Wine Dark Sea 2014

The Wine Dark Sea

E d i t i o n n o . 1 5 Ye a r 2 0 1 4

The Wine Dark Sea

A collection of poetry and prose by the students of St Andrew’s College Dublin

It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to the fifteenth edition of The Wine-Dark Sea. This year we had yet another bumper crop of prose and poetry. There is some wonderful reading in these pages, some deep thinking and some no thinking, something for everyone as it were. The range of subject matter, voice, style and humour is quite something. It has been wholly exasperating, but not without some joy to edit what you find in these pages, I hope your experience of the magazine is more of the latter than the former.

The aim of this magazine has always been to provide a platform for our students to showcase their creative talents. Thus, whether it is through poetry, prose or art, each piece bears witness to the flourishing myriad talent that exists within our school. That the students have this springboard and are encouraged to avail of it, is thanks to the teachers and parents that inspire them to create and have confidence in their creations. What is also unique and wonderful about this magazine is the inclusion of all students and all ages from the Junior to the Senior school. The key to fostering talent is to catch it early.

Thanks are due to Paul Reidy, Conall Hamill, Ann Fitzsimons, Derek Bohan, Stephen McArdle, Gina Mockler, Monica Lynott, Anna McKeown, Sheila Byrne, Padraig Conaty and especially Ruth Devane for supporting their students in their desire (and need) to write.

Also, for the vital help that came from the Irish department great thanks are owed to Aran MacGiolla BhrĂ­de and Mary Keddy.

Thanks also to all the Junior School staff for providing wonderful encouragement to their students and ensuring that the entries from the Junior School are of the high standard we have become accustomed to.

Our thanks to the Art department- Ailbhe Garvey, Derek Walshe and Jen Daly- for the wonderful images that make up this edition and make this magazine visually exciting.

The Wine-Dark Sea owes its design to the skill of Michelle Owen whose gifted vision and refined sense of style makes this a stunning and professional publication.

Wit is educated insolence – Aristotle

Congratulations to all who are printed within these pages. We hope you will continue to express your talents in future editions of this magazine. On a personal note I would like to say farewell to the 6th year contributors (many of whom have given regularly to this magazine), keep writing you are more gifted than you know.

Robert McDermott

4

5

Come Down With Me

Penumbra Number four brings red, brown, orange and yellow Predominately blue A fox’s tail Young vixen roaming Ambient sounds Carried upon a vessel at dusk Great curve lost in shadow Resting over green carpet of tangled fern Sloping down Enhanced surroundings, intensity of countless colours Obsidian spheres cascading overhead Unveiled, entrapping NOW Blink and question memory Time as an Arctic winter No glare - only illumination Lingering in wait for the glow Knowing it shall be the final encounter Unequal in vividness and beauty FadingDermot Moore

6

Day, n. A period of twenty four hours, mostly misspent – Ambrose Bierce

Amy woke up, sweating. Warm tears were rolling down her cheeks. Another nightmare. Always the same.

A follow up of the one she’d had the night before. Always about the same thing. In these dreams she had a dead twin, whose ghost would whisper to her, ever so softly, yet ever so effectively, threatening to murder her. At the end of each dream, she would always see her twin’s white, cold, evil face at the other end of her room, a wicked grin on her devilish face, pointed teeth bared, sharp dagger in hand. She would dash towards Amy. The last thing that Amy would see would be that horrid face, directly opposite hers, and then she would be awake. Always breathing hard, always crying, sometimes even screaming. It was 2:00 in the morning. Amy sighed and made her way down to her father’s room. It was just her and her father. Her mother had died when she was born. Amy couldn’t help but feel guilty. She was an only child, so she was lonely a lot. She arrived at her father’s door, and walked in. He was awake. He always was. “The same nightmare?” he asked. Amy nodded her dainty little head. She was twelve years old. Terrible nightmares for a twelve year old to be having, obviously. Her father gestured for her to come into his bed. She climbed in and lay down beside him. “Eventually you’re going to stop having these nightmares, don’t worry. And you definitely don’t have a dead twin sister. At least not that I’m aware of!” her father assured her. Amy chuckled at this. Her father had awful jokes. If there was an award for being world’s worst comedian, he would definitely win it by far. He gave her a hug and they both went back to sleep.

Amy had a hard time at school. The other children would call her names, hurt her, make fun of her, and insult her. What she hated the most was that when a tear forced its way through her tear duct and rolled down her cheek, the other children would taunt her and say: “Aww, the little baby is crying, poor little baby Amy! Wanna go cry to your mommy? Oh wait that’s right. You can’t! Because you don’t have one! Little freak! It’s your fault your mum’s dead! But you don’t care! You should be put in a zoo, with the baboons! Or no, the hippos! You would be a very convincing hippo. Sure we all mistake you for one every day!” Everybody would laugh and mock her. Amy would sit alone at lunch, although sometimes when someone walked past her, they would ‘accidentally’ spill their food or drink on her head, or down her back. Every day she wondered, “Why me?” She would run home every day, go up to her room, and silently sob while she did her homework.

Amy ate her dinner slowly, leaving half of it on her plate. It was pasta and pesto tonight. Her father was an excellent cook. Amy stood up from the table, put her dish in the dishwasher, and vanished up to her room, like she did every single evening. She listened to music for about two hours, while finishing off her homework and getting dressed into her pyjamas, and then she went to bed. It was 10:00 p.m. “Early enough” Amy said to herself. She clambered into her bed and lay down. “Hopefully no nightmares tonight” her father said as he came in to say goodnight. He left the room and Amy shut her eyes, in an effort to go to sleep.

It was 2:00 a.m. Amy still couldn’t sleep. She was exhausted. She felt a presence around her, although she couldn’t see anyone. But she knew that someone was there. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe this was just a dream? She pinched herself just to make sure. But no, this was no dream. Then, she heard a voice, whispering to her. She knew the voice. It was twin sister, the evil-minded maniac. But this time, it was no nightmare, it was real. The voice whispered to her: “Three more nights. Three more nights until you come down with me. You shall come down with me to the place I have told you about so many times before. Yes, That’s right. You know the place that I’m talking about. You shall come down with me and suffer, for it is you who caused the death of our mother, you who caused the death of me, all to keep you alive. Father may have told you I’m not real, but I am real, although I am dead. And you will be dead soon. In three nights, you will meet the devil. The voices stopped. Amy ran down to her father. “I know She’s real. I know she is!” Amy screamed. Her father got angry. “Okay. You did have a twin who died when you were born, but she is not evil, and she is certainly not haunting you! This is getting ridiculous now Amy! No more coming down to me in the middle of the night because of a silly nightmare! Go back up to your room, and go to sleep!”

The next night, the voice came back again. “Two more nights Amy, two more nights. Two more nights until you get what you deserve”. It wasn’t the taunting or the bullying at school that was bothering her any more.

No, it was the voice, the horrible, terrifying, mischievous voice that was bothering her now. The next night, the voice came again: “One more night Amy, one more night. One more night until you get what you deserve”. The next day the voice threatened her all day: “Tonight Amy, tonight. Tonight is when you will get what you deserve”. It repeated itself over and over again, throughout the entire day always whispering threats in her ear that nobody else could hear. That night, Amy was lying down in her bed, scared for her life, an unpleasant chill constantly shooting down her spine. At 2:00 a.m., Amy saw a figure at the end of her bed, a figure and face that she knew ever so well. White, cold, evil face, wicked grin, pointed, teeth bared, sharp dagger in hand. Amy’s evil twin sister had come to visit. Amy didn’t even bother screaming, for there was no point. Amy’s life ended on the 15th of November, 2013. Amy’s father found her lying on her bed, with her eyeballs gouged out and laid on her bedside table alongside her tongue and finger. If you hear whispers during the night, know one thing. You have no hope of survival. Don’t try hiding, they will always find you. . .

Anna Montgomery 7

The Magic Door Rosie was looking out the car window. She wanted to go to the movies with her friends but instead she had to go to her Nan’s 80th birthday party at the retirement home. Rosie didn’t like the home because it smelt like damp and all the old people there wanted to kiss and hug her. When they arrived, her Nan was waiting outside. She had forgotten to put in her false teeth so she kept spitting at Rosie every time she spoke!

‘Oh look how big you’ve gotten,’ she said (or spat!) at Rosie.

‘Oh look how old you’ve gotten,’ mumbled Rosie - luckily no one heard her!

When they got inside everyone, from her second cousin to her annoying brother Oscar, was there. After a while, Rosie started to wander around and came across an old, abandoned lounge. In the corner was a big oak door, with a secret language etched on it. The two double doors had metal hinges. Rosie opened the door and saw a whole new world in front of her eyes.

There were flying doves in the sky and harmonies to be heard all around. People wore daisy crowns and everything was peaceful. However, there was a dark side to the town as well where all the dead souls and broken spirits went. Rosie took one step too many and found herself on the dark side . . . she was now in a world of darkness.

Suddenly the spirits appeared and began to chase Rosie, wanting her to release them or she wouldn’t be able to go home. When the spirits had pulled her into their land, she was squirming and shouting but no one could hear her. As they pinned her to a wall, she opened her mouth to scream but the sound of her Nan’s false teeth chattering and clacking came out instead! The spirits didn’t like the noise and ran off!

Rosie looked down and saw her Nan’s false teeth in front of her - they had come to life in the dark world!

She grabbed the teeth, ran back home through the door and gave her Nan a hug. Rosie decided she would never complain about those teeth again!

Marcia Chadwick-Smyth

Substitute ‘damn’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very’; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be Mark Twain

The Doorway It all happened ten years ago, I was only a child a mere eleven year old…

I walked out of the school gates, my head held high trying not to think about Big Ellen’s Gang. The cold harsh words rang in my ears… ‘Dirty, Rotten Girl.’ A pang of pain hit my chest. I ran all the way up Bishop’s Road and along King’s Avenue, tears sprang to my eyes, making it hard to see anything. I finally stopped at the top of Carter Avenue. I walked along admiring the lovely Red Brick houses, I often walked along here lazily looking and imagining what it would be like to live in a house as fine as these.

I could only dream about it though as, on the other side of town on 59th street, I lived in a run-down old Victorian house. The railings were chipped and rusty and the gate always creaked.

I decided to visit my Uncle Bret before going home. I always thought going to Uncles Bret’s was a real treat. I stopped at the huge Mansion and opened the gate. As I walked up the path I looked around me, at the plants and rosebushes. I knocked on the big oak front door.

In no more than a minute or two the door opened and there stood my Uncle Bret in his red tie and checked shirt. He said ‘hello Erica’ in his deep voice and opened the door wide enough so I could get in. The greatest thing about Uncle Bret was that he let me roam around everywhere and didn’t tell me what to do, as some people did, actually a lot of people did, especially Big Ellen!!

On the third floor there was the corridor with portraits of people, all looking sad. Once I had asked Uncle Bret who they were but he just said ‘they’re old friends of mine’ with a grim look on his face. Really, I didn’t think that was the only spooky thing on that corridor.

At the end of the corridor was a door, a door which I had never opened because I did not have the courage to until then!

The door had the moon and stars carved skilfully on to the frame. In the centre was a mermaid her hair so long it could touch the ground. Her eyes were so detailed it seemed as if they followed you wherever you went.

I touched the knob and the door creaked open . . . but that is for another day.

Poppy O’Malley

8

9

A star (I see, up so, so very high) in the big black sky, staring down at me with its bright twinkling light, w(ink)ing down to me. Stars are so very beautiful, and there are so many, you would not be able to even count them! But when I l(oo)k up at night, I make a very special wi(sh), a wish that no one but me knows The wish that one day I might be up beside them, and finally count them.

50 word Story I felt small and frail standing in the trench with the other tall soldiers. I was new and their war-hardened faces were not inspiring. The barren wasteland ahead was littered with bodies and craters. I pointed my gun into the distance.

Then the enemy came charging at us, guns ready.

Paddy Tonge

The Snowman As Olivia closed her bedroom curtains she looked out at the snowman she had built. It looked like he was smiling. When she woke up, something magical happened. Her snowman started coming towards her house! Olivia was very excited and ran outside. Then the snowman took Olivia’s hand and started running across the grass. Then suddenly they were flying! Olivia held on tightly. They flew over woods and towns. It was such fun. At last they landed in a deep, dark forest. The snowman took Olivia to a huge tree and there were all the snowmen and snow-women of the world! They had a great party. At the very end of the party, Santa came and gave Olivia a present. She unwrapped it slowly and there was a toy snowman with a little Santa. Santa told Olivia that the toy Santa was chocolate! After that, they left and flew back home. Then the snowman went back to his place in the garden. Then Olivia went to bed. The next morning when she woke up her snowman had melted.

Ella Wedderburn

James Hayes

I’m writing a book. I’ve got the page numbers done - Steven Wright

Train Journeys

Homeless

7 O’clock is too early, I blink to stop my eyes from closing, The train lights shine in the distance, On board I’ll give in to dozing.

Bent double, a blade of grass in the wind; vulnerable.

Stinging cold wind whips at his face; horrible.

His shoes are three years too small; pain.

His hair is long and he hasn’t shaven in years; insane.

He doesn’t even have a coat, I could give him mine; humane

I grab my bags, Some start to move, Others lag, Heavy feet on the iron step.

I find a seat, There are too many people, The train fills up, And whistles in the dark.

Every morning, This is me, Rattling along Rhythmically.

His hands tremble and shake; crazy His memories are dim and clouded; hazy He has no present, past or future; time He has nothing to his name; not even a dime.

Kristina Kychan

Sarah Kelly

11

I Will Save Me

Irregular Polygon

The Brooks

My body hurts; I’m climbing hard and don’t look back just keep on.

My mind drops; To the deepest levels of the limbo body climbs, mind is stuck.

My heart bursts; To be warm and cared for was all I wanted but, Now I’m pieces, Something unexpected happened.

Close I was, To the one I loved, love and love I will.

Close I am, To the one that made me slip.

