both in need of dusting The fridge humming its Freon tune The tap dripping counterpoint On the too-long steeping crockery…

This is not the Day To ponder Resurrection.

Con Connolly

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The Picture House

Digital Drawing

Karen Keaney

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The Perfect Way To Die Shauna Mc Donnell

Identity is defined as the characteristics that determine who or what a person or thing is. As a fourteen-year-old, mine became anorexia. People who have never experienced mental illness may find it hard to understand how something like anorexia can become your identity, but I didn’t see myself as anything else. I wasn’t anything other than a person trying to lose weight.

Anorexia wasn’t always my identity. It wasn’t all-consuming at first. Society told me it was perfectly normal to diet. People around me were doing it; my older sister exercised regularly and never ate dairy or gluten. My auntie was nearly always on some type of diet; my mum always talked about exercising to lose weight. Even people my age contributed; the girls at school would brag about skipping breakfast. To me, it sounded like a perfectly normal thing to start tracking my calories.

Before anorexia took hold, I did well in school; in fact, I was top of a lot of my classes. I hung out with my friends and I played football. For a while, saying no to a chocolate bar and skipping snacks. For a while, I was fine. I often wonder when it went wrong. What was the moment it took over? Was it the first time I stuck my fingers down my throat? Was it when my habits turned to secrets? Was it when I started to skip dinner? Or was it the first time I did a ‘Twenty Minute Ab Workout’? Or was it simpler than that? Maybe it was declining a second helping, maybe it was when I was told I wouldn’t be so skinny when I grew up, maybe it was watching my mum insult her weight, or my aunt, or my sister. Maybe it was everything.

Suddenly, nothing else mattered. I quit my Gaelic team, I fell behind in school, and I didn’t have the energy to hang out with my friends. I was too occupied with numbers and an empty stomach to notice, and when the people around me started to, I was already in too deep.

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By the time I saw a doctor, I had been tracking my calories for about eighteen months, over-exercising for about twelve and purging for three. Since I was only fourteen, my dad had to sit beside me while I explained to the doctor what I had been doing to myself. I was referred to my therapist that day, and three months later, in her little white room, things started to change.

I still remember the trolley-bed she had in the left corner of the room; I could never take my eyes off it. It made me so uncomfortable. I don’t remember anything that was said to me in therapy before my second session with Dolores.

I was too busy focusing on the weight graph she showed me at the start of our session. It wasn’t until she discarded her clipboard and started speaking that I really heard her. “Look, I’ve met dozens of girls like you, and it goes two ways,” she told me. “Either they listen to me, and they help themselves, or -” she stopped and motioned for me to finish her sentence. I didn’t. I stared at her and waited for her to continue speaking. She eventually did, saying, “Or they get sick.” She paused, “and they get sicker and sicker, until…” Her head motioned to me, signalling for me to answer. I didn’t. I couldn’t even look at her. I knew what she was saying and what she wanted me to hear, but it felt so far away, so fake. She wouldn’t have it, though, and she asked again. “What happens to people who are sick and don’t get better?” I loudly exhaled before finally answering, “They die”.

Maybe it was because I had never seen my ‘eating problem’ as an illness or because Dolores made me see my reality. Whatever it was, it worked.

That week, I filled out the sheets, saying what I had eaten and admitted when I had purged. I tried my best to stick to my plan, which proved easier every week.

The challenges Dolores set me became more manageable, and so did everyday life. I began to realise that living is easier when you have the energy to do so. My nightly sit-ups and secret ab workouts turned into walks with friends. I started to brush my hair with the worry of finding knots instead of missing clumps. The blisters on my knuckles began to disappear, and I started to remember things more clearly. I started to go to school more regularly. I was learning things again, and my newfound energy made it feel manageable to do so. Going to school, hanging out with my friends, and adding milk to my coffee started to be things I 112

did regularly. I was forming habits outside of food again, and that meant I could become something more than anorexia.

During my recovery, I heard the words ‘food is fuel’ countless times, and while I now know this is true, I also know that food is so much more than that. Food is culture and enjoyment. Food is date nights and meeting new people. Food is catching up with your friends and Christmas day. Food is birthday cake and being able to have one next year, too. Food is fuel and food is so much more than that. Food has allowed me to become who I am, to become a person, and to form an identity outside of my illness.

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Ephemeral 1. lasting a very short time; short-lived; transitory: 2. (of flowers or insects) lasting only a few days or less: 3. being of temporary value or passing interest: [] I saw a boy taking a photo of his mother, both beaming; A love I never knew to long for, and among these rows of buildings, I never feel it.

Blades beat overhead It’s the last time I’ll lie in the long grass.

A boy took a photo of his mother, eyes wide; And my heart cracks like the lightning behind my eyelids when the world gets too loud too fast.

