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The Verdant #2 Publication Design by Brian Gormley
Features “Life Under Lockdown” by Gamze Alden Daily Bites Review: The Hairy Lemon” by Brian Gormley “It’s a Jungle Out There” by Karla Freeman
Short Stories “Missile’s Kittens” by Blake Taylor Alfie and the Cat” by Emily Howell
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Life Under Lockdown by Gamze Galden The pandemic has, in one way or another, found a way to break almost everyone’s spirits at some point over the past few months. Whether you’ve lost someone to the virus, lost your job, your home, or even just lost yourself to the ennui of self-isolation, there is plenty to be rightfully upset about. While it is fair to remind ourselves of the bigger picture instead of simply letting ourselves wallow, it’s just as important for everyone to be there for one other and be understanding of one another’s issues rather than try to make anyone feel guilty for being upset over the current state of our lives. Like many others did at the start of the lockdown, I told myself I would try to make the most of it—learn a new instrument or language, write a novel, get back into painting, find a part-time job, read more, start lifting weights, anything to pass the time. Very little of that was achieved, with most of it being things I tried picking up for a week or two before getting bored, trying something else, getting bored of that, and eventually just settling for Netflix or video games. It felt a bit like that montage near the beginning of Tangled, where we see Rapunzel scrambling around in search of different ways to spend her time while locked up in her tower. A lot of us probably feel like Rapunzel right now, waiting in our towers for a handsome vaccine to come and whisk us away from this life. Life isn’t quite on pause right now, but we’re all dredging through the same giant pool of molasses, trying to go about our lives and make something of our time but ultimately being just as weighed down like anyone else. There’s no reason to feel guilty for being upset over how things are going right now, nor should we feel bad about not being more productive during this time. Instead, we should be embracing a feeling of solidarity with the rest of the world, be there for one another, and take whatever steps are needed to help ensure that this ends as soon as possible.
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The Daily Bites: The Hairy Lemon by Brian Gormley The pandemic has made it difficult to find pubs where you can meet friends for a drink or meal. Before the current lockdown, I came across The Hairy Lemon. Located at Stephen Street Lower, Dublin 2, this pub offers a range of traditional and global foods. I recommend their bangers and mash; at the affordable price of 16 Euro, it goes well with a pint that only costs a fiver. These pan-fried pork sausages are served on a bed of mashed potatoes and topped with rich red wine gravy, caramelized onions, and a homemade onion ring. If you are not as hungry, you might consider sampling other hits such as their small bites or burgers. With food that arrives on time and friendly servers, the Hairy Lemon offers substantial service. After Ireland shifted to Level 3 on the COVID-19 map, the pub implemented outdoor seating in an area previously reserved for smoking. They keep this area warm for diners with heating lamps. Current restrictions prohibit the pub from serving food from the actual menu due; therefore, they currently only offer an antipasto food box for 9.00 Euro. This box includes olives, sundried tomatoes, marinara sauce, crackers, two types of cheese--creamy and hard--with prosciutto. This “miniature European Lunchable”—as a friend of mine described it—goes well with a 5 Euro pint. With delicious menu options and affordable prices, the Hairy Lemon is an excellent place to meet friends for a meal or drink.
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Re-enter at Your Own Risk By Karla Freeman
Lockdown starts again, like a turtle I crawl inside find a primal “coo coo”, humming eat bits of lettuce rub my tummy rest on cloudy days
After, after only a mirror as my companion, we had permission to re-enter I stepped outside my door let’s go, let’s get going, restaurants in Dublin were open but we must not sit too close I re-entered, surveyed streets as a stranger met masked invaders, road runner gazelles whizzed past Disney store clerk handed me a mask
Gumdrop baskets of wool Shall I touch, was the last customer sick? With a smile, the shopkeeper says these months gave her time back Who did she give time to?
