Photo by Bryan Bigelow
The Verdant American College Dublin’s Student Publication
Fall 2021 Issue
Photo by Bryan Bigelow
Photo by Bryan Bigelow
Table of Contents Poetry: “Moon Broken,” Devynn Fletcher .........................4 “The Ocean’s DNA,” Lizzie Eagan..........................5 “Kiss,” Blake Taylor..........................6 Means Go,” Bryan Bigelow..........................7 Stories “His Father’s Son,” Kevin Joyce..........................8
“Green
Moon Broken Devynn Fletcher The moon broke through the dusty window, the broken pieces littered the rusty ground i stood amidst the wreckage shaking my voice at the offending moon, when i first saw you. i mistook you for one of those stars— the ones you look out for when the sky begins to turn and darken the ones that form grand shapes in the sky— part of something bigger and wilder and there you were, outshining them all. i forgot about the mess as i stepped closer to marvel at your otherworldly glow i forgot the slice of pain beneath my feet i forgot the anger and the betrayal for something that was supposed to be so wonderful, so powerful but i didn’t know wonder i didn’t know power until i glimpsed you. but you disappeared and i stepped back and i was left gazing down at the light of the moon gently touching the broken shards at my feet.
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Photo by Bryan Bigelow
The Ocean’s DNA Lizzie Eagan . . . and so the waves turn, folding effortlessly, over and over again until a wave of silence falls upon the Ocean’s land, coating her smooth tumbled stones with the salt enriched water-bitter to taste but smoothing to touch. Regeneration occurs with the song and dance of the dolphins-creating a DNA-like design weaved meticulously with renewed energy, dispersing and dispelling cyclical patterns; no longer serving its purpose in the depth of the Ocean’s belly . . .
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Kiss Blake Taylor
I felt so scandalous kissing her Oh no! I committed such a sin! I shouldn't kiss anyone in fear that I would be sent to hell! What a horrible tragedy! My mama and papa would be Ever so furious of me Because I dared to KISS her (GASP!) "Why would you do so?" Mama has cried "You better think she's worth it in the bed," Papa ordered "It's the 21st century, any mention of anything beyond kissing should be DETAINED and IMPRISONED!" So now, after the mistake of sharing my first kiss at 21 I must be jailed and serve my punishment; It's the only right thing to do, And I shall never express sexuality Especially at college. How could I? Why would I? Just to show how human I am, And therefore share experiences with others? Apparently I think not!
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Green Means Go Bryan Bigelow
Photo by Bryan Bigelow
I want to photograph a color I seem to have lost. What was it That green means? My past Once a multifoliate cityscape of lights and sounds Is now a black meadow Underexposed and silent On questions of meaning. So not that. But negation closes the divide. Stand closer to me. I can almost see you. The pavement glowed green This I remember But only as an idea A symbolism in the pavement Meaning spring, new life Springing from the clutches of the pavement Seeds cracking, heels lifting, skirts, Roots sinking, hands pushing, carts, grass-blades, thrusting, All in the mundane ecstasy of… Green means? Movement In a photographic time lapse of Seoul I once looked at Forced all that was unique and distinct Into whirling bands of saturated light Constricting the city. Yet still within, the colors multiplied. Closer now. I can feel you breathing. Somewhere within that photograph Someone rooted in the pavement Kissed me on the cheek Was it you Fair flower of the concrete? The kiss cooled my burning But the pavement was glowing red. Green means? I’ve forgotten Why I avoided slower shutter speeds I think it was so that the lights could stand out So that the movement Could escape conformity, Constriction But for what? My eyes simply trail off the edge of the photograph Into the black meadow. Green means? There it is, I’ve remembered Green means loss.