Blades beat overhead Someone has seen a father for the last time I saw a boy taking a photo of his mother, and; Superimposing self, I almost thought it was me who had a buoy to cling to as the waters rose.

Blades beat overhead Searchlights over breakers.

I don’t belong in one place, so find myself passing heartbeats—hoping. new name, new location // Blades beat overhead They too shall pass.

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Why I Write Emily James

I write because it helps put a shape on my thoughts and organises my emotions, it makes them manageable. Sometimes this works. I write because I love words.

I love how they have been passed down and through their journey from our ancestors to us they have been changed like Chinese whispers from each generation to the next. Ghosts live within them.

I write because I like to feel like a writer. I have a romantic idea of clacking away on one of those old-style typewriters with a ribbon and a neat stack of papers slowly building into a finished, perfect, unbound book. I bought two typewriters thinking I would restore them and set myself up as the Jessica Fletcher of West Cork. The pair of typewriters sit in a corner of a room I rarely use; I imagine them tutting and gossiping about what a terrible waste it is for their keys to remain so unclacked.

I write because a picture can paint a thousand words, but they aren’t necessarily the right words, or in the right order. I could have taken a photograph of the hail shower while I was walking the dogs yesterday. In the photograph, you would see the hills of the Mizen Head Peninsula opposite and the vague shape of those hills reflected in the shattered water. The clouds, the patches of blue sky, the sea, the rocks, the road would all be perfectly clear to you. If I had caught it at exactly the right moment, you would notice the light hit all these things in each place differently, so it looked like lots of pictures stitched together for effect.

You might guess the time of year by the colour of the fields or the time of day by the quality of light. If you were looking very closely, you might see tiny white dots of hail bouncing off the water and collecting at the side of the road. But you couldn’t tell, by looking at a photo, that this was gentle hail. Nor could you hear the whisper of it ruffling across the surface of the bay. You wouldn’t know because how could you, that in almost this exact spot a few weeks earlier there was a different sort of hailstorm. One that came from nowhere and with violence.

Horizontal hail. Being shot at with ice bullets. A man who was a stranger not so long ago stopped and offered me a lift home, even though there was a cake box on 115

the passenger seat that looked like it had a celebration attached to it. I said not to worry, it would pass soon enough. But he stayed anyway, talking about nothing much. His truck sheltered us, me and the dogs, from the hail until it passed as suddenly as it arrived. You wouldn’t know, from the photograph, what this meant to me. To be looked out for, to belong at least enough to be offered a lift home in a hailstorm. You might know what hail is like, gentle or otherwise. You might have been a stranger or know what it is to be thankful for a simple act of kindness.

I write because you could write a thousand words about the exact same moment, but they wouldn’t be these words, the words you are reading now. It is not that my words are better than yours, it is that they are different. By seeing the world through my filter, we are sharing something over a distance of time and space, and it becomes a new thing: a combination of you and me and everything we know about hail and being a stranger and kindness.

I write because when I forget to, or I’m too busy or don’t feel like I have anything to say, I don’t feel quite right. Like I’m wearing my clothes on back to front or have my shoes on the wrong feet.

I write because my husband died. The words ‘my husband died’ give you an immutable fact: he died.

I write because I want you, somebody, anybody to know what those three words mean to me. I want to explain he hadn’t been feeling right in the morning.

How he took our dog out for a walk on the beach and it made him feel better.

I want you to know it was a beautiful day, and he was outside putting together garden furniture. That he came inside, he felt more unwell, he got lightheaded, he felt sick. I called the non-emergency number because he was flustered. He wasn’t the sort of man to get flustered. I was talking to the person on the other end of the phone and getting this man, this big man, my husband, to bed. Because that’s what you do when people are sick, you get them to bed. My husband lost consciousness. I knew what to say: unresponsive but breathing, the words making it feel like it wasn’t happening. The person on the other end of the line transferred me to another person and this one asked me if I knew CPR. I did. I do. But I couldn’t move him from the bed, too heavy, too big, a dead weight. This new person counted compressions because it is difficult to keep count when you are using all the power you have to be your husband’s heart. It was difficult to hear 116

because our dog was shouting in my face.

I can describe my husband’s vomit as thin and yellow and how I had to clear it from his mouth before I could be his lungs as well as his heart. I can tell you how I believed, truly, we would be laughing about how love is clearing vomit out of someone’s mouth. I saw it, felt the relief of not having lost each other, at how close we came to it, at the same time as pleading with the person on the other end of the phone. How long? How much longer? I can tell you everything about the twenty minutes it took for the paramedics to get to us, about how I didn’t know if I had the strength to be my husband’s heart and lungs. I can tell you about watching them work on him through the reflection on the glass door.

