The first issue of All In magazine comes out against a backdrop of the war in Ukraine, political stalemate in the North, and a housing crisis in the South. Some are better equipped than others to face the everyday challenges, to maintain relationships, care for children and hold families together. It’s a struggle now to feed a family, to pay bills, overcome addiction, cope with stress, avoid conflict, and deal with physical and mental health problems. Many wake every morning to a battle with trauma and disability, and in an ideal world, nobody should be abused or die by suicide or from violence.
But there is hope, and education can provide the skills to face these challenges. Accounts by prisoners in this issue, of how their lives changed for the better when they got involved with education are encouraging, and accounts by prisoners, of teaching other inmates to read and write, prove that people in custody have a lot to offer. As this issue was cut and pasted, the search to find art to illustrate the work of a writer became a dynamic, and an identity for the magazine. Images always turned up, reflecting the unique ways that prison artists and writers are preoccupied with the same everyday themes of food, work, sport, friendships and pop culture. An interest in justice and human rights came into focus, also concern for nature and wildlife, the destruction of the environment, and the future of the planet.
All In magazine builds on forty years of prisoners, North and South, entering their poetry and short stories in the Listowel Prison Writing Competition. It’s a cross border, co-operative effort, bringing the work of prison artists and writers to an audience that will appreciate their creativity. Finally it’s an invitation to prisoners to attend education, to learn from teachers, to find your voice, make your mark, and prepare, to enter Listowel and submit work to All In magazine in 2023.
Tom Shortt (Co-editor) Arts Officer Irish Prison Education Service
Effective collaborations are shaped by good relationships. You value the work of a colleague or a sister organisation and recognise the shared experience. The decision to join forces is made in order to create a mutually beneficial project for all involved and All In. Likewise, the arrival of All In magazine goes back to connections made through Listowel Writers Week, combining the prisons in terms of giving the prison writer a creative forum. In this respect it is long overdue that we now have this magazine which breaks upon the scene.
Heretofore Time In the Prison Arts Foundation supported magazine has been in existence for nearly a decade. There is a positive purpose and three-way structure in Time In which is now incorporated into All In. Prison Governors and Staff are an equally important presence in these publications which showcase prison education, the prison experience, and the arts. All In is exciting not only because it brings all of the prisons together but includes the sharing of skills which enhances our existing skill base as educators, and importantly the prison writers who provide the content in this, our dynamic (you will agree) first edition, and as you can see: we feature writers, visual artists among many other creative disciplines.
A magazine that circulates through an institution is an integral dynamic for communication, for understanding and for affirmation. It is a pleasure and honour to work with the editorial board in selecting the content and devising the layout. I will conclude by offering the broadest communal thanks possible based on the solid commitment from all of us. We hope and trust that this collaboration will continue to grow. We need this to continue for the important showcase which it provides and is by all definitions a publication within the collaborative space. Welcome to All In.
Pamela Mary Brown (Co-editor) Writer-in-Residence Prison Arts Foundation
Acknowledgments
Sincere thanks are offered to all who played a part in the creation of this magazine and who gave most generously of their time and insights in shaping the content. The creation of this collaborative work would not have been possible without the tireless support of Prison Arts Foundation, The Irish Prison Service and the Northern Ireland Prison Service. All In magazine gives special thanks to the project innovators and Editorial Board: Tom Shortt, Pamela Brown (interior layout), Shauna Gilligan, Geoff Power, Fred Caulfield, Adele Campbell, Allison Moore. Edel Higgins and Alan McDonnell at IPS HQ. Mary Renehan at IPS Arbour Hill. Sincere appreciation is extended to the many teachers and prison educators who supported their students during the submissions process. Thanks to graphic designer Eva Wason for the poster and magazine cover.
The Only Impediment to progress is Yourself
“Previousnegativeexperiences
donotdefineyouand itdoes not matter what educational level you are at, because in truth, the only impediment to progressisyourself.”
During 2019-2020, The National Adult Literacy Association (NALA), prisoners and teachers within Portlaoise Prison, took part in a peer-to-peer literacy programme. The goal was to provide a group of inmates with the necessary skills and qualifications, to enable them to assist fellow inmates suffering with literacy issues. This piece is a small insight into how easy it can be to return to education.
GROUP TRAINING
Group dynamics were crucial to
the group’s success, as NALA staff, prison teachers and guest speakers added variety to the group, therefore ensuring different backgrounds, opinions and styles were present. The camaraderie and overwhelming interest in helping people were key to its success. This showed that whilst prison can be mundane and regressive, it can also be progressive, rehabilitative and meaningful. I chose progression, personal development and the opportunity to engage in a yearlong programme that would benefit both me and my fellow inmates.
INDIVIDUAL TUTORING
Firstly, the individual nature of peer-to-peer tutoring led to its success. My student had previous
negative experiences in school, lacked confidence and generally distrusted previous teacher’s motives. Taking chances within prisons carries risks, such as embarrassment, loss of face or being jeered. We lived on the same landing, therefore disagreements could be extremely uncomfortable for both of us. I doubt many teachers in the real world live alongside their students. However, confidentiality, respect and friendship blossomed as both of us rolled up our sleeves and got stuck in.
Secondly, it was crucial the lessons focused on the student’s goals, as the idea of a structured classroom setting, made him apprehensive. He wanted to learn how to read newspapers in a
Puzia3 J.S. Portlaoise Prison
comfortable environment with no pressures, so we agreed to minimal expectations, such as attendance and commitment. Prisoner-prisoner language was crucial as it meant we spoke on the same level and within the classroom we were equal, therefore trustworthy. It was about my student feeling comfortable to explain previous barriers to studying and us finding a way forward that suited him. In the end, that was the whole purpose of the peer-to-peer initiative. Thirdly, the results speak for themselves. In the beginning, we studied crime articles as these interested him. Following this, we studied vowels, pronunciations, sounds and then spelling books. Eventually, my student wanted to learn how to use the internet, therefore our lessons changed. He had never used computers, so we created a step-by-step chart and worked on this, until we got to a stage where he no longer needed the chart. In the end, my student never missed a class and can now read what interests him online and offline. The word ‘him’ was the most important part of the process. For him, the
results speak for themselves.
GROUP TUTORING
Peer-to-peer training has stayed with me throughout my sentence, as demonstrated in 2021, when I moved to segregation. Segregation has many complex overlapping issues that impede educational attainment. In segregation, the landings are small and cannot mix, inmates face increased pressures and school hours are limited. However, as I had previously tutored my individual student alone, but under the supervision of the education unit, I convinced my fellow inmates we could continue that practice. This appealed to them, as most did not like classroom settings and felt that because they knew me, they could trust me.
We decided I would teach the group one-page-at-a-time and everyone would wait for, or help the last student. We study one hour a day, three times a week and treat any mistakes with laughter, rather than derision. For example, when difficult material appears, the learning comes through laughter, as the group makes jokes, funny suggestions or uses funny analogies to break-
down concepts. Discipline respect and friendship are crucial within this group, as chaos could occur and people may lose interest. However, our common goals of education and progression from segregation have ensured the group is a success and continues up to today.
RE-ENGAGE
In Conclusion, this article has demonstrated that individuals who have not attended school for long periods can successfully re-engage if the right conditions are created. Anyone can succeed if they take the brave step and attend the school. Some of my students were tough men and any disrespect to them could have seriously backfired. However, that type of behaviour rarely occurs, as the majority of people want to improve educationally, just like you do. The only reason they appear ahead of you at the moment, is because they have faced their fears. Some felt stupid, some embarrassed and some afraid, however, most soon realised that the only impediment to progress was themselves. >>> Anon, Portlaoise Prison
Teaching reading and writing in prison
Inever imagined that so many people in the twenty -first century would still be struggling with reading and writing skills. Since I came to prison, I never in a million years thought that I would ever be teaching anything, never mind one of the most important life lessons. I feel very privileged that I have gained the confidence through time helping other pris-
oners achieve the freedom that reading and writing gives you in all aspects of life. To date I have taught 28 fellow prisoners the basics of reading and writing to the stage that they have went on to sit Essential Skills, Level 1 and Level 2 English, with most gaining some level of qualifications.
A LETTER
People often ask me why I do it.
My reply to them is ‘why not?’ When I got sentenced, I felt ashamed of what I had done and the people I had let down. So my confidence and my self-worth took a severe battering as did my mental health. Then one day a man in his fifties came to me and asked if I could write a letter to his wife for him. I said I would and then I offered to help him with his reading and writing.
JOURNEY TOGETHER
We spent many months and smoked a lot of roll ups as we began this journey together that was alien to both of us. The outcome was that he joined the English class and ended up passing his Level 1. Now to a lot of people this might not seem very special, but to this guy who was in his fifties it meant that he was able to fill out forms, read road signs, send birthday cards to his kids for the first time and most importantly he was able to learn more on his own.
HOPE
The fact that I was able to help someone even though we were in the most depressive and negative setting showed me that there was hope, and there was something I could do to try and offset some of the bad that I have done.