Now I’m hanging, By that cliff that can save me or destroy me.

What is ordered but disordered?

What is perfect yet corrupt?

The Brooks household lived on the very end of Park road Street. No one knows much about them. Except that they are the most greedy and judgemental people you will ever meet. All apart from one: Grace Brooks. A quite, polite girl, different from the rest, who didn’t seem to fit in. There was a lot more to her than people thought. She was clever and very mature for her age. Quite opposite from her, was her sister, Olivia.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, she was exactly what her parents wanted for a child. The household seemed to think that looks were far better than brains.

“You see, children, if you ever want to get somewhere in life, you’ll have to look gorgeous. Like me. Sorry to disappoint you, Grace,” said her mother one day. Olivia chuckled and reached out for a biscuit from the plate in front of her. Her mother slapped her hand.

“Don’t even think about putting on that weight,” she snapped.

“But… what about actually being nice to people? What about getting good grades?” Grace asked.

The Brooks cried out laughing. Her father wiped a tear from his cheek.

Grace decided it was pointless. She wanted to get out of the room but she knew she would be yelled at. So she took out a book to entertain herself.

“What’s this junk?” her father grabbed the book out of her hands.

“It’s a book, daddy, really good. You should read it.”

“Book? You’re reading a book? Why would you read a book when we pay for the good ol’ TV? You ungrateful little brat! I’ll show you!” and suddenly he started ripping the pages off one by one. Grace stared in horror, too scared to speak. Then her father threw the book at the end of the room and sat down. “Get out,” he spat. Grace quickly got up and scurried out. She paced the floor of her bedroom. She had to get back at them. All her life she’d lived like this. And never had her family shown any signs of love for her. Grace’s eyes lit up. She had an idea.

Every day after school she’d sneak into her sister’s bathroom, change the number on the scale plus one and sew her clothes the tiniest bit tighter and making them slightly shorter each time. “Have you been eating again?” her mother asked Olivia at breakfast one day. “You’re getting fatter.”

“No…” she replied, looking self-consciously down at herself.

When Grace got back from school the next day, she looked around the house. Good, they were all in the living room. She sprinted up the stairs and snuck into the bathroom of her parents. Opening the bottle of her mother’s hair removal cream she tipped it all in the sink and replaced it with the contents of her father’s hair growth cream. And in the bottle of hair growth cream she tipped in blue hair dye. Suddenly footsteps were heard, getting closer and closer. Without thinking twice, Grace screwed on the cap and ran out of the bathroom. But with the footsteps getting closer she had no way of escape. She jumped in the closet and hid there until the footsteps died away and got out when it was safe to.

The next day Grace waited at the breakfast table for her plan to unfold. Her mother slowly walked down, tugging on her pyjama bottoms. “What happened to your nightie, mum? You always wear that,” Grace innocently asked.

“What, I can’t wear trousers?” she grumbled and sat down. Grace smirked. Just then her father walked in the room. Yawning he asked, “What’s for breakfast?” Her mother screamed.

“Good lord woman, keep it down!”

“Y-y-your hair!” she pointed. A smile escaped from Olivia’s lips.

“What in heavens are you talking about?”

“It’s blue!” she screamed as if it weren’t clear.

“What?” he sounded worried now and ran towards the bathroom. There was a loud yell heard and he came running out.

“What’s with it? What happened?”

“It’s horrible!”

“Yeah well at least I don’t look like a hairy gorilla,” he spat. Her mother gasped. They started yelling at each other then.

“STOP!” Grace yelled. Everyone looked at her. “Why can’t you people understand looks aren’t everything?

It’s up to brains now, hmmm? And why can’t you accept me for the way I am? But before you do that you need to accept yourselves first.”

There was a long silence. The family decided she was right. Things didn’t get a lot better but they improved nevertheless. The lesson was learnt. And Grace got what she wanted. For now…

It feels like damn, Like I’ll never get past here.

But I’ll keep trying, And my strongest I’ll be.

I shan’t give up, As my faith keeps me from doing so; As if I do, It should be like dying itself.

As my belief, Is what keeps me being me.

That cliff is cracking.

Will I fall, will I die?

Will my hope forsake me?

Or shall I be saved.

In life, love and light, I’ll put my heart in.

But shall my mind Be the forsaken one?

My life, my love, my laugh Shall be with me, Even in the dark thoughts.

My hope shall be my faith.

As faith and determination Shall never leave me, I myself Won’t give up on me.

Delisa Gonzalez

Have you ever heard of a trapezohedron?

What makes something real?

Naming it? Defining it? Reproducing it?

What about the unnameable, the undefinable and the unreproducible?

Irregular but regular I am a polygon My shape may not be familiar But technically it is correct.

Jack Harley

Fishing I went fishing one day, I pulled up on the bay.

I unloaded my fish, Out of these I shall make a lovely dish.

After that I went home, I took out all of the bones.

I took it out of the oven, I gave it to my cousin Tom Kelly

Anna Giatraki

13 12

The Plane Mr James Bartholomew. He was a quiet man. In my 15 years of being his neighbour I have yet to speak one word to him. He walked as is he had been injected with iron. His wrinkled face sagged off his decrepit skull. He was an entrepreneur or a businessman had a wife and kid too according to my dad. The wife left him before we moved here. He doesn’t know what happened to the kid though.

My mind trailed off the subject as I reminded myself that tomorrow is Christmas Eve as I slipped into a dreamy sleep.

The following day my father and I were running a few last minute errands in the local supermarket. That’s when I spotted him. There was always something mysterious about him. He seemed to be walking aimlessly but eventually entered the Bellevue Toy Store.

“What on earth would he would he have been doing there?” I remember thinking to myself My father and I headed home but I couldn’t stop thinking about him for the rest of the day. There was a significant unsettling feeling about him, the feeling that he had a story to tell.

Christmas Eve dragged on as it always does and I found myself on that crisp winters evening walking my dog with the company of my mother. We strolled around the park and then I spotted him again. He sat on the bench on the opposite side of the park, alone. He hadn’t seen us. As we ventured closer I noticed something. He had a small black book in his hands and a bag from Bellevue Toy Store by his side. His head faced down. Then he saw us. He wiped his face quickly but it was clear to us that he had been crying.

I felt the urge to say something.

“Mr Bartholomew, are you ok?” I asked My mother was glaring at me with daggers in her eyes “I’m fine” he replied “Do you have anywhere to go for Christmas dinner tomorrow night?”

“Yes I do, go away” His voice raised “Well if you don’t I’m asking-.”

“I’m sure Mr Bartholomew has his own plans tomorrow Alex” My mother butted in “Well if he doesn’t-.”

“I do.” The old man shouted He was on his feet then and my mother tried to drag me away.

“Seven o’clock please come” My voice barely carried its way to him He was clutching the book tightly and stormed away.

Christmas day went by in a flash and soon enough it was half past six and my mother and father were preparing the Christmas dinner. I sat in the kitchen and starred down the hall at the front door expecting a knock at any moment. I waited and waited. It was seven o’clock and there was no sign. We waited a little longer; still no sign. It was quarter past seven and we hadn’t heard from him. He wasn’t coming. My mother said she was sorry and began to serve the food. It was quiet as it was only my mother, father and me since Nan past away. The silence was broken. There was a knock at the door. It was him. My father opened the door and Mr Bartholomew cheerily greeted my parents and gave them a bottle of wine. His face lit up when he saw the wood-burning fire. He was a changed man. He chatted, smiled and enjoyed his meal for the entire night. When it was time to go he got up, put on his coat, thanked my parents and left.

As I was cleaning up after the meal I spotted something. Something under where he sat. It was the book, the small black leather bound book. I slipped it into my pocket and rushed upstairs to my room. I flicked through the wrinkled pages of the book as I lay in bed. “Poems for Sam” was written on the first page of the book. I read on. The book was filled with beautifully written poems. It was amazing. But who was Sam? The next morning I realized I should never have read through Mr. Bartholomew’s book and planned on returning it immediately. As I was leaving my house to return the book I noticed something lying on my doorstep. It was a model of a plane with a small bow and a note attached. The note read: “To Alex Thank you. Merry Christmas From Mr Bartholomew” I picked up the plane and continued to Mr Bartholomew’s house. I arrived at his house and rang the doorbell. I waited for a few moments but there was no answer. I rang again. Still no answer. I debated on ringing a third time but thought against it. As I turned to walk away the door opened.

“Hi Mr Bartholomew, you left this at my house last night” I held out the book to him “Oh, and thank you for the plane too” I say only realizing then that I still had it in my hands. He just stood there and starred at my outstretched arm. He slowly raised his hand to take it. He took the book and invited me inside and sat me down as he starred out the misty window.

15

“Alex, I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me. It was the nicest thing anybody has done for me in a long time.” The old man swallows hard “See, my son, he passed away on Christmas Eve eighteen years ago. I was meant to be looking after him, he was only eight, but I had a beer or two and he slipped and if I wasn’t so drunk I would have been able to save him. My wife left me as a result of it.” The man was tearing up at this point.

“Please come I have something to show you” He said We got up and left. We walked, I didn’t know where we were going but we just walked. We turned into the town cemetery. We walked right to the back to his tombstone, Sam’s tombstone. “Here lays a boy taken before his time. R.I.P Sam Bartholomew”. We stood there in silence.

“The only thing he wanted for Christmas that year was a plane, an Airfix model to be precise.” The man said I only noticed now that the tombstone was adorned with model planes. I rested the plane down in front of the tombstone adding to the adornment. Mr Bartholomew took out his leather bound book and began to quietly read a poem.

Harry McCarthy

15

Portrait Poem

Just Desserts!

If my brother was a drink, He’d be a refreshing glass of fizzy lemonade, Bubbling with excitement and joy.

She lowered the knife and it grew brighter. She had just finished making the glowing pumpkin pie which was full of rats she had killed earlier. She wanted everyone who ate her pie to get sick, very sick! She wanted everyone to be so sick; she could take advantage of their weakness and take their money, and then go somewhere else. She had already hidden the real cook’s body in the forge, where there were burnt out, dying bits of ember, crackling away.

The whole kingdom would be expecting the world’s best food from the world’s best cook . . . they would be disappointed! She was no cook; all she wanted to be was rich! She would get revenge on all those who had stolen money from her father and left her in poverty. The poisonous pumpkin pie would ensure they got their just desserts.

If my brother was a food, He’d be lasagne, With layers of kindness and humour, Topped with a cheesy sauce full of understanding.

If my brother was a tree, He’d be a palm tree, With its leaves blowing wildly in the wind, Full of style and personality.

If my brother was an animal, He’d be a monkey, Cheeky and energetic, Yet completely in his own world!

Elliot Campbell-Foley

Evie Kelly My Novel: Page One My vision is growing dark, the screams and roars of my fellow soldiers echo through my head. My armour crushes my ribs, the chainmail chokes me. Warm blood trickles from the gash in my chest. Arrows rain down on the men of my army, cutting their battle cries short. Bodies fall around me - friend or foe I do not know, I do not care. I start to see the history of my life, the memories of my life. The memories start with my child hood.

I had just finished a day at school and it was only five days till my tenth birthday. My mother was making lunch and I knew by the smell it was going to be nice! I was tucking into the food when the enemy came.

Fire ate through the homes of hundreds. Swords clashed, shields smashed and arrows shot. My father told me to stay where I was as he left the room, but I couldn’t sit there and let my friends and family perish.

I had to do something so I followed my father out of the room. I wished I hadn’t, as I witnessed my father being struck down by a soldier in blood coated armour. My father just lay there, his lifeless eyes looking at the sky. I ran to his body, the soldier laughed at my sorrow. Anger poisoned my mind and without warning I drew the sword from my father’s hands and dug it deep in to the soldier’s chest. He stopped laughing and stared in shock at the sword and then at the boy who held it. With a surge of anger and rush of force, I tore the blade from his body.

I exited the house to see the chaos that filled the village. The soldiers had left but death still roamed. I heard a noise behind me, I twisted around my blade ready to slice but it was only my mother. I saw fear in her eyes - to her I was no longer the little boy who sat on her lap, I was a killer. I wake up. I still lie on the battlefield, it is night and the fighting has stopped but I know more will soldiers will come, just like my memories.

Karl Viio

16

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it - Anais Nin

17

18

Downfall

A Week of Winter Weather

Joy

On Monday the skies were grey, There were sad children wanting to play

Joy is orange like the beaming sun, It tastes like ice cream on a warm summer’s day, It smells like honey, dripping from a spoon, It looks like a field of vivid, colourful flowers, It sounds like music to my ears, It feels like lying in a nice warm bed.

On Tuesday the leaves were falling, Winter weather was really calling On Wednesday there was a huge gale with thunder, And people watching with wonder On Thursday the sky was crying And there was no more birds happily flying On Friday the tornado swirled around, With many houses on the ground On Saturday there was frost We knew that the nice weather was definitely lost On Sunday it was heavily snowing And in the air the snow was blowing.

Anya Shorey

Evan Naughton

Love Love is red, like a bright beautiful rose, It tastes fresh like a cold, juicy apple, It smells like a soft breeze on a warm summer’s evening, It looks like a bright colourful rainbow, It sounds like birds chirping in the trees, It feels like being surrounded by family and friends.

The flowers had once been bright, lighting up the room in a mismatch of forest greens, lilac and marigold.

The flowers a sole splash of colour in the lonely room now withered and gone dry, much like my life.

It’s unfortunate that in life sometimes to whom you are born determines success or failure, safety or suffering. Those who are poor by circumstance or misadventure become as objects appearing the fools of fate and those who are wealthy are often frivolous and secretive, satisfying whim after whim as they lie and smile. These are two stereotypes which are given in our society, yet the poor can be smart and the rich genuine. It just depends whether you are looking upon those people who don’t believe in this stereotypical society, who stand out from the crowd as they realize the gaudiness of it .Never the less, classification is how the majority of the crowd think and there is no changing that. Sitting here in the hotel suite, I was watching the dead flowers on the table. I was thinking how I used to look at them and feel a sense of happiness. I realise now, how I let my pretences get the better of me and how my imagination ran wild and clouded my common sense. I checked the clock for the time. It was ten to seven. My stomach lurched at the thought of time moving faster. He was never late. He would be here in ten minutes. He would burst through the door and I would have to tell him. Fear consumed me. It enveloped my skin and whirled in my stomach which twisted into a knot. I tried to recover my breathing but I only got the sensation of choking and gasping for air.