How I could only watch indirectly. Until I couldn’t watch at all. I saw the looks exchanged and I knew what they meant, but I still hoped we would be laughing about this tomorrow. I can write about how I crumpled, collapsed, crumbled, when there was nothing left to do. About how I still don’t know whether this was how I really felt or how I imagined it should feel because that’s how it is shown on TV. Or if that is how it’s shown on TV because that’s how it feels. I want you to know this because ‘my husband died’ isn’t enough.

I write because I am still shocked we are not laughing about the time we came so close to losing each other. Shocked we aren’t laughing about how love is clearing vomit out of someone’s mouth so you can be their air. Because I need to tell this story over and over again and I will never run out of the words to tell it. Because even when I am writing about other things I am still–always–only writing about this.

I write because I was scared. Because the idea of being a writer was too precious, too delicate to even look at in case it broke or became hard and twisted and ugly. Because then something hard and twisted and ugly happened and failing at anything didn’t seem important anymore.

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Mad About You, 2023 Ink, acrylic on khadi cotton, size 15cm x 15cm Martina O’Connor

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The Work of a Moment Justine Kniesburges

Years ago, I was going through a cardboard box, which is filled with memories of twenty-five years of growing up. In between baby socks, holiday souvenirs, and mountains of notebooks from thirteen years of schooling, I found something I had written in fourth grade. It was my vision, as a 9-year-old, of what my life was going to look like at 25. I decided that I was going to write my teacher an updated letter to inform her about how different my life actually was now.

I thought about my life since I had found that letter. Growing up, I was a ‘grandma-child’. I loved my Oma a lot. She lived in the same house as me, so I could visit her whenever I wanted. I would go upstairs almost every day, typically finding Opa, my grandfather, sitting in his armchair in front of the old box TV, which I’d hurry past to get to the crystal bowl filled with Werther’s Original caramel hard candy. I’d pop one into my mouth, then sit down on the worn leather couch, tipping over to the side where Oma was sitting; her weight made the cushion sag. But that never bothered me. I loved being close to her. Even after almost eighteen years of her being gone, I can still feel her warm and tight embrace, while the sticky sweet melted in my mouth.

As a child, I was very sensitive to loud noises. New Year’s was a looming dread. For days before and after the turn of the year, I was terrified of hearing explosions. I was even afraid to go to the bathroom, where I’d be alone in a room with a window. I’d hurry back to Oma as quickly as I could. Despite having three layers of noise protection on–tissue paper pressed into my ears by in-ear hearing protection, topped off by construction earmuffs–I still needed Oma to hold me.

All night, she would have her arm around me, staying close, consoling me when I inevitably started to cry at midnight. I remember the day my parents told me she had died. Granted, my memories are a little blurry. Memory is a complicated concept. It’s like a hallway so long that it seems to never end. As I start walking, I pass door after door. It’s so loud. Every room seems to chatter over one 119

another. I hear something that reminds me of my childhood. It’s music playing.

Coolio’s Gangsta’s Paradise. I don’t know where it’s coming from and as fast as it dominates the overwhelming clash of noises, it disappears again. I approach a door and walk through it.

It was 05 January 2007. After I woke up, I walked down our hallway, my naked feet freezing on the tiles. This is where it gets confusing because I vividly remember wearing my favourite short sleepsuit with ladybugs on it. There was no way in hell my mother would have let me wear that in the dead of winter. I walked into the kitchen where my father immediately picked me up and told me that Oma had died. I immediately burst into tears. She had been sick for a while, deciding not to fight her cancer, which I would learn later as an adult. She had been in the hospital when she couldn’t be strong anymore, so retrospectively, it shouldn’t have been such a shock to hear. However, children don’t really think about death. That day changed me. Coming to terms with her death was incredibly hard for me. I was seven and my only wish was that Oma lives again.

Seven months later, I met Mrs K, my fourth-grade teacher. She looked nothing like Oma; she was tall and thin, had dark hair and tanned skin. However, she treated her students with the same grandmotherly love that I had known. Mrs. K, as much as she cared for her students, also had a very no-nonsense attitude, throwing chalk at us if we acted up in class. Of course, she made sure to miss, aiming for our desk or the wall behind us. We went on our first five-day class trip with her, which must have been a challenge. Twenty-plus eight-year-olds away from home for the first time. But she brought her husband along who we all loved as well, so it did feel like we were on holiday with our grandparents.

This teacher was a special one. Mrs K was the one who cared, the one who shaped me, supported me. She was my class teacher for a year and a half until she retired on 31 January 2009. That date is etched into my mind like a carving in the bark of a tree. It’s been over fifteen years since we last saw each other, but she has never left my mind.

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This year, I turned 25. I even made a note in my calendar to update her on my life since I’d last seen her. But like always, I kept pushing the reminder week after week, having had too much to do for university and work. At least that is what I told myself. It would have been the work of a moment.

Mrs K died in June this year. She had cancer, like Oma. It broke my heart when my mother showed me the obituary in the newspaper. I missed my chance.

