- CAVEAT LECTOR X -

CAVEAT LECTOR
Issue 10

1

Contents
Window
By Katie Garrett
A long Cold Wall in North Dakota
By John-Joe Twomey
Re-evaluations
By Mary Kavanagh
Maggie Comes Home
By Cormac Kelly
R​evêrie
By Katie Farrell
Impression
By Beth Daly
p4
p5
p5
p7
p9
p10
My Dearest Nostalgia
By Rachel O’Sullivan p12
The Way the Clouds Move
By Pauric Daniels
Untitled
Anon
Ink
By Alexandra
The Yellow Coupe Car
By Katie Farrell
If you listen closely
By Shane MacDomhnaill
River
By Ellen O’Brien
As babies
By Katie Farrell
p13
p19
p19
p20
p21
p25
p26
2

Parfum
By Julia Labedz
p27
Rose to the Occasion
By LJ Morris
Sunday Lunch
By Beth Daly
p28
p33
City Reflections
Anon p35
Hope
By Manvi Jindal
Waytown
By Sophie Nichols
Doorways
By E. Boyle
Into the soil
By Katie Farrell
Cherish
By Jordan Feeley
The Replantation of Old Trees & Divorce
By Julia Labedz
p35
p36
p40
p41
p42
p43
Artwork and Photography by
Hikmat Akano
E. Boyle
Chiao Chen
Jordan Feeley
Manvi Jindal
John-Joe Twomey
Cover photo: John-Joe Twomey - Statue edit
Chiao Chen - Golden Leaves
3

Window
One window is yellow as butter.
— Eavan Boland, This Moment
There are lifetimes in light. Crane the neck and there, far from
street-view, is
Polaris for the key-gripping girl or drunk stumbler.
Gold meets steel moonlight in a sea of midnight concrete
at this egg-yolk siren and muntin compass, glazed and double-paned.
Inside is
a bedroom ceiling of stick-on constellations
or a drying rack burdened by the heft of wool and denim
or a splatter of TV lightning on the back wall.
Inside still
a child starfished on fresh fitted sheets
or bodies together at hip palm elbow, melting into leather.
Unseeable love, two storeys up.
A substitute sun hoards humanity in her sleeping hours,
shepherding the lonely through shadows sweetening,
buttercup warming the
underbelly,
the light of day for
high-heeled catwalks down the hall
or girls giggling between bodies on a single bed,
all framed by glazing and spider webs—
this life, this warmth, this window.
- - Katie Garrett
4

A Long Cold Wall in North Dakota
There’s a long cold wall in North Dakota
Just off the interstate
And its harsh white face is
Muddied over with
Grit
And road salt
And mud
And in the wall is a door
Beat up chrome handle
Peeling green paint
A man stumbles out
Gets in his car
Drives home on the empty highway
And now again, as it always was
The silence and the snow
And the long cold wall in North Dakota
- John-Joe Twomey
Re-evaluations
"hósanna​!"
they preach to your young mind.
they burn the words of god into your subconscious
whether you want them or not;
before you have the chance to understand them.
and you stand in your uniform lines in the assembly
hall
and sing in your soft children's voices.
with halos of innocence gleaming over your heads,
you sing in your ignorance
"hósanna​!"
they preach to your doubting intellect.
the scars are fading on the walls of your mind
and you're beginning to lose faith in what you once
thought was holy.
but their voices echo in a symphony of certainty
drowning out the whisper in your head and telling
you it is ​wrong.
and you listen,
5

and the scars return,
and when you follow with your blindfold off
you see the cracks in their foundations,
while yours are crumbling beneath you.
"hósanna​!"
you sing in your breaking voice.
your pillars have collapsed into the sea,
and the holy water that drowns you is burning your skin.
they'll tell you it's what you deserve
to repent for the rules you've broken.
as if your mother falling to her knees
and your father turning his back weren't punishment enough.
they must isolate you too.
'love thy neighbour as you would love thyself.'
but...
your way of loving is wrong.
the way she kisses hymns up your sides
makes you ponder apostasy.
her hand in yours
reminds you that sometimes peace
isn't always an option,
and that the one thing you desire
is to hide her light from their shadows
so they can't corrupt her like they did you.
she blesses you to sin.
she kisses your eyes; your hands; your aching heart,
and heals the burns they gave you.
and you follow ​her​ light
instead of ​His​.
- Mary Kavanagh
6