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Marco, a Brazilian of dark beauty says he stopped running red lights, Full stop, quite pleased to please himself, I wandered home Crocheted, put puzzle piece in a jig saw Stared in space for hours Lockdown starts again, Like a turtle, pull my head in It can be a jungle out there
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Missile’s Kittens by Blake Taylor Missile Launcher -- or Missile for short -- found the perfect shelter from the rain, a small house where the backyard led to the woods. The dirt path that led to the porch was converting into mud, and the cat strategically tip-toed through it, his black-furred pudge jiggling with every movement. The door was ajar, inviting Missile inside. He sauntered through a big room, scoffing at the dirty floor his paws walked on. The room had metal boxes by the walls, and not the kind of boxes Missile could squeeze into. The air was much warmer than outside, and the smell was delightful. He recognized the aroma as something cooking, but it wasn’t tuna. What a shame. Quickly, he walked out of the room and into the next. Now, this room was much better. The smell traveled from the first room, the floor was softer, and there was big, cushy furniture set up around the room. It was designed for a king, and he just walked in. To Missile’s surprise, he wasn’t the first cat to claim territory on this lovely house. Or the second. Two gigantic kittens occupied both the couch and one of the cushy chairs, holding a thick pile of papers in their weird, stretched-out paws. They might have been born in the same litter because their furs were identical, with their black bottom half and black streak that went to their white middles. But other than the fur, the kittens were different. One had brown skin under the fur and clearly wasn’t fed enough. The other had white skin and was never told to share his food with the other kitten. Where were their parents? “What are you doing here?” Missile called. “When is your mom coming back?” The deaf kitties were confused to see an adult. The fat, white one clumsily stood up on his hind legs and walked past Missile. “Hey, where are you going? I asked you a question, young lad!” Missile kept shouting at the deaf and apparently dumb kitten as they went to the door the black cat came in. The kitten used his enlarged paw to open the door further. He gestured for Missile to leave the building. Immediately, Missile walked around the kitten and back to the comfy room. He wasn’t going to let a kitten kick him out of shelter. Now entertained, the fat kitten closed the door. Whoever their parents were, they did a bad job raising them. Missile sighed to himself. Since he was the only cat around who knew how to parent, he would have to be these dumb kitties’ dad. The dumb kitties were happy to have a parent, and they spent most of the night petting 9
their new dad. Gibberish noises came out of their mouths as they talked to him, but Missile didn’t mind. Kittens take a bit to learn the proper language. The rain was non-stop for the next few days. The weather didn’t stop the kittens from leaving the house while Missile slept or looked the other way, and they always took their pile of papers with them. From his time before with other gigantic kittens, the black cat picked up some Gibberish and connected it with his own language. He could read the first three words “The Book of”. The fourth word, however, he had no idea what it was. It looked very much like “Mom”, but he felt that the spelling was too long to be it. The kittens never hunted outside the building, and Missile understood there were other hunting areas they frequented. They would always come home with loud, crinkly bags stuffed with goods, and they would impress the black cat by using their voodoo magic with converting the goods into something completely different and more intoxicating. Unfortunately, the kittens were feral; they would swipe at Missile whenever he attempted to try their food. Several times he asked them what their names were with no success. The language barrier was appalling. The brown kitten misunderstood Missile’s shouts to be cries of hunger, and fed him fish in a can. The white kitten thought he was asking to go outside, and held the back door open for five minutes before giving up and closing the door in a huff. Missile thought he should be the one huffing in the situation, but he let it go. Until the kittens could speak normally, he would give them names for the meantime. The brown kitten was now Blank, and the white kitten was Huffy. Most activities Blank and Huffy would do were in a set routine. In the early morning they would go out. In the evening, they would come back and eat. For an hour or so, they would quietly sit in the soft furniture and read from the thick pile of papers. Any other free time they had, Missile made sure it was spent on him. He was concerned the kittens were raised far apart from the feline species; he didn’t waste a single opportunity to correct their behavior. There were mixed results. Blank and Huffy were neutral with getting daily tongue baths from him, but they stopped putting their paws on Missile’s open belly to avoid his attacks, which was supposed to teach them to defend themselves. There was a lot of work set for the black cat. There was a knock on the door next Sunday. Curious by the unexpected visitor, he stood guard beside Blank, who opened the door and let in another kitten. No, it wasn’t a kitten, Missile observed. The newcomer had the same fur as Blank and Huffy, and this was also a deaf and clumsy animal. Those were where the kitten qualities ended. This newcomer was wider than Huffy, and there was a patch of long, matted fur hanging from the chin. His hind legs made a heavy impact on the floor, and Missile vibrated from each step the newcomer made. He had the pose of someone who had been around for a long time. This could very well be the kittens’ dad.