I know it would have made her happy to see me again and to hear about me following my true dreams of working in film and writing. But that task that seemed so grand, so time-consuming, would have been, in fact, just a moment.

Now, like my grandmother, like Mrs K, the chance of getting closure is gone forever.

I finally dug out my fourth-grade notebook from my memory box. As I flipped through it, I found an envelope addressed to Mrs K with her real address on the front, making me wonder if she actually wished for an update. Ignoring that pit in my stomach, I took the letter out. It’s dated 01 June 2029: Dear Mrs K! The last time we saw each other was in fourth grade. I was ten back then. Now, I am thirty already. After primary school, I spent another eight years to receive my Abitur. Since I like animals a lot, I subsequently became an animal keeper. There, I met my husband. His name is Tom. We have three children […].

Love, Justine Memory is an unreliable narrator. It turns out I didn’t miss my chance by two months. My brain was so convinced that younger-me had written that letter as a 25-year-old. For years, this to-do had been in the back of my mind, waiting its turn, but now, that truth turns out to be a lie. I still would have had to wait five more years. All of my anxieties about writing this letter were for nothing. Maybe the universe tried to tell me to not waste the opportunity I had, but I wasn’t listening.

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B i o g r a p h i e s

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Adam Browne Adam Browne is a first-year (im)mature student floundering through the Online BA in Writing & Literature at ATU Sligo. He has two young kids who thwart his every attempt at creativity. They are antagonists of the highest order. One day, they will grow up, and he will exact a revenge so petty and cringeworthy that his kids will simply ignore him, just as they have been doing since they were born. He loves writing – when it comes easy – and hopes to one day write something that will be read by his wife. As of yet, she has refused.

Adam Lalwani Adam is a 22-year-old in his final year in the Writing and Literature course.

Originally from rural Roscommon, Adam enjoys experimenting with all types of writing and often incorporates themes of morality, identity and people. He is currently writing a play for his final portfolio. Apart from writing, Adam enjoys reading, photography and music.

Alyssa Bogue Alyssa Bogue is a second-year student in the Writing and Literature course at ATU Sligo. Their writing generally focuses on extended metaphors and religious allusions, with non-fiction and fiction melding together to craft an ethereal sense of reality. Their Instagram account “@quillmeplz” is in the process of being set up, but you’ll be able to find their writing there soon.

Angela Duffy Angela Duffy is an artist who lives in County Mayo. She has been making art for over thirty years and has worked in arts and health facilitation. Angela’s art has been selected for many group shows and has been featured in several art and literature publications. She is currently studying for a MA in Creative Practice at the Atlantic Technological University, Sligo.

Anne Walsh Donnelly Anne Walsh Donnelly is the editor of the ATU Magazine and is based on ATU’s Mayo Campus. When she’s not working at ATU, she writes poetry, prose and plays.

Her novel, ‘He used to be me,’ was published by New Island Books in 2024. She is also the author of the poetry collections, Odd as F*ck and The Woman with an Owl Tattoo. Her personal essays have been published in the Sunday Independent.

Aoife Toner Aoife Toner is a 2nd year Fine Art student from Leitrim who works with a range of different medians, both traditional and digital. She works mostly with acrylic paint, using flowers as her favourite subject matter. She aims to work in a painterly 123

style, maintaining brushstrokes and life in her paintings with minimal blending and layers of paint. She also draws digitally, taking to it in recent years and drawing fan art relating to pop culture and various fandoms whilst maintaining a similar style to that of her traditional paintings. All of her socials can be found under the name @aoifetandco, where she posts her work and sells prints of her digital and traditional pieces.

Bella Kilgannon Bella Kilgannon is in her final year of the Writing and Literature programme at ATU Sligo. She was lucky enough to have a photography project feature in the third volume of Scrimshaw which captured self-discovery during the COVID-19 lockdown. This year’s submissions come from her poetry module last year where she retired her scepticism of the form and instead found a love for the lyrical prose.

Her poetry focuses on girlhood and the slow dissolve into womanhood as her 20s rapidly approach. “COWS!” is an ode to girlhood, while “A Self Portrait at 19” is a reflection on leaving it.

Carmel Reynolds Carmel Reynolds is a mature 2nd Year student in the Fine Arts degree programme at YAADA, ATU Sligo. Inspired by nature in her paintings and writing, “Tree Felling” is her first published poem.

Catherine Whitehead Catherine Whitehead is a third-year Writing & Literature student at ATU Sligo.

Catherine has a degree in Fine Art and enjoys painting and drawing. She is currently working on a magical realism novel.

Chris Sparks Chris Sparks moved from London to Ireland in 2003. He researched, wrote and taught political and social theory for decades, specializing in social uncertainty and the politics of fear. As theoretical fears became eerily actual, he realized that he needed to look at lived experiences from another angle and took to writing poetry. He studied for an M.A. in Creative Practice at ATU Sligo, working with writers, filmmakers and musicians and has produced published poetry in written and recorded form since 2018.