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His Father’s Son Kevin R. Joyce The rotting jaws of the dead man’s skull laid open to the grey sky above, stretched in a lifeless scream as his hollow sockets watched the gathering clouds darken what was earlier a clear autumn afternoon. His rusting plate armor and tattered leather gauntlets proved to all who traveled along the Slighe Mhór that he had been a warrior in life. For this was why the knight had stopped where the dead man lay. Sir Roibeárd buried the nameless man-at-arms and said a prayer over his grave, not allowing such indignity to befall him be he friend or foe. The rain was finally unleashed, turning the Great Highway to muck and slowing the Lord of Connaught to a trot as he headed west again upon his horse. He didn’t mind it, for the crisp Irish air that filled his lungs had never tasted better. As he gazed out at the lush fields of his homeland the stonewalled highway snaked across, his thoughts drifted once again to her. To Niamh. To the sheen of her chestnut hair on a warm summer’s day. To promises made before calls to war in distant lands when youth and hearts were still full and wanting. A bolt of lightning cracked the sky behind the rolling hills to the north, thoughts of the Princess replaced with finding shelter. He broke the horse into a gallop, drops of rain stinging his sun battered face. He ran the whetstone down the blade of his long sword again and again, steel shimmering in the glow of the cook-fire as a calm, starlit sky shone above. The crackling embers made the thicket of oak trees feel warm and welcoming after the storm had passed, drying his rain-soaked cloak along with the dark locks of hair that fell down to his shoulders. With the end of his journey finally at hand, he found himself dreading what was meant to be his triumphant return. Since boyhood he had feared the day when his mettle would be tested for all to witness against his father’s legacy. And what of the Princess? Had her love for him faded like so many things cherished in those brighter days gone by? Lost in thought, he placed the whetstone on the ground beside him when the loud snap of a tree branch echoed out from the darkness. Scanning the veil of shadows surrounding him, the knight had only stood and raised his sword when he felt the first arrow pierce his flesh and bury itself deep into his chest. The second arrow burst from beyond the trees and flew into his abdomen, the blinding pain bringing him to his knees. Lung and stomach punctured, he had almost gotten back on his feet when he heard a bowstring loose followed by a third arrow zipping through the air behind him, slamming between his shoulder blades. Feeling the life within him spilling from his wounds, he watched as a ghostly archer stepped out from behind a tree and into the light of his cook fire, notching another arrow while a pair of hooded bowmen stood alongside him. “You’re a fool to have returned, Roibeárd.,” spoke a voice so familiar it was almost comforting. “Proof I’ve always been the clever one.” The tallest of the three assassins stepped forward and removed his mud-stained hood, revealing a mane of golden hair and pale set of blue eyes concealed beneath. “Uilliam…” gasped the knight, choking on his own blood. “Say no more, brother. Death has come for you this night.” he replied. “God knows how much this pains me. Alas, my hand is forced. Father was too old and you are too weak to rule. You left for the Holy Land, abandoning me to watch in disgust as our decrepit patriarch put our house’s position at risk time and time again. Believe me when I say his death was a mercy, brother, as is this. Nightshade liberated his soul from needless suffering as steel shall liberate yours.” His brother’s words held no meaning, for all Roibeárd could hear over his death rattle was the lilt of Niamh’s voice calling out to him from afar. “Do you hear me, dear brother? The dogs of war have been loosed upon these lands and I alone possess the strength to keep them! I am Father’s rightful heir, not you!”
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Uilliam reached into his cloak, drawing a dagger from its sheath. “I love you Roibeárd, but you would have failed him.” Just then a giant shadow loomed over them before the agonizing screams of Uilliam’s men jolted Roibeárd’s senses, flesh tearing and bones cracking as the snarling beast began to maul its prey. Uilliam turned and lunged at the creature with dagger in hand, countered by a massive, shaggy claw that slashed his handsome face in an instant. The dying knight gazed into the beast’s bright yellow eyes as rows of glimmering teeth closed around the archer’s neck, staining them dark red. The second was on his back already, withering under a steaming pile of entrails and calling out to God for mercy. Body and mind failing as the primal carnage continued to unfold, Roibeárd felt his heart beat its last, collapsing in a bloody heap while a drawn out, soul chilling howl drifted through the pale moonlight. Roibeárd’s cries bellowed deep within the cold, misty mountain, tapestries of bright green moss clinging to the cavern’s ancient walls. Three days and nights he spent floating in that black void of suffering before he finally woke again, sensing the lurking predator’s golden eyes watching him from the moment he opened his own. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Lord Roibeárd,” spoke the shadowy figure. “Forgive me for I have no food or ale to offer, but m’Lord may find greater satisfaction in that which I can.” The knight sat up and lifted his tunic, finding his body wholly unscathed. “A wolf’s wounds heal well when licked, as did yours,” the man said as he knelt next to him, handing the puzzled knight his weapon. “Who are you?” he asked, feeling strength return as he gripped its worn leather handle. “We’ve met once before, m’Lord. I’m meerly a fallen warrior whose due respects you alone saw fit to pay.” The knight paused, thinking of the dead man and the muddy roadside grave he rested in. “The Tuatha Dé Danann ordered my soul to pay the debt to you it carried. Both man and beast within me are bound to carry out their will.” He rose to his feet, remembering the stories his grandmother told of such spirits that roamed these lands ages ago. “My brother spoke of war,” he replied, the púca’s gleaming eyes sending a chill down his spine. “Indeed.” he replied. “One so terrible none who call this island home shall be spared its wrath. Summoned by Uilliam’s lust for power and conquest your father was betrayed by, that your Princess is being held hostage by. Her love for you still lives, m’Lord, as does your murderous brother.” The knight felt rage begin to boil within him as he listened to the shape-shifter speak. “What the old gods offer you now is vengeance, Roibeárd de Jorse, and your people’s salvation.” The knight looked up the long sword’s blade, his house’s ancient heirloom called to shed the blood of its enemies once again. “I owe you my life, friend,” he spoke after a while. “Go forth, brave knight. Save the Princess. Kill your brother. Reclaim these lands and rule in peace.” A new moon hung in silent watch cloaking the land in darkness as the knight approached the castle, laughter and music heard floating through the chilly evening air. “Uilliam’s feasting,” Roibeárd thought as he lurked among the reeds that lined the riverbank, the smell of roasted meat wafting in the breeze. “Before battle…” The knight found the revelation pleasing, for he knew his brother’s men drunk from ale and merriment would be all the easier to slip past once inside the fortress. His chance had finally arrived when the guard atop the battlements turned his back, the knight leaping out from the reeds and sprinting across the dew-soaked meadow. Reaching the eastern wall undetected, he pressed his weight against the cold stone and mortar, swinging the sallyport’s door and revealing the castle’s hidden entrance bathed in shadows. Roibeárd raised his hood as he stepped over the open threshold, sealing the sallyport shut before drawing his long sword from its sheath.
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The Princess was the first among them who noticed the hooded stranger standing in their midst, roaring fireplaces flanking rows of oaken tables brimming with food and drink. She stood, tears of joy welling in her emerald eyes when she recognized the weapon her long-lost love was wielding. “Say no more, brother!” barked the stranger, the bright hall suddenly falling silent. “Death has come for you this night!” Uilliam turned and wiped the ale running down his shredded face, terror’s cold hand gripping his treacherous heart as he watched Sir Roibeárd lower his hood, revealing to all the trueborn Lord of Connaught standing before them. “Still alive, dear brother?” replied the usurper, pus oozing from the open wounds the púca had gifted him. “Ever the fool, though. You should have skulked off back to the Holy Land when you had the chance.” Uilliam stepped down from the dais, drawing his sword. “Lend me your ears, men,” Spoke the knight to all those gathered. “This coming war is not your own. I return to you now not for vengeance’s sake but to take up the fight in your stead against the unchecked greed and notions of a pretender.” “Connaught is mine!” his brother interrupted “As is the Princess Niamh!” “He’s a liar, Roibeárd!” shouted the fair Princess, “The coward murdered your father as he tried to murder you!” Uilliam struck her cheek with the back of his fist, drawing blood and sending her to the hall’s stone floor. “Bastard!” cried Roibeárd, hate’s poison coursing through him now as he lifted his sword. “I shall bare the shame of your kinship no longer. These lands and brave men are not your own to burn in the fires of your ambition. Fight me! And let us prove which of us is worthy to be named Master of The West.” The sharp clangs of steel battering steel echoed through the hall, colored banners hanging from its rafters high above the unfolding duel. The brothers hacked at one another without pause for breath or mercy, blades hungry for the taste of flesh. All who watched with bated breath could see that even wounded and, in his cups, Uilliam was the finer swordsman, but eight years on Crusade had honed his older brother’s instincts into those of a killer. The dance continued, splinters and ale sent flying as Uilliam’s downward stroke missed its mark. Roibeárd’s wrists were struck by his enemy’s pommel followed by a swift kick to his chest, disarming the knight and putting him on his back. The Princess’ screams filled the hall next as Uilliam prepared to deliver the killing blow, but not before the length of Roibeárd’s boot knife cut deep into his brother’s meaty thigh, a stream of blood gushing forth as the usurper fell. Roibeárd straddled his crippled brother next, Uilliam’s desperate pleads silenced when the boot knife’s blade sunk clean through his neck. Those who bore witness stood in silence as Uilliam lay dying in a pool of blood, the life in his pale eyes fading. “All hail Lord Roibeárd!” came a shout from the crowd, their rightful liege hailed with cheers and thunderous applause. Roibeard stood, believing he had fallen into a dream when he saw the Princess before him. Niamh embraced her victorious knight, whispering in his ear before delivering a long-awaited kiss. “Fear not, my love. You are your father’s son.”
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Photo by Bryan Bigelow
American College Dublin