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This displeased Missile. Here he was, a black cat who stepped into the lives of two helpless children, willing to take on the role of their dad. Here was this stranger, who had these kittens and then abandoned them like some deadbeat parent. Missile didn’t care to learn the stranger’s actual name; from now on, Missile knew him as Deadbeat. And Deadbeat was also displeased with seeing Missile. The cat watched, still on guard, as Deadbeat lectured the kittens. Given the context he got from the Gibberish the three of them spoke, Deadbeat didn’t like that Blank and Huffy found a new dad. And given more context -when Deadbeat boldly picked Missile up -- the cat was banned from parenting the helpless children. Missile hissed on the way to a big, vibrating hunk of metal. He clawed at Deadbeat as he was shoved into a portable prison waiting in the seat of the metal hunk. From the prison, Missile yelled at Deadbeat, switching from cursing at him to promising that he would personally send him to Hell. “I know the Devil himself, don’t you know?” Missile yowled. “He owes me a favor, and I’m going to use it on you!” Of course, Missile didn’t know the Devil; it was a strange myth put on black cats. But Deadbeat didn’t need to know that. Nor did Deadbeat seem to care. He sat away from Missile and moved the wheel in front of him, which in turn made the hunk of metal move as well, with heavy wobbles at every turn. The cat thought he would get motion-sick after the third turn… out of the endless turns he suffered through. The hunk of metal stopped. The stillness was greatly appreciated, until Deadbeat got out of the metal hunk, making it bounce as his weight shifted. Missile kept his defenses ready even as he was helplessly carried out of the hunk. The box rattled with every step, and through the gated door Missile could see a wooden fence stretching for miles, posing as a wall in front of the deep woods he didn’t recognize. Deadbeat brought the black cat closer to the fence and placed the prison on top of it. With a sweeping motion, Deadbeat pawed opened the door and jerked the cat out of the prison. Missile was as graceful as a brick and flopped on the woods’ leafy floor. He turned to hiss at Deadbeat, who was back in the metal hunk and sped off. Missile wasted no time squeezing under the gate and ran after the metal hunk. He ran for as long as he could, and for as long as the hunk was in his vision. The natural ground gave way to gravel, slowing his pace down from little rocks digging into his paws. Eventually, the metal hunk was out of sight. He huffed and puffed as he slowed down, taking in the scenery. From what he could see, Missile found his way back in town, but at the very edge of it where the factories and other 11
unsavory places would be, like the puppy mill nearby. Nothing was familiar enough for him to get a sense of direction. Turning a corner, he noticed a calico cat bathing herself under the wooden boards that stretched under the front door of a building. He recognized the calico as Callie, an unofficial tour guide for feline travelers. Glad about not having to shout to communicate, he trotted over to her. “Hey! Callie!” The cat turned her head. Once she saw Missile, her pupils widened. “You need to get out of here! The calico warned. There’s one of those clumsy cats on a rampage throughout the town, doncha know!” “What, the one with the metal hunk?” Missile asked. Once Callie confirmed, he scoffed. “He’s just a bad dad. I’ve met plenty.” Not like this one. With a shudder, Callie delivered the news she heard from other cats in the town: “He’s been telling anyone who will listen that any black cat they see needs to be thrown out of here. Especially to a lot of his kids; he’s telling them that they’re not allowed to associate with the rest of us.” How absurd! Missile couldn’t believe what his pointy ears were hearing. Out of the corner of his eye, Missile noticed maybe a dozen clumsy kittens, all with the same fur as Blank and Huffy. He must be the jealous kind of a bad dad, especially with all those kids he’s keeping around, he noted. Even the best dad in the world can’t keep up with this many. Callie eyed him nervously. “What are you going to do? I sense you’re up to something.” Missile wasn’t, but now that she said something, gears whirred in his mind. What an odd phenomenon, but he didn’t have time to think about it. “You should gather the other cats and plan a cattack,” he advised. Callie didn’t question Missile’s intention to plan a cat invasion. When and where, and most importantly, who? Tonight, wherever that crazyhead is, and the crazyhead himself. Deal. Missile and Callie walked in different directions. The black cat wandered aimlessly around the town, searching for the house. Twice he got distracted from the butcher shop and its delicious meat smells. Once, he ran from Blank and Huffy’s brother, who tried to pick Missile up. 12
In the distance, his ears picked up unfeline shouts, followed by yowls of battle cries. Taking the cue, he zoomed to the familiar house up ahead. Unfortunately for him, there was a group of Deadbeat’s children. They crowded around something on the ground. Missile came over for a closer look. Callie had led the other cats to Deadbeat, and all those cats hissed, bit, and scratched at him. The kids attempted to pull a cat out of the pile with no success. Deadbeat locked eyes with Missile. His mouth opened to say something, but Callie didn’t let him say it. She laid over his face and didn’t move, despite the jerking motions he made. Missile walked around the horde and to the house, content with the result. The cattack should be over in a little while; the cats hadn’t had that much fun in forever. Blank and Huffy were on the soft furniture, gripping their thick pile of papers. Blank saw Missile strolling through the kitchen and gestured to his brother. Both kittens came to the cat, immediately petting him. “Did you miss me, kids?” Missile chirped. “Don’t worry about Deadbeat. You have me now, and that’s all that matters.” He headbutted into one of the large paws, taking in the affection. To his surprise, Huffy meowed at him. “Submarine,” the kitten said. He smiled with pride. “Tax benefits,” Blank said, also happy with his new word. It was a start.
