Doo r Cellar Issue I Volume I
Editor's Note Hello and welcome to the first edition of Cellar Door, the ULSU’s first ever literary magazine. Throughout the next few pages, you will find poetry and prose from fellow UL students. Here you will find tales of woe and loss. And love. There are moments of great anguish and terrible betrayal. Times where all is lost, and moments when all is put to rights. In short, here, you will find life. A sincere thank you is in order to all the brave souls that contributed to this publication. I commend you for casting your very selves under the eyes of the masses. It is not an easy thing to do. For those of you interested in all things literary, The White House Poets have weekly readings in Limerick City. Every Wednesday at 2:30pm, a reading is held in The Hunt Museum. At 9pm the same night, the same reading is given in The White House. All poets and their friends are welcome; those who would like to read their own work as well as those who just want to sit and listen. It is my sincere hope that this publication marks the start of a huge development of poetry between the University and the wider community. In association with The White House Poets and The Hunt Museum, we will be looking to host some open mic nights right here in UL. Details will be published in An Focal and announced on ULFM in due course. So for now, to all readers, read on! And enjoy. To all writers, remember, “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again.” Never give up. Kelly O’Brien Editor
Credits ’Mahony Aisling O ughlan Aoife Co rtery a David H n e Housto il Dearbha radshaw James B ig inbar Cra Patrick F n a h ug Shane Va n ra o H Tom ed m h A Zoha is.
o e Bourge anks to nd Louis a n a y Special th R , Teresa ra Fanara Cassand
Contents
3-6
Poems by David Hartery
8 Thread by Dearbhaile Houston
10
C’est Le Chemin Que L’on Prend Tous by Shane Vaughan
11 Insomnia
12 - 15 16 - 19
20
Poems by Patrick Finbar Craig
Poems by Aisling O’Mahony
Farewell
22 Hospital
23
The Essence of it All
26
Objects
27 Judging a Book by its Cover
29
The Norris Assassination
POETRY “Be with me always take any form drive me mad! Only do not leave me
d you�
here I cannot fin
in this abyss, w
Darkness Scratching, throbbing, pressing.
Eyes tired, full of shy tears, ready to burst. Everything is a weight. Everything is a strain. Tired. Joints creak. Every thought I have is about sadness. Sunshine doesn’t exist. Darkness. Words: David Hartery
3
Darling
I said, “Darling, do you think you’re free?” Do you think your choices are better than me? Do you think any of us chose just who to be? I said “Darling, do you think you’re free?” -> For I was blind and now I see That I was moulded watching TV That I signed up -> I didn’t agree. I said “Darling, do you think you’re free?” I said “Darling, did you learn to breathe?” Feel life slip away and learn to seethe, Pretend it’s alright and start to believe, I said “Darling, did you learn to breathe?” I said “Why do we obey these rules?” The controls they feed us in our schools, I said “Why do we accept these limitations?” We’re not ourselves, mere imitations, I said “Why do we think it’s all ok?” Accept our place, don’t run away, I said “Why am I trapped inside this world?” corralled with you, our lives unfurled. I said “Why does this all seem so futile?” She said “I don’t know”. I said, “Darling, do you think you’re free?” Do you think your choices are better than me? Do you think any of us chose just who to be? I said “Darling, do you think you’re free?” Words: David Hartery
5
Leprechaun Gold
The queues are long, The view is cold. The unease is new, The fear is old. Was it all fleeting, Like leprechaun gold? Words: David Hartery
7
Thread
I am from
hand- me- downs worn too long in the sleeve. I am from
the soft talc memories that bloom from wicker basket The crackle of crimplene, of polyester hugging a long ago life. I am from the passed on rites of make-do-and-mend. Neat stitches. Straight lines. Fallen hems rescued and picked back up again. I am from the security of the thread that weaves through us all. That keeps us together. Words: Dearbhaile Houston
9
C'est Le Chemin Que _L'on Prend Tous For Athé You are walking along the beach - The beaches of Normandy Watching old ghosts canter to the shore Riding along on their pale white horses You see footprints in the sand - The water washes them away “Remember the flags-” she says - Banners and horns blowing You ask “To where do we go now?” She stares and points ahead You see fore-fathers in the distance - The water washes them away You reach a cross roads hand in hand - Devils talk whispers “Follow me, follow me-” you hear Whispers, whispers in your ear “C’est Le Chemin Que L’on Prends Tous-” - Baptized, the water washes over you. Words: Shane Vaughan
10
nsomni
Tick tock es slowly The night pass ays Uneventful as alw the last. Unchanged to Realism is fading snapping I feel my mind d breaking It’s bending an ts in. As fatigue it se
I can hear my blood coursing My chest rising, falling As I listen and pray It’s my last conscious one. I plead it will stop On the verge of my tears My mind is tormented I give up and it’s there: Darkness Words: Anon
Define Time ?
12
I’ve held time in my hand
Please define time?
and watched it die.
For I will not surrender to tics and tocs.
Waiting for a miracle
Time runs to the rhythm of emotions,
as dull seconds pass me by.
not to cold analytical clocks.
Every moment is golden
Take my hand
until we paint it grey.
and we’ll fold time’s.