LEARNING PROCESS
The way I begin with someone is to do nothing but talk and try and build up a rapport in the first session which usually lasts for about 45 mins, then discuss what is involved with the learning, and how I would move at a pace they find comfortable. The very first thing I start with is phonetics. This is an association with the letters of the alphabet and the sounds that the individual letters make. This is the most important part for me, because
if you don’t get the foundation right you will have problems further down the line.
CONFIDENCE
I then move on to the 2 letter words and then 3 letter words and so on. Everyone learns at a different pace so I always make sure to remem-
do need is an open mind, a willingness to help others and a passion for what you are doing. If you go in with a learner and you’re not really interested, they won’t be either but if you really want to do it and you both put the effort in the experience can be magical. It’s a real life changer. >>>Anon, Magilligan Prison
geon to be able to teach someone the basics to read and write, I can certainly vouch for that. But what you
Puzia32, J.S. Portlaoise Prison
Loughan House “Gratitude” A Memoir
Iremember my first couple of days before being sentenced. I was having food with my partner and my daughter, and that evening a few of my family members and friends dropped up to wish me best of luck. I could not have predicted the way things in my life were going to change so dramatically.
MY LIFE CHANGE
On the Wednesday morning, it was dull and bleak and quite cold. I drove into the courts with my partner, my mam, and my sister. I was up at 10.30a.m., but it was after lunch when I was called in front of the judge. In that twentyfive minutes my life changed. My family were driving home on their own and I was heading to The Joy with three strangers. It felt like a dream/nightmare that no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t wake up from.
ROCK BOTTOM
I’d woken up that morning in a
clean bed with my partner and was going to sleep that night with the stink of stale tobacco and a little bed cover and a pillow that was no thicker than an Easy Single slice of cheese. The pain of not being able to kiss my partner goodnight or tell my beautiful daughters to have a good day before they headed to work or school. I was after hitting rock bottom. My heart was broke in a million pieces. I was behind the door for twenty three and a half hours a day for two weeks.
ATTENDING SCHOOL
Only for my partner, girls and family giving me the strength, I would have given up. After the two weeks I moved to the landing and started attending school. I left school at a young age; I had struggled with learning because of my ADHD. This was out of my comfort zone. It turned out it was great for my mental health. I was
learning and the teachers were brilliant and made me feel human again and not just a number.
FAMILY AND FRIENDS
I progressed further by getting a job in the kitchen. I was working seven days a week to help the days go faster. I made some new friends but that didn’t help the pain of missing my family. I realised how grateful I am for having a good partner, two beautiful daughters, family, friends, a job, and a lovely house, and all taken away in a split second. It all started with a few beers and one line of coke.
A JOURNEY
Life is a journey that can change just like that. I’m very grateful for what I have, and I don’t take life for granted. My strength was being a partner, a Dad, a son and a brother. Gratitude put me on the right path back. >>>Anon, Loughan House Open Prison
The open door pop-up restaurant: education unit, cork prison
Participants who took part in this innovative programme say...
“It’s great, all these new skills and techniques, and we’re getting opportunities here that we never thought we’d have. I would definitely be looking to go into hospitality when I get out.”
“I’m thinking of going back to college when I get out.”
“I am really putting the head down and focusing on the future!”
Sample Food Board prepared by participants of the Culinary Skills programme in the Education Unit Cork Prison.
My experience of Shelton abbey open prison
Imoved from Cork Prison to Shelton Abbey Prison last year. There is a friendly atmosphere here, the staff and teachers are helpful. You can participate in a wide range of activities. I’ve been attending a most enjoyable wood sculpture class in the Education Unit which is something new for me and I am enjoying learning this new craft. I have also been working on my Driver Theory in the Library and I hope to pass my test soon!
A GOOD ROUTINE
I have a full time job in the laundry during the day, this keeps me very busy. I am doing something very useful and it provides me with a good routine.
I have found the beautiful outdoor surroundings to be extremely therapeutic and helpful for my mental and physical health. The grounds change with the seasons and each brings its own beauty. It is great to be able to go out-
side and walk in the fresh air whenever I like, this is something I really appreciate and I do not take for granted.
DOGS FOR THE DISABLED
A great bonus is to be able to see the pheasants, ducks, mice and cats in the grounds of Shelton Abbey. There are also some lovely dogs sharing the space with us as the prison participates in Dogs for the Disabled scheme where inmates help to prepare and train assistance dogs for their
future jobs of working alongside children with disabilities.
I exercise with a group early in the morning and this is also very beneficial for my well-being and provides a great energising start to my day.
OTHER BENEFITS
I find that I have greater independence and autonomy in an open prison environment. The other benefits include good food, having a phone and being able to talk to loved ones for as long as I like. Having a phone enabled me to stay in touch with my family during Covid lockdowns. Visits are also very enjoyable, they are relaxed and comfortable. Children can play and families can have picnics outside in the fresh air on fine days.
In my opinion, Shelton Abbey helps prepare men for their release and return to their communities. Inmates are encouraged to work, exercise, learn, upskill and grow in a supportive environment. >>> Anon, Shelton Abbey Open Prison
Pandemic in mountjoy
The forgotten few, yeah, we know there’s after being a full pandemic going out there in noddy land. Personally myself, I got arrested in 2019, and sentenced in March 2020. A week into the sentence, the pandemic hit us hard. I know life for all of us was and still is tough for people outside, but it has been terrible for us prisoners on many levels.
ADDICTION
I myself relapsed badly into addiction. I found it was my only comfort in lockdown. After lockdown, my partner stopped visiting me as the conditions were too much. We couldn’t hold each other, hear each other, or even read each other’s lips, because of the masks, even with us both being fully vaccinated and Covid 19 negative, and still these Draconian measures were used. The long and the short of it was the relationship failed. I don’t blame her. I’d have probably fecked out had the roles been reversed. There were no drug counsellors working on site. The video visits kept on failing. They say the children that lived through the Covid, Ukraine and Brexit are classified as the CoUoB Generation.
LOCKDOWNS
I am a strong-willed man, and I have personally struggled to get through these times. I feel like we inmates have been forgotten about. If one person is ill on the wing, they shut down the whole wing. The European Court of Human Rights have declared that after a couple of weeks of solitary confinement on a human, makes the mind go funny. Like, at the
very least you should be allowed to shower. It’s only when it personally affects the regime does change happen. We are the only country in the whole world where there hasn’t been a riot over the lockdowns and no, I’m not looking for medals for us, but I am hoping that in the future there is more thinking into inmates’ mental health.
INCENTIVES & SUPPORT
I hope to see incentives like charity runs, football tournaments and positive staff we can turn to instead of looking down on us when we turn to drugs for support. All we really need is a nice family visit every so often, which in turn makes us want to look well for our visitors, which
makes us go to the gym and stay healthy instead of telling us no more normal visits. A lot of us say ‘F**k it’, I may as well use drugs and walk around sick looking as I’m not getting visits from outside so who the f**k cares.
Right now, I’m drug-free, through sheer will and determination by my own counsel, as there hasn’t been any initiatives, no workshops, the gym is rarely opened and no drug counselling. I’d run it better with my eyes closed truth be told. Ticking boxes they are. Well, that’s just a couple of things I had to get off my chest. >>> Anon, Mountjoy Prison
Imprints, Anon, Mountjoy Prison
Prison Abolition
Untitled, Eddie Cahill
“Abolish[ing] the cruel custom of prisons... and let reason and friendship reign over the ruins of ignorance and barbarity…as the universal friend of man, open the prisons, open the eyes, open the ears, and open the hearts of all people, to behold and enjoy freedom unadulterated freedom...” Joseph Smith, US Presidential candidate, 1844
As a prisoner it might seem a bit obvious that I am a supporter of prison abolition. It would certainly be in my interest to close the gates on prisons for good. However, I became interested in the abolition movement several years ago and one of the reasons it gripped me was that I had wit-
nessed the systemic injustices that are an inherent aspect of prison life, and the aims and objectives of the movement struck me as nothing short of common sense. Crime statistics and prison population numbers are increasing year-on-year, so it is evident that prisons certainly are not acting as the deterrent that they were designed to be, yet as a society we still continue to condemn people into an ineffective and caustic system that compounds problems rather than provide a solution.
CLASS WARFARE
The Oxford dictionary defines abolition as putting an end to a “custom or a law”, in this case, the custom of warehousing many socially undesirable individuals who have all too often fallen foul
of social the social ills that plague most working-class communities. In this sense, prisons are a weapon of class warfare. The shelves of the prison warehouse are full of people with complex, multifaceted needs. Drug addiction, mental health problems and specific educational needs are commonplace in the wings of prisons and are often an integral part of “offending behaviours”. Isolating people from family and friends, and alienating them from communities is not the solution.