There was a knock at the door and I jumped. The door opened and a small woman came in pushing a large trolley with assorted foods on it. I recognised her as she was the usual one who brought the food. She came towards me slowly. I could sense her judging me with her eyes, a look that was often given by women but also by conservative men. I gave up being friendly to her long ago as there was only so much rejection I could take so I just nodded and went back to the flowers. My eyes then drifted to the clock again. It was seven.

The door banged open and the smell of bourbon wafted into the room. “Avery!” his obnoxious voice rang through the large suite. Every time he opened his mouth with his thick Boston accent, my skin crawled. He waddled into where I was sitting and wrapped his pudgy hands around my waist. I held back my desire to slap him in the face and let him draw me to him. He let go and made his way to the drinks cart where he poured himself a drink. He slid off the gold band of his finger and placed it on the table. “Lucy is away with the kids in Vermont so I have you for the whole weekend,” he explained. He put his drink down and went towards the bedroom. I followed after him knowing the routine. He lay down on the bed and looked at me appraisingly. I was in a tiny, silky black dressing gown which, compared to what was underneath it, was covering up more than he seemed to like. “Avery, take off the dressing gown, it covers too much of what I’m paying for.” I did as I was told and let the robe drop to the floor. Was it the right time? If I didn’t say it now I would never get it out. “I want you to . . .” he started but I interrupted him with my squabble. “I’m pregnant.”

I said calmly. His mouth dropped. I noticed his fists tighten. I began to walk backwards and I put my hands up in front of me instinctively.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I said. “I swear. I just need some money to keep the child, that’s it.” He lunged towards me. “You stupid whore,” he shouted. He grabbed my hair and wrung my hair back so hard that I felt the hairs being torn out of my head. “You can’t even do your job right,” he shouted as he struck me.

“Please! I’m sorry, please stop!” “No whore is going to claim a son of the governor of Massachusetts!” I was crumpled on the floor at this point.

I don’t know when the final blow came. I had anticipated it. His fist came into contact with my head and I had felt the impact. The blood gushed out and I felt myself lose conciseness. There was a bright light coming from an upward direction. I felt my eyes glaze over. With the fear gone, only a mixture of sadness for the child I never got to know and happiness of no more judgement I crawled into the arms of death, whom I welcomed in his completeness.

Amy Fitzsimons

Imani Antoun

19

Sitting on my Windowsill during the Unearthly Hours of the Morning

Shoes

Because my mind Won’t drift off, Because my eyes Won’t shut, I find myself Balancing on my windowsill.

I ignore the freeze On my toes.

I gaze out at the Snapshot of midnight, Praying that it will stay Quiet And I won’t have to Hide.

The wind waltzes Through the streets, Dancing with the thin Branches.

It is undisturbed by Us.

My feet are comfortable shoes I wear them every day And every night.

They have walked across many journeys They never wear They sometimes bleed.

I have them straight laced And tied tight So they never slip off Or tread on wrong ground.

I trust them with my life Balancing upon them.

They have yet to do me wrong Lead me into danger They have yet to do me right Lead me towards treasure.

The stick with me through everything Bearing my weight.

My feet are comfortable shoes I have worn them all my life

Sarah Clarke

Sarah Clarke

Certain Things Hate

Moving On

Hate is deep blue like the gloomy depths of the sea, It tastes like ice cold, sharp stones touching your lips, It smells like forest fires burning deep in the wood, It looks like the pitch black of night, when you’re meeting your end, It sounds like a ghost, coming to life, It feels like your heart has been stolen.

I was dead that’s what I thought But here I was watching my son distraught Staring at my futile remains Trying to wake from this dream in vain Never the less he watched waited Refusing to believe that I was outdated Then from nowhere he took a sharp breath Finally accepting my sudden death He took me out to the harsh cold snow Giving his permission for my soul to go.

Ciara O’ Regan

Happiness

The dead move on when you do.

Happiness is the colour of gold, like the shining sun, It tastes like ice cream melting on your tongue, It smells as fresh as a new Christmas tree, It looks like the gift you have been wishing for all your life, It sounds like happy children playing outside, It feels like waking up on a nice hot summer morning.

Liam Fitzgerald

Sasha Johnson

20

There are certain things I’d like to try to see, Such as a single graceful stream Carving a silvery trace through Stone that seemed so hard At first, worn down by The constancy of haste, to Give a sort of enforced peace.

Maybe a flower, bent over This whitened scar, blood-red Petals dropping to the blue, Sealed by the rushing flow And carried down the depths, Bowl-shaped and overflowing.

To lie down on the grassy Verdant bank, sigh, soft scents Stirring heavy leaves, brightened notes, Still, and drift off, eyes flickering Closed.

Amy O’Donoghue

21

Shipwrecked She was really big, costing €70 million and all lost in one hour. I was sailing on HMS Allure of the Seas through the Roaring Forties. I was travelling on my own and was allocated Cabin 12. I was in the gleaming restaurant enjoying my espresso, watching a fat man drinking an extra-large extra-fat coke. That was when the warnings rang out. “Passengers, please remain calm but we have hit rocks. Please form an orderly line

by Master Station 1”. I quickly downed my espresso and ran . . .

Oh No!! All the lifeboats were disabled because the ship was heaving over. I started to run but I slipped and crashed through a window. I slid and whacked my face on a wall. I got up again, this time sprinting. I tasted blood in my mouth. I heard groaning metal. I took a life-ring and jumped. I heard a crash. I felt the wind rushing around my body. “FREE-blub blub blub.”, I half-shouted, half drowned. That was when I hit the water and blacked out.

When I woke up I expected to see the bright golden gates of heaven, but no, I wasn’t dead. I could see . . . an island! It had a forest, bananas and coconuts. I crawled into the sand.

First priority: Build hut. I can use many materials - wood, leaves and animal skins.

I’ve found a book: ‘Knots and Raft Building’. Hurray! With this information I can be out of here in a few days. Now, while I relax with a horrible cup of salt water I’ve seen a map of shipping lanes. There’s a ship that comes through here. Better set off building a raft then. Yes, put that there, yep, all going well, oops!

Now the sails. Weave the reeds. Three hours (and a lot of back pains) later and my raft is ready. I’ll set sail at dawn, but for now I’m ravenous and I need food. I waded in to the water, visions of me eating a huge trout flash through my head. Ooh Yay! A mackerel! I took it back and started to make a fire. I scraped twigs till they started to spark. I then put others together and . . . at last, Fire! Soon I was shoving hot, delicious mackerel into my mouth. I went to bed later thinking stupid thoughts like, “Will it float?” and “What if I’m never picked up?” Alright then, goodnight.

Next morning, I wake up. I have decided to skip breakfast because there is no food except for the odd few coconuts. I bring them and a rock to break them open with. Well, here goes nothing . . . Splash! As I go into the unknown, watching the island getting smaller and smaller, I feel more and more nervous. It continues for four days and four nights. I am being burnt by the sun and stung by the salty sea. I feel ready to give up.

I am getting ready to turn back when I hear a noise. I turn around in shock . . . is it what I was hoping for four days? I don’t believe it . . . Yes, A Ship! I jump up and wave my arms frantically. The ship turns over to me and lowers a rope ladder. I grab the rope and climb up the ladder, leaving my raft behind.

Luka Flanagan

Window shopping You stand once again before this imposter As if she means something As if her face reveals some insight, Some complexity beneath complexion The flawed façade, a window to the inside A window eternally fogged by preconception And misunderstanding Our window dressings invite others in Because it’s all we can do.

Invite and hope.

Hope for an open mind to chance these open doors.

Open doors that admit anyone.

Anyone. Anyone can take those steps, Look up and down and judge Stay around for a while, paw at what’s on offer poking and examining, valuing.

Comparing.

The front desk is open for business but don’t go through that door at the back.

You don’t want to go in there.

That’s where the true artefacts lie.

The rest is just for show.

Not many have been back there.

22

Rachel O’Connor

23

And The Sun Sets The sunset was fitting; it marked the end of a summer day like a coffee after dinner. But for all their beauty, sunsets lead into night. And even though it was summer, this was going to be a long and dark night.

Stephen took a break to take in the scenery. But he didn’t have any time to waste. He had to be finished before the tide came in. He turned around to look at Laura. She looked more peaceful than she had in the previous eight months. As he got back to work, Stephen thought of the last time he had seen Laura happy.

It had been a picnic behind the rock that they used to always sit at. It was only eight months but to him, it felt like a lifetime. He sighed and continued working.

When the hole was about a metre and a half deep, Stephen decided that it was deep enough. Besides, he didn’t really have any more time left. It had to be done then, before the tide came in. Stephen reckoned he had about twenty minutes left. Fortunately for him, the sand was easy to dig. Rigor Mortis had set in by this time. It made it much more difficult to pick her up. He placed her in the hole with some difficulty. And finally, he put her engagement ring on her chest. But there was no more time for sentiment. Stephen filled the hole, took his shovel and turned his back on his lover, never to return nor see her again.

He had to go far away. There was no way he could ever explain her death. He couldn’t tell the truth. How could he tell her family that she begged for death? How could he explain that she couldn’t live with herself anymore? How could he tell the world that he had killed his fiancée because he loved her too much? No. That wouldn’t do.

He had to leave. It didn’t matter where he went but it had to be far away. He wanted to be far away from the place where he had spent his last summer with the love of his life. The sun had set, Laura was asleep and Stephen was leaving.

Joe McDonagh

The Final Irony The future is bleak. A dismal world of darkness. I almost regret ever sending myself here. I should never have volunteered for this experiment. I was a fool to believe I could escape what was happening in my time by “moving forward.” It is too late for me to return, the zero-point displacement field has long since dissipated. I had been far too focused on discovering the 200 years that had lapsed.

It was a harrowing future, one where the line between what was human and what was robot had become blurred. This human augmentation had increased energy demands and accelerated global warming and when the floods took half the land we fought over the dwindling oil supplies which remained. Oil wars had led to nuclear war and humanity had been forced to hide deep underground to survive the fallout. The history book I held had been written by a society that refused to go underground.

I could feel my lungs constrict. I needed to find shelter. The radiation was taking its toll on me. My lungs were dry as ashes. I thought I could escape 200 years of history and now history has caught up with me. The final irony – I might have 200 hundred minutes of life left, what future after that?

Cal Keenan 24

The First and the Last “I used to be so small.” Thomas smiles at the memory then continues. “I was the ‘annoying younger brother.’ I was never allowed to play with the others. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I was allowed to be a goalpost or an inanimate object in one of their games. For the most part, it was my job to mind the coats. I didn’t care though, I was being included! I should have cared but I didn’t.”

“I’m not sure why I had none of my own friends back then. After that day, I never had any problems making friends. I guess it was because I looked up to him so much, I couldn’t bear to not be a part of his day. So I almost excluded myself from the others my age, just to be with him, my big brother, James.”

“I was about, what, six, seven? So he must have been thirteen or fourteen. There was seven years between us anyway. We’d had a sister, Grace, but she died when I was five and she was nine. She’d had leukaemia. People used to say it was a blessing because she’d been sick for a long time, but it was extremely hard on my poor mother, and she was never the same again.”

“I can’t remember what it was about him that I so admired. But I’d put him on the highest pedestal and there was no way he was coming down.”

“He was the ring leader of his little gang of boys. They bossed the girls around, whom, being girls, didn’t mind at all. They played football in the streets, stole apples from the fruit stalls, and ran through the washing, tearing it down off the lines. They were the coolest boys around and he was the coolest of them all. He was always striker in the football games, always the robber who eluded the guards, and he was always the one who decided where they would play that day.” He coughed, clearing his throat before continuing the narrative.

“I remember once he wanted to go play on the roofs of a neighbouring estate. One of the girls challenged him on the practicalities of this plan. ‘How on earth do you expect us to get up onto those roofs,’ she’d said, ‘and what are we even going to do once we get up there? Nothing that’s what, because we won’t be able to stand up for fear of falling. But I suppose you’ll relish the task of knocking on someone’s door to tell them that because of you their child fell off…?’ James had had enough of her though, ‘Shut up!’ he’d shouted interrupting her. Oh you should have seen her face, she was a proper little priss. It was all about what she wanted and what she thought. She was new to the gang and didn’t realise that her way wasn’t going to work. It was James’ way or no way. James told her that he I expected her to do her best to climb up and if she couldn’t then they’d just have fun without her. And do you know what the girl said? She asked in her ‘sweet’ little voice, ‘Can we have a picnic?’ Of all the things she could have asked…but girls were like that back then. Well, with other people they weren’t so submissive, but James was special. He had a way about him of making other people change their minds; I suppose he was quite charismatic.”

“I think that girl’s name was Grettie, or something like that anyway. They ‘went out’ for a few weeks after that, but they were so young they didn’t do much but hold hands and brag. She was right though. Someone did fall. They fell and broke their legs, and James had to go and tell their mother, while a few others carried the poor lad home.”

“I wasn’t allowed up on the roof that day, I was being a ‘lookout’ to tell them if someone was coming. They didn’t care if someone was though, and they pretended not to hear me shouting when a person came.”

Thomas sighs before carrying on with his tale. “That day it was his idea to play on the train tracks, of course. We all went along with it, what else could we do. He was the leader and we were expendable members of his gang. None of wanted to be kicked out and have to mingle with lesser children.”

“None of us knew, how could we? None of us ever, even in our wildest dreams could have expected it.

Maybe we should have though…not expected it but, even just acknowledged it as a possibility, I mean what else happens on train tracks?”