All directions clear,
We’ll watch the sun set
it is only us who stray.
on a thousand towns. Words: Patrick Finbar Craig
There are those who hold their destiny like a rock in their palm. Others follow the North Star. Then there are those who paint their own sun on bleak skies. Words: Patrick Finbar Craig
Thought is destiny
Tell me again Isaiah Those tales. Tear me asunder. Ghosts rise. Reopening wounds. I never received. No need to recall the past. No need to think about what was done before. Our hearts like volcanoes. Dormant. The fire always burns. Sleeping giants wake. Do their fires bring justice? No need to recall the past. No need to think about what was done before. Curiosity with age comes. But do not tell. Do not tell. It’s written on their father’s scarred faces. They too see where blood falls. No need to recall the past. No need to think about what was done before. We must know And the world suffers For our knowledge. Words: Patrick Finbar Craig
15
Sweeping back the curtain like a shadow that had hung over us all morning The nurse pointed us in the right direction. In the tiny bathroom I scrubbed the drops of iodine from your naked shoulders, as gently as I could While the doctors coughed and clicked their pens. The sterile air how heavy it was I let you lean on me
cradle
as my unsteady feet With unexpected familiarity brought us back inside the net. In their timeless words the instructions made it clear that we would each one walk out that much lighter Such relief I never knew as I cradled you to me. Words: Aisling O’Mahony
17
fading Was it worth it? Ask yourself. And when you find the answer tell me. Stiff bodies in a show of duty That’s what we were. Not cold, not warm. Complete indifference. I think. The plane it punctures the clouds and the heart; for once, we face a prolonged goodbye. Viscous tears make ripples in memories. The life. The years. Tiny fractures, when repeated, cause a break. Can it be repaired? Spent a lifetime searching, yearning to understand the fault. Words: Aisling O’Mahony
The Spider Away she flees,
a silken silver web to weave; she knows the pattern well. Carefree you spin and turn about the air. Teasing back and forth yet ever closer. Blinded by those iridescent eyes, you see she dances toward you; you have not seen the discarded bodies strewn before you. The first innocent embrace... One bite is all it takes. Now she spins you to her will. I have been bound. The poison lingers in the wound. I cannot help. Away she flees, a silken silver web to weave; She knows the pattern well. Words: Aisling O’Mahony
19
PROSE
20
Farewell
I used to hate it when time came for mommy to leave me with a teacher who had too many teeth especially when she smiled. All the other girls wore their hair in perfect ponytails while mine was as scruffy as my poodle’s tail from having fallen asleep in the car. “It’s time for a rhyme” my teacher had announced “Would you like to start us off Ruchenda?” I was crying to put the River Nile to shame, I was banging the door down like it was my only way out from the land of the dead, I was tearing out my tonsils, did she think I was in any mood to burst into a rhyme? “Ruchenda sweetheart, please come here and take a seat” “No, I won’t. I want my mommy!” I protested. “Mommy will come back for you, she always does sweety. Now tell me what comes after ‘three little monkeys jumping on the bed, one fell down and broke his head…” The teacher lifted her finger to tap her chin “I wonder what comes next…” I wiped off my tears and finished “Mommy called the doctor and doctor said: no more monkeys jumping on the bed.” “Yes, that’s it. You are so smart!” A few moments after I had to say goodbye to mom, I settled fine. Mom did always come back to collect me of course. Little did I know that when people say goodbye, they barely ever come back and I actually had it easier than most people and nothing really to complain about. I found it the hardest thing to do to say goodbye to my high-school friends at graduation because by then I had understood that concept. We were looking our potential best, make-up dripping down our faces. A lot of cheesy things were said, promises were made, numbers were exchanged. We would always stay in touch and all that. None of my friends would even be in the same county since all were going to be in different colleges. Kate was the prettiest of the four of us, and was looking stunning as usual in her purple gown. She had a heart of gold but not many people could say that. She was popular, smart, and beautiful but every now and then she would crumble to a bag of nerves. Very sensitive, our Kate! And then there was Amanda, I don’t think she even had a heart. When she started all those derogatory rumors about other people, I just wondered if there was any part of her that was ever guilty. One couldn’t say as she had chosen to do Journalism and wanted to specialize in paparazzi writing. I know I felt guilty about playing a part in encouraging those rumors especially now that I look back at it. But at the time, my friends’ actions were the code of behavior. And then there was my best friend, Cindy, who was going to be living with me at our students’ apartment. Many people thought she was actually a man, I think Amanda may have started that rumor. She certainly wasn’t very feminine. But she was and always will be my best friend. I lost touch with Kate and Amanda over the years. I did cry a lot when I bade farewell to them but I had learned not to slam the door down to express my grief. I understood that it was acceptable that we had chosen different paths in life. I did not like the two of them sometimes and often wished for better high-school friends but when I had to leave them, I thought that I would do anything to keep them
in my life and wondered that if I did not have to leave them, would I have ever
wasn’t an adequate mother,
have realized what they meant to me. I did not do much to keep them in my life though, which is why I haven’t seen them in years. I do remember them many a times quite fondly and sometimes regret their absence from my life but even
hung up on my job. I earned more and had done well for myself and I think he could
if they did come back, I don’t think I’ll be able to embrace them as if no time
not live with that. Things
had passed. That I could do when I was in preschool. When mom came back to
became exceptionally worse
collect me, I hugged her with all my heart and forgot that I was mad at her for
after he lost his job. I got
leaving me and that I could survive without her even if it were only for a few hours. And I knew that mom would love me the same way again even if she had
Jack’s custody since I was the one with earnings and
not been with me for a while. But I could not say for sure that I meant the same
a place to live. Nick offered
to my friends as they did to me. They possibly had accustomed to my absence
to move out even though
from their life long before I had. So, saying goodbye does not actually mean that
we had joint ownership of
people don’t come back, it rather means that the feelings once associated with that person don’t. A few months later, I was getting ready to move out. For the
the house. I wondered if he was going to go back to
first time my room looked bare. I think I had forgotten the color of the carpet.