Ciarán Adams Ciarán Adams is a Clinical Nurse Specialist who has taught on secondment in St Angela’s College (ATU). In the 1990s he wrote a monthly column for “The Buzz” magazine (Sligo), recording his experience of living in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. In 2023 he contributed to the anthology, “A Door Opening - Sligo and the 124

Legacies of Partition”, published by Sligo County Council as the concluding part of its “Decade of Centenaries” events. He continues to write short pieces with an emphasis on a sense of place, identity and belonging.

Con Connolly Con Connolly was born in West Cork and has lived in Dublin and Roscommon before moving to Sligo in 2023, at the end of a 40-year career in Public Service, to pursue a degree in Performing Arts at ATU. He has long had a passion for writing and poetry and is a regular contributor to the Belfast fantasy and horror magazine Phantasmagoria (www.phantasmagoriamag.co.uk). Good Friday was written at a time when such lifestyle changes seemed unimaginable.

Conor Joyce Conor Joyce is a second-year Writing and Literature student in YAADA. Conor lives in Enniscrone with his Parents, Sister, and two cats – Toby and Ziggy. It is here that he spends his summers, sleeping and avoiding writing and creating music as though they were the plague. When he does write, it is most often poetry, although he has been known to start novels far too often as well.

Eileen Fair Eileen Fair is a Galway-based legally blind 3D multi-disciplinary artist, recipient of ATU Academic Excellence and Global Undergraduate Awards. Longlisted for the RDS Visual Arts Awards, she has exhibited widely. Eileen created two ongoing art collections: Through the Eye of a Needle deals directly with sight loss and stigma.

Ethereal Playground addresses the unsettling legacy of Irish mother and baby homes. Materiality matters in her drawings, textiles, paintings and sculptures, some of which are tactile or kinetic. She juxtaposes subverted rudimentary materials and reimagined found objects, resulting in assemblages that are more profound in their second life.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/eileenfair_visual_artist/ Elaine Mears Elaine Mears is a multidisciplinary artist with a love for all things fabric, found and foraged. Her work explores reminiscent practices, storytelling, concepts of identity, and personal narratives of experience. Her work in community development and human rights has particularly influenced her in terms of engaging with complex ideas which explore the human condition, power dynamics and art as a means of promoting awareness of marginalisation and exclusion. In her work, she uses natural fabrics and repurposed materials as much as possible. She especially loves using natural methods of fabric dyeing and sustainable practices in her work.

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Emily was born in England 50 years ago. She eventually came to her senses and moved to Ireland in 2019. Her main job is watching the dogs sleep, but she also spends a lot of time looking wistfully out over Dunmanus Bay in West Cork.

Occasionally, she writes and quite enjoys doing that. Most of the time, this writing is for her BA in Writing and Literature at ATU Sligo, which, astonishingly, she is now halfway through.

Erin Porter Erin Porter is a Donegal artist currently based in Sligo. Her work delves deeply into the cycle of birth, life, and death. By focusing on often hidden aspects of the human body at a microscopic level, her art confronts the viewer with the uncomfortable and blunt realities of mortality. Whether on a large or small scale, Erin Porter strives to render the human body with lifelike intensity, evoking both emotion and reflection and forcing us to engage with the raw, unfiltered nature of existence and the challenges it may bring.

Geraldine Feehan Geraldine Feehan is a final-year Writing and Literature (online) student at ATU Sligo. She is from Cork originally but lives in Louth and occasionally escapes to West Kerry for rest and inspiration. She enjoys writing poetry and non-fiction.

Gerri O’Brien Gerri O’Brien lives in Galway. Her artistic practice crosses the definable categories of art, craft and design where she employs hand-stitched text to explore pertinent issues relating to the human condition and socio-political subjects including identity, encroachment, violation, disability, and perceptions of ‘women’s work’.

Her work has been selected for RHA’s Annual exhibition, Dublin, in 2021, 2022, 2023 and 2024. She received the Alex Bradley Award at the RHA’s 192nd annual exhibition in 2022. Other group exhibitions include ‘Dear PrEUdence: Positive Headspace in the EU’, European Parliament, Brussels, (2023), and ‘Bloodroot’, Pulchri Studio, The Hague/Hamilton Gallery, Sligo (2025).

H.G. Nolan H.G. Nolan—an Asian American writer raised in New Hampshire and now living in Ireland—draws inspiration from her upbringing, infusing her fiction with glimpses of real-life experiences. Her work explores the complexities of identity and resilience. She has recently been published in Stoney Writer’s Collection and Swerve Magazine.

Hania Zielaskowska Hania Zielaskowska is from Poland. She loves art and the creative process that 126

accompanies it. She doesn’t like to limit herself by imposing forms on what she does. She just goes where her heart (or instinct) leads her. That’s how she found an old camera and ended up walking everywhere with it, excited to share how she views the world!