“A train came along of course. We could see the smoke from what must have been a mile away. Once the shout went up, James decided he would jump the train. A few others decided they were ‘man’ enough to try as well. As the train came closer, most lost their nerve and jumped off the tracks. Then the train rounded the corner. It was so close that the boys started leaping off the tracks one after another. In about ten seconds all that was left was James and his best friend. His name was James as well but we used to call him Jack for clarity’s sake.”

“They both turned to jump at the same time but James’ trailing trouser leg got caught on the tracks. The train was about, oh I don’t know, but it was very close anyway. Jack turned to help him and they struggled to free the fabric. The train was almost upon them and everyone was screaming and yelling. The train’s whistle was blowing like crazy. It had almost hit when James grabbed the front of Jack’s shirt and pushed, no threw, him away with a strength I don’t think even he knew he had.”

“All through it I just stood there. I did nothing. I could see how his trousers were caught, I could have helped, but I didn’t. I was too afraid. I never told anyone what had happened, my mother found out from the

26

other children present. They ran for help and sent the first adult they met that they knew back to the scene.

He sent them to my house while he sprinted for the tracks. The train had stopped by then. The man helped the drivers to get James’ body out from under the wheels. Jack sat with him until my parents arrived. They had to pry his hand off James’ broken one, it was like he was petrified, as though he had lost a brother, not a best friend.”

“My mother screamed over James and wept and wept. I couldn’t move. I was frozen in place. Jack’s father carried the torn body to the mortuary. My father carried me in his arms. Everything changed that day. My mother retreated within herself after the funeral; she died a few months later, died of a broken heart people said. My father… he changed, didn’t laugh as much, but he spent as much time as he could with me. It was always strained though, like we were pretending.”

He stopped speaking for a time; a look of deep concentration on his face, then looked me straight in the eyes.

“You know, after talking about it like this I think I’ve realised why I followed him so much. It was because, after Grace dying, I was terrified that he would die too and leave me alone. So I went with him everywhere because I thought that if I wasn’t there with him, for just one day, for just one second, that he would leave me and not come back. I must have figured that if I stayed with him then I would be able to stop him from going. But I wasn’t.”

Thomas finishes his story and closes his wet eyes, leaning into his pillows, utterly spent, as though telling his final secret had taken all of his remaining energy.

I lean forward and place my hand over his on top of the navy, wool blanket.

“Did you really never tell anyone about this dad?” I ask.

“Only you James.” Thomas murmurs without opening his eyes. “You are the first and the last.”

We sit in silence for a while. Thomas has lost most of the colour from his face and his breathing is more ragged.

A nurse in scrubs pushes a wheelchair into the room and parks it alongside his bed. “If you’re ready Mr. Simmons,” he says softly. “The ambulance is waiting outside to bring you to the hospice.”

Marsha Moore

End of the Nightmare Lewis switched off the TV. His ‘Happy 40th Birthday’ cards still stood on the mantelpiece. He found his feet and began to make his way upstairs in his bleak white house. He sat at his desk and began to write a letter to his father. His mother had recently died, so he was asking if his father would like to visit him at the weekend and spend some time with him. He finished his letter, slipped it into an envelope and put it back on his desk to bring to the post office in the morning.

Lewis opened the cabinet in his bathroom and took out some medicine. He had been feeling rather unwell lately. He poured the foul liquid down his throat and began to gag. Finally he crawled into his bed and turned off the light. Sometime later Lewis found that he was sweating heavily. Then he felt as if he was going to be sick. Lewis had suffered this kind of sickness before. When he was a child Lewis had a terrible sickness that made him cough blood and pass out regularly. He tried his best not to think about it. He lifted up his toilet seat and began to get sick.

As he got up from the tiled floor, Lewis looked out the window. The moon looked bigger than usual. His house was surrounded by a thick, dark forest. He loved long walks, so this was the perfect place for him to live, in the middle of nature. But when Lewis looked out the window he saw, just beyond the wall, his childhood nightmare. The nightmare he saw during the day, the nightmare that took control over his mind, the nightmare that was responsible for his little brother’s disappearance, the nightmare that only he could see.

The nightmare stood still and did not move a muscle. The nightmare was roughly eight feet tall and had long arms. But the thing that was most unusual about it was the clothes it wore; a white shirt, black tie, and a pitch-black suit jacket. Lewis tried to look at its face, but when he did he felt awfully sick and began to vomit again.

He found himself grabbing his torch, running down the stairs and flinging the door open. Suddenly the nightmare appeared in front of him. He felt like he was going to cry.

Lewis felt something long and sharp wrap around his waist. When he wiped the tears out of his eyes, he could see that it was a tentacle holding him. Then he saw the creature coming toward him. He felt his stomach rotting as the nightmare used its witchcraft on him. Then he heard it, the loud rustling of leaves under its feet.

He could now see that the tentacle was coming out from its back. He could also see that there was more than one tentacle. There were four on each side. The creature stared at him. Lewis could now see that the creature had no skin, no eyes, no mouth, no nose and no face. It had a chalk white head. Lewis noticed he still had his torch in his hand. He pointed it at the creature’s head and surprisingly it let go.

Lewis ran in the opposite direction of the rustling, screaming ’’HELP! HELP!”. Then he could see the lights of the main road ahead of him. Lewis scampered on to the road screaming at the top of his voice. A bright yellow car driving way over the speed limit hit Lewis, knocking him off his feet and up into the air.

He found himself lying in a bed in a hospital. A friendly doctor walked up to him. He told Lewis that he had been in a coma for the past eight weeks. He also said to Lewis that he had suffered brain damage. A week later he was diagnosed with amnesia.

But having amnesia, Lewis lived a happy life in the end because he forgot about his horrible past, and because he had forgotten, the nightmare could not haunt him anymore. As far as Lewis was concerned, he had never had the dreadful nightmare before and he did not remember it stalking him as a child. The creature had no place with him from that point on.

It set out to find other prey.

Luke Keenan

Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications - Raymond Carver

Sunrise

Ragged Piece of Paper

All I can see are Little soulful blasts, Microcosms flashing In the grey-whitened ground.

Bursts of fiery, passionate life, Fading just as soon as they Appeared, so impermanent, But leaving branded spectrums On my eyes, so all I do is think Of you, and how I imagine your Stomach curves and quakes When you laugh, sunlight Dimmed golden like our fires On your warm-traced skin, Safe. Secure. And what happens When our hopes burn out to black?

Well, you can hold the ember In your hands, wish, and blow The last spark out.

Ragged piece of paper Floating in the wind Just winding down the long dark street, Flying through the air.

I run and jump and catch it.

And I look down and see.

I see those words all scrawled upon it.

I see the words, Come see me.

Come and see me run Come and see me jump Come and see me fall far down And see if I get up.

Saibh McCaffrey

Amy O’Donoghue

29

Too Late

I have learned to live with it (a found poem)

Head aching; Numb with thought.

Face flushed; Hair a mess.

Fingers tapping; Writing steady.

Pulling out the words, One by one.

Mind flooding with new ideas.

Threatening to pull away my focus.

My pen races, Hand aches.

Trying to get the last word out before it’s.

I began to wonder. . .

Saibh McCaffrey

The blood on my handkerchief was the first indication I got that I was cut, The full moon is still silhouetted against the sea, The fresh wind fills the senses with the power and mood of the past, Life in those two weeks never lost the hobo character marking my whole journey.

It’s a long story.

I am not about to start now, My life is cracked and chipped like a jigsaw puzzle, I have learned to live with it.

Gaby Lewis

Whispers

A Lonely Haunt

I was stopped once in my tracks And told that I could never look back Or relive the best days of my life And if I were to even try To search for hope up in the sky Only rain would drown my eyes

Cherubim did not play herald to my presence Nor did Peter greet me at the gates These gates were not crafted out of golden ore or silver But creaked a little, as the rusty hinge Was bit by bit persuaded to swing open.

So small and lost I turned to you Who’d taught me everything I knew But no answers I received Oh if I’d known the day would come When your wise voice would be gone I’d not have wasted all those years This will not be the last I write Or speak to you and laugh and cry I will not hate or spite or fear But love as though you were still near.

Rebecca Dowse

30

I did not lie on trains of silver clouds Nor see a light upon my voyage hence No flight nor host of angels eased transition The very metamorphosis of state Was ascended alone - to what?

A hand hath guided me to lands of spirits Yet none of these dread spirits me did greet Within, without these gates is little change A man abreast of none, with knarlēd stick Striving sans hope within a lonely haunt.

Molly O’Gorman

Sentence Structure Henry’s footsteps echoed around the fortress of concrete and iron as he followed the guard to his cell.

Some part of him had always known he would end up here, or somewhere like it. Whether or not that inkling had played a direct role in actually getting him there, Henry couldn’t say. It sure as hell wasn’t his subconscious driving the bus, he knew that much. Henry would hope that, were he ever to run into his subconscious, it would be slightly more inclined towards frequent bathing (a luxury that Henry was not so certain he would have access to here). He sighed, a little too audibly, at the prospect. The guard turned to patronise him.

“Thinking we might have made a mistake, are we? You people . . .”

Henry looked around. He did not appreciate being lobbed unceremoniously into the same category as these . . . people. Nonetheless, he said nothing, making a mental note to be quieter with his future exhalations. The guard stopped and began fumbling on his belt for the appropriate key. Henry stopped too, trying not to get too sentimental about his last steps as a truly free man. Though he supposed those were more likely to be before they slapped him in cuffs and shoved him in a police car. He hadn’t really had enough time to be sentimental then, now would have to suffice. The guard found the right key and slid the metal bars to the side, not taking any discernible care to keep the metallic screeching to a minimum. A couple of the prisoners across the hall shouted profanities, one mass of hair and flesh (vaguely resembling a bear) in the cell next to them grunting and continuing sleeping. The guard grabbed Henry’s forearm with a hand the size of a small child’s torso and pushed him in. Henry fell onto his hands and knees and uttered a quiet

“thank you”, more out of habit than any real desire. He was glad, when he’d brushed the dust off his knees that the guard had not stuck around to taunt his compulsive etiquette.

Henry sat himself down on what he supposed constituted a bed here and began to silently reflect on his ruinous life. Something moved in the shadows. One of the cheap cylindrical halogen light bulbs on the ceiling had blown, plunging one side of the cell into darkness. A darkness that was now animate. Henry tucked his knees into his chest and moved as far in onto the bed as he could. He could not deal with rats today, nor any day, for that matter. The moving thing seemed to be growing. Henry’s mind suddenly decided to remember every horror film he’d ever seen, bugs and rats and blood and demons. He let out an involuntary whimper. The darkness let out a snort, then a foot, then the rest of a person.

“Alright, princess?” the young man smiled, his teeth glinting impossibly in the dim light. Henry’s heart felt like it had dropped, fallen somewhere into the abyss of now churning acid, pulling his stomach and face with it. He would have preferred the rats.

“I- I’m good, just fine.” He coughed, hoping that the young man wouldn’t recognise him. It had been years, after all.

“Come on now, sir. Good? What was it you always say about that word? an . . . insult to the English language, wasn’t that it?”

Henry resisted the urge to call the attention of the guards and desperately beg solitary confinement (or at least so brutal a beating that he wouldn’t need to be conscious). He remembered. Of course he remembered.

“Long time no see, Mr. Keating, didn’t expect to run into you here.” Rory Basset (known as “hound” by his friends, both for his second name and inclination towards biting people) laughed at his own joke.

Henry almost winced at the sound that had haunted his nightmares long after he’d been transferred from St. Alfred’s school for boys, and was dismayed at the realisation that his stress medication probably wouldn’t be available in here. Keep calm, he thought. You need to take control of the situation. He has no power here. He has nothing. Use that. Henry stood and walked across the cell as coolly as he could (keeping his distance from those teeth, of course).

“Nor I, Rory, I assure you.” A joke, he thought. That’s good; let him know that the dynamic has changed.

Hound looked at him quizzically before letting out a snort. Henry let himself relax for a second. That was when Hound turned; face stony and much, much closer than Henry was comfortable with.

“What’d you do, sir?”

That question. Henry didn’t know if he could fully answer it himself. Be aloof, he thought. He took a step back and skirted around Hound to sit back on the “bed”.

“Oh, this and that. If you don’t mind, I’m going to-” “Oh no, you’re not about to avoid this, sir. They don’t just hand out the death sentence. It has to be bad. So” he sat down on his own bed, cloaked in shadow, “What’d you do?”

“I really don’t want to-” “You know what? I don’t think I want to know. I’d rather imagine all the terrible things poor, pathetic Mr. Keating is capable of.” the malice in Hound’s voice was nearly tangible in the small space, hanging in the air, an oath of sorts.

It was silent for a moment.

“I bet you killed someone, someone important. Maybe you had a student with an ambassador father or mother, a really spoiled one, and you just lost it at the parent teacher conference.”

Henry said nothing.

“Or, or maybe you went proper postal, killed an entire class full of kids, young ones, first years, because they couldn’t get their theres, theirs and they’res right. Is that it sir? Shoot a bunch of kiddies right in their innocent little faces, did you?”

Henry closed his eyes but couldn’t seem to ignore the incessant gleeful taunting.

“Were you on drugs sir? Did you do bath salts and start eating people? I’d have paid to see that, sir, tell me that’s what happened.”

Silence.

“Did you-” Hound didn’t get to finish his sentence. He didn’t get to finish either of his sentences, for that matter. Well, thought Henry, stretching out his arms and letting the limp body slump quietly to the floor, it depends on how you look at it. Does it count as finishing your death sentence if you’re already dead?