ORIGINS OF PRISONS
Prisons as we know them today were a Victorian concept, and were a fundamental part of the industrial revolution. It was commonplace that those “too lazy to work” were among the first people to be incarcerated, as well as those workers who tried to organise themselves to campaign for improved conditions. In the US, the penitentiary system coincides with the abolition of slavery. Despite these obvious links, the Prison-Industrial complex is still powering at full steam today. Here, often prisoners are still being put to work, responsible for the maintenance and up-keep of the prison. In the face of this, they are not receiving a fair wage (or any wage at all!). They are not entitled to any form of time-off, and raising concerns about working conditions earns you the label of trouble-maker, and you are very easily replaced. In a developed society it is unthinkable that working conditions that we criticise developing countries for having still exist today.
PRISONS AND POWER
Another important feature of prisons is that they are a gateway
for the misuse of power. Our basic human rights are minimised when we inherit a prison number. Behind the metal gates and concrete walls we are at the mercy of the system and the individuals that make up the cogs of this. While there are certainly safeguards put into place for our protection and our rights, it is important to remember that more often than not, the responsibility of policing prison staff is undertaken by the prison itself. UK prison rule 111 states that “an officer shall ensure that in his dealings with prisoners that he is courteous, and that his conduct is correct and appropriate at all times”. The fact that this law exists is certainly a forewarning of the potential for the harm of those charged into a prison’s care. The Prison Abolition movement differs from institutions such as the Howard League,
or Criminal Justice Inspectorate whose main objective is to feed into prison reforms. The Abolition movement, however, seeks to close prisons for good. This is not a naïve concept-it is not ignorant to crime, or insensitive to the experiences and voices of victims. It seeks to create a system whereby the interests of every individual the perpetrator of the crime, the victim and their wider communities are paramount. They believe that this can be achieved by a more humane, non-punitive approach to crime.
SOCIAL INJUSTICES
The primary goal is to correct social injustices such as race, class and mental illness in recognition of the undeniable causality between these and crime. Through a community -based approach to tackling these problems, we have the opportunity to engage in so-
“ Educationchangedmylife”
Before I got into education, I never believed in myself. I lacked selfconfidence and my fear of failure led me to avoid the school. But when I built up the courage to go to the school, the teachers were very friendly and eager to help me.
I started slowly, and over time built my confidence and my goals changed. I always felt respected by the other students and teachers, and it felt good to
cial contracts, where we are all willing participants in governing how we treat each other. We also seek to promote alternatives to prisons such as restorative practices, which will in turn give an unadulterated voice to victims that would allow the person committing the crime to gain a better understanding of the damage they have caused.
INHUMANE
Prisons are an out-dated, inhumane and destructive force that plague our society, and rather than reduce crime and offending they only serve to reinforce social injustices. Within the views of the Prison Abolition movement, we seek to replace these with alternatives that not only benefit and protect the individuals that would otherwise be committed to prison, but would have also have advantages to wider communities and contribute to the reduction in crime.
>>>Anon, Magilligan Prison
learn. The more I learned the better I felt and to keep busy really helped me with dealing with my sentence.
I realise now it’s never too late to educate yourself. The school helped me achieve things I never believed possible and education has changed my life for the better. I just recommend that everyone give it a try. >>> Anon, Progression Unit, Mountjoy Prison
Poppies 4, Anon, Dochas Centre Female Prison Mountjoy
Flash Fiction
Flash fiction is often defined as a very short story, typically a word count of no more that 1,000 words and notable for conveying a self-contained story in a few short paragraphs. The All In Editorial Board agreed that Xis10z is a fine example of the discipline in 180 words.
Xis10z
The bell chimes. The dog yelps. The door slams shut. The phone rings. The hand shakes. The glass slips. The golden liquid splashes on the tiled floor. The feet stumble along. The glass reflects a face. Haggard. Drawn. Desperate.
The bell chimes. Again. The dog yelps. Again.
The hand twists the latch. The door opens. The shadows lengthen. The door slams shut. The feet shuffle back. The chair. Waiting. The bottle, waiting knowingly. Tinkle of ice. Splash-
ing of liquid. A long drawn out gulp. The cushion, silently screaming as the bulk settles down.
The hand grasps the remote. Mashed buttons flattened under a squat finger. Night falls.
A slow clamber to the bedroom. The mattress, waiting silently. The pillow slumped against the headboard.
The squeak of springs. Snoring.
Midlands Prison:
Moon rises. Night noises filter into the room.
Day breaks. Again. A groan. Wakening. The silent shuffling. Splashing water. Flushing toilet. A hand scratches whiskers. Slow shuffle to chair. The bottle, dead. The ice, water.
The bell chimes. The dog yelps. The door opens. Sunshine streaming in. A harsh rattling breath.
Silence.
>>> Anon, Wheatfield Prison
inspired by Newspaper photographs
ONE
Looking at the mountain and its variety of shades: yellowish, black, brownish, and green; their reflections in the lake take on a different hue. The strong, stubborn tree with its broad and overflowing branches is symbolic of the many forms of life that emanate from a single, tiny seed, right across the planet. The reflection is like the flow of thoughts in a dream, often not told, that remain in the dark somewhere: of people, of fears, of the damage we can do to this earth. >>>Anon
TWO
Iwas falling before I realised it. The elephant had stumbled, and I was in mid-air. The sudden jolt as my head hit the ground stunned, and in that moment, I thought per-
haps my friend was right: that safaris are a bad idea after all. As I hit the ground, I felt a searing pain in my right wrist; the elephant’s foot landed on my arm, crushing not only the bone but also the ivory amulet that my wife had given me, the same amulet that guaranteed – so the local she’d bought it off had said –to protect the wearer from harm. >>>Anon
THREE
As the sun sets on this barren land, my journey comes to an end. Eight weeks I have been with these beautiful friends, and now we are approaching our resting place. This journey was not only a necessity for them, but also for me. There was a lot of pressure on my shoulders. Every step we took could have taken us away
from our goal, from the search for water. Now we’re safe, I realise that we aren’t so different. We operate as a team; we all must eat, sleep, strive and prosper. >>>Anon
FOUR
The smell of candle grease merged with the starched cleanness of the white cloth. Impipi tried to look for her mother, but the hands around her shoulders and head controlled her movements. She wished someone would speak as the silence was more frightening to her now than the rattle of guns that had brought her here. She could only guess how many people were behind, and what was going to happen. A man’s voice said: “She’ll do.” And then the candle went out. >>>Anon
Beware of Monsters
Inever believed in monsters, or ghosts or things that went bump in the night. I said I never believed. I do now. You see today on TV or in the movies (they call it CGI) how easy it is to make you believe, and I scoffed at spaceships bombing the White House or snakes the size of Californian Redwoods eating a city.
But not any more. You see, I have seen it. I watched it come and I ran like the rest but unlike
them, I got away. It just gobbled people up. Life will never be the same again. Once we could meet and talk to each other. But now people are afraid to leave their houses. I moved out of the city early on, now I live in a cabin in the high woods praying it won't find me.
I trust no one, for all have been corrupted by it. I live with my dog, a mangy thing that turned up on my doorstep months ago. I suppose I adopted him out of
Monologue A BArry’s Moment
The apartment smells rotten! I‘d only been sitting in it for a half an hour and I could taste the smell in my mouth already! A bitter, disgusting taste. The walls are green with a fungus accumulating on them. Kind of like a posse, in formation, preparing to attack. The toilet’s best days are over. There’s more scars on it than a grizzly bear that’d been scrapping all season, to sire offspring…unsuccessfully. Depressed and desolate, it sits in the corner.
A ‘kamikaze fly’ buzzes like crazy around my head…attempting to get into my brain, maybe it’s a tiny alien flying, the f***er, thinking my earhole is the ‘Mother Ship’. No matter how much I swat, the f***er keeps on trying to land in it.
All I hear is, “bleedin’, bleedin, bleedin” bouncing around my consciousness. I say to myself, “He’s definitely a Dub that fly, cute as f**k.”
“Bleedin’, bleeeeeeedin’ waster!”
My mind is always motoring at a hundred thousand miles an hour. Thoughts fly like ‘The Enterprise’, light speed. Zipping in and out…pinging off the stars. Pity it isn’t Captain Kirk… or is it LA Charhord or even that attractive looking medic, in her skimpy red outfit in charge? No doubt any of them’d rule the nation within…the madness of it all.
I always say to me Ma, “Mother, it’s because of that f**kin’ poxy Ford Cortina Mark 1. If I didn’t get knocked down when I was 5, Ma, I’d be normal now…you should have claimed, Mother. By law a child is never at fault. Didn’t the same thing happen to another young-fella, like me, fractured skull, he got 180 grand for it?”
“Would you goway outta that son, since the day you were born, actually, since the day you could walk, jaysus, eight months old… you were cracked!”
Adding, laughing, “I couldn’t turn my back on you for a sec-
loneliness. I sleep in a cabin that has no electricity, no running water no connection to the outside contaminated world. It’s the only way to survive. Every day I pray to God that it won’t find me. I’m writing this by the light of a candle because it is the safest way.
It has taken so many people, over 3 billion people effected or so they said. All I can do is just sit here and hope that I never get infected.
By the internet. >>> Anon, Wheatfield Prison
ond, you’d disappear like a fart in the wind. Besides, it was you who ran out in front of the car and scared the shite out of that poor woman. And as for 180 thousand pounds son, imagine when you turned 18, getting a 180 thousand pounds, you’d have been dead son, dead as a door nail.”