selling popcorn at a soccer
As I was standing at the door with my bags ready to go, I looked around the
stadium. Maybe I would
room thinking I should’ve taken better care of it. The crayon marks that I had drawn on the wall in my childhood were still there, despite mom’s best efforts to remove them. My torn teddies and armless dolls that normally escaped my attention made my eyes misty. I would come back to stay at home and my bedroom will be there but without the lazy smell of a quiet evening or the heat of my new-found temper or the bliss from minor high-school victories or the essence of my childhood. It would just be a bedroom minus everything that made it mine. But did I really want to stay at my parents’ place for the rest of my life? No. Then why was it so hard for me to leave? If I were given any prodding, I would have unpacked, switched back into my pyjamas and stayed back to watch the soccer game with dad. Fortunately, I did not do that. Unfortunately though, I did miss the game. Nevertheless, I would’ve caught up on a lot of soccer now that I was going to be living with Cindy. The tears that I left on my pillow would have been washed away after laundry day, I wondered which day I would have to wait for to drain out my internal despair. The first few weeks of college were hard like they are for most people. But after I got used to the new environment, I began to feel that my old life was much like a dream. Then one day, I met my dream man at a soccer match. He was wearing a summer cap selling popcorn.
fall in love with him all over again. I felt heartbroken the day he left. The right half of my closet was now empty, no more shoes in the living room for me to trip on, no more waking up early on a Saturday morning from the noise of our bedroom TV, no more fridge door left open, no more Nick, no more Nick! No more Nick. Heavens knows I wanted that but why didn’t it feel good when he was leaving? I often used Jack as an excuse to stay with him but the truth was that it was me who could not let go, until now. The ‘teeth of time’ as Yeats puts it, eat up our lives one stage after another until there is no more. Every stage ends at a goodbye of some
“Butter or salt?” was the first thing he ever said to me. “Ruchenda!” my friends nudged me as I got lost in his green eyes “What do you want?” “Uh… salt is fine” I said. As I discovered (totally by accident!), that he didn’t live very far away from our apartment and I actually had seen him around just not in a silly summer camp for him to leave an impact on me. We became friends. He asked for a date, I said yes. He proposed, I said yes. So after we both finished our undergraduate, we took each other to our parents’ houses who were delighted and a few months later we got married. Nick really was anyone’s dream guy. He listened without interrupting, he always knew what to do, he smiled as if he had invented happiness, every time he squinted his eyes, it was as if all the birds were up to mischief. I never thought anyone’s teeth could be so perfect until I saw his. His tanned skin complemented his brown hair that he always kept scattered over his forehead. We had a very happy married life but as the years took away his hair, the petals of our love also began to shed until we were left with only thorns. I don’t blame Nick. But if I say that I would only be trying to sound dignified. He made me dig my own grave with my bare hands. Every moment of every day, he’d made my life hell. Whether it was midlife crisis or something else, I don’t know. By then we had a ten-year-old son, Jack. I felt most guilty when I thought about him thinking how my childhood would’ve been ruined had my parents gotten divorced. But I don’t think I could’ve lived through another argument about how I wasn’t mature enough, never took care of the house,
sort, to childhood, to youth, success, failure, everything ends but the fascinating part is that most of us embrace that finite nature of our life episodes. People will always want to say goodbye even if it hurts them the most. And one day I will have to say it to Jack and I will be happy about it, that he’s earned his independence. The only thing I don’t understand is the ‘Good’ in the first half of ‘Goodbye’ when there really is nothing pleasant about it. For once I could live knowing that everything in life, and life itself will end but at least we should have the power to write the ending.
Hospital
I think the man beside me is crazy. A stream of saliva runs from mouth to ear as he stares at the plinking of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. It’s morbidly fascinating to look at. I take in the rest of him. His stark white skin stretched over his clavicle which rises sharply as he breathes in and out. He is so silent, lying there in the bed next to mine, thin curtain pushed aside. So silent that I want to scream. But I can’t, this is a hospital. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. I’m just here for a few tests and stuff like that. I mean, it’s cold and the walls are a loamy shade of green that I’m sure nobody finds comforting, but there’s this pulse that the hospital has, regular and monitored. No surprises. It’s nice to look at the clock and know that in five minutes the nurse will come to take your blood pressure or someone will be there to talk to you while you eat. I like that. But sometimes it can get boring. There isn’t much to do except watch T.V. or stare at the ceiling. Mum and Dad come at five every evening to visit me under the spotlight of the bedside lamp. Mum talks nervously and Dad plays the silent type, hands behind his back as he wanders through the room, stalling to pick up an object and place it back down again. That’s it. That’s all that ever happens. I pluck my eyes away from the man beside me. Two of my fingers tap of their own accord on the railings around the bed. I want to go outside. From the smeared window I can see a banner of grey sky and something more. I know there is something more out there. Pulling on a coat over my pyjamas I nod goodbye at the crazy man. He does not notice me. I walk through the stark halls of the ward. My feet take me where they want to go. They lead down the stairs three times, past the nurse’s station, slipping out the automatic doors, to sneak past the omnipotent voice urging me with stern maternity to please wash my hands. They settle me at a sagging bench outside. Flopping down, I slip a packet of cigarettes from my coat pocket. Smoking is my new hobby. This is how bored I am; shrugging off this mortal coil with tar and nicotine. Plus, they were a present. The first time my friend Seán came to visit me he slapped the white and red box in my palm. “They’ll come in handy here,” is what he said. “This is a hospital, Seán, not a prison,” I laughed. I laughed some more until the nurses