Rachel O’Connor

33

Poetry Reading Poets, small-mouthed and spindly-limbed, filled the clamorous interior of Ned’s Alehouse. Smoke tendrils rose in the lamplight, tar-black Guinnesses were drained, and self-proclaimed wordsmiths orated with varying levels of zeal. The stage – a raised platform beside the fire exit – looked more apt for ageing magicians or cellulitis-infected strippers. It was just big enough to accommodate a table, a microphone, and whichever autodidact wanted to bare his soul before the rapidly fading crowd. Edward Trop, director of the Beat Revival Society (a collective of South Dubliners bound by their propensity for pretention and teary devotion to Kerouac), pondered this scene. His group had been evicted from their previous meeting spot after an illfated decision – aimed at increasing the overall appreciation for a Ginsberg piece – saw several members drop acid, and subsequently reduce each barstool to sawdust. Since then, Trop had made it his business to scope out other venues. Stung by numerous disappointments, he hoped that Ned’s, a conveniently located and moderately charming drink-hole, might come to house his literary cabal. But as the morning hours approached and the performances dragged on, that hope was steadily dissolved.

Trop glanced at the barman, and then to a meagre clutch of locals who had gathered near the corner. Their expressions surpassed bewilderment: nostrils flared with disgust, eyes narrowed to hawkish slits, lips parted in apprehension. A riot was certainly on the cards. He thought about escaping via taxi, but found himself entranced by this failing spectacle. Breaths were held as Brian Schwab, a mechanic and Lithuanian émigré, stepped into the limelight. He obscured his features with a notepad and read quickly, stumbling over the artless words. Onlookers winced as the second stanza rhymed “head” with “dead” with “trundle bed”. And a few scandalized customers threw coins into the jukebox, which, alas, was powered off.

After an eternity of misplaced pauses, botched syllables and awkward intonations, Schwab ran out of material. His lungs collapsed like punctured bagpipes, and sparse applause followed him offstage. Sharon Bloar was up next. She swivelled on her heels and stared into the audience, who had been markedly traumatized by the preceding acts. They were fragile, bustling, confused; far from ready to interpret the poet’s flood of prattling and nonsensical imagery. Her demeanour was different to Schwab’s: more expressive and less petrified. Yet the content was just as cringe-worthy. Each line consisted of three alliterative but otherwise unrelated nouns, which she bellowed at a volume best suited to the partially deaf. “Hole, heap, haberdasher / Drip, domino, dole!” Her enunciation was forceful – saliva rained down on the front row during the “S” and “P” sections, increasing, to no end, the poem’s sensory effect.

Trop, though usually supportive of his underlings’ stabs at profoundness, began to feel like he was listening to a recitation of the dictionary. He reddened with humiliation Ms Bloar barked out her final triplets, gesticulating in a way that evoked Mussolini over Ferlinghetti. She re-joined the spectators once the alphabet was exhausted, only to be replaced by Baz Cronin, a suit-clad tartlet with white hair and a semi-androgynous dress sense. Baz unhooked the mic and tried to introduce himself, however nervousness turned his usual timbre – a rich, fluid baritone – into this quivering squeak at which the masses sniggered audibly. He stiffened like a day-old corpse before clearing his throat and gulping down a water bottle. Then it was on with the show. Baz hadn’t prepared anything; he planned to carry on the legacy of early 50s experimentalists by recounting his most recent nightmares, off-the-cuff, in what he hoped would be an eloquent and linguistically stimulating fashion (accompanied by some interpretive dance moves). Abstract memories, though, do not always lend themselves to clear articulation. And Baz made the mistake of including a rather disgusting, rather oedipal detail that promptly lost him the viewers’ sympathy.

Ten minutes later he was enmeshed in a meandering narrative involving the Duke of Wellington, hedge clippers and an iguana. The dream’s shock factor didn’t quite survive its transposition to speech, nor did it stay remotely coherent or engaging. So when those in the pit began to converse loudly with one another, Baz decided he should cut the cord. Few took notice as the artist stopped speaking, thanked everyone for their attention and made a beeline to the Tuborg tap. With that, the set list was concluded. Like workers emerging from the rubble of a collapsed Bangladeshi sweatshop, Trop felt shaken – furious – yet relieved that the calamity was over. He gathered himself and stepped towards the other Beat enthusiasts, who were no doubt craving congratulation. To remain positive would require self-discipline on a par with Marlon Brando.

But just as the director began edging past tables of aggrieved drinkers (overhearing snippets such as “I’d happily shank the halfwit who organized this farce”) a young woman mounted the platform. She flicked back loughs of nebulous gold hair, beamed ear-to-ear and announced her presence with a thrillingly soft “Hello”.

The room hushed. Trop’s heart nearly seized up with anticipation – god knows another fiasco wouldn’t go down well. Yet he was put at ease by this twentysomething’s manner: her delicacy; her breeziness; her pocket-sized appearance, gaunt cheekbones and pale skin. She was oddly comforting to look at.

“That’s Baz’s sister”, whispered a number of Society members. Their murmuring betrayed indignation that a non-poet, a mere earthling, unversed in American modernism, might foolhardily elevate herself to their level. Ha! They jeered, snorted, heckled with undue scorn. And then, in a matter of moments, the group was collectively put to shame.

Katie Cronin stood with her stilettos together; back straight, red dress flapping gently from the air conditioner’s draft. She dispensed with an introduction, widened those steely eyes and uttered the first lines of Phillip Larkin’s The Mower. Few Beatists were acquainted with this piece, but still they passed comments, grumbled disapprovingly, and glared at Baz, who had become a heretic by association. Katie went on unfazed. She took care over her cadences, making sure to preserve the poem’s conversational flow. That silken voice emanated from a host of banged-up speakers; it lulled the hardened pub-goers, and later the edgy Beats, into a state of contentment. One by one, they succumbed to her spell. Honeyed vowel sounds filled the room; raw confidence gushed forth; and the closing injunction (though it would have been considered inexcusably earnest and simplistic just ten minutes earlier) had a decided impact on all those present. …we should be careful / Of each other, we should be kind / While there is still time.

Ollie Eagleton

35

Untitled

The Fridge (after Miroslav Holub)

Little Flower

The sun, when shining brightly, seems to make life that little bit happier, but when it doesn’t shine, life can seem as if it is falling apart. I had been blessed with a good childhood when I was younger, but after Tuesday life never went back to normal. After Tuesday, I wasn’t complete. My father returned to drinking as a way of coping, while my brother and I tried to compensate with loud music and late nights; waking in the morning without a notion of what took place the night before. I guess we just couldn’t understand what made her do it. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was us. We gave her hell, and she put up with it for sixteen years.

The men told us Wednesday morning, but it was as if I was hearing it through a long tunnel. Their voices were muffled, as though they spoke behind closed doors. Feeling faint, I excused myself and moved out onto the patio. Fighting sobs, I collapsed onto a chair and pulled out a cigarette. I began smoking at a very young age; goaded on by my older brother and his friends. Looking back, I realise I was foolish to start, because now it’s an addiction I may live with for the rest of my days. As I breathe in the burning fumes, I feel myself begin to relax. Smoking gives me a sense of calm in a hectic world, an un-natural aspect for such a debilitating thing.

Walking up the aisle in the cathedral yesterday, staring at that horrid life-destroying wooden box, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I fled the church, with pain and sorrow etched all over my face. Hailing the first taxi I could find, I simply told the driver to take me ‘as far away from here as possible for 400 euro.’ As the taxi sped away from the cathedral, I looked back and saw my father, standing outside the church doors, looking sadly back at me, complete and utter hopelessness on his face. I gave him one last glance, and turned back to face the front of the taxi, never looking back again. I may return to home someday, but for now all I have are my cigarettes and my sadness.

Go and open the fridge, Maybe there’s a sandwich, or pasta, Pizza Or a chocolate cake. . .

There’s a little flower at the end of my garden, It sits with every other flower, But it stands out.

Moses Alwood

Go and open the fridge, Maybe there will be Chips and sausages left over From last night’s take away, Or a pie, Or an apple. . .

Go and open the freezer, For frozen ice-cream.

Go and open the fridge, Even if there’s just mouldy cheese, Even if there’s only stale bread, Even if there’s nothing there, Go and open the fridge, At least there will be a soothing Draught of cool air in the room.

Caitlin Colbert

Macronertia Young, obnoxious beats pulse through her very core, Yet adrift on a dappled ocean of bruising rhythms she floats, Satin threads of thought unlace; disentangling the soul, While ephemeral chaos severs reality.

The heat; rust-ridden and sweet, attacks her untried flesh with searing zeal, Milking the deceptive stains of innocence which still remain, Those ample, forged roses in a discarded garden.

Crimson plumes erupt with grace, willowing from her wrists; And appearing as shadow dancers that convulse with the umbra of liquid smoke.

They choke her frame; marbling the water in rosy tellers of gloom.

As her eyes transform, leaving twin yellow globes of a possessed believer, She is unreadily thrust into a placeless peace, Where murmured memories are abused; gagged, bound; And silenced in all their glorified reminiscence of a life that may have been.

Sadistic forces glance down with feigned pity on her sickly figure, Ruefully encased now within a porcelain pool of pink, Where shackles turn to dust.

On this final bed of unclad truths she takes flight, And scampers with purpose into a phantasmagorical show of lights, Disowning the embers once consigned to her trivial, aimless – yet entire - existence.

Nicole Lee

36

It blooms in the wrong season, It sits in the wrong soil, But its roots are too far down for it to be moved.

It would be unnoticeable, If it weren’t for its colour, Or the fact that it’s slightly taller, There are other flowers there that are a bit taller, But still, This flower stands out.

It is appreciated by the tree, And sometimes by the rose bush, But the only other flowers that dare utter a word about it, Are the flowers that are withering away, And other times the flowers missing a petal try to help, But really can’t do anything.

The flower has tried to stay down and out of sight, But doesn’t know how to.

The flower often needs more attendance and help, But the help usually doesn’t help, And the attendance just makes it stand out more.

Now, I wonder what would happen, If I told you, That flower, Is me.

Alana Oakes

And Then the Music Stopped

The Green Door at the Top of the Stairs

An icy breeze lingered in the night air. It whistled through the trees, rattled at the rusty park gate and crept down my spine. A blanket of frost had settled on the grass and in the flowerbeds and it glistened under the moonlight. I dug my frostbitten fingers into the pockets of my coat and continued to shuffle along the path.

In the darkness, the whole park was so silent, so desolate. I finally arrived at the quiet corner I knew so well.

The old, splintered bench creaked in unison with my bones as I sat down. I caught my breath for a moment and watched the cloudy condensation leave my lips and melt into the night. I then turned to the box I had been clutching tightly. After setting it down on the peeling paintwork of the bench, I undid the buckles and slowly removed the treasure that lay inside. It was beautiful and the sight of it sent my pulse racing. I drew my precious item to my shoulder and the silent night was pierced by the deep mournful wailing of a violin.

As I lost myself in the music, I gazed out through the park’s iron railings and up at the towering building just across the road. It all came flooding back.

I craned my neck to see out of the car window and watch the city fly past in a blur of grey. The sheer size of some of the concrete towers always amazed me. I hummed quietly along to the radio and was lost in a world of my thoughts when my father’s voice brought me back to my senses.

“Peter…” he began hesitantly from the driver’s seat, eyes still glued to the road.

“Yes,’ I replied.

“It’s just that, well, you know with your mother and everything…” he stuttered, before tailing off.

“I understand Dad.” “I know you do. Just take it easy with her, that’s all.”

An awkward silence descended and I was glad to see that we had just arrived. I absently waved goodbye to Dad before climbing the steps to the hospital door, holding the box against my chest. A feeling of uneasiness and dread hit me as I pushed open the swing doors. I had always hated hospitals, so did Mum. After signing in at reception, I hurried through the familiar maze of corridors and arrived at Room 305 quite out of breath. I knocked lightly on the door and crept inside, quiet as a mouse.

“Peter,” said the woman in the armchair as she sat up smiling. “How are you?”

“I’m fine Mum. How are you?”

“I’m great,” she replied as I noticed her even paler skin.

“I thought we might go to the park today.”

“That would be great. Did you bring my violin?” she asked with cautious hesitation.

“Yes,” I replied with a smile.

As I placed the box in her, weak arms, her eyes shone. The look of pure joy across her face was one that I had only seen before when she played her beloved music. Mum loved music and when she picked up a violin, it came to life in her hands. I helped her up and let her lean on me as we journeyed through the maze of corridors. She seemed weaker and more feeble and fragile than I’d ever seen her before. As we went out the front door, she drew in a long, deep breath of fresh air and sighed happily. Once we had crossed the street and entered the empty park, Mum’s pace slackened and her shoulders relaxed. She was free. We crunched through the leaves for a while and then arrived at the place we knew so well, the place where we had spent many an afternoon, our place. We sat down on the old bench in the quiet corner and talked for a while. Mum listened intently to my news about school and sport but I could sense that she was yearning for her music. I handed her the box with a smile.

She undid the buckles and slowly removed the treasure that lay inside. It was beautiful and the sight of it sent my pulse racing. She sat back down on the bench, drew her precious violin to her shoulder and began to play. The music was so beautiful, so pure and played with such joy. Mum’s whole fragile figure seemed to light up and she played better than she had ever played before. It was surreal, like a dream, like magic. She had closed her eyes now and a feeling of pure content and peace radiated from both her and her music.

Suddenly, she slumped back on the bench, I screamed and then the music stopped.

The funniest thing was, the green door at the top of the stairs wasn’t going to be at the top of the stairs.

Not anymore.

I look around. It never was a big house. The hall is the biggest space, with high ceilings, and all the rooms spawn out of it.

Old fashioned wallpaper coats the walls. They are hideous; faded and brown. I can see they have become mouldy in the corners. I remember her laughing at how horrible they were.

The emptiness echoes around the house.

The workmen are unscrewing the hinges on the door. It’s taking them a while. I look at the door. It stares miserably back at me, its bright green now melancholy, its paint peeling like tears, no longer welcoming me to the warm embrace which lies behind it.

Or which doesn’t lie behind it. Not anymore.

I remember when I was really small I’d try to clamber up the cramped stairs. I fell a lot of course, but eventually I’d make it. She’d always hold my hand when I needed it.