See these thoughts? A Ducati 916SBI… an R1… even a bloody Honda 50 at this stage would do.
See these thoughts? They reverberate, vibrate and disperse in my brain. And what about your man, ehem, what’s his name? My God, I’d forget my own bloody name if it wasn’t for the fact that my prison number, is stuck on my clobber. 666. Oh ya, Humpty Dumpty, that’s yer man…Shrek. What the hell am I thinking of him for?
I just watched it. Ha!
“It’s time, John.”
“F**k off fly.”
It’s time to put on the kettle, relax and have a cuppa…make the time, whilst doing it, for a BARRYS, A BARRY’S MOMENT.
>>>Anon, Portlaoise Prison
Don’t fear the queer
The number of people who are open about their sexuality is increasing in prison, and I am hopeful that this is a reassuring sign that people feel comfortable being themselves. Yet I am still ashamed to say that during my time in prison I have been approached by a significant number of people who are struggling to come to terms with their sexuality. The story is the same every time. They are afraid that they won’t be accepted by their family and friends, they are afraid how other prisoners will react if they find out, or how the institution itself would react. It is frustrating because these are all valid concerns. It is typical for people to describe a sense of shame or guilt as if they have done something wrong and it is a poignant and painful reminder that once upon a time in the not too distant past, being gay was a crime.
ATTITUDES
These feelings that many people in the LGBTQ+ community experience, however, are a projection of other people’s attitudes onto them, attitudes that have been ingrained in us over our lives so much so that they become a weight dragging us down and holding us back, and damaging our mental health. For some, these feelings can become so overwhelming and contribute to a higher incidence of self-harm and suicide in our community.
LANGUAGE
How do we go about trying to put this right? I believe we all need to take a moment and look inwards and challenge our own attitudes. When we use derogatory language, it is often not meant to be offensive or an attack on a
person’s sexuality, but try to remember that there may be people who are witnessing this and interpret as a sign they won’t be accepted. Try and imagine how you would act if your brother or sister, son or daughter were gay, and how you would like people to treat them. I understand that people have their own personal views, cultural or religious, and I would never try and change that but I ask that you don’t try and force these beliefs on anyone else. We are all different!
PRIDE
Finally, I speak openly to my brothers and sisters in the LGBTQ+ community, both open and not. We talk about Pride, a celebration of who we are, but for me it means so much more. Personally, it is Pride in myself, Pride for my community and Pride for the culture and history I have inherited. Being gay does not make you different, less of a man or weak. In fact, finding the strength to overcome the fears and the stigma shows a moral fibre that cannot be meas-
ured. Remember that you are part of a wonderful, vibrant community that will support you, a community that defies criticism and judgement. Remember that you have inherited a legacy that withstands punishment and persecution, and a fire that cannot be smothered. You are never alone, even in prison, and I can speak from experience that you are surrounded by a lot of people who will stand in solidarity with you through the difficult times. Don’t be afraid to be your true self, and don’t worry about anyone or their views. They aren’t living your life. Being gay, bisexual, lesbian or transgender, as well as everything else I have left out, is normal. You can’t change who you are, but you can change how your future looks. Create a future where you have Pride in yourself.
>>>Anon, Magilligan Prison SUPPORT:
Rainbow NI: 0800 018 8082
LGBT Ireland Office: +353 1 6859280
Bent Bars Project
Guitar, Anon, Shelton Abbey Open Prison
The house of the rising sun
The House Of the Rising Sun was a hit for British Rock ‘n’ Roll band The Animals in 1964. This classic song tells a story about a young man led astray in a city were gambling, poverty, and crime are rife. There have been many versions, debates and questions about the song: Where did the song come from? What is it about? How many versions of the song exist?
FOLKLORE
I love the song and like listening to the different versions. The song was a hit for The Animals in 1964 but it is a much older song with decades of folklore behind it. Some believe it originated in the 1800s. It was sung by miners as far back as 1905. In a published magazine in 1925, Robert Winslow Gordon wrote a column entitled ‘Old Songs That Men Have Sung’ and the lyrics of The House Of the Rising Sun were printed. Although the lyrics were different from the version we know today, small changes were made and the song evolved.
“There is a house in New Orleans, It’s called the Rising Sun It’s been the ruin of many poor girl Great God, and I, for one.”
STUDIO RECORDING
The first recording can be traced to Alan Lomax from Kentucky. Lomax was instrumental in collecting and creating folksong archives. He set up a studio and a coalminer’s daughter Georgia Turner, aged 16, first sang the song for Lomax. This version was called ‘The Rising Sun Blues’.
CLARENCE ASHLEY
Another early version can be
traced to Clarence Ashley who recorded the song in 1933. Ashley, a folk musician, was an American clawhammer banjo player, guitarist and singer. He learned the song from his grandfather which takes the song as far back as the 19th century. His lyrics are from a male perspective and debates about the more recent versions consider whether the lyrics are from a male or female perspective.
“There is a house in New Orleans They call the Rising Sun Where many poor boys to destruction have gone And me, oh God, are one.”
Ashley was from Tennessee and Turner from Kentucky, nearly 100 miles apart, and both sang a similar song; this song has done a lot of travelling.
MEDICINE SHOWS
It could have travelled by Medicine Shows. In the 1920s musicians used ‘medicine’ salesmen as a source of travel. In turn, musicians drew in crowds which helped the salesmen sell their wares.
MEANING
So, what is the song is about? What do the lyrics actually mean?
“My mother was a tailor She sewed my new blue jeans.”
Blue jeans are the American symbol of the working class which makes me believe the song is a man’s story, mostly men wore blue jeans at the time.
“Now the only thing a gambler needs Is a suitcase and a trunk
And the only time a fool like him is satisfied Is when he’s all stone-cold drunk.”
The father is a gambler and has destroyed his family life, setting up
his children to fail, perhaps not wanting to be tied down.
“Oh, mother, tell your children Not to do what I have done Spend your lives in sin and misery
In the House of the Rising Sun.”
The narrator is pleading with mothers to keep their kids from going down the path he did: a journey with drinking, gambling, “sin and misery”. Some believe that The House of the Rising Sun was a jail. My opinion is that it is not a jail but a gambling house where people can’t leave their addiction, a kind of prison itself.
“Well, I got one foot on the platform The other foot on the train
I’m goin’ back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain.”
This lyric also contains the idea of jail; a man running from his gambling debts, being taken back to prison. This is correct if we’re sticking with the jailhouse theory, but we all know the ‘old’ ball and chain as a metaphor for wife.
GUITAR STUDENTS
Countless great musicians have all played different versions but the story has stayed the same, still leaving the listener with their imagination. The House of the Rising Sun is a song that is a must for beginner guitar players. It certainly was for me. The first time I played it I was captivated. My version beginning in Aminor resonates hauntingly and this mood remains so throughout the song. >>>Anon, Magilligan Prison
Wit God in a Rot Fog, Josie, PAF Community Mentoring
Warrior Woman 2, Anon, Dochas Centre, Female Prison, Mountjoy
Former Minister for Justice Charlie Flanagan TD, and PAF artist and former prisoner Stephen Greer, with his selfportrait, at the UNLOCK exhibition, Dunamaise Arts Centre, Portlaoise, January 2020.
Limited Edition Art Exhibition, Crumlin Road Gaol, Belfast 2022 (Prison Arts Foundation)
Shangri-La, former prisoner Liam Kelly, Prison Arts Foundation (PAF)
Memoir: Payday (extract)
The craic was mighty in the van; I’d be half asleep, a few of the men would still be half cut from the night before, there would be songs sung, songs I loved, songs of home on happy Friday mornings. We would get on site and the Money-man, as he was called, would be around later in the morning. At ten, the work stopped; time for breakfast, badly needed to soak up last night’s few bevvies. Everyone pushed the boat out on a Friday, extra everything; bacon, egg, sausages, liver, toast and two mugs of tea to wash it all down. At quarter to eleven, Money-man would walk in, carrying our magic little brown envelopes, payback time!
We got an extra fifteen minutes for breakfast on a Friday, time for everyone to scrutinize their pay cheque, hours, deductions, serious matters. This was very serious! The odd fella looking over another fella’s shoulder to see if their net payments were similar. Patsy was the boss, so no one ever looked over his shoulder, except me that was, I’d always give a quick crafty glance. Back to the grindstone again fifteen minutes later, the mood good, the men happy and content with the magic envelope in their trouser pockets. We young bucks would go to a local pub near the site on a Friday lunchtime and I was always looked forward to those pints. It had to be kept hush-hush though, health and safety, you know what I mean! One o’clock came and the older bucks went to the site canteen, if you could call it that, a shed really with a kettle! Myself and the younger bucks would sneak back down to the pub. Everyone wanting to get a cold pint
into them to take away the horrors from the night before. It was a different atmosphere than the evening drinking sessions as it was only us younger men and we knew each other quite well.
