St. Gerard's Senior School Literary Magazine 2020

Literary Magazine Team

Introduction Mr. Eamonn Carr

"Adversity has the effect of eliciting talent,which in prosperous circumstances would have lain dormant" Horace

It is a strange feeling sitting down to write this introduction.Normally it is a task at the end of the school year,as exams are fast approaching and the days are longer,brighter and warmer.This year as I write the evenings are shorter and the weather is definitely colder!

When we left the school so hurriedly last March we had little idea of what lay ahead.

The literary magazine was just one of the many,many school publications and activities that had to take a backseat. We had several articles already submitted but no magazine to showcase them. It seemed a shame for the students involved to miss out. What if one of our future Booker prize winners had no piece ever published in our school literary magazine?

In 2019 three TY students had joined the 5 th Years in producing the 2019 magazine.

The three students, Emilia Connolly, Emily Barrett and RĂłisĂ­n Farrell are now in 6 th Year and expressed an interest in producing a magazine this autumn instead.Of course things are very different in our daily school life,with masks and temperature checks but the enthusiasm and drive of these three students is certainly the same.The format of the magazine may not be the same this year but if an online publication is the safest option so be it we thought.

Literary Magazine 2020

We put together a team of interested 5 th Year students(Amelia Dolan,Hannah Carney, Jennifer Swan, Laoise Kiernan, Larina Yu, Lidia Vicente, Marcus Pippet, Matthew Harbourne, Matthew Thornton and Murray Sheehan) to help collate and edit the selected pieces. Our next step was to recruit two talented artists in Mia Cahill and Isabelle MacNeaney to produce our by now illustrious cover. Of course this anthology would not be possible without all the wonderful and eclectic submissions from our contributors.

So we all hope you enjoy this slightly delayed and different publication.A huge thanks to all the team involved and to Mr.Geraghty for his unwavering encouragement of the magazine. I look forward to writing the introduction to our next magazine on a balmy summer evening next May.

"We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope" Martin Luther King Jnr.

01

The Island

George Daniel

About 5km outside of a little village called Enniskerry there is a river that runs down through the stunning landscape, set in the rolling Wicklow mountains. On this meandering river there is an island. The island is minuscule yet bursting with life. Surrounded by water you have to walk on almost fairytale-like stepping stones to reach it. The luscious grass embedded with patches of wild flowers stems out over the boundaries of the land and dips into the surrounding moat which protects this little kingdom. Upon this island there lies a terrifically tenacious tree which sits as the gem of this esoteric peninsula. It is so old it has become one with the earth, with the main trunk buried deep under the soil - but each section pushes out of the ground in different directions with soft dry moss all over, placed in just the right spots for someone to lie on. Its branches, like the bed of grass it lies on, bows over the edge and it's leaves brisk the water only when the gentle breeze pushes them. The slippery stones that surround this serene sanctuary are permanently fighting against the constant flow of the stream as it passes on by, in a tranquil yet forceful way as it carries leafs and twigs through the maze of shallow rocks. The bank that marks the other side of the river has a white froth along it with an abundance of excess shrubbery, which had found its way into the never ending flow and got caught on the jagged rocks along the way destined to rot away indubitably.

By the Sea

s

Is

en w O e l l abe

The path down to the cove was sheltered, steep, and slippery. It was bordered by dark, jagged boulders.

The waves whipped the rocky coastline. Each wave brought with it the seaweed that had lost its struggle to stay rooted to the seabed. Some of the coral sand collected in the crevices of the open rockfaces. With each wave the coral sand was eroded from the large complicated nests to small, round pieces of coloured gravel. The odd translucent jellyfish was found among the seaweed, its tentacles a pale purple colour. There were carcasses of crabs and other small crustaceans littered across the shore, their bodies had been tossed aside by the greedy seagulls. The smells of the ocean brought a peacefulness to the beach.

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St. Gerard’s Senior School

The F inish Line

Run, run, run My heart is pounding The gun shot is sounding Off I go, into the unknown.

I feel elbows stabbing me as sharp as knives My body suffers the touch of the icy cold rain My lungs are telling me to stop, I cannot catch my breath Why do I put myself through this torture and pain?

Cheers of encouragement ring in my ears I push on while salty sweat drips down my back I slip and slide in the mud puddles Wishing I could go back to the summer days, running on the red and white track The girl in front of me stumbles and slides as if she is running on ice making me determined not to stop and give up The finish line is in my sight The adrenaline kicks in, will my name be on that cup?

Only that feeling of knowing I can be the best, if I push my limits Makes me cross the finish line I live for the feeling of achievement of that gold cup being mine When I complete the race, and handed the glistening golden cup with my name I have the confidence that I will be able to fight whatever life throws my way

dan

Louise O'Rior

Literary Magazine 2020

03

War-Diar y Entr y

Alannah Reboul Geraghty

August 7th 1914 Today was the day I enlisted for the army. I am excited but also terrified for what is to come in the future. I suppose I should be proud to help my country, after all, they did tell us that this would be a good thing. I will have to go through a lot of training just to get the basics, like how to hold a gun etc. I am kind of excited because I’ve never held a gun before, either way I am one of the weakest here. I hope I can survive.

John September 6th 1914 After only being trained for a month I am already sent out to fight, this must mean I am a good soldier, right? Over the past month I have got a lot stronger than I was before.

Either way I am fighting in the eastern outskirts of Paris, I am absolutely terrified, my hands are shaking and my palms are sweating like mad. I just hope I come out alive.

John September 9th 1914 I am currently in the trenches, it has been raining for the past few days. The worst part is seeing the soldier’s feet being blackened by trench foot, it absolutely reeks of rotting and the odor is enough to make you feel like you’re dead along with the fallen soldiers.

The endless amount of flies buzzing in my ear is irritating beyond belief. The way the soldiers are working so hard in the rain is honestly very admirable. These men are injured and still work just as hard as if they weren’t.