Hannah Jane Reilly Hannah Jane Reilly grew up in the farmland of County Wicklow, scribbling tales as soon as she was old enough to hold a pen. Nature lover and coffee fiend, she writes fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry, usually with a large helping of horror.

Struggling with a blood phobia throughout her life, her writing is perfect for those who like their ghosts without the gore. She is currently working on a sapphic romance and botanical horror novel she hopes will be a haven for other weirdos who find these kinds of books cosy. Her Instagram handle is poison.ivy.pages.

Jasmine Fleming Jasmine Fleming is a 3rd year writing and literature student currently in ATU Sligo.

From the midlands in Ireland, she always had a strong appreciation for poetry.

Some of her inspirations include Sylvia Plath and Ellen Bass. Her specialty is feminist writing as she feels that it’s important to voice the issue often seen as taboo or controversial. She hopes her poetry will spark conversation and that people will relate to the topics.

Jessamine O’Connor Jessamine O’Connor is a graduate of ATU Sligo’s Writing & Literature Bachelor degree programme 2021 and Creative Practice Masters degree 2024. Her poetry collection Silver Spoon is published by Salmon Poetry. She has chapbooks with Nine Pens Press and the Black Light Engine Room Press, and she is an editor with Drunk Muse Press and The Poets Republic journal. She is facilitating Poetic Justice workshops again at the ATU in 2025, ‘Wild Words’ workshops for teenagers in Leitrim, and teaches ESOL in Roscommon. She writes poetry and fiction. http:// www.jessamineoconnor.com Johanna Callaghan Johanna Callaghan is a Sligo native and alumna of ATU, where she completed her MSc in Archaeological Science in 2019. Johanna’s work examines how personal connections shape our sense of place and how experiences of transformation tied to life-threshold experiences can foster growth and change.

Jonathan A. Gibbons Jonathan A. Gibbons is a first-year student of Writing & Literature in ATU Sligo.

Born in Galway, he has lived in Sligo for as long as he can remember. His writing is dedicated to all of the people who have inspired and supported him.

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Justine Kniesburges Justine Kniesburges is a German writer who is currently completing her final year of the Honours Degree in Writing & Literature at the Yeats Academy of Arts, Design and Architecture (YAADA), which is part of the Atlantic Technological University (ATU) in Sligo, Ireland. Prior to her academic studies, she earned her qualification as an Audio/ Visual Media Designer in 2022 after training for three years at Bavaria Film in Munich. She has published two English-language short stories through the Young Storyteller Award in 2023 and 2024. In her career as a writer, she aims to work as a screenwriter but is equally passionate about writing and publishing a full-length novel, as well as more short stories, turning these into collections in the future.

Karen Keaney Karen Keaney is a multidisciplinary designer and interior architect who recently completed an MA in Creative Practice at ATU. Her work explores the intersection of architecture, art, and anthropology. With a particular fascination for ruins and abandoned spaces, she examines the emotional and psychological dimensions of environments, considering how these spaces shape our perception and experience of the world. Through her practice, she challenges conventional ideas of space, encouraging a deeper connection between people and the environments they inhabit. Karen’s work emphasises that spaces, particularly those marked by decay, carry layered narratives that transcend time, prompting reflection on the evolving relationship between architecture, memory, and the human experience.

Katerina Postranecka Katerina is a 21-year-old final-year Writing and Literature student at the Yeats Academy. Originally from Prague, she moved to Ireland to pursue her passion for literature and film. Her work primarily focuses on non-fiction, exploring feminist questions, the nuances of girlhood, the complexities of mother-daughter relationships and the challenges of coming of age. She is passionate about finding an authentic, raw and honest writer’s voice – one that serves as both a vessel for self-expression and, hopefully, helps others feel less alone in their own experiences.

Kerrie Lee Kerrie Lee Gallinagh is a fourth-year BA Fine Art student at ATU Sligo. Her intuitive process- based practice is inspired by nature, particularly trees and landscapes.

Working across drawing, painting, and photography, she embraces expressive mark making, layering, and spontaneity to create dynamic, atmospheric pieces.

Rooted in nature’s energy and movement, her practice invites viewers to engage with the beauty and emotion found in organic forms.

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Leigh Gurney LLeigh Gurney, originally from Longford, is a student attending ATU Sligo and is in their final year of obtaining the writing and literature degree. They have a deep love for anything fantasy, ranging from fairytales to magical realism in their short story work, and from epic hero’s journeys to grimdark tragedies in their long-form writings. Leigh is currently working on a fantasy novel for their dissertation. They have a keen interest in Irish folklore and often includes references to it in their work.

Liv-Andrea Banner Liv-Andrea Banner was born and raised in Aarhus, Denmark. In 2021, she graduated from the European Film College, where she majored in Screenwriting & Directing.