We talked about different things; the young women in our lives and the cost of keeping them happy, the odd fella would open up about wedding and baby plans, God forbid. It was an open session for expression and frankness, whereas with the older crowd, mum was the word, less freedom, the night drinking with the older men meant the craic was completely different. Being a young Irish man at work in England, emotions, dreams, feelings were topics to be sneered at, laughed at, or not to be discussed, which was preferred. A few pints and it all made sense, the talk was now of how much jiving was going to be done later that night in Circlewood, the holy trinity of the nights out, payday, bills paid, weekend here and not a bother. At least not on the surface.
Then Friday afternoon on site always went quickly and at five o’clock sharp, Patsy would yell, ‘that’s it boys, pack up, we’re off, let’s get home.’ The journey home was always the same on a Friday, talk of whom was meeting up with who and at what pub and at what time and don’t bring that eejit or that fool. They were wise men the older ones, they knew who to steer clear off and what fella to avoid completely and at what time to avoid which place. Then the talk of who was playing back home in the GAA over the weekend and what county would be the sure thing to have a bet on.
In all those years we never really knew ahead of time what we would be getting back from our cheques. We took their word for how much we had spent over the week on dinners and drinks. Still, it was a good service, the cheques were healthy amounts and we never really questioned the paymasters - well there wouldn’t be any point, you’d never get straight answer from them lads, if you were to dare to ask. >>> Anon, Castlerea Prison
Untitled, Anon, Progression Unit Mountjoy Prison
Memoir: Life 1993 (extract)
‘Who was the real me?’ Well that’s a good question to ask. I was born a Traveller, did not like being called names as a child nor as an adult and I tried to hide among the outsider (normal people). I very much wanted to be like them and accepted as one of them. I was utterly mortified that I would be found out by my new peers, hiding my dark secret.
Here I am nine years later laying on a bed in a small room listening to birds and wondering what they are saying to each other. Knowing that my secret is out and at any moment soon I will have to face the music, ‘what am I to do?’. On this hot summer morning I’ve nowhere to hide. I cannot be Jack the Lad. I sat up and for the first time I took in my surroundings. I was indeed in a small room, with only a table and a chair for company. A bucket in the corner as a toilet, yes, I thought, this is my life now, this is my future. Pulling on my trousers which was on the floor next to the bed I thought Wow! What a thing to wake up to life in prison and yet somehow it had not fully hit me that my old life was over, and now I’m on a new adventure. A new life and it’s up to me to make the best of it. I can tell you for the first time ever I did make the best of it. I did things that I could never have imagined. I learned to read and write, and it was amazing being able to communicate with others. Reading a book, wow! Everything comes to life. I can tell you a book is much better than a film, being able to read a newspaper and find out what’s going on in the world for myself and without being told by someone. Just imagine that you have never eaten an orange and I tell you it’s tasty and
fruity and is lovely and sweet, you can only imagine it until you taste it for yourself. Well, reading and writing is like that. Once you have had a taste of it, it opens a brandnew world to you and you realise just how much you have missed out on and once you have the skills of reading and writing it opens all kinds of doors for you, except prison doors.
I worked hard to better myself. I did all sorts of courses, at first with the probation services in the prison. I engaged with them as I was feeling that I was lacking in my confidence. I completed the following courses: the cognitive behaviour model, assertive communication, problem solving skills, exploring attitudes and beliefs to self, others, and the world. This was all done in a group setting where for months and still to this day we help and support each other. Each one of us was awarded a certificate of achievement and I have never felt so proud of myself.
“Wow!What a thing to wake up to life in prison...”
I also began education courses. My first course was an English FETAC communications course level 3 where I was awarded my very first of many certs. My first was ‘Successful’ so I tried again at level 4 and got, to my surprise, a Distinction. I could not help but wonder what my life would have been like had I had the skills before prison, what could I have achieved, who knows?
I then found that I had another
hidden talent in art. After yet again doing level 5 communication where I was awarded a Merit. It was while I was doing that level 5, I discovered I had a talent for art. I took up art classes and entered FETAC level 2 Art, then I entered level 3 and so on until I reached level 5, where I had to study hard. I had a lot of written work to do on the appreciation of art, craft and design and collage techniques and I am pleased to say that from level 2 to level 5 I was awarded Distinction for all. It took me 5 years of hard work and I am so pleased to say that I am often classed as an accomplished artist, and I am so proud of myself. I have nothing but praise for all the teachers that encouraged me to open my mind to new things from reading and writing to art. >>> Anon, Arbour Hill Prison
Untitled, Anon, Midlands Prison
Redemption (extract)
What had been a long grey thread of a road, up in the Scottish highlands, became black under the light of my bike. The road rose through the hills until I could see, like a beacon to a sailor, the staccato flash of a lighthouse. I stopped and watched the stars sparkle in the night sky. A cold wind caressed my face. I watched, as one by one the stars began to disappear. I felt the thunder as it rumbled. I sat, mesmerised as the dark mass of a storm swallowed the hills across from me.
A second rumble and flash, I saw, illuminated in that moment, sheets of rain walking across the valley floor. The next thing, I was lying on the ground, the heavy bike trapping my leg. I lay there, every hair on my body vibrating. The smell of ozone, heavy in the air. I pushed the bike off me. Another flash lit the scene, I gasped. Three feet from where I had been lay a smoking hole. The rain began pounding down on me, within seconds I was soaked. I bent down and lifted up the bike.
It refused to start. I tried again, nothing. Meanwhile the rain pounded on my shoulders, the sound ricocheting around my helmet. I sat down next to the bike.
The road had a layer of water on it but I didn't care. I had been running away for so long. ***
“I'm sorry Mr Brennan. We tried. We really tried,” the doctor had said.
I sat at the edge of the hospital bed, holding Fiona’s cold hand in mine. The funny thing was we had met over a hospital bed. I’d been brought in after an injury at work.
I was lying on a trolley when the curtain was swept aside and she’d stood there. Her auburn hair cut short, her green eyes hidden be-
“My heart missed a beat when I saw her.”
hind thin black frames. My heart missed a beat when I saw her, she, on the other hand, didn’t bother to look up from the clipboard she was checking. As she was about to leave I asked her name. “Fiona,”
she said, and smiled. The rest, as they say, was history.
“All I can say is that she wasn’t in pain- not in the end.”
The end! Ha! My life ended on that night I couldn’t face life without her. So I ran away. >>> Anon, Wheatfield Prison
EDITORS’ NOTE: A short word count and limited space means that we can only include an extract from the opening of “Redemption” –it gives readers a taste of the wonderful writing.
Obsolescence, Josie, PAF Community Mentoring
The manager (extract)
‘
Keep the integrity of the back three.’ I listened to the track-suited coach urging the team on as I watched my thirteen year old play as the fulcrum of the aforementioned back three.
I recall our manager from days long ago. Billy was an old style manager. He never wore a track suit. He pushed the bottoms of his trousers into a pair of football socks and put on an old pair of boots and he was ready. He ran a team for under 13s to 15s. He was a one-man band. He done everything. The reason we were called the Wolves was because Billy started the team. Wolves were his team. He trained us on Wednesday nights under street lamps at the backs of houses. He always said that he didn’t care if we won or lost if we all done our best, but sometimes if we lost a game he would look at us the way a dog would if you kicked it. When we won he told us that we were magnificent and played with the skills of champions.
He arrived on match days on his bike, the ball strapped to the back carrier and the jerseys balanced precariously on the crossbar. The bicycle clips were removed, the hat that never came off was straightened. The heavy overcoat folded and placed on the bike and his work began. He got the nets and flagpoles from the shed and set them up, sometimes we offered to help but he’d say ‘no, it’s time to mentally prepare yourselves for the match.’ Our mental preparation ranged from a sneaky fag to kicking a ball into the goals where Billy struggled to put up the nets. First he went to the shed to collect the nets and the corner flags. These
were put in position and the marker taken out. A white line with varying degrees of straightness went from corner to corner and finally the goal line was marked. The penalty area was left to the discretion of the referee, which invariably led to differences of opinions as to what was inside and outside the box. It was a long way from VAR. All that done, Billy would produce a packet of Capstan cigarettes and a box of matches. The cigarette lit he would then count heads to see who was missing. There was always someone missing. Most times they were just late and Billy would tap his watch when they arrived and say ‘I told you half past. Next time you’re dropped.’ They were never dropped, we hadn’t enough players for draconian measures.
We were not a great team, in fact, we were not a very good team, but we loved playing and we all got our chances. The highlight of Billy’s career as manager came when we were under 14 and had a cup run. It was one of the lower level cups but that did not matter. It was when we got to the semi-final that Billy got really excited. Billy must have been at the ground at dawn. The pitch was marked, including a penalty area and a slightly wobbly centre circle. There were flags fluttering on the corner posts and the nets were up. He had slipped the grounds man a few bob to cut the grass in long stripes and to us it looked like Wembley. ‘No one is to go on the pitch until
the game starts.’ Billy shouted at us afraid that the pristine appearance would be destroyed. When we togged out Billy sat us down and told us that we were the best team he ever managed. We were not sure if he ever managed anyone else. He then told us that win or lose he wouldn’t mind as long as we did out best. ‘You have the air of champions,’ he finished. Then he gave us a brand new ball. I never felt better going onto the pitch.