I hate this battle so much! Innocent people are dying and it’s just not right! I hope this will end soon.

John September 10th 1914 I can’t believe that we have just won a battle. I am also so happy that I came out alive.

I am elated that we won but it was horrible seeing all those men from just age 14 die in such a way. Those poor men didn’t get to die in honor, they died while rotting in the muddy terrain of a battlefield. These men have family or wives waiting for them to come home, not waiting only to get a telegraph saying that they are dead. As I walked around the trenches, I saw dead soldiers wilted like flowers, limp and lifeless with the colour seeping out to be replaced with the ashen pale of death. The images of soldiers dying will never leave my head, as much as I want them to. These have been the worst few

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St. Gerard’s Senior School

days of my life. I was shot in the leg, the pain was excruciating but it was much better than what happened to the others at the trenches. I hope I can come out of this war alive, just thinking about death makes me feel icy cold.

John October 19th 1914 I am on a boat to Belgium to fight on the western front around Ypres. I feel different this time, and it’s not the icy water being sprayed on me from the sea, I feel like I might not come out alive this time, I mean there’s only so much a sixteen year old can do. My friend James is trying to calm me down by telling me that I will make it out and I will see my mother and sister. My hands continue to sweat while praying that James is right and that we will all be alright.

John

The 24th

Sean Treacy

You could cut the tension with a knife as the stoic men in green were suddenly indifferent to the tens of thousands surrounding them. Each and every one of them on their feet with support bellowing from the passionate abodes deep within. Despite their indifference, it was feeding their drive and it was the push they required to defend what was coming their way. For eighty minutes, this support was sufficient, no more did the Herculean gladiators need to protect their line, significantly located on their own home turf. But now, a different story was being told. The pendulum had swung, and out of the blue like tears on Christmas came a resurgence from the enemy. Their dominating figures of muscle and sweat, mixed with the threatening sounds of shrieks along their fronting line of attack, had become possessed by their muse, willing to die to impress. The void-black fabric of their armour captured precisely the threat they can pose, even when in the shadows. Their pace, power and precision united as the shamrock ants retreated. A drip of dread found its way into the supporters’ souls as their chests tightened. Shorter the gap between the heroes and their grail became, the intruders determined to rise to the occasion.

Backwards and downwards the defenders fell, the sky’s tones even feeling blue. Hope had been lost, a grasp at the history back in hell. The All Blacks crossed the line, the Irish luck in the well.

Literary Magazine 2020

05

The R ole of Music in War Today I am going to talk about the role of music during World War Two. Music played a major role in World War Two as it was the first war that took place in a time where digital music could be mass distributed. This enabled governments to influence and censor the public during the war. In this speech I want to explore whether music was used for good during the war, or if it was tainted by the atrocities surrounding it.

Music was used to rally support for war efforts. Songs like ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ and ‘Stalin wasn’t Stallin’, were used to calm the general public at home. They helped people cope with the psychological effects of war. A book called ‘Sounds of War: Music in the United States of America during World War Two’ describes it well saying that “the music composed in the 1940s was different to any other type of music because it focused on making the listener feel like they were part of the war”. This music normally had quite a jaunty tone and an uplifting message. This type of music is still played today with famous songs such as `We'll Meet Again’ still being played all over the world. The continued popularity of these songs are vital to the prevention of another World War, as they are everyday reminders of the horror and loss war brings. With both World Wars soon to be out of living memory, and the political turbulence we are seeing on a worldwide scale, it's more important now than ever before to look back on the devastation caused by a breakdown of democracy.

These songs rallied young boys to join the war. While this was good for the war effort, a lot of people nowadays would question whether it was morally correct. Most of these songs were putting a very patriotic spin on fighting in the war and you could say that these songs were used as propaganda. This wasn’t the first time songs were used to influence people to enlist. During World War One a song titled “I Didn’t Raise my Son to be a Slacker” was popularized by the army, it encouraged all “boys and men to play a manly part in the nation’s plan”. I don’t believe that this use of music was right as people were being manipulated and shamed into joining the army and fighting against their will. We see that all art forms have been used as a form of propaganda during periods of fighting to glorify war and spread the idea that dying for your country is in some way honourable and heroic.

Music wasn’t just used as a way to endure the war, it also helped end it. Music was used as a form of cultural diplomacy by the American President to promote his “good neighbour policy” and “pan-Americanism ideology”. The United States government encouraged its citizens to listen to other countries' composers and also organized the mutual exchange of music to be played on the radio with some neutral countries.

This led to the creation of the Office of the Coordinator of Inter-American Affairs, who organised joint concerts involving musicians and composers from both the North and South America and even created a radio show called “Viva América”.

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St. Gerard’s Senior School

irke

an Qu g e n n i F y l l A

In America, music was used as a tool of inclusion, it was used to encourage cultural diversity and acceptance. However this wasn’t the case in Germany. Hitler was a big fan of propaganda and he liked to control the media to influence the country’s opinions. He disliked Jazz and American popular music, and so banned it. He decided to focus on reviving old German and Austrian folk music and he encouraged musicians to compose new music. Hitler passed a law called Reichsmusikkammer which excluded all Jewish musicians but also prohibited “jazz” or “swing” music. This led to many Jazz musicians and composers such as Igor Stravinsky, Paul Hindemith, and Arnold Schoenberg fleeing the country. Many jazz musicians and fans were placed in prison and some were even sent to concentration camps.

Auschwitz was the deadliest concentration camp. Between 1940 and 1945 1.3 million people were sent there and only 200,000 people survived. There was a camp orchestra set up by one of the camps commanders when a famous violinist called Alma Rosé was sent to the camp. The orchestra played at various events, during new arrivals and when the other prisoners were walking to and from work. These musicians had much better living conditions and as a result a longer life expectancy in the camp. People disagree on whether this orchestra was a good or a bad thing. A famous account written by Primo Levy who was an Italian Jewish chemist who had survived Auschwitz describes the music as “ the voice of the lager, the perceptible expression of its geometrical madness”. He is talking about how he believes that the music was a form of torture used to break the spirit and disorientate people in concentration camps. It’s definitely plausible that this was the idea behind music as this form of torture is so effective and well-known that it is still being used today in Guantanamo Bay detention camp off the coast of America.