I find my bedroom; the smallest room. It’s just the same as I left it, fifteen years ago, when I went to college.

She hadn’t touched a thing. My teddy bear still sits at the bottom of the bed, one of its eyes still missing. My football posters are still on the wall, my records still in alphabetical order on the shelf. I remember when I was about eight I’d have a lot of nightmares. Sometimes when they happened I’d race up the steep stairs, push through the door and crawl into her bed. Other times she’d already be by my bed when I woke up, comforting me.

The living room; with its old fireplace, blackened by soot around the edges. It had kept us warm through those many cold winters. At Christmas our tree would sit in the corner beside the fireplace. I remember when I was twelve it set on fire. She screamed and threw her wine at it, which of course, made it worse.

The firemen eventually came and put it out. It hadn’t spread, but the wall had been burnt all over. We’d put wallpaper over it. We always laughed about it; it was a funny story we told to our friends every Christmas.

The wallpaper is beginning to peel on a part of the wall. I can see the black soot which lies behind it. I stroke the black part with my fingers for a moment, before smoothing the wallpaper back over it.

The blue and white tablecloth is still on the kitchen table, the cups are still hanging by their handles on the hooks above the sink. All the cupboards are made of a light oak. She was always bustling about in here.

I remember when I was seventeen I came home at three o’ clock in the morning, roaring drunk. She had been sitting in the kitchen waiting up for me. She was furious, and she had slapped me when she saw how drunk I was. I woke the next day with a splitting headache. I knew she hadn’t really been angry at me, though. I heard her on the phone to her friend laughing about it the next day. I never got drunk again.

I never knew my dad. I saw him once, briefly, when I was about three or four. He came to our house. I remember she was really mad when she saw him. I’d crouched behind her bedroom door. They fought for ages. I remember covering my ears because they were so loud. I’d focused on the calm green of the door.

He never came back. She was crying when she came up to her room. I asked her what was wrong. But she just hugged me, and continued sobbing. I remember she hugged me for a long time. She never told me why she’d been crying or why she‘d been so angry.

The workmen finish unscrewing the hinges of the door. The last screw drops to the floor with a soft ‘clunk’.

They turn the door on its side, the top of the door in one of the man’s hands, and the bottom in the other man’s. They steadily make their way down the narrow staircase. I open the front door for them, and they in turn nod me their thanks.

I watch as they make their way down the footpath, and chuck the old door into the back of their van before heavily slamming the door. They wave at me - and I wave back - before getting into their van, and driving off.

I say my silent good-bye.

I suppose what I’ll miss the most about Mum is her laugh, the crinkles by her eyes, her not perfectly straight teeth, the way she’d slam the table with her palm when something was particularly funny.

I close the front door gently.

Oh God. The silence in the house is deafening.

Harry Deacon

Liadh Blake

39

The Pursuit of Bananas It was an average Monday morning in the Jungle of Monkhattan. The sun shone brightly through the canopy of trees and the birds were happily chirping in the distance. There was a faint smell of wet leaves that wafted through the air, as it had just rained the night before.

On this average Monday, all the little monkeys of the jungle were jittering with excitement because school was about to start. The girl monkeys were dressed in nice plaid skirts, while the boys were looking smart with their ties and blazers, although, one monkey looked a little scruffy. That monkey was named Albert.

Albert was a short monkey with thin white fun and a messy ball of frizz around his head. He was quite skinny, with almost no muscle mass. Albert had big blue eyes and thick eyebrows that gave him a permanent thoughtful expression.

Albert never really fit in. No monkey really ever understood Albert. While all the other monkeys played outside, Albert stayed in school and read. You see, Albert was smart, really smart. In the jungle of Monkhattan, it doesn’t matter how well you did in school, all that mattered was how tough you were.

“Nice hair Albert!” yelled Troy. Troy was the jungle yard bully, every monkey was afraid of Troy. As Albert walked into school every monkey snickered and pointed at him. Why is this fair? Thought Albert. Why do monkeys make fun of me for being smart?

The bell rang and Albert, along with the rest of the class sat down for Math. “Welcome back monkeys!” said the teacher. “Now let’s start with something easy what is two bananas plus three bananas?”

The class went silent and every monkey looked around at each other, unsure of the answer. “Twelve bananas!” yelled Troy. The class erupted into laughter and Troy started to high-five all his friends in amusement.

“No Troy, it’s not twelve bananas.” said the teacher. “Does anyone know the answer? What about you, Albert?” The class went silent and every monkey turned to look at Albert. A nervous drop of sweat trickled down Albert’s forehead as the pressure settled down on him.

“Is the answer five bananas?” asked Albert.

“Yes Albert good job!” Here is a banana for getting the correct answer.” said the teacher. She threw Albert a nice ripe yellow banana and Albert went red as the whole class laughed at his knowledge. The giggles stopped when the bell rang and all the monkey boys and girls got up to go to their next class, history. Albert’s history teacher was Mr. Kong. He was the tallest monkey in the school and had deep brown eyes that would stare right through you. History was Albert’s favourite class.

“Settle down kids, we need to get to work.” said Mr. Kong. Every monkey took out their pencils and paper

and stared up at the board, waiting for instruction. “Today we will learn about the history of the banana.”

Albert began to take notes and wrote ‘bananas’ at the top of his paper in clumsy writing.

“The banana is a delicious yellow fruit protected by a thick skin.” began Mr. Kong. “It is our main source of food. In 1804 a great monkey named Gorilla Columbus discovered the banana in our great jungle of Monkhattan. He soon realized that it could be eaten and provide nourishment for us monkeys. The banana has been our main, and only source of food ever since.”

Albert put his pencil down. He found that lesson very intriguing, but a burning question popped up in his mind. What would happen if we run out of bananas? Albert nervously raised his hand. “Yes Albert, what is it?” asked Mr. Kong Albert cleared his throat. “What would we do if bananas were no longer available?”

Mr. Kong chuckled. “Oh Albert, don’t worry about that. It would never happen!” Albert relaxed a little, but his question remained unanswered. “Now.” said Mr. Kong. “Let’s turn on the TV to watch the news and examine current jungle affairs.”

Mr. Kong pressed the red button on the remote and every monkey’s eyes became glued to the screen. The voice of a news reporter interrupted the silence. “Breaking news, a rotten banana had been discovered on the east side of Monkhattan at eight AM this morning. More and more stories of rotten bananas are coming into the news station and it is becoming apparent that the banana crop has failed. At the moment we have no source of food and we are facing a massive crisis.”

“Hello student monkeys.” the voice of the principal echoed through the classroom. “You all probably know by now that our banana crop has failed. We monkeys as a society need to find out how to deal with this crisis. All students must return home until we figure out a solution to this jungle-threatening problem.

“What will we do without bananas?” asked Albert with a tone of despair.

“The only thing that will save us.” began Mr. Kong. “Is a new source of food. In this jungle that might be impossible to find. Now go home Albert, hopefully we will get through this.” Mr. Kong ushered Albert out the door. Albert couldn’t help but notice a single tear slide down Mr. Kong’s face. It was then that Albert realized that without bananas, the entire monkey population of Monkhattan may face starvation.

Albert began his walk home. He was in no hurry se he decided to take a more scenic route under the palm trees. The birds happily chirped, the sun was still shining, and a fresh layer of dew on the jungle floor made everything sparkle. The jungle was beautiful, but Albert knew it would all change if monkeys couldn’t find a new source of food.

Albert found a nice spot of shade under a palm tree and decided to lie down and think about what to do.

He closed his tired eyes and took three deep breaths. Clunk! A huge object landed on Albert’s head. Albert screamed out in pain as the whole world spun around him.

Once Albert regained consciousness he decided to try and find the massive object that had caused him such pain. About a meter to the left of his head he discovered what did it, a large brown coconut.

Albert had always noticed the coconuts hanging in the palm trees, but he had never seen one up close. The round, brown, hairy nut seemed kind of pointless. Monkeys had never discovered a use for the coconut.

Lead by curiosity, Albert walked over to the fallen coconut. Once Albert got closer, he realized that the force of impact with Albert’s skull had broken it open! Inside the coconut was a pale milky liquid and a hard white inner coating.

This is so strange! Thought Albert. Albert’s stomach let out a desperate grumble. Albert hadn’t eaten in hours, and with the banana crisis, he had no idea when his next meal would be. Albert cautiously brought the white matter through his dry, cracked lips.

Instantly, Albert felt refreshed. A sweet, and pleasing taste filled his mouth as he gobbled down the rest of the coconut meat. Wait a minute! He thought. I know how to solve the banana crisis, we can all eat coconuts! Filled with excitement, Albert grabbed a coconut and ran back to school to tell Mr. Kong his solution.

Albert’s monkey heart was racing as he burst through the doors of Mr. Kong’s classroom.

“Mr. Kong, Mr. Kong! Try this!” exclaimed Albert. He thrust the broken coconut into Mr. Kong’s hands. Mr. Kong’s eyes lit up with pleasure after he took a few cautious bites of the coconut.

“We can eat coconuts instead of bananas!” yelled Albert with glee.

“You’re right Albert! This is amazing! You have saved us monkeys from a famine!” said Mr. Kong. “I will call the president right away to tell him the good news!” Albert smiled proudly at the fact that his knowledge and quick thinking saved monkey lives.

So from that day on, coconuts became the new main source of food for the monkey population of Monkhattan. No one went hungry and the bananas were not missed thanks to the sweet, refreshing taste of the coconut, although, even coconuts can go rotten…

Emma Suits

41

Goodbyes and Confessions I will not apologise to you. Apologies are pathetic, desperate attempts to alter the past and clean the slate of a guilty mind. It is not that I am above apologies; it is that you are above forgiveness. This is no more than an explanation; an offering of understand…a goodbye. A confession.

It began when we were fifteen. When we would sit at the forgotten table of the canteen, with all the other faceless kids no one cared to talk to. We would eat our lunch in the silence of loners, watching with desire, with envy, the kids who had lives, the kids who diagnosed us with the misfortune of Social Syndrome. I wanted to sit with them, to make them laugh, to be watched by nameless losers like you, like me. So when I got my chance I took it with the greedy hands of a social climber. I do not apologise for that; this is not an account of regrets, but mere moral faults.

I still don’t know why they chose me – them, with their perfectly symmetrical facial features; confident, flirtatious mannerisms; flawless to the very marrow of their being. And me, with my mild acne; with my heavy-set eyebrows darkening the entire structure of my face; with my narrow shoulders almost as feminine as any girl’s. They were the kind of group that knew kids from beyond the confines of our school, the kind your parents would pin as the ‘wrong crowd’. The kind that featured not only in the local tabloid, but the broadsheet too, the subject to headlines like ‘Hell-raising Hooligans’ and ‘Rebellious Rascals’. They transformed me from the good, up-to-nothing boy mothers loved, you loved, into the up-to-no-good kid fathers protected their little girls from.

After school, we’d go behind the old science block, the one infested with rats mutilated by spilled chemicals and rotten lunches, and we’d smoke until we could practically feel the tumours in our lungs. And as they all took long, experienced drags, greying the air around us and fogging our vision, I would think of my mother and her angry condemnations of tobacco-lovers, of tobacco-junkies. I would think of her old, unattractive face bearing down on mine, and her account of the countless consequences I would endure if I smoked.

And with that, I would take a long drag, making sure the smoke contaminated every fraction of my insides.

At the weekends, we’d venture out into the town’s woods, the woods you and I used to fear, always afraid of the wild animals and perverts hiding behind its broad trees. We’d lie on the ground’s dead foliage, cracking open stolen beers and taking swigs from undiluted vodka. My vision would fog and gravity would be shed of all its laws, as twigs swam across my face and leaves tickled the soft of my neck. And as they all made hopeless fools of themselves, walking with exaggerated instability and speaking in pathetic, uncomprehensive slurs, I thought of you and all your good-girl principals. I thought of how we used to condemn under-age drinking with all its pointlessness and rebelliousness. I would think of your embarrassing innocence and pathetic pledge to your God, and I’d down an entire can, gulping in sequence with the encouraging claps and chants of my drunken companions.

And when one of the guys showed up with a gun I thought of you. It had been late on a Saturday night, far past my newly-allotted curfew, and we’d all gathered in that opening in the woods for a few drinks. I’d been thinking of you before he arrived. A girl, one of the less attractive ones, had thrown herself on me in drunken desire. I thought of you as she kissed my lips, my cheek, my neck. I thought of the first time we had kissed; how I had leaned in, in a moment’s boredom, and how your lips had parted to let me in and change things forever. As the girl pulled at the collar of my shirt, at the clutch of her bra, at the waistband of my tracksuit bottoms, I thought of how my cold hand had slid up the warmth of your top and how you had moaned dramatically to excited me further. I thought of you as the guy pulled his girlfriend off me and held the gun between my guilty, law-breaking, immoral eyes.

I didn’t think I would die – youth is always the best source of ignorance and denial. Yet, I did think of how I deserved to. I thought of how I’d left you. Left you sitting with those brain-dead kids who live their lives through dreams and fantasies; I thought of how I’d let myself become the product of adolescence, the thing all parents fear their child will become. I told him to shoot and I swear he would have done if the girl had not stepped in front of me.

He dropped the gun in a helpless state of young love, and foolishly I grabbed it. I think he hit her, I think he made her pretty face bleed, but all I remember is feeling the heavy weight of dangerous possibility in my hand. He must have hit her, because if he hadn’t hit her I wouldn’t have shot him, I wouldn’t have killed him, I wouldn’t have pulled that Goddamn trigger. He hurt her, please believe he hurt her…please believe I had reason.

I ran and I thought of how I’d become that teenage rebel the media will snatch up and feed on like ruthless animals. I thought of how I’d betrayed the law, betrayed my parents, betrayed your God, betrayed you. And as I held that Goddamn gun to the temple of my own head I thought of your God and prayed He’d forgive me, even though there is no such thing as forgiveness.

Celine Harding

Wings Once upon a fairy tale or it might have been a dream, I woke to find I’d sprouted wings of silver, blue and green, What if this was true and I could really fly?