came in to tell me to be quiet. I think I upset Seán. He hasn’t come back. I click my lighter three times. No flame, great. I lean back looking at the pigeon shit sky, the cigarette suspended in my mouth. A bubble of irritation pops in my stomach. I’m so stupid. Why can’t I be - “Need a light?” A girl in a navy blue dress is standing before me. She reaches out her lighter and I cup the flame with my hand. “Thank you.” I say through the smoke. The girl sits on the bench beside me. She smiles and I see that she has a gap between her teeth. She’s so pretty. I am suddenly aware of myself, how an acre of bony ankle lies between the hem of my pyjamas and my shoe. Every word I have ever spoken gets caught in my throat. She is too pretty. I lean closer because she smells like oranges and old newspapers and then I am falling, falling, falling through the gap between her teeth as it grows bigger and my body is weightless as I soar through the dark of her mouth. It feels like my stomach is being sucked down to my knees and there is this light at the end of her trachea. Perhaps I am being transported to her lungs. She’ll cough me up one day and imprison me in a tissue. I land with a soft “poof” in her bronchiole and the white light engulfs me as she breathes in and oxygen dances around my head. “Jeremy? Jeremy, are you alright?” I am lying down. I focus my eyes at the figure that stands above me. An older woman dressed in navy looks at my briskly. “He’s been like this all bloody day,” she intones to a younger woman dressed the same, who tends to another person lying on a bed. “Just looking at the ceiling.” The younger one clucks her tongue as she presses buttons on some machine. The older woman walks away, fed up with me. I look up. The fluorescent spasms in its plastic casing, giving day a bad impression. My clavicle rises as I breathe in. I’m so silent. So silent that I want to scream. But I can’t, this is a hospital. Words: Dearbhaile Houston
23
The Essence of it All Ah, there it is. The old coffeehouse. The beaten armchair with the fluff coming out the side. The dark circlet stains on the scraped, worn tables. The smell of memories and dust and love. There it is: the essence of it all. It was dark that day, an overcast sort of downtrodden feel to the place. Winter was fast approaching and the air was really starting to nip at the bones so we held each other tight and did that awkward couple-shuffle down the windy avenue. That always was my favourite little street; cobblestoned and speckled with intrigue, oddities dotting the lane and quirky shops on every side, a small art gallery and an antique book store, the second-hand factory and the coffeehouse. Oh, the coffeehouse. But less of that now, more later. We were smiling, weren’t we? I remember you had been telling me a story or a joke or some little anecdotal romance or, or, or… No, we were definitely smiling, and the wind was blowing us about something fierce, and you started laughing as my hat blew off and we chased it down and… No, was that later perhaps? Or before? Before. That day we were silent. It was dark and depressed; pathetic fallacy, hello old boy. Your eyes were turned down, watching every movement of your feet as though if you took your gaze away you might never hit rock bottom and just float away down that little street with the books and the art and the dust gathering on the shelves and the torn armchair and I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m all mixed up. It was dark, and you were dark, and we drank dark coffee ground from a dark bean grown in a dark place. But the mug was star white, and your lipstick pressed so softly against the ceramic it left a little print, a little bit of you dying right there. Stuck to a mug. Some poor bastards mug. Some sorry fellows lifetime of effort. Some worthless piece of kitsch. It didn’t even hold the heat very well. Never drink your coffee cold. So we were heart-hardened and sorry-faced and it was windy or wet or cold or something miserable and horrible and crazy so we entered swift footed and sure: the coffeehouse. Still small, still cramped in that homely way with tidbits here and trinkets there like you’d just stumbled upon someone’s kitchen and grandma is there baking pie and waiting to pinch your cheek and ask you all about the lovely girl on your arm and won’t you just have one small cup of coffee sure isn’t it bitter out. Bitter. It’s always so god-dammed bitter here. So we did, we sat and we chit-chatted small talk to the kind owner and bobbed our heads to the existential music and contemplated nihilism and then you kissed your mug and the lipstick stuck and it rained and it rained and it rained. So we had more, and we pondered the nature of rain and debated providence and divinity and you told me all about that one time you were at your mother’s house in the countryside and you potted.
24
You potted. Flowers and herbs and shrubbery and things like that. We sat there being rained upon and pissing away our youth in a shitty, cramped, dilapidated coffeehouse while a perverted old imp of a man over-charged us for his barely heated bitter black crap and you discussed the various way to pot plants. And I loved it. The smell of Arabia’s finest mingling with the dust and your coco best and your hair draped over your left shoulder as you twiddled a loose curl and we kissed and held and just pissed away our youth and I loved it. But as I mentioned, it was dark and now darker still. So we left and parted ways by the street lamp and you said will I see you tomorrow and I said of course, of course and I was so sure of it, so certain, so arrogantly young that I couldn’t hear the hidden lines and the lies and when you left I left and we just left it at that. And now here, again. Here in the coffeehouse on the small street. With the windows all broken and the doors jammed up and the stained mug now missing your atoms and the smell of rat urine powers through and I think did it happen like that? That’s the essence of it, anyway. Words: Shane Vaughan
Round and round, onwards and upwards a spiral stair formed a spine through
but from practice making perfect.
the house. It snaked its way to the very rafters, passing landings with locked
Those who breathed the same air
doors leading to other rooms and other worlds. The house was majestic yet menacing in its four story glory. Bare wood steps creaked with memories
as she or who treaded the same earth never would understand her.
weighing on their naked form. Exposed and humbled now, the pealing paper
Never could they accept all that
divulged the years of servitude given to various inhabitants.
made her if they could not accept all that was themselves.
Socialites be-frocked had met guests with smiles at the foot of the stair. Later brushes of hands on banisters made vows unholy and intimate.