Although it was viewed by some as evil, it was enjoyed by many people and it was said that it was “the one minute a day where you could close your eyes and imagine that you were somewhere else”. Anita Lasker-Wallfisch was one of the two professional instrumentalists in the orchestra. When asked how she could continue to play the cello after Auschwitz she said “music is untouchable, the Nazis destroyed so much but music is indestructible”. This really shows us how music transcends all hatred, even though the Nazis hated all Jewish people, thought of them as subhuman and wanted to stamp out their culture and heritage they couldn’t bring themselves to destroy their music.

I believe that music played a vital role in the war. Tyrannical leaders will always be scared of things they can’t control and no one can curb the emotive power of music. Music is one of the few ways in nature that you can clearly communicate your feelings without talking, this is why a dictator would view it as dangerous. It is unique because it amplifies emotions, it enables enemies to band together by giving them common ground and it’s for this reason that it really matters whether you think that music was used to torture people and stamp out their spirit or was used to give them hope in a time full of despair, there is no denying that music in one of the most influential forces on earth.

Literary Magazine 2020

07

The Great Wall

The miniature yellow jackets lay huddled together on the deck of a helpless trawler, gazing up at tormented skies. The miniature yellow jackets with stone faces peer expressionless a thousand yards into the angry abyss above. A whirlpool accelerates the vessel in a thousand directions while weathered faces remain transfixed on flashing daggers of bright white. Jeering and rocking violently in the black bath, fraying ropes snap spectacularly, occasionally interrupted by the shrapnel of single pane glass. The yellow cone of light from the ship’s singular search light cuts through heavy blankets of spray while spinning frantically - directionless in confused gyration.

These miniature yellow jackets of young and old, now trapped in a lace of net and webbing, are soon to be one with their wooden coffin. In the howl of the beating black bath another swell grows and grows. One last breath from each miniature yellow jacket exits hastily and heavily - a desperate sigh from uneasy lungs choking on the realisation of fate encroaching. The swell of a million whipping white horses brews on the surface of the ever growing curtain while nature’s press bends and bows a strained hull.

A brief lull elapses for the miniature yellow jackets and in tandem they show relief, Like little fish finding solace in a sheltered, warm reef, The Great Wall rises now to show its strengths, crashing through the skeleton.

Their mothers and sisters know not of The Great Wall from cottages on the shores.

Each miniature yellow jacket soul seeing thousands of closing doors - pitch black, The vortex pulls with the might of aqua hell.

The wooden coffin’s last nail is struck with the force of an exploding shell.

Matthew Thornton

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St. Gerard’s Senior School

Why is Shakespeare Nich olas Pochinkov Still R elevant Today?

SIXTH Yea r

Alex Barcoe

Shakespeare and I. We’re not the best of friends. I mean, I had heard his name mentioned over the years but that was about it. Roll on to 2nd year in school and boy did I get a fright! You can call it “The Merchant of Venice” if you please but to me, it’s nothing more than a horror story. As Shakespeare first said in “Julius Caesar”, “It’s Greek to me”. Come on, the guy died in 1616, over 400 years later and we’re still talking about him. I guess he must be either really good or we must be short of good material.

Now, it’s time to break the ice. William Shakespeare was born in March 1564 in Stratford-upon- Avon and is widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's greatest dramatist.

He wrote 39 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems and a few other bits and pieces. He married Anne Hathaway and had three children. He was only 52 when he died of a fever. He really packed a lot into a short life.

How is his work still so relevant today?

To understand “The Merchant of Venice”, I suppose I need to understand the language.

Is that really how people spoke in Elizabethan times? Could it be in Shakespeare’s own words “Is this a wild goose chase?” Or will it all make sense before I have to sit my Junior Cert?

In a nutshell, why is Shakespeare still so relevant today?

Well, Do families fight?

Do people fall in love?

Do politicians scheme?

Do money lenders ask for a pound of flesh?

Do witches gather around their cauldrons?

Yes, maybe that last one may be stretching it a little bit, but my point is that although written hundreds of years ago, Shakespeare’s works are still very relevant and universal.

With a wave of his quill, Shakespeare could bring his characters to life in a way that has amused people long before I was born and will do so long after I am gone.

Have you ever been “in a pickle” or waited with “bated breath” or even used a “knock knock” joke? Then you would be quoting “The Tempest”, “The Merchant of Venice” and “Macbeth” respectively. Have any of you ever been “bedazzled?” That word was first noted in “The Taming of The Shrew”. We are surrounded by Shakespeare’s genius in our everyday life and we don’t even realise it. Even if you have never read one of Shakespeare’s sonnets or watched one of his plays, you are likely to have quoted him unknowingly.

Now that’s “bedazzling!

Literary Magazine 2020

09

My Grandmother’s Garden

My grandmother’s garden was a truly exceptional scene; it was positioned only a few short miles from the nearest town, Korkino.

Maybe it was the pond, which placidly sat across from the wooden door of the aged house, or maybe it was the vibrant green and red of the raspberry bushes that surrounded the house, that overwhelmed anyone lucky enough to enter the garden.

The extensive green house stood shyly beside the pond, with a tall grass wall confidently blocking the two. Occasionally, I could hear a pop or a rattle from the otherwise peaceful pond, and it would immediately fill my heart with a sense of purpose; to catch the noisy creature, wherever it may be. I’d sit on the muddy edge of the pond, and wave a net in the translucent waters for hours upon end.

If I’m to be honest, the garden was quite small compared to all the neighbors, but it was heaven to me.

The vegetable garden lay over a sleek yet slightly battered half of the garden. The sinking soil cushioned my feet whenever I walked barefoot in the dirt, and the aroma of the fresh fruits and vegetables brought me great joy whenever I inhaled it, but that barely compared to the way my face illuminated once I tasted the ripened fruit.