I knew I had to test it out or at least I had to try, I stepped out into the crisp night air the cool breeze pierced my skin, My breath forming little clouds As I breathed first out than in, I spread my wings And took off into the night, The stars like diamonds in the sky As they shone their little light

Work every day. No matter what has happened the day or night before, get up and bite on the nail - Ernest Hemingway

I heard the tinkling of a wind chime The rustling of leaves, I closed my eyes and listened to the language of the trees, The beauty overwhelmed me And with the moonlight on my back, I flew and kept on flying And never stopped or looked back.

Sadhbh O’Mahony

43

Hands My grandmother had the most wonderful hands. The way her fingers curved and her palms were worn with age. They were coffee coloured, and stained with tiny freckles from the long hours she worked in the sun. Her finger tips were bleached beyond repair. The veins stuck out from her bony fingers, causing tiny little path ways all over the back of her hand, as if creating a map of her adventures. Her long talon like fingernails would dig into my skin when she held my hand when I was young. She had small white marks on her hands, little scratches and scars from long hard work. I would never dare ask grandmother about them, how they seemed to never go away. Grandmother hated it. But sometimes curiosity seems to take over and defeat logic.

“Grandmother,” I would say, as we sat in the chair by the big bay window in the parlour, “What are these marks from?” My voice would catch and I would trace the little white spots all along her hands, creating small little paths around her palms. She would look up and out the window. Her long silver knitting needles would stop and the yarn would hang loosely tickling my knee. For a moment I remember seeing the young version of her. The way her face smoothed out and her mouth wouldn’t frown as much. But then a dark chill would set across the room and she would turn to me, her eyes staring harshly at me.

“Chile’ if I tol’ you about these hands you would neva look at your grandmother again.” Her voice was defiant. The slang ringing in my ears, I could sense how she used to be. Angry and mean at times, how her harsh broken accent would scare even the biggest of men away. She would lean back in her chair again her needles working away. I would stare at her hands watching the knobby knuckles shake and stir in their sockets, and I would leave it alone. Hardly 5 years old and I understood enough to leave it alone.

Years passed, I was almost 14 once again I would sit on the little stool next to her, the big yellow room no longer feeling as large. The world outside seemed a bit smaller and easier to handle. She was older, pushing 80, her long knobby fingers no longer whittled away at her knitting as they had so many years before. Her long hands had been stricken with arthritis making every move painful. She would sit in her chair, creaking back and forth. The quilt that she had sewn together would cover her; she seemed to always be cold. Her coffee coloured skin was only a light greyish brown. She seemed older, as if through the years she withered away with the seasons. Her face grew long and wiser looking and her eyes sadder. My grandfather had passed, and with him so did her spirit.

Her hands were never as busy. She would sit and twiddle her fingers slightly, as if she couldn’t be still.

I would watch her try to caress my hand and I would see the pain cross over her face and again she would put down her hand and sit quietly again in her chair. I never pressed with questions years before but the more my grandmother withered away, the more I wanted to know about her “family”.

“Grandmother?” my voice sounded shallow and meek, as if I didn’t want her to hear me question her.

She rocked in her chair and slightly nodded her head in acknowledgment. I remembered the time years before when that sudden chill set across the room. I shook myself and continued, “Tell me about your hands.” My request was simple enough but the room grew stone cold.

Her eyes grew wide and she turned to look at me, “Chile’ if I tol’ you about these hands you would neva look at yer old grandmother again.” Her voice was defiant, but it faltered at the end. Her face softened for a moment, her eyes glazed over and the corners turned down in sadness. She turned to the picture on the mantel, I looked to. It was a picture of her and grandfather smiling and holding each other. She looked at me again and I knew what she was thinking. I had always been told I had the stunning looks of my grandfather, I was told that is why grandmother never looked at me. I had to look away from her sad eyes.

She lifted a shaking hand and touched my face lightly. I looked at her again and noticed the tears streaming down her face, “Chile’,” she started her voice and hand trembling, “I am not proud a what I done in my life. I am not a saint chile’,” “But no one is,” my voice trailed off as the whisper died off. She closed her eyes and I let her take a breath. She sat back in her chair again and wrapped the blanket closely around herself.

“When I was jus’ your age I started my work. At four thirty in the mornin’ I would get outta bed and go to my family’s home. I would get on the bus and sit in the back with all them other black girls and I would go on my way. And I wouldn’t be home until late after supper time.” And grandmother started her story.

Eve Cusack

The Bike It is dark, so very dark. I try to open my eyes, try to let in some light, but I can’t. I try to move my hands, my feet, my nose anything! But nothing happens. I am so frustrated, all I want to do is scream but, of course, my mouth won’t open. I give up, nothing I do can unfreeze my body. I am awake, that much I know, but my body is asleep. Instead I listen with my ears, the only things that appear to be working. I hear a steady blip, blip, blip and the sound of someone crying softly. What is that noise and who is crying? I try to think about where I am and how I got here. The last thing I remember is my eighth birthday party. All my friends were there and my parents wanted to bring me outside to me my present.

“Come on Cassie, you’re gonna love it” my mother said with glee as she led me outside. Then I saw a wonderful new shiny red bike. I remember gasping in joy as I hugged my parents before jumping onto the bike while my friends looked on in jealousy. The last thing remember is my father telling me to be careful as I rode away. No wait! Something else happened… I grasp for the thought in my brain before finally finding it.

I turned back to wave at everyone, to show them I could ride my new red bicycle one handed.

I remember hearing a loud horn and as I turned I saw the glint of sunlight on metal. There that is all I know.

But what happened to my shiny red bike? The crying has stopped and I feel pressure on my right hand, almost as if someone is holding it. Then I hear a voice, but it sounds as if it is travelling through water to get to me.

“Hi baby, it’s me mommy. Your dad is gone home to sleep a while. The doctors said…” at this her voice chokes up. She clears her throat. “The doctors said it would help to talk to you and I’ll try anything to get you back. Listen sweetheart, I need you to wake up. I need you to do this one little thing for me ok? Please wake up.” I want to tell her I am awake- mostly- but I can’t. I want to ask what happened to my shiny red bike, but I can’t. Mom starts crying again and I can feel her kiss my forehead. Some of her tears fall onto my head and I really want to wake up. I want to tell her not to cry, because I’m ok. I try to tell myself I am strong, strong enough to win but I feel powerless. I can’t fight this battle. I can’t win.

“I’m so sorry”. These are my thoughts as feel myself get tired. I hear the blip, blip, blip slowing down. I hear people running into the room. I hear my mom screaming and crying. But then it all starts to fade away into silence and all I can think is that I’m sorry. Suddenly it’s all bright again and there is so much light, too much. I think I have won. But wait, why isn’t mom here? Where are the doctors? What happened to my red bike? So many questions but no one to answer them.

Makayla Murphy

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45

The Jaguar

The Next Chapter My first day was terrifying; I didn’t want to go to school New faces, new rules and uncomfortable clothes Making new friends that would stick with you through all your highs and lows They come and go but the real ones stayed Being scared of so many things From the grey chair in the corner you’d have to sit on, for when you threw play-doh and the boy who smelled bad, To getting the dreaded purple slip, for talking out of turn.

Still being friends with the rest of K1 And making incredible new ones in second year.

Field trips, matron trips caused by playground trips.

Never once did you feel alone Fourteen years and here we are, Brain the in books but head in the clouds Wondering what will happen next Life is like a book, there are tragedies, love, bravery, fights and twists But most importantly there’s a new chapter, My first day was terrifying; I didn’t want to go to school My last day will be just as sad, As I won’t want to go home.

Molly Thompson-Tubridy

46

A sleek, black Jaguar waits in its garage. Its paint hasn’t seen a dusty road or even a drizzly day in its lifetime. Nor have its floor mats seen the muddy footprints of tired children or its passenger seat any sign of a companion. Despite this they’re hoovered every Sunday after the body is washed and every mirror dusted.

No amount of pleading on behalf of the creamy leather seats or the steering wheel’s sparkling silver emblem can make their owner drive this car.

It’s Tuesday morning and a cripplingly lonely forty-something year old man wakes up one minutes before his alarm clock asks him to, as usual. He eats his usual bran flakes-and-orange juice breakfast and pulls on his strikingly average navy suit. As he walks by his garage he feels mocked by his timid lifestyle. He swears he hears a snickering sound come from behind the thin wall that separates him from this luxurious mass of metal and leather. As he trudges to the train station he buys his usual newspaper then boards the seven sixteen, as per usual.

After taking his eleven o’clock coffee break, having successfully avoided small talk with his colleagues who are always sickeningly cheerful, he notices a little canary-coloured Post-it on his computer screen. Printed on which in neat, black block capitals are the words, ‘live a little’. Eyebrows knit themselves together in confusion. This man has no friends; surely nobody in this massive open-plan office has noticed the monotony of this one man’s life. But that was just it. He was that guy whose name no-one knew and whose desk was grey and totally lacking any photos of loved ones or even bobble head dogs. As his sad life smacks him in the face and wakes him up, a thrill stirs up in his stomach consisting of the twin emotions of titillation and trepidation. He scans his office to see if his benefactor is silently gauging his reaction. He lets his brain take the backseat and allows his legs to think for him, allowing them to take time out of his office before he can get his coat on.

It’s been eight years since he bought the car. Eight years since he’d planned to top all of the birthday presents her friends had bought her. Eight years since she didn’t show up to the big reveal. Eight years since whoever it was that wasn’t caught with a breathalyser got home in one piece while she was left in two, and her lover was left shattered into a million pieces like a broken windshield. For eight grey years the Jaguar sat in its garage mocking him. A car was all he had left of her and it was all it took to take her away from him.

Frantic steps approach the car. The grill and headlights form a grin as they light up for the first time since they left the shop. Tired of hiding behind lost love this driver has a lust for life. Suburbs stir as the rumble of the engine rips through. He can’t help but revel in the car’s luxury and compare its poise and elegance to hers. On reaching an empty, open road, he takes a note from the glove box. After reading the birthday card for one last time, he plants a kiss on the aged paper and lets the wind that rips by the open window pluck it from his fingertips. As the card flutters to the ground, miles grow between it and its writer. With its words facing up to the sky it reads: ‘If I could I’d take you to the moon and back. Hopefully with this we can pretend.

Sally O’Connor A Perfect Work of Fiction With heavy words and bated breath I sew a story before their eyes They gasp and applaud My work of fiction My tales of my bravery My lively lies But as time passes the stitches fall My audience begins to dwindled They turn their backs My desperate pleas My unravelling tales My lifeless lies Robyn Kilroy

47

Pixie Pluck There was a silver frost creeping across the ground, turning the slate grey concrete to precious metal, forming rare jewels of the dew clinging to the grass. Everything was cast in that odd blue light, only present under cloud cover before dawn. The city wasn’t silent. It stood tall and groaning, creaking under the weight of the towering skyscrapers. Chrome and glass dulled in darkness. There was a piercing screech. The old, rusted iron chains of a swing set began to move. If you were just anybody perhaps you’d ponder for a moment and conclude there must have been a gust of wind. But to those few who knew, we would have smiled and bowed in courtesy to the fey folk.

She was a tiny pixie with pricked ears and sharp teeth. Gnashing moonstones smiling slyly. Her dirty, charcoal hair was wrapped in plaits and messily bundled upon her head, clipped on with bones of small animals. Her sharp blue eyes glowed as she surveyed the area and snickered. “Come out, come out, wherever you are”. He breathed in slowly. This was not a job he wanted. She kicked her feet off the ground, propelling herself backwards and causing the chains to clatter again, before jumping off. Her palms glowed raspberry against her blanched white skin. Burns. No matter where you went in the city there was always steel, iron or some other alloy or poisonous metal. He could feel it seep into his heavy bones.

“Why so shy?” The pixie yelled, twirling faster and faster in circles. It sent her tattered dress spinning about her legs. He could see black vines weaving their way up. Probably the results of iron poisoning in the black magic in her veins. He’d watched her long enough. Stepping away from his shadowed corner, he entered the playground through a doorway in the chain-link fence. Avoiding the stinking metal. “Vanya of the Waterlands? Unaligned fairy, spurned by the Kelpie father?” It was intended to be a rhetorical question, or more an announcement really. Instead his voice quavered. The tiny sprite stopped suddenly and stared. “A troll?” she mused, skipping up to him and sniffing. “Trolls are solitary creatures… Don’t come out a lot? Too big to avoid the spiky fences and metal, you know?” She danced around him. He felt awkward, too big, towering over her with arms and legs that were too long for his frame. He scratched at his dry green skin. Almost the same shade as an emerald… had it been dropped in mud! His greasy, long hair managed to escape his bun and fall in his face. “You ain’t banished though. You don’t look sick enough. Ugly, sure, but not sick…

What do you want?” He gulped, she wasn’t prodding him anymore but she also appeared to be losing interest and he didn’t want her to leave. “I need your help”, he pleaded. “Ay, I got that. No one talks to scary old me unless they want something.” She rolled her eye. “But what do you WANT?” “My sister is ill.”

Trolls and goblins of the forest were considered some of the strongest fey but they did have some weaknesses. The diseases breeding in the trees liked to latch on to them and eat their flesh like rotting leaves.

“Hmmm, she’s pretty far along”, said the nasty little thing rubbing the young girl’s flaking skin. It had white spots that were cracking and spreading with the virus. “I am aware of that!” he snapped. “Hey, you want my aid or not?” she groused. He nodded silently, frowning. She glanced over to him. “Don’t worry. I done this before. It’ll all be ok.” She looked around the small room. It was bright and airy with the smell of natural medicines and oil. “Goody goodies, aren’t you? Followers of the light?” He nodded. “Can you do anything, though?” She flapped her hands impatiently at him, grabbing vials and lotions. “Of course. I’m a healer… of sorts. Your queenie wouldn’t help you? Ay, too far along, I’m guessing. Yiz need dark magic to fix this disease.” His voice caught in his dry throat and he choked out some form of affirmation. She sighed and picked her black claws. “I ain’t got all the herbs I need but she don’t got time for that. We’ll have ta use substitutes. Now pick her up and carry her to the river.”