Maggie Comes Home
Maggie looked out the window as the bus turned, taking the sky in again. She watched the tendrils
of cloud disappearing behind rooftops, but her mind was on the house on Granger Road ten
minutes away. By her arm, a fly lay upturned on the black rubber window ledge,
sucked in from the breeze through the slit opening of the window. Legs like tiny chin hairs
spasmed until they blurred. Maggie pressed her bag to her stomach, wanting to itch.
The bus stopped outside a corner shop and two boys got on and stomped upstairs, jaws
bulging with lollies and their school jumpers scuffed and a little stretched though it was still only
Friday afternoon. They sat on the other row opposite Maggie and talked of things she knew nothing
about. One of them said something with a snort and his friend obliged him with a slap across the
head. They both laughed then, and sucked on their lollies, and Maggie, quite by accident, locked
eyes with one. She smiled a quick thin stranger’s smile and turned back to the window. Between
chimneys, clouds spread and merged like smoke. Maggie remembered being that age, though the
voice that bit at her always told her she had never been like that. Her mum was a part of it. She had
never let her take the bus home from school, or fill plastic bags full of sweets to eat at the end of
the week. There was little time for young Maggie to do what she wanted.
The bus rounded another corner and drove on through the village street, cocooned in
familiar idleness. It slowed at a stoplight by a family jewellers. Maggie found that fate or whatever
pulled the strings had excellent timing; her mother used to take her there as a child while she
picked out a necklace or replaced a stone. The last time she had taken Maggie was
the time reality changed colour and new words had to be learned. The time where the strings began to
pull her differently.
The bus grumbled on and the boys spilled sugar over the linoleum seats. The next stop would
be hers. There was the laneway into the estate to contend with, she hadn’t forgotten. Then she’d be
home.
It wasn’t that she had changed; Maggie was always Maggie. It was only then people began to
notice her. She was maybe eleven and while her mum paid for a pearl earring Maggie put her hand
through the delicate glass of one display case. She couldn’t remember why she did it, but she could
still feel the sparkle over the pain, an electric gunshot blossoming like velvet across her skin. Then
came the fascination; the dark red lines running over her knuckles. The fruit of her new venture. She
fished out a necklace a second later, her fingers pawing through the shards to reach it. Her mum
picked her up amid the stir in the shop and squeezed her breathless running back to the car. When
Maggie found the breath to speak again, it was only to ask her mum why she was crying.
There were other episodes, though to Maggie they were just days like any other. There were
tests when she was twelve, a diagnosis, and after a few years she missed the bustle of the normal
7

school, the smell of the hallways she used to sprint down with her friends. Mostly, she missed them.
Maggie shifted in her seat and recrossed her legs, at the last corner before her bus stop
outside the hardware store. She zipped up her puffy raincoat, knowing the laneway
awaited her at the end of the village, so close to home you could smell the earthiness of the poplar in
the patch by their driveway. Maggie remembered the day, walking home through after school, five
years old, her hands linked around her mother’s waist. There, in the shade and coolness of the
laneway, a humming had started in her brain and the humming died and something bright flashed
over the pink tissue like a light coming on. It was soft, the way the light is on a front porch in July
dusk. A voice spoke and asked her what her name was, and then it asked her to do things.
Maggie pressed the stop button by her seat and rose, as the bus changed gear and wobbled. But years
had gone by. Different schools, different meds, different hospitals. That voice was a distance then, at
the final turn. That was the old Maggie. The bus slowed, its engine churning. She shook a curl from
her face with a flourish. No more voices telling her what she could and couldn’t do, no more mothers
trying to do the same. She would show them.
Holding onto the bar, her handbag pinched in the other hand, Maggie gazed back at the
window. The fly lay with its legs coiled like a spider, pulsing in awful rhythm. She had not
touched it, no.
The old Maggie would have watched its writhing until her eyes hurt from being open. The
old Maggie would have prodded with a pink nail to see it flutter its glazed dead wings.
The old Maggie would have
The bus shuddered and stopped, and she walked to the stairs. Turning her head as she
descended, Maggie flashed the boys another smirk and left them to their talk.
-Cormac Kelly
8

Revêrie
rippling like water
it cradles me in peace
soft and delicate and precious
reaching every fibre of my being it seems
it feels
like a dream
like a life i’ve never lived
a universe made of cotton
and laughing children
and hummingbirds birds skimming the canal
the arch of the silver birch as it leans wit
the gentle pull of gravity over time it
reaches my soul and
for once everything is still
for one sacred moment every little thing
is at
peace
it cradles my ears like a newborn
a tiny soft baby nestling into her mother
in a perfect world this is what
would embrace the very bones of us all this
divinity
this
melodic fantasy
for without ears how could my soul
manifest in its beauty
how thankful i am that i can
bask in the glory of such creations as this masterpiece
and as i write
the birds praise it too
a joyful response
to the only language they comprehend
music.
- Katie Farrell
9