It was the raw sweetness and the sugar of the natural juice that truly made me remember the garden as the tastiest, most utopic garden.

I would pick enough of the wine coloured raspberries to make a whole pie.

The pie, fresh out of the oven, tasted better than any of my favourite sweets and treats.

The warm, crumbly crust combined with the mushy raspberries in your mouth to create a sweet, crumbly, crispy, but at the same time it became a soft mixture on the tongue.

The vegetable garden took up most of the remaining space beside the frail greenhouse, yet I always wished it could take up more land, so it’s joyous effect could grow.

To the other side of the pond stood a large, boxy, metal crate that acted as a garage.

Though unused, It was one of the most intriguing elements of the garden. I had always wondered why, in a beautiful garden like this, stood a red-grey crate, that wasn’t one bit attractive. They say the ugly things in life make the pretty things so much prettier, and in this case, this was true. The fact that it was as rusty as an old nail made the other colours in the garden stand out with more contrast, more vibrancy. It enhanced the garden’s beauty. Making the garden my favourite place on the planet.

Anna Reynolds 10

St. Gerard’s Senior School

The Soldier

Aoi Nich olas Pochinkov -N S fe í CIXhTuH Year in

While I was in the training camp, the general told us that killing a man for your country was the most honorable thing a soldier could do. He said that we were saving our great nation, protecting our people and stopping these monsters of men from destroying everything we hold dear.

Before the battle, he said that the feeling of shooting a man was one of pride and of glory. If these people sought to ruin our very way of life, how could they deserve the grief and remorse our noble troops did?

I am beginning to think that our valiant general has never shot someone.

I killed my first man today, and it was not a proud or honorable moment or anything else the generals and the recruiters and the newspapers have ever said it would be. This man was running desperately to a crater as if it was all he could do, this boy was not a heartless soldier who slaughtered with guiltless glee, the monster we had learnt to hate. He was just a boy, the same as any of us, hoping to find honour and glory, dreaming of being hailed as a hero in a home he would never return to.

When I shot him down he did not die a hero’s death, he did not die valiantly or bravely protecting his nation instead he died pointlessly, fearfully with jagged screams louder than any gunfire or shells I have ever heard. Somehow, despite what they said, what they kept saying, I do not feel like any more of a hero than he was.

The trenches couldn’t have been more than 50 yards apart, and so it wasn’t a distant grey figure who fell, as I had seen before. It was a man, even younger than me, with brown hair and muddy boots, and an engagement ring I noticed as we finally advanced past his rotting body, a promise forever unfulfilled. He had a life once, before he went to war and forfeited that right.

He probably has a mother praying for his safe return, a fiance who wept when he left and will weep again when he doesn't return. I don’t know what will happen to his corpse now that it's behind our lines. It’ll probably be thrown on a wagon with the rest, buried with his enemies in a mass grave and remembered with nothing but a plank of wood sticking up from the mound, just another unremarkable casualty amongst a thousand others. That’s all he amounted to. For all he gave up, for all that fear and pain and loss, his reward is to become another nameless death.

And what about me? Is the death of one man in an army thousands worth everything I have gone through? Is the death of one ‘evil’ man worth putting another through gunfire,shells,gas, through rats, blood, death and unceasing fear? I can still hear him scream, can see his lifeless eyes already being eaten by maggots, can feel the cold weight of a dead hand and the metal upon it. Every night I can smell blood I’m sure I was too far away to notice, and the ring on my finger becomes heavier and heavier every day.

Literary Magazine 2020

11

15/10/1948

Elysia O’Leary

11:15pm I was shot less than 30 minutes ago in the chest.

My wound feels like a hot stingy pain, but we currently don’t have any medical equipment with us. I am bleeding a lot and am starting to feel light headed but there is currently nothing I can do about it. If I stand up, I cannot help but fall back down and lose consciousness. My brain feels fuzzy and sore, which is a problem because I have been told I have to keep walking if I have any hope of making it back to the base in time.

We shot a turkey in the woods because we ran out of food. Now, the turkey’s skin starts to crisp and blister on the crackling fire that is placed two feet in front of my feet. It reminded me of the smell of rotten burning bodies on the front line, making me want to gag every second I had to breath in that horrid smell. It smells like that time back in the butcher, when that pork went rotten and we burned it out back. Now I can’t stop thinking about home.

Great!

11:52pm We stopped to take a short break but I cannot move my legs. On that note, I can barely move any of my muscles and I’m even finding it difficult to do things as simple as writing or staying awake.

My eyes start to droop uncontrollably and my fingers occasionally begin to fail and I feel too tired to even attempt to pick them back up again.

12:00am Because I can’t walk, the other remaining soldiers left me behind. They promised me they would come back for me with help, but I find that unlikely. I think I’m hallucinating and I keep forgetting where I am. In my hallucinations, I see all my friends that I witnessed die. Especially Charlie, my best friend. Reminding me of his gruesome death and how I carelessly tossed his body on top of a heap of bodies. I see his disfigured face from the explosion, covered in sores and blisters. His face is half burned off and covered in thick red blood. And the smell of rotting bodies all around me.

1:22am My hallucinations are only getting worse, haunting and terrorising me every second. I cannot tell what is real or not, now I cannot move anything but my hands mainly because I am inexplicably tired. I’m also freezing cold even though there is still a fire very near me. All I know is that I miss my kids and wife, and just want to see them one more time.

Most of all want to sit on my cozy couch and watch my wife play with my three year old daughter and five-year old son in front of the warmth of the fireplace and the paper in my hand. But unfortunately, I fear that this will be my last diary entry.

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St. Gerard’s Senior School

Tree Stripped of Leaves Four years ago today, I saw the tree.

Standing alone on top of the hill I had just climbed.

No plant or weed could grow near it A king on a throne waiting for me there.