The trail was dense with dark foliage and low-hanging vines. The ground beneath his feet was damp to the point of saturation, and uneven, covered in branches and rocks. He tripped and stumbled but held tight to his baby sister. She’d been unconscious a week now, her veins turning white and her hair falling out.

There’d be imps here soon to feed on her corpse. They broke through the dense forest and appeared at the edge of a murky lake. Its scummy turquoise water barely lapped the shore and stank of sewage and appeared stagnant. “You know, boyo, yiz’ll get in trouble? How do you think I was banished?” He nodded and placed the willowy girl down and the pixie got to work. She rubbed witch hazel and rock rose onto her skin. As she went, she began to chant. Her voice turned gravelly. It was almost as if there were four hoarse voices murmuring at once. He wasn’t sure of the language but from the sound he knew that this was no pure magic.

The shadows crept in, dragging themselves with ghostly fingers across the ground, gathering around the sick child’s body, caressing her skin and slowly consuming the blossoms of sickly ivory. The pixie laid her hands on the bared chest of her patient and began to sing faster, picking up the pace of her spell. A howling wind began to wind its way between the branches, bending the strong trunks towards them. From all directions, the wild storm began to focus towards the centre of the foul lake. Powerful rain began to beat down, smashing the still surface and the gale lashed up the broken water. Waves unendingly kissed the

48

shore, more and more desperate to reach the dying. Newly black eyes focused on the boy. “Take her to the water.”

Scooping her into his arms and marching in spite of the battling wind, he carried her to the centre of the pond. Icy water lashed at his face, pulling his sister’s body down into the depths and sapping all strength from his heavy limbs. This wasn’t right. No, it didn’t feel healing in any way. What was happening? He looked back desperately to the rocky banks and saw again those eyes, once so alive and blue, now dark holes, consuming all light.

“Silly boy, never trust a pixie. We’re tricky. Ha, ha. Oh and you thought I would save her? No, the only one I heal is myself. I need your souls to purify the iron in my blood.” The night calmed and a layer of ice crept over the lake freezing the rain-soaked ground. She skipped away, letting silence fall.

Rebecca Bermingham McGuire

Reading Deeper The old wrinkled man sat down in front of the fire, cracking his spine, and stretching his weary muscles.

The children squealed in delight, and clambered all over him, they never had strangers in their little village.

The town square was packed, in anticipation of the story. The man began his tale, and it went something like this: The young wise man sat down in front of the fire, cracking his spine, and stretching his weary muscles. The children squealed in delight, and clambered all over him, they never had strangers in their little village. The town square was packed, in anticipation of the story. The man began his tale, and it went something like this: The young wise man sat down on a stump in the middle of the cobblestone square, cracking his spine, and stretching his weary muscles. The children squealed in delight, and clambered all over him, they never had strangers in their little village. The town square was packed, in anticipation of the story. The man began his tale, and it went something like this: The young wise man sat down on a stump in the middle of the cobblestone square, cracking his spine, and stretching his eager muscles, the children squealed in delight, and clambered all over him, they never had strangers in their little village. The town square was packed, in anticipation of the story. The man began his tale, and it went something like this: The young wise man sat down on a stump in the middle of the cobblestone square, cracking his spine, and stretching his eager muscles, the children were lying silent on the ground, and dark shapes loomed over the visitor, they never had strangers in their little village. The town square was packed, in anticipation of the story. The man began his tale, and it went something like this: The young wise man sat down on a stump in the middle of the cobblestone square, cracking his spine, and stretching his eager muscles, the children were lying silent on the ground, and dark shapes loomed over the visitor, they never had strangers in their little village. The town square was packed with corpses, their first stranger they met, was their last. The man began his tale, and it went something like this: Sometimes you have to read a tale more than once, to see what’s really going on. And the darkness swallowed the old wise man.

Daniel Cosgrave

According to our Birthdays (A Found Poem)

Brian O’Driscoll

Turas

The shadows crept in, dragging themselves across the ground, They enveloped my skin and whirled in my stomach.

Is é an t- imreoir is fearr Níl aon agó faoi sin Ó! A fhir uaisle gan dabt!

Táimid ag dul ar turas Osclaímid an doras Agus téimid isteach ar an mbus Gan aon strus Sroichimid Gaoth Dobhair Tá sé an-fuair!

Ba mhaith liom mo hata Ar an drochuair tá sé sa bhaile Tosaím ag caoineadh Tá gach duine ag magadh Is fuath liom Gaoth Dobhair Nílim ag dul ar ais in aon chór!

The dead move on, Welcoming his completeness, It is with great pleasure that I welcome you – Apologies are pathetic desperate attempts to alter the past And clean the slate of a guilty mind . . .

I have learned to live with it.

I’d been thinking of you before he arrived, There was an unsettling feeling about him, the feeling he had a story to tell, The city wasn’t silent, If I could, I’d take you to the moon and back, Before you do that you need to accept yourself first I’m not sure why I had none of my own friends back then.

Youth is always the best source of ignorance.

TY creative writing class

Imríonn sé le Laighean Imríonn sé le hÉirinn Buann sé le Laighean Buann sé le hÉirinn Bhuaigh sé trí Chorn Heineken Bhuaigh sé dhá Chorn Sé Náisúin Is imreoir cáiliúil é Timpeall an domhain.

Is imreoir misniúil é Is imreoir cróga é Is laoch é Is ionspioráid é.

Aidan Hetherington

Tráthnóna dé hAoine Cúig nóiméad fágtha sa rang Fraincise Braitheann sé mar uair tráthnóna dé hAoine Tá an obair déanta Críochnaithe agus néata Ach tosóidh sé arís dé Luain…

Ag tnúth leis an spraoi sceitimíní i mo chroí Tá na dualgaisí imithe Le haghaidh an deireadh seachtaine Ach tosóidh sé arís dé Luain…

Berry Flanagan & Jennie Harris

Oscar Maltby

Back in the Days He was born in a time When they had no TV. When they had to carry turf to school to keep the fire going.

When the computer was but a glimmer in the mind of some madman.

He has felt things that would make you cry with joy or bring you to your knees.

The ecstasy of love And the pain of heartache.

She grew up in the days of war and revolution.

Of horrible atrocities and momentous victories; when people spoke up for what was right.

And listened to ‘real music.’

What you take for feebleness is strength.

Because they have lived life.

Look into their eyes.

Listen to their stories.

And remember when things were different.

Richard Neville

51

What Happened at the Beach It was the hottest day of the summer so far when they convinced it me would be a good idea. My friends goaded and taunted me until I finally agreed to go in there, to that small valley-like clearing behind the beach’s cliffs. I swore it wouldn’t be a good idea, that something would happen. But, of course, they didn’t listen. I’d heard weird stories about that place, how it seemed completely cut off from the world, even though the beach was only a five minute cycle down the country roads from the town in which I live. Occasionally, people would disappear and their bodies would turn up weeks later in that clearing. They were mainly tourists. The general assumption seemed to be that nobody would risk kidnapping a local. There were stories of strange people wandering around in the overgrown shrubbery there too, people no-one recognised or ever saw again.

Well, of course I agreed to go. Six against one is never good in an argument. I was all for staying on the beach and kicking a football but so far I have tried not to say “I told you so.” And so, the seven of us headed off in our flip flops and shorts, not great attire for walking through prickly, sandy marram grass. The trek up the side of the cliff was tough, and in the thirty degree heat a gleam of sweat dotted my brow. The sudden row of trees and thorny bushes greeted us like a wall. Once beneath the overgrowth the heat was stifling.

The cool sea breeze could not penetrate the thick foliage which made walking at any brisk pace nearly impossible. With perspiration dripping off us we struggled onwards, eventually reaching the infamous clearing. We stood together in silence at the outer edge, none of us wanting to step first. I thought I could hear something, the rustling of leaves perhaps, but when I looked up not a single branch was stirring in the wind.

Unable to stand it any longer I walked into the clearing. An unnatural, unexpected chill fell upon the place.

This was as hot a day as any of us could remember yet standing here under the blue sky in my t-shirt and shorts I was shivering.

I had the feeling that we were not alone. I felt like we were being watched, as if there was someone else there with us. There were people speaking as well, I’m sure of it. It sounded as if a young girl in the distance was calling to her family, replying to an inaudible voice only she could hear. I could see on the faces of my friends that I wasn’t alone in hearing this. They looked scared. Even the ones that had been pushing for us to come here now looked sheepish. There came a noise from the other side of the clearing, a sort of rasping gasp as if we had startled someone. The six of us looked at each other. And then someone started laughing from behind the shadows. It wasn’t the classic cackle you hear in movies, it was as if they were mocking us, guffawing at our own stupidity. After all the stories I had heard about this place I didn’t want to stay any longer. Heart thumping in my throat, forgetting my friends, I turned and ran as fast as I could.

Hugh Mitchell

To be able to talk to your heart’s content about a book you like with someone who feels the same way about it is one of the greatest joys that life can offer - Haruki Murakami

52

Journey to the Perfect Sandwich Lunchtime, the never-ending battle of taste buds versus the desire to be healthy. Throughout adolescence, I have found the battle has become more uphill than in previous years; the pang of hunger settles into my stomach a few short hours after every meal, whilst the Dairy Milks and Nestlé Snacks stare at me through the corner shop window on my walk home from school each day. As they stare at me, the change jingling in my pocket seems more noticeable and sounds louder than ever. I am proud to say that willpower usually overcomes my sweet tooth’s longing to satisfy its craving, but after a long day (usually one including double maths in the morning), I have, on occasion, succumbed to my sugar-filled desire.

My usual unsung heroes of this war (Marks and Spencer’s selection of salads, €5.95 each) have deserted me; it is a Sunday. Their weekly betrayal disgusts me, but I will see them again tomorrow. For now, the only soldiers left standing are what remains of last Sunday’s weekly shop: bread, butter, bacon, mayonnaise, cheese, leftovers from last night’s dinner, some fruit and vegetables. I stare at the devastatingly low food supply, begging the gods themselves for a recipe to come to mind. Nothing.

Before I go on, I can guess that you, the reader of this story, is pondering on the obvious: why aren’t I chewing away at last night’s leftovers?

That, dear reader, is a good question, and one I can answer quite clearly. You see, last night’s dinner was made by my dear aunt Irna, God bless her soul. Larger-than-life and aged fifty-five, the poor woman is losing her eyesight, fast, to a condition I can neither pronounce nor spell. Wanting to see us properly for the last time (although it was clear that this was no longer a possibility when she happily handed my eighteenyear-old brother a sparkling navy makeup bag), my forever favourite aunt insisting on coming over and cooking dinner, unfortunately, the curry and cocoa powder looked quite similar in both size and colour.

Luckily, she wasn’t able to see us holding our noses as we swallowed.

So, as you can see, leftovers are not an option.

But then, I see it: the perfect sandwich. All four ingredients jump out at me at once.

Bread, bacon, lettuce and... Mayonnaise! Yes! Atheism had been tempting me recently but I was now sure that there is a God. I jump for joy, punching the air as I do so, and set the ingredients on the counter. Now for the hard part.

I open the packet of bacon. No smell greets my nose. Only the sense of sight is triggered as the pale pink colour of raw meat stares up at me. Quite an unappetising sight now, but soon, that will all change.

I place the bacon on the frying pan, hearing the sizzles of frying fat a few minutes later. Next, the lettuce. A day before its Best By date and still as green as grass. Thank God for preservatives. I chop slowly, whistling to the beat of the knife hitting the chopping bored. I chop the last A sharp pain strikes my index finger like lightening. Blood slowly exits the wound, creeping like snail down my hand. I wash it, quickly put a plaster in and continue, determined not to let my injury dampen my spirits.

Once the bacon is done, I place it on a plate. I toast the bread, making sure to place the dial on the number two - this results in the toast darkening to a light golden colour, with a lightly toasted texture, yet in no way burnt.

Next, the mayonnaise. I scoop it out of the gas jar, spreading it evenly on each of the pieces of toast. The mayonnaise begins to melt upon encounter. I place the bacon and lettuce on one slice of toast and cover them with the other, officially deeming my hard work a sandwich. I pour myself some milk and bring both sandwich and drink to the kitchen table.

The perfect sandwich. As I sit down, I know the difficult journey is over, and most definitely worth it.

Kate Malone

53

Double Six You would if you could preach Republicanism to the gamblers and their dice but what would they say but “join us”? and what could you do but Agree? but faced with the blue eyes of Phoebus, an angel his Aryan locks just kept under control bound together, the waves of blonde his derision disdain the curled upper lip of Achilles, contempt weaving lines on his brow so offer to take up his mantle, his armour, take all but his spear his passion, his cause, is too weighty a burden take instead all you have, all you’ve learned watch the derision, disdain and contempt watch it fade in his eyes - as his worries return “but you don’t believe in anything” Achilles, how little you know, why I’ve fought, why I fight as he watches with worry a glimmer of hope until you tell him what you’re fighting for not Patria, your master’s mistress, so lightly throwing lives of men upon a fiery furnace, a fickle she who cares not for the faith of man but rather, their abundance “I believe in you” some take it as banter, dismiss it as nonsense a drunken babbling, caused by numbing of the wits but he lets you, permits it - how prophetic!

Art Contributors Jinhyung Kim (cover) Marsha Moore Alayne Snover Haruki Honda Mark Cavanagh Megan O’Kane Stefan Murray Linda Horn Katie Spiers Mhairi Nicoll Anya Paine Annie Laing Amy Johnston Katie O’Brien Rachel Moore Molly Parsons Walter Wood

So you preach to the gamblers of Patria’s beauty and what do they say but “join us”? and what can you do but Agree?

Molly O’Gorman

54

55

St Andrew’s College Blackrock Dublin