Impression
Something in the woods glances over idly as she
Places her palm flat against the trunk next to her
Feeling the landscape of points under her palm, marking.
She leans and
Methodically removes
One no-nonsense shoe
One worn-soled sock
And once again
Sinking to her knees
The temporary burn of grass beneath, leaves breaking, sobbing green into
her skin
Until she lets fall, collapsing down
Between the strings of grass, patches of bald earth
Give off a smell that hovers in the back of her throat
Removing thought
Breathing in draws a tip of a blade of grass against her nostril
And she twitches her nose like a rabbit
Her hair weaves an insect path against her cheek
The thought of someone standing over curves her spine reflexively,
Shrinking into the dirt.
But no –
No shadow has fallen on her
Heat still soaks through the cotton of her shirt
Lying crumpled on the small of her back.
She settles further into the earth now,
Luxuriating in grass forced to her forearms
Preventing birds from their work.
Face-down, hidden from the world's eye
But the sun still sears its itching gaze
Into the back of her neck.
-
- Beth Daly
10

11

My Dearest Nostalgia
Be my enchantress, for I already know
your voice so well, all your scathed chromatica,
laced with scythed wire and everything nice.
It teases me with folklore after dusk, the
echo of you as it ricochets in the darkest
of caverns. Let your hair down tonight, chérie.
Seduce me with ochre yellow and vignetted lenses;
a spiked slip of mint leaf and the weighted scent of copper;
toying with my senses, an experiment in volatility -
Your honeyed tones have warbled into a battle cry.
So many years of crosshatched thighs and an arrow point mind,
I think I’ve made a habit of you.
So unbutton my doubt, leave me wanting more,
and you can take a slice of childhood with you.
Make a party favour of me, if you please.
You light a candle, a wick of asphalt and burnt rubber.
The accompanying key of discord and alchemy.
You love the wandering eye of the prey.
Martyrs of madness are what I found hiding on my blindside,
Fizzing charcoal motes and overachieving smiles.
You love wiping the smile off my face.
I still ache from how hard he hit the brakes.
His apathetic cause. Words flaming in petroleum.
Maybe after endured days, my resistance too shone red.
But you know I can’t resist you in rouge
And you’ve hit the brakes harder than this
And your touch still makes me shudder,
(It’s not right you know? How you crawl inside my veins - measure and tape my every inch. Take and
take and take. Though, I don’t think that part matters much to you, does it?)
My beguiling villanelle, take me home again, where I belong.
Please come back to me, because last time you left my head screwed on the wrong way.
-Rachell O’Sullivan
12

The Way the
Clouds Move
Soaked from the rain, Francis stepped in through his front door and let out a deep
breath. Flicking the light switch and kicking off his shoes, he made his way into the main
area of his apartment and looked at the sink of dirty dishes. It was almost two o’clock in the
morning, far too late to be tidying up, so he ignored the dishes as well as the overflowing
bins and the filthy countertop. He realised that he had pretty much forgotten to eat all day
long, apart from a ham sandwich offered to him by one of his co-workers and a small can of
Pringles, so he took a bowl down from the cupboard and poured himself a bowl of cereal,
along with a large glass of red wine. He crashed on the couch.
His job in Mullen’s often left him feeling completely shattered, especially on busy
nights, so, exhausted, he decided to take a minute, and sat there with his eyes closed, his wine
and his cereal haphazardly placed on the cluttered coffee tabletop. He tried to reflect on his
day, but there was hardly anything to reflect on. He had woken up late, around one o’clock,
stayed in bed for a while, gone for a walk, watched television for a couple of hours, then had
a long shower, using all of the hot water in the tank. He walked to work, an hour early, and
had four pints before beginning work at six-thirty. The alcohol helped.
His main responsibility was to empty the ashtrays that rapidly filled up in the huge
smoking area. As well as that, he cleared glasses, took orders before nine o’clock, and then,
when the last customer was gone, he had to wipe down the tables, mop the floors, and restock
the toilet roll in the bathrooms. This job was done in seven-hour shifts, usually six or seven
days a week. Francis took pretty much every shift he could get.
He sat up, took a gulp of wine, and then tucked into his cereal. Francis didn’t realise
how hungry he had been until he took that first mouthful. After quickly finishing his bowl, he
13