Its branches reaching out and curling towards the sun, Daring its rays to stain the bark it seemed to carry with such pride.

I remember standing below the tree Staring up at its white, bleached wood And I remember hugging it close and wishing for anything, Anything at all.

Now, the tree, My tree, has changed.

The branches once carved from ivory and brilliant light Are small and thin and hollow.

The king that once stood upon the hill so brave Cowers in front of the leaves, his crown, that has fallen at his feet.

The feet I once thought so strong and safe now rotted beneath the earth.

I wonder if anything remains inside the tree at all, A lifeless body or a dull star, And I wonder if I hug it close and wish that anything will change, Anything at all.

Murray Sheehan

Literary Magazine 2020

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November 2019 -March 2020

November 2019 -March 2020

E IN Z A G A M E Y R A R IB L p The Creative Writing worksho with Irish author Julia Kelly.

LIBRARY E-M p The Creative Writing worksho lia Kelly. with Irish author Ju Some of our magazine selection available for perusal! st pupil A huge congratulations to pa Caelainn Hogan on her book release!

'Republic of Shame', and its

Think before you speak. Read before you think- Fran Lebowitz

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Think before you speak. Read before you think- Fran Lebowitz

St. Gerard’s Senior School

The Library would lik e to say a huge thanks to Pippet fam ily for the donation of a signed copy of Samantha Power's bo ok 'The Education of an Idea list'.

Denise Deegan's Cre

ative Writing Semin ar in December

The First of our In H

ouse Chess Tournaments!

Literary Magazine 2020

The last of our creati ve writing workshops prior to lo ckdown Our First Years with Debbie Thomas!

15

The Fifth Ben

Aisling Lyons

“You should have seen me at the gym last night,” said Buff Ben. “Why, did your ego inflate even more?” replied Gangly Ben. “Ben, please stop bragging about the gym,” said Delicate Ben. “And Ben, please stop replying to Ben’s comments about the gym. They only encourage him.” Delicate Ben looked as if he was about to gently cry.

Buff Ben rolled his eyes at the other two Bens and carried on, “But seriously guys, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone who can lift as many weights as I can.”

Gangly Ben threw a rugby ball at him. Pillows were soon flying everywhere. Pictures fell from the wall and shattered on the ground.

“Ben and Ben,” said Delicate Ben, “please stop throwing things, I always have to replace things after you two visit.” *** As the sun slipped through the cracks between the houses, the three Bens arrived at the local swimming pool. The lights flickered like a burning candle. The building always had the distinct and intoxicating smell of chlorine. Once you left, the smell followed you everywhere.

The Bens had made quite a name for themselves here. From filling the swimming pool with purple dye, to pumping out all of the water, the three Bens had done almost anything you could come up with. Today they were going to do something to whoever had Locker number 29. Buff Ben and Gangly Ben broke into this locker and grabbed all of the belongings and stuffed them into inflatable pool doughnuts. From the look of the belongings whoever had that locker was roughly the same age as them.

Once the security guard left the TV monitor room Delicate Ben slipped in the door unnoticed.

He turned one of the CCTV cameras so it was facing Locker 29 and waited until the boy using it came along and opened it.

The other two Bens were inside the changing rooms figuring out more ways to prank the boy.

While searching for more pool doughnuts Buff Ben found the fire extinguishers. This sparked an idea. He and Gangly Ben would spray the extinguishers onto the boy when he walked into the changing rooms. They carried them over to the changing rooms and set themselves up.

Gangly Ben decided they should play a prank on Delicate Ben instead. After all Delicate Ben did deserve it since he did shout at them and kicked them out of his house. Buff Ben agreed.

A boy appeared in front of Locker 29, it was Ben Benjamin. He’d come to the swimming pool simply because it was his way to escape reality. In school he was constantly bullied for being the loner with his oversized school bag and secondhand uniform. Here he didn’t care because everything got left behind and for an hour he simply could just be Ben. Buff Ben and Gangly Ben approached him at Locker 29 and they all introduced themselves.

He had large trusting eyes, so in their heads they both immediately gave him the name Gullible Ben. They told them what they planned to do to Delicate Ben and Gullible Ben agreed to join in. Buff Ben texted Delicate Ben and asked him to come to the changing room.

When he arrived the three other Bens covered him in foam from the fire extinguishers. His face was covered and as he wasn’t able to see a thing this gave Buff and Gangly Ben the perfect opportunity to bring him to the pool and push him in.

Once Delicate Ben got out from the water, he couldn’t believe what had just happened. He

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St. Gerard’s Senior School

didn’t know what to do. So he simply just stood there and let everyone laugh at him and record it. He was too ashamed. Instead of lashing out at the Bens, he left. Delicate Ben stopped talking to Buff and Gangly Ben, but that didn’t bother them. For now, they had a new Ben, Gullible Ben. As a way to celebrate the loss and gain of a Ben, they decided to go and get ice cream. On the way to the ice cream truck Gullible Ben walked ahead by himself. He thought about how he had managed to become friends with the two guys and how he wouldn’t have to go through the rest of school without people to talk to. No one would mess with him now that he had Buff Ben by his side. When they got to the truck he paid for the ice creams, and within a minute of getting the ice creams Buff and Gangly Ben shoved them into his face and ran off leaving him all alone.

A nearby pedestrian saw what had happened to Gullible Ben and began to make his way over.

When he reached Gullible Ben, he helped him clean the ice cream off of himself. After his humiliation, Gullible Ben felt grateful for this act of kindness.

‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘My name’s Ben.’ He put out his hand and said, ‘What’s yours?’