The game was a disappointment; they were physically stronger and we trudged into the dressing room after shaking hands with our opponents, another thing Billy insisted on us doing. He took down the nets, collected the flags and came into the dressing room. ‘Lads,’ he said. ‘ You did your best.’ He shook our hands, said he would see us next season, straightened his hat, got on his bike, balanced the jerseys on the crossbar and went home.
Next season didn’t happen, we all drifted away. Billy never managed another team, although he still cycled up to the park to watch other games. I suppose we are still the best team he ever managed and he was definitely the best manager I ever had. >>> Anon, Midlands Prison
EDITORS’ NOTE: A short word count and limited space means that we can only include this extract from “The Manager”.
“Though we live in a world that dreams of ending that always seems about to give in Something that will not acknowledge conclusion Insists that we forever begin.” Brendan Kennelly
When the Editorial Board met to discuss the magazine content it was agreed to highlight the Listowel prison writing winners across the various categories. The Board agreed that showcasing the Listowel winners honours the achievement of their work and provides an ideal model for other prison writers to study when preparing submissions to Listowel for subsequent years.
The Board further agreed that a debt of gratitude is owed to the Irish poet, Brendan Kennelly who sadly passed away in October 2021. Kennelly was instrumental in introducing the Writing in Prison Awards to Listowel Writers Week in 1982. Platforms outside the prison walls that offer prisoners a voice are often few and far between and we thank Listowel for the continuing support.
ShortStoryAdvanced: Voices of Death
seven o’clock. She turned on the radio to listen to the local news. The leading report was shocking. It rocked her to the core. She ran to the radio, spilling her coffee as she moved, and frantically hit the ‘off’ button. She was sure she wasn’t the only single woman to feel the same way after hearing this.
“How could this be happening?” she said to herself. “Here of all places.”
Eight o’clock. Sitting in traffic, she tuned in again to listen for news updates. The same report was broadcast.
“95FM News on the Hour… It’s eight o’clock on Monday, I’m Jane Davis.”
Senior Gardai have described as ‘appalling’ the latest in a spate of highprofile murders in a middle-class suburb of Limerick City. The bodies of local couple, Paul and Christine Ryan, both aged 33, were discovered close to their home in Cedarwood Drive, Moyhill last night by neighbours out
walking their dog. Both had their throats cut in similar fashion. The Garda Press Office has reported that the couple were returning home from an evening at the theatre, and left friends in good spirits an hour previously. The killings are as of yet unexplained, but they are the third and fourth to take place in the Cedarwood Drive area in the past week. The spate has caused Gardai to warn all locals to avoid the area unless absolutely necessary.
Local Superintendent Martin Crosby issued the following statement:
“We have received several reports from eye-witnesses in the area, and based on these reports we are able to issue a description of the person we would like to speak to in order to help us with our enquiries. I must stress that at this time, we are keeping an open mind and that the investigation is very much ongoing.
Cedarwood Drive extends for almost a mile, and has many access points from slip roads and pathways. Unfortunately, there is a lot of vantage points for a killer such as the one we are dealing with to stalk their prey, and for that
reason, we are advising all residents not to make unnecessary journeys, and for the general public to avoid the general vicinity if at all possible.”
Local criminologist Gary Kirwan has been assisting the Gardai with the investigation. Mr. Kirwan has over twenty- five years’ experience in major criminal investigation, and released the following statement:
“The evidence to date coupled with the witnesses reports indicate that the suspect is in their early to mid-thirties, possesses considerable strength, and based on the trajectory of the slash wounds, is around five feet, ten inches tall. The suspect obviously is physically strong, and has sandy or dirty blond hair. A confidential hotline has been set up at Moyhill Garda Station, and all calls will be dealt with confidentially. The number is 1800 999 123.”
The first time she listened to the news, she got scared. The second time, the fear turned to dread. The third time, the dread turned to sheer panic, paranoia and palpitations. It had been a long day in the office, and all everyone
could talk about was the fact that there was a killer on the loose.
She got in the car and hit the central-locking button. She heard the thunk sound of all four doors locking. She turned off the inside light that might have made her visible to the outside world.
“Please God…get me home safely!” she screamed, slamming her fist into the driver side window.
She had to get home, and soon. The quickest way was to take a shortcut. She didn’t like this particular route, as it was darker, unlit, and she knew deep down that she should just persevere with the more conventional way. But an instantaneous fit of pique made her take the shortcut through Cedarwood Drive. And then, to crown an already remarkably shitty day, she drove hard and fast through a pothole, bursting her front passenger side tyre.
“Mum is going to have a field day when she hears about this,” she muttered to herself. “How many times have I told you to get yourself a mobile phone Missy?” she said aloud, mimicking her mother.
She blasted the horn, keeping it depressed for what seemed an eternity, hoping and praying that the cops might arrive and save her. But nothing happened. No Gardai, no walkers, no people out driving. The news bulletins seemingly had their desired effect, and people were avoiding Cedarwood Drive like the plague.
An hour passed. It seemed like an eternity. She was just about to give up and walk to the nearest bus stop or taxi rank when she saw what appeared to be a set of headlights approaching from the distance. Her heart skipped a beat, and adrenalin
kicked in as the car slowly made its way towards her. The hope quickly turned to despair when she saw it wasn’t a Garda car.
“Please God,” she mumbled to herself, “please don’t let this car stop!”
Her prayers weren’t answered. A dark SUV pulled in right in front of her, and after around thirty seconds the engine was turned off. The driver side door swung open. The driver climbed out. The first thing that struck her was his height. At least five feet ten. And to compliment the height, he was also quite muscular. Clearly a gym rat, with broad shoulders and a muscular torso evident beneath the hoodie he was wearing. His hair was unkempt and fair.
“Considerably tall. The suspect obviously is physically strong, and has sandy or dirty blond hair.”
The description from the criminologist’s report. Describing the man approaching her to a T. He drew level to her driver side door, and tapped on the window. She kept staring ahead, and gripping the steering wheel, refusing to acknowledge him, or even look at him. Fear.
“Howya love, my name is Derek. You look like you could do with a bit of help here?”
The thick Dublin brogue was evident, and it was clear that this guy was a long way from home. Her anxiety levels were off the Richter scale right now, and her grip on the steering wheel was becoming problematic due to her sweaty palms.
“Ah, you’re grand thanks,” she shouted out the window, still averting her gaze from his, “my fella is on the way with his mates. He’ll be here in a minute.”
The muscular man named Derek
Lock Up, digital print, J.S. Portlaoise Prison
shrugged his impressive shoulders and laughed, a little indignantly. “Alright darlin’, I was just driving by when I saw you obviously have a flat, and it doesn’t look like you’re able to change it yourself. It looks like you could do with a dig out. Have you been listening to the radio? There’s a lunatic out there, and you really shouldn’t be out here alone.”
She was resolute, no way was she budging. “I’m grand, honestly. The lads will be here in a minute. You must have somewhere you need to be yourself.”
“And leave a helpless lady like yourself out here, all alone, with a psycho on the loose? What kind of monster do you think I am?” he joked. “Stay as you are, and keep the doors locked but I’m going to change your tyre. I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”
He walked around to the flat, damaged tyre and started to inspect it, all the while glancing in her direction.
She knew she was in trouble. She knew that she was in the company of the killer. And there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing at all.
The voices were back. They were back all too frequently as of late. Two voices. Both sinister. There was no point defying them anymore. It was a futile exercise. What they wanted, they got.
“Get on with it, you know you want to,” one of the voices was taunting.
“It’s not as if you’re going to get caught,” the other one chimed in, “that news bulletin
isn’t going to change anything.”
“The cops are no closer to finding you, they’ve said as much. Just be a little more careful clearing up after yourself this time, leave nothing!”
“This can be your last hurrah. Your swansong. Do this one right, and in spectacular fashion, and we’re gone forever. We won’t be back. We’ll be gone, out of your head forever. We promise. Do it!”
“One final kill. Think of how good it’ll feel.”
“Then the panic attack started. She was dizzy, everything was spinning…”
“This one’s easy. It’s there on a plate for you.”
“Come on, do it. Feel the blood flowing, you know how that excites you.”
“A red 3 series coupe. My dream car. It looks great, even with a flat tyre. Can I take her for a test drive after I’ve changed the wheel?” He looked at her with a wide grin on his face.
“No. Please go away.”
“No? Now that’s no way to treat your knight in shining armour, is it?” He was laughing now.
“Seriously, can you please just go?”
“Did your mother teach you to be this rude?” The laugh was fading. She didn’t reply. This seemed to do the trick. She kept quiet, while he worked at replacing the tyre. His jollity and singing was very off putting, and irritating. And scary.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re really hot. If the boyfriend isn’t putting a smile on your
face, I’m pretty sure I could. Can I call you?”
She kept staring straight ahead, ignoring him. He was still singing and laughing.