His unresponsiveness was preferable to their indifference,
The climax of the winding path became the refuge of illicit love. Years later
and the empathy that was in his
the stairs saw small footsteps, toys and tantrums, then division of dwellers and
eyes also trumped the apathetic
dwellings. Gold gilt frames no longer mirrored strings of pearls or silk and lace;
humanity. She sat a shabby
the walls were now left bare by those who wished not to see any more than they need. A pause as the key turned achingly in the latch, she swept in with a
kettle on a gas hob; it sang its eerie song to a lonely teacup
gust of the gale and the breath of the 21st century. Boots, bag and a jingle of
for one. The cat on the tea cosy
beads trounced upwards not halting until the human bundle came face to face
played with a ball of wool, its
with the attic door. There was another pause, another key and another sigh. She turned the doorknob with hands red and raw from the cold, the curse of the gloveless and feckless. Here her hands lingered as she felt the gnarled engraving. A pointed nose and protruding mouth almost bit her fingers. The same fingers ran their way up to a pair of deep set marble eyes. An old fashioned face for an old fashioned door handle, aesthetics so stern they would seem out of place in today’s Cheshire cat civilisation.
only playmate. The clock chimed and a small bearded man in lederhosen appeared, his equally alpine companion had been lost years ago to wear and tear, the time piece still clanged hourly if not more subdued, as if in mourning. On an armchair, that like everything else in the room had seen its best days pass by, she sat as battered as the old kettle. In one delicate hand she caressed the teacup and in the other a letter. She read aloud to her framed friend, not thinking to blush when her voice echoed words of intimacy. She repeated the lines of love as if it were a script, given to a newly appointed player. The player, unsatisfied with the merit of the playwright scoffed and shrugged in disapproving defiance. Alighting from her perch like a bird newly
The girl smiled even though she knew her convivial gesture would not be returned. Having said her hellos to the lifeless object of her affection she crossed the threshold. She entered the room, her room; she closed the creaking door, half in desperation to keep out the despairing world outside. The room to the uninitiated would seem on first glance a perfect example of chaos. Objects strewn in disarray could rival any pointillist painting in their optical effect. A tin of coffee pre dating the war and a bottle of wine pre dating the legality of its owner’s consumption sat side by side in one cramped corner. In another corner of the room lay frocks and frills of charity shop origin, highlighted by a copper lamp peering over them in bemusement. From the window seat a grinning mink watched the world of relative order trundle on outside. It seemed to laugh at the folly of the neat but bare existence of trees lining the avenue below. Hundreds more items clung to their patch of space, like minions they guarded the room for the girl, her collection of little war torn soldiers needing a home. On the mantel piece the crowning glory of the room hung. A dark haired stranger was perched dressed in red velvet cape and satin shirt, like everything else in the room he was in the awkward position of belonging to neither house nor era, imprisoned in gold gilt, at odds with the years that passed. Eyes of palest blue were set deep in an honourable forehead, like puddles after rain they reflected images back but gave nothing away of what could lie beneath. It was on those watery crystals the girl gazed first on her entrance of the room. A day in reality made her brow furrow but a single glance on the face of brush stroke perfection released the knotted skin of dispassionate airs, giving way instead to the tender creases of a smile. Neither the boy at the crumbling newsagents where she bought cherished cigarettes nor the physics student with the polite small talk on the floor above could ever hope to recreate that dimpled arch of lips. The beacon of beauty spoke no words of genial conversation, she was courted by paint and brush and aesthetics of gentlemanly enticement. Fascination was her bouquet of flowers brought by suitors and mystery the strings of pearls or diamond rings of Christmases and birthdays. She was allured by the unknown and the authenticity of emotion in his fine face. A moment had captured a mien of melancholy that so intrigued and enticed her. In a world of fallacy it was easier to believe in the painting rather than the deceptions of those who choose to delude themselves and others. An expertise in pretence resulted not from instantaneous inspiration
released from its cage she ran towards the mantle and the man adorning it. Looking upwards she stared at the mesmerising eyes and quietened once again. Without hesitation she confidently cast the repulsive piece to its fiery grave. It settled among the embers of other words and sentences and punctuations. They whom no longer warmed the heart warmed the hand instead. As if searching for endorsement in his eyes she again stared at the painting, her painting. In his face of masculine beauty there was no reproach. There would be no speech on the possibilities, plausibility, the “what ifs”, the “buts” or the whys. No one could accuse her but nor could they
console, for she did not wish for words of pity, but neither did she require the comforting touch or gentle whisper. She wanted numbness. Her heart needed to be cleansed of every sinew of emotion, of feelings that could smother or stab better than any material weapon. Objects were not to be feared, the only frightening things in this world were the capabilities and inconsistencies of the human condition. Friends faded away just as patterns on huge velvet curtains were gradually taken by thieving fingers of sunlight. They had disappeared when looking for the hidden became too arduous a task. Retreating ever further into her own lair she vanished completely to them and they to her. Almost indistinguishable from articles of her created edifice she ignored the world of man for the world of matter. The only other human face to see the haunt of was that of oils and acrylics, only he kept watch, only he could alight in her a sense of beauty without breaking her heart. Neither could she break his. He was not favoured by the coursing of blood through his majestic veins; he was immune to her faults and failings. She could not hurt him. This gave her comfort immeasurable, in their liaison they were above mortal liabilities, above guilt, shame, and obligation. She got up and hazily toured her habitable treasure trove, one small foot put deliberately in front of the other as if she wanted to conceal movement, as if treading on egg shells. She stopped just short of the array of candelabra on the French sideboard, and began to sob. Tears dropped as she crumbled to the floor at remembered pasts. Pasts not of polished clocks or histories of boxes and baskets, earlier lives of ornaments were not in question or even the bygone years of the tattered house. Instead she recalled her own past, and cried for her future. Her future was here among the only remnants of her former life, the letters were burned, as had been the photos but all that was bequeathed was kept. It was kept because it had not been graced with the heaving breath of life. It was void of human touch. All the hurt and pain could not be felt in cast iron or tapestry but their beauty could be consolation.