Sanctuary

Samuel O’Connell

Down the steep slope from his warm home, in the bleak east of Ireland, he sauntered slowly through the nettlesome bramble bushes which acted almost like a maze. This maze, in which it would be impossible to navigate out of if the plants reached any higher, acted as a sort of barrier to any who may walk by or happen to peer in his direction. The thick, ripe fruit lay on the leaves, inviting you to come nearer and pick them. Like a predator waiting until its prey has been lured in until it’s at its most vulnerable, and then, it strikes. You prick your finger on the razor-sharp thorns, the sworn protectors of the fruit. It was a dark, dull day, the weather seemed to mimic his mood. The grey clouds covered so much of the sky that the small part that displayed a brighter, break in the foggy abyss seemed out of place. A damp, mossy scent drifted up from the wet and sodden ground, sometimes a brief smoky aroma from the surrounding houses would linger in the air, never lasting so long that it became unpleasant.

The towering trees which loomed around the unkempt, chaotic patch seemed to have grown in a way that each branch served a purpose, nothing was there that shouldn’t have been, the opposite of the blackberry field which looked as though it had been put together by a young child. A small stream ran under the perfectly placed forestry, unnoticeable from a distance, especially on a day like this where the woods blocked almost all the light that was let through the sluggish barrier of clouds. However he knew where it was, and stopped for a moment to listen to the gentle water moving along beside him, the meander lingered by his side, the soft pitter-patter guiding him on his path. He adored everything about the place, it was his peaceful sanctuary, where he came to be alone. The birds quietly flapped their wings and softly chirped, and the soft hum of insects that went from flower-to-flower all around him. A rustle of leaves signifying the passing-by of a rabbit or fox could be heard on some days, but nobody else came here. It was his. The knotted plants acting as a shield, protecting him from the loud and disappointing world that lay beyond. The deafening sounds of everyday life muted for a brief moment. Only here did he feel safe. Here he was calm.

Literary Magazine 2020

17

New Beginnings

Jennife Swan

r

The soft glow cast the room in a majestic rainbow of oranges,yellows and pinks. The animals breathed a sigh of relief. The morning had come again.

As if they were an alarm clock, the birds broke out in a symphonic array of melodic sunshine, their voices bringing forth what was to be known as the new day. The sound of the animal's awakening was like no other. The cockerel screeched, once again letting its presence be known. More birds had awakened now. Thousands joining the chorus.

Swirling voices and soft cries as the young begged for food.

Similarly, in the household, the pitter patter of tiny feet could be heard in the kitchen, sleepy heads munching away on their Rice Krispies. The only sound was the occasional ‘pop’ from the milk encrusted cereal. The stretching of limbs, the gentle creak of the floorboards as tired souls began their daily routine, eyes still not quite adjusted to the fluorescent light that was the sun.

The sun. A big, magnificent ball of gas that lit up like a torchlight, shining into the unknown depths of emptiness.The spray of the showerhead followed by surprised yelps as hot water lurched forward. The angry growl as one realises the towel was still hanging in the press. The sun however, was not fazed by any of this. Still it shone down on the planet below, excited for the day ahead.

The baby birds crowed for their worms, chirping with happiness when their mother reappeared with a rather unfortunate delicacy in her beak. The birds, now satisfied, perched at the edge of the branch, overlooking the springtime bulbs budding through the soil. The leap of faith. The sun looked over like a proud parent, watching as the birds took their first jump into the unknown.

The family in the household raced for the door. The muffled voices as the daily homework search party commenced. The baby laughed gleefully, sucking its stubby little thumbs, finding beauty in the chaos erupting before him.

The birds once again resumed their symphony, the heavenly sound growing as more joined in the chorus. The flutter of wings, the flurry of populations, the flapping of air being pushed.

The cries of delight as the homework copy was found once again, hiding underneath the cookie jar that was now mysteriously empty. The children ran for the bathroom, the egg timer proclaiming that they each had five minutes to ready themselves for what lay ahead. The whurr of toothbrushes, the swish of hair bobbins, the rush of water as the crumbs around their mouths were washed away.

The sun became shielded from the people, the clouds now jealous of its morning beauty.

The battle had commenced.

However, the clouds were no match for the sun, and soon it took its place in the centre of the sky, daring for somebody to question it.

By now the coffee cups were cold, lipstick stains surrounding the rim. The driveways lay bare. And for a few short minutes silence.

A new day had begun.

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St. Gerard’s Senior School

Urban Legends (abridged)

Ben Havenga

Saturday November 3 2017; 23:14

still roamed the ground.

Harvey leaned against the lamp pole outside the circus gate. His heart pounded like a bongo drum and a million thoughts flew through his head, all concerning the whereabouts of Finn. He had thought Finn was just taking a toilet break, but he had been gone for far too long. His worrying was interrupted by what felt like a hand on his back. For a moment, Harvey was too frightened to move, but his curiosity got the better of him and he turned around. It was only Finn, smirking back at him.

As they reached the torn yellow canvas of the Big Top, the full moon glided out from behind the clouds, sending dark shadows across their path. As they watched them, they seemed to take on the form of a clown.

“I thought you were gone!” Harvey exclaimed.

“Calm down, I only went to the toilet.”

Finn’s smile faded slightly. “Come on, we should keep going. This place gets creepier by the minute.”

Harvey nodded in agreement and the two began to walk towards the Big Top, silently discussing the reason why they were traipsing around the abandoned Circus Theodore in the first place.

It had all started at Robbie’s house on Halloween night. They had been exchanging scary stories, and Robbie had begun the tale of the old Circus Theodore that had been abandoned on the outskirts of their town nearly twenty years ago. The circus had closed because several people had disappeared after attending performances. Nobody was ever convicted, but rumour had it, the performers themselves were responsible.

Now, according to legend, every full moon, the ghost of Theo, the clown the circus was named after, would roam the grounds, looking for his next victim.

Harvey and Finn weren’t convinced he was being honest, which resulted in them being dared to go to the Circus on the night of the full moon and see the legendary ghost of the circus’ clown that

Literary Magazine 2020

An uneasy silence descended upon them, and they hastily entered the Big Top. It was pitch black inside, and they took a moment to dig out their phones and turn on their flashlights. They crept on, the sand beneath their feet making whispering noises that echoed in the silence. They made their way to the small circular stage that marked the centre of the ring and stood, motionless.