She is currently enrolled at the Yeats Academy of Arts, Design, & Architecture, in Sligo, finishing a bachelor’s degree in writing & literature. Banner grew up speaking both English and Danish. A sense of duality which is often reflected in her work – both its freedom and its limitations, but especially the contradictions that give away to both. Her Danish debut novel, Guilt Society (De Skyldiges Klub), is set for publishing in April 2025.

Marc Gijsemans Marc Gijsemans is a Flemish-speaking Belgian (he does have a bit of English). He now lives on the Mayo-Sligo border. After retiring to Ireland, he started a creative writing course at the Irish Writers Centre in Dublin. That was the first time he wrote anything creative in English. He has written a wee bit more since then, especially since joining the full-time Writing and Literature online course.

Maria May Growing up on a windswept Swedish island, May forged a strong connection to the land. On moving to Ireland in 2004, this affinity grew into an exploration of interconnectedness. May returned to education in 2020. Her multi-disciplinary art practice spans installation, live art, collage, and poetry. Repurposed and scavenged materials are reimagined through holistic, ritualistic layering. By tentatively engaging with her surroundings, she weaves connections to the past, present and future, perpetually pursuing transformative healing. May is currently undertaking an MA in Creative Practice at ATU Sligo.

Marie Lavin Marie Lavin is a third year mature student on the BA in Writing and Literature at ATU, Sligo. Her travels, life experiences, and interest in people and their cultures inspire her writing, which includes poetry, non-fiction, and short stories. She is currently working on her first novel.

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Dr Marion McGarry Dr Marion McGarry is an author and art historian with research interests in architectural history, Irish folk customs and Irish literature. She lectures on Design and Design History at ATU Connemara and ATU Wellpark and on Irish Literature at ATU Galway.

Martina O’Connor Martina O’Connor is a writer and visual artist based in the West of Ireland.

Working across painting, photography, film, installation, and text, she explores the beauty and brutality of human life. In her visual art, Martina creates sensory-rich narratives, while she describes her writing style as “painting with words.” www. martinaoconnor.ie artist@martinaoconnor.ie https://www.instagram.com/ martinaoconnorartist Mason O’Hagan Mason O’Hagan is from a relatively quiet corner of Donegal. Currently, he is in his third and final year of the Writing and Literature programme at ATU Sligo. This year, he has been working as an assistant editor for Volume 4 of Scrimshaw Journal.

He enjoys writing novel fiction that deals with interpersonal relationships between characters.

Méabh Callaghan Méabh Callaghan is a writer from Monaghan with a BA in Writing and Literature from ATU Sligo. She is currently redrafting her first young adult novel and was selected to read at the Bilingual Takin’ The Mic at the Irish Writers Centre during Culture Night 2024. This poem is her third publication in Scrimshaw.

Molly Brady Molly Brady is a second-year student at ATU Sligo studying Fine art, from Clones in county Monaghan. She enjoys experimenting with different mediums and finds inspiration through poetry and literature. (Instagram – Mollybrady_art) Niamh Commins Niamh Commins Taylor is a mixed media artist currently undertaking a Fine Art Undergraduate degree at ATU Sligo. With QQI Level 5 and 6 qualifications in Art and Design from Moate Business College, she brings a strong foundation to her multidisciplinary practice. Her work spans painting, drawing, photography, and collage, while she continuously experiments with a variety of materials and techniques. Her current practice is informed by the layers and connections that people experience in the world, and it is expressed through her use of colours and materials that are collaged together.

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Oliver Scallon Oliver Scallon is a poet and writer from Co. Fermanagh. His work attempts to tie together areas within philosophy, psychology and theology in order to explore the human experience, often to an absurd and gothic effect. He is currently working on his Debut Poetry collection and his Debut Novel. He intends to pursue a Master’s Degree post-graduation. He currently lives in Meath.

Seamus Grogan Interdisciplinary Experimental Visual Art best describes Seamus Grogan’s current practice. Originally from Co. Leitrim, he has worked in various creative disciplines. His current practice explores conundrums such as time, transience, and place, utilising photographic, filmic and sonic elements. His ongoing creative work continues to produce new imagery as his visual enquiry and practice-based research continues. Séamus is a member of the Fine Arts staff in the Yeats Academy of Arts Design & Architecture in ATU Sligo. (Instagram; @sgroganartist ) Shane Leavy Shane Leavy is a library assistant in the Yeats Library, ATU Sligo. He is a writer and creative writing workshop facilitator, with work published in Popshot, Trasna, Icarus, Infinite Worlds Magazine and Jacked. He won the 2024 Southern Shakespeare Company Sonnet Contest, and his novella, A Watcher, will be published

by Run Amok Crime in 2025.