Objects family the friends and tefacts became shutting f el Objects and ar rs dug for he a grave she had med face fra watching over jection. The ugliness and re of rld wo e to her th t in ou ortal allowed girl, the only m e th at ver on ed look rt her, could ne it could never hu e, dg ju t the no d di di life. It lowered as d r know. Her head ve ne d ul wo le r, a cand leave he se, a photo and w in a white ro young e coffin. She thre th r, and love ed, brother, son Tears of . stick, sadly miss 42 r e at numbe e antiques stor She stood y. proprietor of th ars of the guilt wed, and the te flo ed , his iev gr m e th e scarlet wo an in red shoes, th an m wo ; the e th em e th besid en between word was spok a t No . an ey m th wo g other l the thin cast. “All men kil be t no d ul co e d. first ston in her min His rds formulated wo d ne ar le ng love� the lo lips, cast iron, arlet woman’s sc e th on t bu stone kiss of death fate and hers. A nce sealed his ties and du al wax and vengea r him, her fin she arranged fo e on st ad ating he be b r sla n. Alas he r, her only optio he r fo t ar he gile as e fra a ston t to glass, as anite turned, bu gr to t no ter. s wa heart , waiting to shat rs left unpacked lie de an ch l ta the crys hlan
ug Words: Aoife Co
27
Judging a Book by its Cover I held my gaze, but a few more seconds and scarlet-red embarrassment would stain my face. She wouldn’t shrug off anything past two seconds as an innocent peek, she’d consider it some sort of statement from me, not that I have anything to back up such a statement. My eyes shifted their focus to a nearby wall after a leisurely second and half stare, a second and three quarters at most. In an exaggerated attempt to convince the girl I wasn’t looking at her, I really eyeballed the wall; making the wall seem like the only thing that could have been of any interest in the near-empty university café. I stared down the glossy beige with such blinkered focus that I caught her glancing towards it too, too see what the fuss is about. Satisfied the situation was defused I returned to my book. The book was a dog-eared classic loaned to me by a friend. Daunted by the heft of the thing I quickly flicked through the yellowed pages, checking the back for the page count. I contemplated skipping the introduction. I delayed this thought by filling a flimsy paper cup with coffee, using the movement as an opportunity to steal one more glance. She was deep in a book; her straightened brown hair was close enough to brush the pages. With only the waitress to judge me, I took a more liberal look, but this angle only revealed one plump cheek and the tip of an eyelash. A man I had put in his fifties thumbed through a binder in the remaining corner. His beard was as thick as his hair and judging by his heavy brown jacket I assume he was a college professor. Not one of mine. My book hadn’t gotten any thinner since I left, so I opted to skip the introduction. I couldn’t accept the first sentence, it was too cryptic. Granted, everything with any pretention towards greatness wouldn’t dare have a conventional introduction, but this was just taking the piss. I had only just sat down and had blown two euro on coffee, so I began to feign reading, turning the page every few minutes to add to the illusion. She still sat in the opposite corner, with an apparently far better book. I kept her outline in the corner of my eyes as I gulped some coffee. I placed the cup down, with the deliberate care of someone who hadn’t just drank liquid fire. I spat the coffee back into the cup, with all the grace of a toddler. She looked first this time, but the accusing eyes veiled by her thick fringe felt no embarrassment, the embarrassment was mine to bear. I replied with an apologetic smile, and she nodded down, returning to her book, but the curls at the ends of her lips betrayed her amusement. My lips were still dripping and wiping my forearm across my face only widened her grin. It soon faded and she continued reading. The possible professor loudly clacked an empty coffee mug on his table and rose to leave, saying something apparently hilarious to the waitress. He walked out the door and around a corner; his footsteps squeaking off the tiles until he reached the staircase. The campus was always quiet on a Sunday, especially Sunday morning. The professor’s movement warranted the remaining customers, me and her, to raise our heads, but I only got as far as the white of her eye before consciousness pulled me back to page twenty four of the book I was yet to start. The final pages of her book were between her fingers. Her face was even closer to it. As one does when they spot an interesting stranger, I started making general assumptions. She was reading a book in public alone on a Sunday morning: not something done by well-adjusted socialites. I was doing it after all. She wore baggy jeans, a hoody, and a pair of white runners, so she was not out to impress anyone.
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Every piece of criticism I could think of raised my
I wasn’t stalking, we really just happened to be going in the
confidence further, dragging her below me so she’d be
same direction. I noticed I was walking faster than usual;
looking up. I had a habit of admiring someone’s flaws instead of their qualities. Or are flaws qualities?
the sort of walk you make when you want to hide the fact you’re in a hurry, but then the squeaking of sole on lino had
Either way, she had what I perceived as the ideal balance of charms and flaws. She turned over the back cover and
stopped. I rounded the next corner head-first, stepping onto green carpet. The staircase and lifts were ahead; a
lay down the book with visible satisfaction, giving another
woman exited the lift and passed me, but nobody else.
half glance towards my end of the café. She rose from the table, leaving the book behind, and sat down a minute later
I slipped into the closing lift with just as tinge of regret. A petit hand grabbed the lift door before it shut, followed
with coffee. She glossed over the book’s back cover as she drank, periodically checking her phone. She only looked
by a mumbled cross between a “sorry”, and a “woah”. She gave me an apologetic look squeezing into the lift,
at the phone for seconds each time, which meant she was
the kind of look you’d give someone who had caught you
checking the time, or waiting for someone to contact her. I hoped it was the embarrassing third option; that she was
spitting coffee back into the cup. I just smiled back, and then looked at my feet, and then her white runners.