Harvey, with trembling hands, took a photo of the stage beneath them, still faintly reading Circus Theodore, while Finn edged towards the opposite side of the Big Top. Harvey’s breath misted in the frosty air, and his flashlight illuminated the wisps of air as they floated up.

“Harvey?” A small voice came from Finn’s direction. “You need to see this, man.”

Harvey stepped down from the stage and walked over to Finn. Before them, shimmering in the light from Finn’s phone, were glistening pools of crimson liquid.

“Is that what I think it is?” Harvey let out a strangled gasp.

“There’s more.” Finn pointed the light at a set of large footprints leading away from the pools of blood.

Suddenly, a terrifying scream echoed through the Big Top. It loitered in the cold air, and sent a shiver down Harvey’s spine that chilled him to the bone.

“Harvey, we need to leave right now.”

Finn choked.

“I’m right behind you.”

19

D.B. Cooper

Matt Harman

The person known as “D.B Cooper” may have pulled off one of the greatest feats of criminality known to man. Not only because of the crime he committed, but more of the subsequent, literal vanishing into thin air after he completed the crime. You may not have heard of him, and that’s because no one actually knows who he REALLY is.

On November 24th, 1971, one day before Thanksgiving,a man referring to himself as “Dan Cooper” a.k.a, D.B Cooper, bought a one way plane ticket on a flight bound to Seattle, Washington, from Portland International Airport . Throughout the U.S.A people were traveling back home to see their loved ones for Thanksgiving. D.B Cooper was to take a half hour flight to Seattle. Presumably a short trip home, but that was far from the case. He was about to create criminal history.

He walked onto his flight, and sat toward the very front of the plane. Regardless of the crime he was about to commit, it seems Mr Cooper was in the mood for merriment.

He sat back, lit up a smoke, and ordered a bourbon and soda. Not long into the flight, the smartly dressed man handed a note to a flight attendant. Her name was Florence Schaffner and she was probably accustomed to single guys giving her their phone numbers, so she just put the note in her purse. Cooper then leaned over to her and said “ Miss, you’d better look at that Note. I have a bomb.” The note read; “I have a bomb in my briefcase. I want you to sit next to me.” D.B Cooper was not messing around.

She did just that, and Cooper showed her a briefcase stuffed to the brim with sticks of dynamite and lots of wires. He then supposedly told her “I want $200,000, by 5.00pm put it in a knapsack. I want two back parachutes and two front parachutes. When we land, I want a fuel truck ready to refuel. No funny stuff or I’ll do the job.” 200,000 dollars in today’s money is about 1.2 million dollars. Florence Schaffner was terrified.

Was the plane about to explode? This handsome, smartly dressed guy had even given her a $20 bill for a bourbon and asked her to keep the 18 bucks change. Another air hostess remarked that “He wasn’t nervous, he seemed rather nice. He seemed calm and thoughtful all the time” She went to the cockpit and told the news to the crew, after which the pilot informed the Seattle air traffic control. The plane circled in the air for 2 hours while the authorities had decided to meet the hijackers demands. They made a list of things, including the 200,000 dollars he had asked for.

D.B Cooper remained calm, and even ordered another bourbon and told Schaffner she could keep the change. The aircraft landed at 5.39 pm at Seattle airport. A man named Al Lee, delivered the cash and the parachutes to the aircraft, and Cooper let all the passengers leave the plane. He then told the cockpit crew that they would all be going on a trip to Mexico City. Except he wanted them to fly at the lowest speed, and the lowest altitude.

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St. Gerard’s Senior School

Off they went, into the skies, bounty in the bag, surrounded by five military planes. With the crew all in the cockpit they had heard an alarm that the door closest to the front of the plane had been opened. Just after 2 hours, the plane landed, and D.B Cooper was nowhere to be seen.

After that, the was no trace of his body, or his parachute. He just disappeared without a trace. For the next 45 years an investigation dragged on, but with no real leads. Hundreds of people claimed to be D.B Cooper. One man even told his brother moments before he was about to die that he was D.B Cooper.

So the question is...did this man really jump out of a plane with 1.2 million dollars in hand?

Do you guys think he survived a massive jump like that? Do you guys think an older version of the bourbon drinking hijacker is still out there somewhere in the world? Think about that.

My Four Pen

Guy n Corso

It sailed across the unbroken, peaceful paper as though it was a ship on its maiden voyage.

Cruising line by line my four pen navigated across its course of description, creation and invention.

This grand vessel was a channel between mind and paper.

Used to convey the thoughts of its captain, the royal blue craft was designed to perfection.

The ball point bow skipped effortlessly across the waters.

The porcelain white stern was of perfect balance, preventing the tides of mind blank from hindering the craft on it’s journey.

However the duty of the pen was unmatched by the tone produced at the launch and docking of each voyage.

My four pen produced a gratifying click as its rotors began to warm up, my mind warming to begin my excursion of thought against paper.

Literary Magazine 2020

21

R omeo & Juliet

Dear Diary.

Something awful happened today! I am still in shock, my hands are shaking as I write this, maybe if I write everything that happened down it’ll stop my reeling mind.

The day started as any other. I was on my way to the market, my empty basket weighing at least ten times more in the sweltering heat of the summer’s day. When I stopped for a drink of water to quench my thirst, I watched the few people out and about scurry like ants under the merciless glare of the midday sun. I could see remains of the early morning dew evaporating off the cobbled lane. The fair town of Verona seemed to shimmer in the heat. There was an unnatural silence that hung heavy in the thick air. I couldn't hear the usual symphony of summer birds, the echo of clicking cicadas, nor the lazy humming of bumblebees, as everyone and everything had retreated into the cool shade and safety of their homes. I wish I had hurried on to the market, but the refreshing iciness of the well-water felt so pleasant on my tongue, and the heat had made me drowsy, so I didn’t. Instead, I saw them.

A whole posse of Montagues, their leather boots crunching on the parched earth.