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Alfie and The Cat by Emily Howell Disappointed that his dark roots were beginning to show, Alfie made sure to stop by the shoddy convenience store on his way home from work to top off his purple hair dye. Though his profession entailed him having a “psychic, future-telling mind,” his main concern was getting home to check on his beautiful orchid. He had a myriad of other plants as well, but the orchid had always been the star of the show. The charms on his bracelet jingled louder than the bell of the door as he left the shop in a hurry without acknowledging the cashier. As the door opened to Alfie’s studio apartment, he breathed a sigh of relief at the escape from the cantankerous streets of New Orleans. The orchid stood tall among the greenery strewn about the busy room and as always, he took a moment to admire the beauty it brought to his life. He placed his bag atop his pile of “Fortune Telling for Dummies” and “Tarot Card Reading 101” books and began to ponder the ethics of his profession. Surely people know he can’t ACTUALLY tell the future… right? He opens his new laptop and the familiar “boom boom” sound of Netflix helps prevent his mind from sinking too deeply into his own moral debate. An unfamiliar voice hissed from the back of the room, “You could at least put some food in my bowl before you get comfortable, useless human.” Alfie looked back to see a majestic tabby cat, sitting patiently next to the dirty dishes piled in the sink. He admittedly kept forgetting about The Cat and hadn’t even bothered to name it yet. She (or he, who knows) wandered in through his balcony window a couple of days ago and once he had fed it some of his leftovers, The Cat was sure to return for its nightly meal. He rubbed his eyes and waited to see what else it would say, but there was nothing. The Cat simply blinked and waited. “Cats can’t talk, Alfie.” He muttered to himself as he walked toward the fridge. He picked up and checked the bottle of Ambien on the counter to make sure he hadn’t taken any tonight. Nope. Stone cold sober. Yet, imagining a cat with a human voice? Stress was definitely the culprit. Even with barely anything edible in the fridge, Alfie managed to scrounge together some turkey from the deli that was about to go off, chopped it into bits and put it in a (somewhat) clean bowl for The Cat. It happily ate, content, as if it belonged there. Unlike most stray cats around the city, this one was very clean. Its fur was incredibly soft and shiny, nearly sparkling in the moonlight. Alfie wondered if it was someone else’s cat that just enjoyed wandering about for extra meals. He petted her back a couple of times before embracing the comfort of his couch and laptop.
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Among the vast selection on Netflix, Alfie didn’t have the mental capacity to start a new series and settled on Black Books for the millionth time, soaking in the familiarity. His eyes wandered about his room, enjoying the sight of plant life engulfing him until he saw the stack of “Fortune Telling for Dummies” books strewn about his desk. His stomach turned. This job began as easy money to pay college tuition so he could live among the wild and wacky of America. It was great fun telling people how their lives will end up. Tarot cards were just a game as far as Alfie was concerned, and admittedly at first it was kind of funny to see all the people that fell for his charade. However, just as the charm of the city began to wear off, so did the amusement of being a Fortune Teller. His conscience kicked in and he felt increasingly guilty. He felt terrible for the people so willing to believe in someone who charged them $50 so he could sit down and play cards with their livelihood. Alfie often desperately wished magic was real. It would at least justify his line of work, in a way. He just couldn’t force himself to believe. If something wasn’t provable by science, Alfie disregarded it completely. However, this didn’t stop him from opening a new tab on his Chromebook and Googling the phrase “magic in everyday life.” Articles upon articles appeared, listing people’s small miracles. “Kid Hit by Bus Survives Without Injury,” and “Japanese Woman Celebrates 117th Birthday,” were hardly the kind of magic he was looking for, but one article captured his attention immediately. “Talking Cat Frightens Local Neighborhood.” There were no photos, and it was an article clearly printed in one of those conspiracy theory magazines, but he couldn’t help himself. Alfie looked back at The Cat who was now sleeping contently next to his orchid, nearly outmatching its beauty. He continued to read, “Stray tabby cat wanders around Napoleonville, Louisiana and frightens local residents who claim it spoke to them.” He felt his adrenaline rise as he repeatedly looked back at the cat and back at his computer. After a few deep breaths, he shook his head and decided it was all ridiculous, everyone knows The Enquirer is hardly a reliable news source and ran absurdities all the time. After all, the “talking cat” article was listed directly beneath the “Obama is one of the Lizard People: Photographic Evidence!” article. He turned the volume up on Black Books and focused all his attention on it, forcing himself to relax. As he was drifting off, the unfamiliar voice said, “Thanks Alfie, but I expect a proper meal tomorrow,” and before he could turn around to see who spoke, The Cat was gracefully jumping out the window onto the landing and walking toward the city streets. Alfie pondered for a moment, unsure if he was losing his mind and decided now was the right time to take an Ambien and fall asleep.
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