Then the panic attack started. She was dizzy, everything was spinning around and around. She couldn’t breathe. She had to get out of the car for air. She gripped the steering wheel even harder, willing herself to stay put. Going out would mean certain death. But when her vision became blurry, she had no choice. She had to get out. She leaned over to the glove compartment, and fumbled with the clasp for what seemed an eternity before it opened. Then she opened the door. ***
“Live 95FM News on the Hour… It’s 8.00am on Tuesday,I’mJaneDavis.”
At 6.30 am, a motorist heading to work in the city drove past an abandoned SUV on a grass verge on Cedarwood Drive. A body was located at the scene with its throat slashed in identical fashion to the four victims who have lost their lives on Cedarwood Drive lately.
The vehicle was found with the driver’s door open, and a tyre-iron and jack beside the corpse.
The victim has been identified as Derek Kenny, a maintenance technician from Swords, Co. Dublin. He was believed to be returning home having completed a job in the nearby Johnson & Johnson factory. An accomplished rugby player, Derek, described by family and friends as a friendly giant due to his strong frame and fair complexion, is survived by his parents and two sisters. A friend who was on the phone to him just prior to his murder said he had just noticed a fellow motorist in distress and was going to help. >>> Anon, Limerick Prison
It was a beautiful warm summer morning, the sun splitting the trees and a haze was coming off the tarmac as the molecules changed with the heat. It was still early but the temperature reached almost 22 ℃. Paddy was heading out for his morning walk along Benone Strand in Castlerock. Benone beach is one of the most beautiful beaches you could ever hope to lay your eyes on. It is 11 miles of pure white sandy beach. It is breath-taking. Simply stunning. Paddy felt lucky. He lived around the corner and could make it their most days before heading to the 9-to-5. Paddy always followed the same path to the beach. When he reached the end of the tarmac he would take off his running shoes just where the sand started and let the sand get in between his toes. Then he walked for miles.
This morning was Saturday and he was off work. He decided to walk the entire length of the beach and back again. He checked his back pack to make sure that he hadn’t forgot anything: Water check, 4 bananas check, 4 mars bars check, egg and onion sandwiches check and 2 cans of coke check. Supplies all there, so off he went. Oakley sunglasses on, and shimmering in the sun. A slight breeze kissed his face every now and then but he loved the heat and the sea. The smell of the ocean was beautiful and it made him feel rejuvenated as he walked briskly but relaxed. The gulls made their usual chorus and
the waves turning gave their own gentle sound, adding to the experience of this wonderful place. Just ahead he saw the silhouette of two people, about 100 yards away. It was old Mr and Mrs Cruize. He hardly recognised them, they seemed to be dressed for church or a wedding. Mrs Cruize was dressed in the most beautiful red and white dress. Mr Cruize looked dapper in his penguin suit.
‘Good morning Mr and Mrs Cruize,’ Paddy said softly. ‘Good morning Paddy,’ they replied quite solemnly.
That was a bit strange, Paddy thought. They would usually be a bit a bit more talkative. He didn’t think anything more off it and carried on his walk. He checked his watch, he’d been walking for hours and decided to turn back home. It was shortly after midday and the heat was becoming more intense so he stopped and
had a bit of lunch. He sat on one of the many benches overlooking the water and enjoyed his refreshments. He took in the sights on the water and a tanker in the distance, heading for Scotland. As he finished up his food he caught sight of the Mussenden Temple on the hill. He had got married there and even though he was divorced now it still brought back pleasant memories of a time gone by.
Paddy stood up and put his backpack back on. He was about to move off and put his sunglasses on again when a white feather landed on his hand. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He believed that if a white feather fell on you it meant that someone was watching over you. It gave him a warm feeling inside. He put the feather in his pocket. When he reached the beginning of the tarmac he wiped the sand from his feet and
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put his trainers on. He arrived at the car and took off his backpack, putting it on the back seat and closing the door. As he opened the driver’s door Paddy remembered the white feather and took it from his pocket and placed it on the dash board. He started the car and made off towards home.
There were large cliffs on the road home. They continued for a couple of miles, overlooking the sea that he passed every day. A gust of wind filled the car and blew the feather onto the floor. He pulled over and picked it up. Just as he put his hand on the feather he heard an enormous bang, then another and another and another in quick succession. By the time he looked up he saw three cars had been hit by falling rocks from the cliff face. The cars were decimated. Paddy raced to help those who were injured and others trapped in their cars. The rocks that fell on the car roofs had jammed the doors shut. He called 999 on his mobile phone and reported the incident to the ambulance. He was able to get two of the occupants free from their cars but a third person was trapped, no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t free them.
It took a couple of minutes for the ambulance and the police to arrive. He was relieved and able to go back to his car and sit down for a few minute. He watched as the police forced the door of the third car opened and rescue the injured woman. The other three people he saved were injured but he’d got them to safety and placed a blanket over them. A policeman came over to him and thanked him for his brav-
ery. He told him that sadly one of the drivers had just died. Paddy was devastated. He thought he had saved everyone. The policeman reassured him that if it was not for his actions more people could have died. Paddy was still very much deflated but soon realised that he had done what he could.
“A gust of wind filled the car and blew the feather onto the floor…”
Paddy headed for home and the same little feather landed on his hand as he was driving. He stopped the car into a layby and realised that if it hadn’t been for that feather blowing onto the floor of the car and him pulling over he would have been one of the cars involved in the accident. Maybe there was some truth after all that someone actually was watching over him.
Later that evening Paddy was taking the rubbish out to the bins. It wasn’t before time as the cheeseboard with wine that he and his friends had enjoyed a few nights before had started to leave a lingering smell and would remind you of something like a cross between smelly feet and an old well smoked cigar. Just as he was coming back inside, the news came on the TV. He grabbed the Febreze from the cupboard and sprayed everything in sight to help extinguish the odour of the rubbish. Paddy stopped what he was doing and sat down when news mentioned the rock fall. He listened intently to the details about the people he helped rescue. The news reporter stated they were fine but when the rocks were being removed from the road they found a
car that had been completely flattened. He said the only details of the couple that had been released were that of an old couple dressed up for a wedding or formal event. He said the woman was dressed in a red and white dress and the man in tops and tails with a white feather pinned fastened on his jacket pocket.
Paddy sat back in his chair, his face the whitest colour of pale. He tried to digest the update. He next phoned the police and told them he had seen Mr and Mrs Cruize earlier that morning on the beach, wearing the clothes described in the accident report. The policeman thanked him for the information and bid him a good evening.
The next morning Paddy got up and showered before work. He had the radio on in the background and he heard the names of Mr and Mrs Cruize given out as the couple involved in the crash. Paddy started to cry.
Paddy reached into the watch drawer, put his watch on, got himself together and into his car and headed for work. Paddy had to take another route due to the ongoing clean-up from accident, he pulled up to a set of traffic lights and pulled on the handbrake. Paddy rested his arm on the open window and his mind wandered back to Mr and Mrs Cruize. The white feather that had been in the van from the evening before blew upward and landed again on his hand. Paddy drove off smiling, feeling comforted by the white feather. >>>Anon, Magilligan Prison
In a wood at the edge of the world, there are trees as tall as the mountain and streams as clear as your eyes and the air is as close as your breath. The sand on the beach is as soft as your sigh. A Pine Martin sits at the base of a tree, gazing up at the squirrel sitting on a branch, and said, “Why in the name of all that is good, why sit on this branch of this tree? When you know there is danger all-around you. Why do you just gaze out to the unknown? Can you not hear the sounds of the chainsaw all over these woods? Can you not see the heavy machinery tearing up the ground all around them as they are making a mess of the woods? Why do you not answer me? When all I wish to do is save you from this evil and this great aloneness?”
The squirrel just sat there on the branch of the red tree and did not speak a word to him. She watched the mist of the waterfall rise high above the treetops. She knew that soon her beautiful woods would be gone forever; she could not protect it from the human beings. She thought, “Why will he not leave me here alone to face the unknown?”
She looked down to the ground floor and saw that he was gone. She wondered a little about him and worried. What is that Tilly Pine Martin up to out there all alone in the darkness of these woods?
Everything stopped in the trees, there was no sound of the chainsaws nor the noise of the machinery. Only the smell of smoke
filled the air about the trees top. Then she heard the gunshots and heard the human being yelling out to the other. There was a rat under the hood of the bulldozer, eating the wires of the engine. “What is going on in this place? Can anyone answer me that one question? I get the feel that we are not welcome here so if that little rat wants a war from me he shall get one. I shall kick him to kingdom come and back,” he said to his fellow outlaw tree killer.
Her heart pounded in her chest, when she heard the human being speak about the Pine Martin. She started to climb down to the ground to go in search of him but stopped half way down the
tree. She was afraid to touch the floor of the woods so she turned around, climbed back up to the top, and sat on the branch again. She looked out over the tops of the woods and up to the mountain peak. Where once there lived a giant but he was long gone now.
Still she could hear the men searching in the undergrowth for the Pine Martin. But he was nowhere to be found or seen.