Shielding the sun from my face, I put down my heavy basket and watched Tybalt Capulet, Verona’s fiercest swordsman approach. Even from where I stood, I could hear them provoke each other, their moods heating up to match this day that was a furnace, baking the burning weather and their scalding tempers.

In the stifling heat, I noticed that one of them began to brawl with Tybalt, stirring the dry soul into dust, every bit of moisture stolen by the sun. The sounds of swords clanging vibrated in the air, the sun itself taking part in the fight, beating down on them and glistening sharply off their rapiers. One of the bystanders, which I recognised as cute Romeo Montague, tried to intervene. Tybalt took this as an opportunity and sliced under Romeo’s outstretched hands, straight into his opponent's side, after promptly disappearing into the shadows, like the King of Cats that he is. I was transfixed, my eyes glued on the figure slumped on the ground, his hands gripping his bloody wound.

It hadn't occurred to me that it could have been a fatal hit, until the pale figure was helped away, and moments later the air was pierced with the roar of: “He’s dead!” Even though I had been suffocating in the intolerable heat, now a chill went through me, rattling my body to the core. I had just witnessed murder?!

Through the tears that had welled in my eyes, I saw Tybalt return, and Romeo draw his own sword. What was wrong with me? Why didn't I leave? Oh, why? Instead I watched, almost helplessly, as chaos resumed.

Romeo’s fury knew no limits - one vicious flash of temper after the other. Both of them

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St. Gerard’s Senior School

were sweating and burning with rage, the air around them static with hatred. I watched Tybalt lunge, his face twisted into a venomous snarl, his eyes two empty holes, while the veins in his neck pulsed furiously. Romeo, his handsome face masked with an inhuman, malicious expression, fueled by loathing and the need to seek vengeance, was like a machine, he struck and hit, his hands a blur. Now there was quite an audience, grumpy faces awoken from their siesta by the cacophony of pure evil. The heat seemed to whirl around, the swords everywhere, Romeo a volcano erupting and Tybalt an uncontrollable beast. Oh the swords, the noise, the fight, the heat, shouts, swears, clangs, clings, and the heat, like a tornado powered by rage tipped all my senses upside down.

“Clang!”

“Bang!”

“Smash!”

Citizens shouting, protesting, screaming, repeating and repeating, unrelenting until…

“Clang…”

Silence.

There lying on the earth, slain with a rapier through the heart, was Tybalt. His face contorted into such an expression of pain, that I will never unsee it until the day I die.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone, as was Tybalt. He lay there, sprawled, just an empty, bleeding shell of the monster he had been.

I didn’t wait to see what happened next Diary, instead I turned and fled, abandoning my basket and with it my carefree, innocent self, because now I have seen death first hand, I will never forget it.

For how could I?

Ethna Vondrys

Literary Magazine 2020

23

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Do you have any special talents?

Happy, energetic, organised.

Does identifying rocks count ?

26

Definitely not a teacher, but secretly I really did want to be a teacher.

➢ Favourite quote / motto?

What character do you feel you relate to most?

‘It’s All Gonna Be Ok.’

A Weasley because I’m ginger.

What's your favourite book?

Wow that question caught me off guard ‘Prisoners of Geography.’

What would you call your autobiography?

Rocks’? No……. ‘Dungan Taught me Everything I Know’ …. ‘A Life in St. Gerard's..I Never Left’

What is your favourite song?

Dancing in the Moonlight.

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Passionate, optimistic, wizard.

Do you have any special talents?

I never have any….

I used to be able to do a handstand but unfortunately I cannot do it anymore.

I had no idea I genuinely just wanted to play sport and be as good as I could.

➢ What character do you feel you relate to most?

‘An athlete cannot run with money in his pocket, he must run with hope in his heart and dreams in his head.’’

Draco Malfoy…..

Oh that’s a bit dark, apologies.

What is your favourite song?

‘Working 9-5’

by Dolly Parton definitely .

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What did you want to be when you were in school?

Favourite quote / motto?

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What would you call your autobiography?

‘Who’s Your One?’

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What's your favorite movie ?

What did you want to be when you were in school?

Meteorologist, I enjoyed the weather.

Busy, fashionable and tardy.

‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off’

➢ Favourite quote / motto?

‘Carpe Diem’ I’m keeping it classic.

What character do you feel you relate to most?

What song best describes your life / favourite song?

‘This is The Day’

by Thethe as it matches my motto.

Gandalf, because I’m old and wise.

What's your favourite book?

Oh easy, ‘History of the Tour de France.’

What would you call your autobiography?

‘It’s All About Today

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An interview with Mr. Carr

Describe yourself in three words...

Talkative, sometimes quiet (when reading), sociable.

What character do you feel you relate to most??

Somebody psychotic….. do you know who’s brilliant, Daniel Day Lewis’ character in ‘There Will be Blood.’

What song best describes your life / favourite song?

What did you want to be when you were in school ?

I’m mad about music… …’Sometimes You Can’t Make it on Your Own’

by U2

To be honest I wanted to be a journalist, a rockstar or a hobo.

➢ Favourite quote/motto?

‘To thine own self be true.’

Do you have any special talents?

I don’t have any talents,no wait I’m an expert Ikea furniture assembler.

x o F s M h terview wit

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Describe yourself in three words...

Untidy, friendly, hungry.

What would you call your autobiography?

‘The Frustrated Life of a Wannabe Speech Maker for the American President.’

➢ Favourite quote / motto?

What character do you feel you relate to most?

A character who falls down a lot and is really awkward - a cross between Bart Simpson and Lisa Simpson..

‘You do the best you can and when you know better you do better.’

What song best describes your life / favourite song?

‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.

What's your favorite movie ?

An old movie definitely... ’Now Voyager.’

Do you have any special talents?

What's your favourite book?

A very hard question...a toss up between ‘Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire’ or ‘The Woman in White.’

I can make chocolate souffles .

st. g e r a r d’s s c h o o l 2020