just attempting to look busy. She shot me a curious look,
The doors shut on mutual silence, but it was relieved by the whirring of the lift’s descent. Her pink cheeks warmed
a look that made me realise I had been unsubtly facing her for at least a minute straight. I felt the heat seep into my cheeks as I stared back to my table, keeping focused on the veneer’s grain pattern for minutes. I took the slightest of looks as I gulped tepid coffee, but all that was left of her was the liquid ring of her cup, which the waitress’ cloth pounced upon instantly. Of course, it was at this moment clarity struck me; she had seemed friendly enough, and probably would have been as grateful for someone to talk to as I would. We could have compared books, which would have quickly led to asking about her hobbies, promptly followed by skipping together through meadows, and watching the sunset. The waitress had nothing to focus on but me now. This was partly the reason I followed the girl immediately. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear two sets of feet, both down the same corridor.
me from my end of our little room, and over the lift’s din I could hear her eyelashes swish. “Hi” I said without thinking. “Hi” She replied, for the first time not trying to hide a smile. She gripped a book to her stomach with both hands and its cover in plain sight; Paradise by Katie Price. I swung away from her and waited the seven seconds it took to land on the ground floor. I stepped out first, and presumably she stepped out afterwards. I was out the front door and halfway home before I looked back. Words: Tom Horan
The Norris Assassination
30
The young man had been waiting patiently for some time now, and was becoming anxious. Though the library was
“Because you said Norris was your enemy and I know he’s always attacking Israel, and you’re all cloak and dagger like
reasonably quiet, there were still people walking past him
something in a spy movie, and also then there’s the way
every few minutes, and in his paranoid state he worried that someone would think him suspicious and come over to ask what exactly he was doing there. Just as the clock turned twelve, after he had been waiting for twenty minutes, a man approached him from the side. “John?” he said, as if speaking to no one in particular. John turned quickly, and got his first glimpse of the person who had sent him the email, or at least he assumed that this was indeed the sender. He was a short, plump little man, about thirty five years old perhaps, with thick rimmed glasses hanging low down on his rather prominent nose. There was a large envelope tucked under his left arm that immediately drew John’s attention. “Yes,” John replied, looking the stranger straight in the eye. “Glad you came. Sorry about the precautions.” “Well I just hope it was worth my while, Mr..?” “I could give you a false name, but I won’t. Call me “X”. And yes, I think this will be worth your while. You have been sitting in the same spot for some time and we can’t be too careful; let’s take a walk.” X motioned towards the far end of the library, and began to walk briskly towards a small desk set slightly apart from the nearby shelves, from where they could see who
you reacted to me asking if you were Israeli, I mean look, you’re sweating...” “Enough!” he replied sharply, as he furrowed his brow nervously. “Oy! I must be the worst spy in the world; you saw right through me. Anyway, ok, I’ll level with you. I’m an Israeli intelligence operative.” “Mossad?” “Yes, that’s us.” “Holy crap! What are you doing over here talking to the likes of me? Shouldn’t you be off smothering some Arab terrorist with his own pillow or something?” John laughed sheepishly, suddenly realising the seriousness of what he had said. “Don’t believe everything you read,” X said, as he gently slipped his glasses off. “We’re a large organisation, with a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. We do this, we do that, most of the time you don’t hear what this or that is of course. You get the message?” “Oh yeah. Loud and clear.” Here he was, talking to a secret agent for one of the world’s most fearsome intelligence agencies. He had a quick look around him before continuing on. “So, are you strapped?”
was coming and going, while also ensuring their privacy. There was no danger of anyone interrupting them, or overhearing, in fact this was probably as quiet a spot as they would find, just as X had intended. “I think you know why you’re here John.
“What?” X replied. “Are you strapped? You know, packing?” “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you’re saying...” “Strapped. Packing. Heated up. Do you have a fucking gun man?”
We’ve been following your work for some time now, and we’re highly impressed.” “That’s all well and good, but before we go any further, I want to know who I’m talking to, and who you represent.” “No,” X replied coolly, “I’m not going to tell you that John.
“An intelligence agent never tells,” he smiled. “Come on, let me see it. Is it revolver? Is it an Uzi? That’s an Israeli gun, right? The Uzi?” “No John, I’m not in the habit of bringing submachine guns to the library. I do however have my custom
Suffice it to say that I’m part of a very sophisticated intelligence agency, and one that has a vested interest in your progress in the world of blogging. We have a shared interest, you and I, a shared enemy. Norris.” “Norris from Coronation Street? Yeah, I hate the fucker.” “No, John. Norris from the Seanad, the one who’s running for President.” “Wait a second,” John said, leaning forward. “Are you an Israeli?” “No!” X said, visibly taken aback. “What gave you that idea?”
made Israeli exploding pen...” “Really? What’s that like?” “It’s like the one James Bond uses; except it’s louder, and costs less. Anyway, I’ve told you more than enough about my organisation. It’s time to get on to more important matters.” He began carefully cleaning his glasses with a wipe, speaking in a voice so low John could barely hear across the table. “You’re a blogger, and a good one at that. You’ve written nice things about our Promised Land, and we appreciate it.” “Oh, thanks,” John said, blushing.