She saw her kingdom fall before her very eyes and there were nothing she could do about it only weep. She could see the flames from the fire and she knew that the Pine
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Landscape 62, J.S.
Martin was up to no good. He had set the heavy machinery alight. He has the heart of a bear, she thought. But he is only one. Then she heard a slight rustling below her on the ground as leaves were disturbed. Then she heard the heavy sound of the Pine Martin’s breath.
“We need to be protect our beautiful woods and home from the forces of darkness and the threat from the human beings. There is not must of this wood left standing now,” he said as he tried to catch his breath.
“Why are you trying to get yourself killed out there in the woods, when you know there is no hope for us? Why you Tilly Pine Martin, why are you not afraid out there alone?” she said.
“Oh! So you are speaking after all this time?” he said.
“Yes! I can speak and I can see and I know you are trying to be good, but it shall be a pain to you.”
“When you sit here one day alongside me, you shall gaze out
over treetops and see our beautiful woods as it becomes ashes and plant stations for livestock. The maple trees will be coated in ash before long. So why do you try when you know that you’re going to fail,” she said.
“Yes! I do know that one day this shall be no more. But until then I shall battle on with the human beings. See I am a little crazy about this woods and its beauty and if it is left to the human beings it is going to end soon for us all,” he said.
“Yes, I understand you and what you say, but why risk your life when you know there is a woods at the edge of the world, where you can hunt and fish and live the life you wish to? What is the point of you staying here? When you have no family of your own. I know that is below me and I have no right to say that to you and yes it is so unkind of me to say something like that to you. But sometimes you may need to hear the truth and now at least you know the truth,” she said.
But he was not there to hear her
for he was asleep under the falling leaves with wounds to his leg.
“So, are you listening to what I just said to you? What do you think of that?” said the squirrel.
She sighed and went back inside the tree to her home and settled down for the night. He vanished out of sight without say good bye or good night. He did not answer her back as he lay asleep dreaming of trying to make contact with the human beings. He wanted to try to let them know that what they were doing to the woods, the earth, the ocean, the meadows and valleys and to the human people was all wrong. When they drill the earth for oil what they are already doing to us all is poisoning the world with their breed and fumes. Then he dreams of asking her to leave the woods with him and go in search of a new safe place to live. He awakes and thinks she might think that I am asking her out on a date.
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He gets up off the ground and goes to the tree where she lives. He stands under the canapé of the redwood tree and rings the bell but there was no answer. He walks away back in to the woods.
“She gets out of the claw and climbs down the side of the tree and calls out, “Where are you going to at this time of night? The human being are searching for you Pine Martin and anyway, how can I help you?” she said.
“Hey, I just called around just to see how you are getting on in your new tree and to tell you it is not too safe here,” he said. Looking into her beautiful eyes he thinks, “We are not going to get a chance to live here.”
“What’s the matter with you, crazy Pine? Do the human beings have your thoughts? Anyways I am quite fine thank you for asking me, by the way is there anything else, I can help you with at this late hour?” she asks.
“Yes, I was thinking would you like to get the hell out of these woods with me?” he asks.
“Yes, I would love to go out on a date with you and I would love to drop up for some cocktails, but my roommate happens to be under the weather. He’s been laying here all day and night without a wink of sleep and he just closed his eyes this minute,” she said.
“That is just too bad,” he said.
“Yes it is, but when my husband wakes up out of his sleep, I shall tell him about you asking me out on a date,” she says with a laugh.
“No need to, I am so sorry for
asking you. I am not asking you out on a date. What I am trying to tell you is these woods have been invaded by the humans and I am just so sorry if you picked this up all wrong” he explained.
“What is the matter with you?” she asked.
“Nothing is the matter, I just don’t like cocktails or human beings,” he states.
Suddenly, he wakes up out of his sleep and sees that she was sitting with him.
“She looked at him and saw the worried gaze in his eyes…”
“How are you feeling Pine Martin?” she asks.
“Oh, a litter weak, that is all. Can I ask you how long was I out for?”
“A couple of days, you do no, that the human beings are parasites and they are killing everything in their way and they own half the world so we are both leaving this woods,” she said.
“Good to hear you say that. I have being waiting to hear you say that. How is my leg? I cannot feel my foot!” he said.
She looked at him and saw the worried gaze in his eyes. “Well would you like to know the good news first or would you like to hear the bad news?” she said.
“Go on, give me the bad news if you must. Put my mind at peace,” he said as he began to cry out in pain.
“I have removed your leg from the knee down with a chainsaw.
Would you like to see it?” she asked.
“No!” he said. “Can you please tell me the good news before I die? I would have loved to get to know you better. If you go and leave me alone for the worms and snails to eat, I don’t think now that I will ever be able to have that cocktail with you,” he said.
She laughed. “Listen to me; I am only fooling you Pine Martin. I did not remove your leg at all,” she said.
“I know you didn’t, I am only fooling with you too,” he said.
“Can I ask you, what are we going to do out here on this dead and naked frost, because all the trees are gone, and all the wildlife are dead? Where are these woods you have being telling me about, some place at the edge of the world? You say it was never touched by human hands. Would I be right to say that it is as beautiful as you?”
The squirrel smiled. “I think you’re right. We need to leave tonight. Just look around at this place. Once I used to call this home. Now it weeps with tears in her eyes as the human beings tear the skin off the body of the beautiful woods. It gives life to all of us, and this is how they pay her back with the pesticides poisoning water and pollution oil spill and coal air pollution, smog, acid rain and all of their litter and heavy machinery.”
“Yes,” the Pine Martin says, gazing in her eyes, “we’ll leave this man-made hell tonight.” >>> Anon, Wheatfield Prison
Listowel Poetry Winners
Poetry Advanced: Wars in silence fought
Urban skies misdirect the sins of the few.
Illicit sorrow, forged in the fires of hell.
With unbiased stealth, addiction can creep up on you.
Cast another penny down life’s wishing well
Definitions of change can distort a closed mind, Resurrected sorrows can strip skin to the bone.
The need for urban regeneration - seen by the blind!
As we slowly watch, the hands turn time to stone!
Bombarded by thoughts that can deconstruct dreams.
Reckless wonder incinerates all this day holds.
Expired emotions distorts the yellow suns beams.
Impeccable integration as this hand played folds
The game will continue with these time-tainted cards.
Emerging sorrows will see a new game of chance?
Yesterday’s truths today totally disregards!
Towards another unsure tomorrow we slowly advance
Envisaged sorrow clouds a soul’s judgement.
Seeking “chemical nutrition” the cloud disperses?
A soul’s self-destruction becomes evident.
That stern NO that a soul repeatedly rehearses…
Hollow voices try to ignore temptations embrace.
That warming sense of self-worth found?
Chemically enhanced a euphoric state of grace.
A prayer to those taken by the ground.
As urban sorrow distorts the truths known Comrades in harm’s way, too many people ignore.
Some move in silence, seeking ways to atone.
Each soul that’s busy fighting a silent war… >>> Anon, Progression Unit Mountjoy
PoetryIntermediate: The She Wolf
High up in the mountains, where only the brave survive,
Lies the dog called the She Wolf, it is there that they thrive.
The She Wolf is captain and the head of the pack, She makes all of the decisions and leads all the attacks.
Partnered for life until death do them part?
They keep the blood line going until they depart. Her sisters and brothers know to toe the line, They administer her orders and wait in time.
On the hills of the mountains were snow is their friend,
It slows down their prey, until the bitter end. With an abundance of stamina, with a howl and a grin,
The She Wolf gives the order, “let the chase begin.”
They travel at speed giving their prey a head start, To follow in their footsteps were the snow has cleared apart.
Death breaths at its door, they find the weak link. The suicide squad has the meal on the brink.
In the valley of the mountains, round and round they circle the prey,
Attacking from all sides, the meal has no say. Exhausted from running it falls to the ground, The She Wolf tucks in while the rest makes no sound.
Each wolf knows their order in this army of dogs, They take turns in their rank till the meal has all gone.
No words are ever spoken, just a nod of approval, The She Wolf marches on, until her removal. >>> Anon, Midlands Prison
Poetrygetting started: Untangled
Untangling
My mind is swirling
Contemplating the repeating. The day is all the same. It is ultimately mind numbing. Hour by hour constantly continuing to try and find differences.
Are there any differences?
So I now sit here swirling. All the time continuing at all of the repeating. The relentless constant numbing Why are the days the same?
How is it they’re the same?
And that there are no differences
Trying to release this numbing
Untangle this swirling
To iron out this repeating that keeps on continuing.
Thinking always continuing. Thoughts the same. Thinking about the repeating. Working out the differences. Still there is swirling and uncontrollable numbing.
What is the numbing? Is it continuing?
The untangling of the swirling. It is in fact not the same that there are some differences. Is it really? Repeating.
No! There is no repeating. Getting feeling where there was numbing. Finding in the day, there are some differences.
Realizing in my continuing, that nothing is the same and now I’ve stopped swirling.
From my swirling, that it’s not the repeating or it being the same that causes the numbing but the continuing and finding of differences.