Shauna McDonnell Shauna Mc Donnell is a first-year Writing and Literature student at ATU Sligo. This is the first of her works to be published. Born in Donegal, she grew up in Leitrim and has had a passion for reading from a very early age. Her early love of literature spawned from an obsession with Harry Potter, Percy Jackson and Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls and grew with the discovery of poetry, particularly that of Sylvia Plath. Today, she writes from a motivation to give voice to topics that she finds important, with feminism and diet culture often being at the forefront.

Stephanie Gomes Stephanie Gomes, originally from Portugal, has been living in Ireland since 2009.

She fell in love with the West Coast in 2015 and never left. Her artwork varies from abstract expressionism to cubist forms. Her primary mediums are painting and textiles, having completed a visual arts course in Engelsholm Hojskole, Bredsten, Denmark, in 2016. Stephanie is currently studying furniture design at Sligo College of Further Education.

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Tara-Fay Worrell Tara-Fay Worrell was born in Western Australia but left at the age of one to grow up in Sligo and Leitrim with her family. Before deciding to pursue her passion for writing she worked as a bartender, hairdresser, personal trainer, manager of Lifestyle Sports and as a secretary for the Irish Palestine Solidarity Campaign. Her favourite role of all is being a big sister. In an ideal future she would love to live in a small stone cottage along a stormy shore in the West of Ireland where no one can find or contact her Teresa Mulholland Teresa Mulholland received her BA in Art & Design from ATU in 2018, having returned to college to pursue her passion for art. Her work is a combination of paint, drawing and textiles, including stitch and embroidery. I work instinctively and intuitively in response to materials and subject matter. Influenced by the world around her, she is interested in the archetypal feminine principle and in absorbing the generational wisdom found in folklore and mythology. Having worked as a psychotherapist and art therapist for many years, mainly in the field of trauma and PTSD, she also has a keen interest in Depth psychology and the impact that trauma can have on the human psyche, particularly during these uncertain times.

Thea Downey Thea Downey is a 23-year-old Canadian in the Masters program at ATU Sligo for Creative Practice and has been living in Sligo for 3 years. A graduate from St Clair College’s musical theatre program with a background in acting, her work is characterised by its introspective feel and deconstruction of character. She mainly writes fiction and poetry with a focus on mental health. She tends to explore dark subjects with a sense of levity and is particularly intrigued with the exploration of innocence, intent vs impact, and dichotomy. She has completed her first YA novel and is looking to publish. Úna Parsons Úna Parsons is an engineer and loves all things creative. She has a great passion for publications and seeing the written word recorded for posterity. Úna recently retired from Atlantic Technological University. She was Head of College and Head of Faculty of Engineering & Design in ATU Sligo. Now that she is retired, Úna hopes to put pen to paper more often.

Vanessa O’Malley Vanessa O’Malley is a final year student of the Writing and Literature Programme at the Yeats Academy of Arts, Design, and Architecture at ATU Sligo. Growing up in a rural maritime community on the West coast of Ireland, her writing is 132

largely inspired by the surrounding mountains and the harsh coastline of the Wild Atlantic Way. While her writing wanders many genres, she predominately writes in the non-fiction category with a special focus on literary criticism. ‘High Tide at Noon’ is her first venture into the poetry world.

Zuzana Podolvá Zuzana Podolová is a writer from Czech Republic. She graduated from the Writing & Literature program at ATU Sligo in 2024. She specialises in poetry; you could have read her work in previous volumes of Scrimshaw. Sandwritten is her photography debut. You can follow her on Instagram: @zuzpodol.

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The Scrimshaw Editorial Team would like to thank the following: The President of ATU Sligo, Dr Orla Flynn, for her ongoing support of the journal.

Masa Ruane Bratusa, Head of YAADA. Dr Keith Hopper for his invaluable guidance, belief, and words of wisdom throughout the past year.

Tommy Weir for his time and support.

All the Writing and Literature staff for helping us get to this place, with special thanks to Elske Rahill, Niamh McCabe, and Dr Tim Hannigan for their unwavering support and encouragement.

Scrimshaw designer Oskar Terlecki for his beautiful designs, collaborative spirit, and enthusiasm.

Aidan Haughey and Catherine Young of the Communications Department of ATU Sligo.

The staff at the Yeats Library, ATU Sligo.

The 2025 graduating classes of the Writing and Literature programme, online and on campus, for their support.

Roísín O’Shea and Kate Dowling, the editors of Scrimshaw Volume 3, for their constant help and advice.

Everyone who submitted to Scrimshaw Volume 4, for trusting us with their work.

A sincere thank you to all the readers.

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The Scrimshaw Volume 4 Team: Senior Editors - Susan Stewart and Teresa Heffernan; the Associate Editors - Geraldine Feehan, Aoife Ní Mhurchadha, Mason O’Hagan, Olivia Vipond Smith, and Owen Sproule; and Designer - Oskar Terlecki.

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