“But that’s not why I came here. I’m here because there’s a man running for President of your country who has really
boyfriend got into a spot of bother back home. He was involved in a statutory rape case, and it looked like he
pissed us off over the years. This guy has called us a rogue
might go to prison. Then the good senator sent this to the
state, he has said we’re operating a concentration camp in Gaza, he’s said all kinds of stuff about Israel. At first, we were prepared to let it slide, but when we saw him leading in the opinion polls, we started to get worried.” “Why should it bother you though? The presidency doesn’t really matter in my country. It’s a ceremonial role; Irish presidents don’t have any power in the world.” “No power!” he exclaimed, putting his glasses back on. “The Irish president has immense power. I know you’re going a tough patch at the moment, but don’t underestimate the influence you Paddies have on the world. When the Irish President speaks, people listen. And when President Norris says that we’re Nazis, people will listen, and take note. We couldn’t allow that to happen, it would be a threat to Israel’s security, a threat to our existence.” “Really?” “Believe it John. Stopping Norris means more to us than anything. This is Mossad’s top priority right now; Hamas and Hezbollah can do whatever they like this month.” It was all becoming a bit much for John, as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. “Ok, right. You don’t want Norris to be president.
court.” X opened the envelope, took out a piece of paper, and handed it to John. “This is potentially devastating evidence, right here. Norris goes on at some length about who he is, how he feels his partner was innocent, whilst never once saying a word about what the victim experienced. He also wrote the thing on parliamentary paper, for some unknown reason.” “God! That’s a bit of a booboo alright,” John replied, as he slowly scanned the contents. “If this got out, it would be curtains for Norris. At least I think it would be; he’s gotten pretty good at dodging stuff like this.” “Yes,” X said in a rather bitter tone. “We know that all too well. You’re not the first person we approached you know. We’ve been after Norris for months now; in fact it’s starting to consume me. But now that I’ve found my man, I think I can rest easy. Do you know what you’re expected to do with this information?” John was distracted, away in his own little world. As he read through the letter, he could see that Norris had made a grievous error. Being familiar with the law, John knew that this just wasn’t right. At the moment, he thought, Norris is going to be our next president, but when this comes out everything will change.
I got that much. But why are you telling me all this? I mean I’ll probably go home to vote but I’m only one man. The media loves Norris, and it looks like he’s got the election sewn up more or less, provided he gets his name on the ballot paper.”
“John? Do you understand what I want you to do?” “Oh sorry, yes, I do. I’ll take this home with me, have a good read and familiarise myself with it. Then I’ll write a piece on my blog about it, and I’ll post a copy of the letter. I’ve a good few readers, so there’s bound to me some
“Yes, but what would happen if he didn’t get the support of enough people to get on that ballot paper?” “Then he wouldn’t become president. He couldn’t, under our Constitution he needs the support of twenty members of the Oireachtas, or four county councils.”
commotion pretty soon. But there’s one problem. What am I supposed to say when people ask me how I got hold of this? I can’t say it was Mossad, so will I say that an Israeli friend sent it to me? Somebody working in the courts, perhaps?”
X smiled broadly, before pushing the envelope he had a little further across the table. “We have information that will cause Mr. Norris more than a little embarrassment, and we’re willing to hand it over to you, provided you publish it on that blog of yours.” They stopped talking for a moment, as an elderly man made his way slowly towards the print room. John’s attention was drawn to the mysterious envelope, and to what it might contain. “What’s the information?” he asked. “Well John, it’s like this. Back in 1997, Norris’s Israeli
“No. We don’t want any suspicion pointing towards Israel. People already have enough wacko theories about Jewish conspiracies without you saying that an Israeli gave it to you. Apparently we control the world’s media, the American government, Wall Street, and now we’re going to be accused of influencing the Irish presidential election.” “But you are influencing it...” “Well, sometimes we do influence things, at least a little. Anyway, I think it’s quite likely that Norris supporters will blame the Knights of Columbanus for this, or maybe Opus Dei. They’ll probably think that it’s a vast homophobic
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conspiracy to stop a gay man from becoming president. That’s beside the point however. Your job is to come up with a plausible alibi as to how you came into possession of this letter. Why don’t you say one of the other candidates sent it to you?” “Well, yeah, maybe that could work. Ever hear tell of Michael D. Higgins?” “Yes, the little leprechaun fellow with the poetry. He’s the Labour candidate; do you think people will believe that Labour is behind this?” “Hardly. Those bollixes couldn’t organise a decade of the rosary in a convent; no way could they pull off something like this.” X scratched his head for a minute while he thought about it. As he looked across the table at him, John could only imagine how many successful intelligence operations X had carried out. “I know what you’ll do,” X began. “You’ll say that a friend of yours in the Labour Party told you about the letter, and that you looked into it. That way, you’re pointing towards them, but not accusing them of anything. And it takes the suspicion off Israel.” X rose from his chair, and held out his hand to John. “It’s time for me to go. Wait here for ten minutes before leaving, and do not attempt to follow me. You understand everything now, I presume?” “Yes, thank you, X.” With that X began to walk briskly. After a few moments waiting at the table, a thought sprung into John’s mind. A random question, for which he needed an answer. He got up quickly, and went after X, catching up with him near the bottom of the staircase he had been ascending. “Sir,” he said, before X turned and saw it was John. They stepped to one side, and John began to whisper to him. “I have one question.” “Go on,” said X, looking rather intrigued. “What happens if people don’t think there was any conspiracy, whether it is Israel, or homophobes, or Labour or anything. What happens if people think that this was just something I uncovered as a journalist, and then revealed, you know, for the public’s interest or whatever? They’ll think that I’m a liar for saying it was Labour...” X laughed out loud, and smiled at John in a way he hadn’t during their initial conversation. “Now John,” he said, “that’s just silly. David Norris being taken down without any conspiracy at all? Impossible. No sane person would believe that story.” Words: James Bradshaw
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