went to refill it, but there was basically none left. Instead, he had a cigarette to kill his
remaining hunger. He then gulped down his remaining wine, refilled the glass, and brought it
to bed with him.
***
Francis woke up with his usual sick stomach, and had to run to the toilet. It was a
quarter past one, in the middle of the day, and outside the window it looked like the rain
hadn’t stopped since the night before. Having nothing better to do, he got back into bed, and
scrolled through different things on his phone.
He lay like this for over an hour, and didn’t get out of bed until half-two. By this
stage, though the clouds in the sky were still an ugly grey, the rain had eased off, so he pulled
on a pair of jeans and a jumper, and went down to the square near his apartment block.
His favourite bench was free, so he sat down on it, lighting a cigarette, crossing his
legs, and looked up to the clouds, wondering if the rain would be back sooner rather than
later. In one part of the sky, a small amount of blue was to be seen, but apart from that, it was
completely covered. To Francis’s right, the clouds were significantly darker, but it was
unclear whether they were moving away from or towards him.
⎯Any chance I could bum one of those?
Francis, who had been completely lost in thought, hadn’t noticed the pale, lanky man
who had sat on the other end of the bench. He was looking intensely at Francis with a wide
smile on his face.
⎯Go for it, said Francis, his voice croaky, having not spoken yet that day.
He left the cigarette box on the bench in between the two men.
⎯You’re very good, said the man.
Francis nodded, putting the pack back in his pocket after the man had taken one. He
went back to inspecting the sky. The clouds didn’t seem to have moved. The man spoke
again.
⎯The weather’s not too bad anyway.
⎯I was just thinking. It could be a lot worse.
Francis was looking straight ahead, but he noticed, from the corner of his eye, that the
man was facing towards him, clearly intent on having a conversation. Francis was not in the
mood, at all, so he continued to smoke his cigarette and stare off into the distance. He
finished the cigarette, and tossed it away, watching as it flew through the air and landed on
the pavement in front of him.
⎯You know, said the man.
⎯Apparently, around four and a half billion smoke butts are chucked on the ground
every year. Four and a half ​billion​.
14

Francis considered this.
⎯Is that supposed to make me feel guilty? he asked, now looking at the man. The man
smiled.
⎯Ah, not at all. I just think it’s a bit interesting.
Francis didn’t know what to respond to this.
⎯I can see that you really aren’t in the mood to talk, said the man.
⎯No.
⎯Fair enough.
The man stubbed out his cigarette on the bench and left the butt on the ground beside
his foot.
⎯You can take another one, said Francis. ⎯If you like.
⎯Oh. Well in that case, I might just.
⎯Go on.
Francis found himself making eye contact with the man as he lit his cigarette. ⎯What
do you do? asked the man, the cigarette still hanging from his mouth. ⎯Nothing.
The man laughed loudly. He took the cigarette into his right hand.
⎯Nothing?
⎯No, said Francis.
⎯Are you a bum? You don’t look like a bum.
⎯Thank you. No, I’m not a bum. I work. And rent an apartment.
The man inhaled deeply, then blew a lungful of smoke into the air.
⎯So you do something, then. Where do you work?
⎯A pub. Mullen’s, if you know it.
⎯As a barman?
⎯No, not quite.
The man crossed his legs. He was smiling.
⎯What’s so funny? asked Francis.
⎯What?
⎯You have a big silly smile on your face.
⎯Oh, said the man.
He let out a booming laugh. The laugh was surprisingly deep and jolly for a man so
skinny, Francis thought.
⎯Because I’m a pub owner, said the man.
⎯Oh.
⎯I just thought it was funny. You’re pretty miserable about working in one. Francis
nodded.
⎯What pub?
15

⎯I own three. Not here, they’re all down in Castlebar.
⎯Oh, right.
Francis just shrugged. He finished his cigarette, and again, tossed it away. It landed
beside his previous one. The man stood up.
⎯Well, he said. ⎯I need to go now, I have a train to get in twenty minutes. You’re
okay?
Francis looked up at the man.
⎯Am I okay?
The man nodded.
⎯Yeah, like. Of course.
⎯I just thought I’d ask. Any chance of one for the road?
⎯Sure, said Francis, taking another cigarette from his packet and handing it to the
man.
And with that, the man turned away. As he walked by Francis’s discarded cigarette
butts, he picked them up, and put them in his pocket. He turned briefly to wave, his smile still
beaming. Francis himself stood up, watched as the man walking away, eventually turning a
corner and out of sight.
The blue patch was gone from the sky, that was now entirely covered by hostile
clouds that looked like they could burst at any moment. It was only a matter of time before
the rain came again. He shook his head and started back to his apartment to get ready for
work.
***
The rain was back, as Francis had predicted. He looked out the window, watching as
the puddles in the courtyard grew in size. The foul smell of the towel wrapped around his
waist reminded him there was washing that needed to be done.
Back in his room, he pulled on his black jeans and t-shirt, his work attire, along with
his black Converse. The shoes were still wet from his walk home the night before, sodden, in
fact, but he ignored it, and left for work, grabbing his jacket, wallet and keys on the way out.
The walk to Mullen’s was never more than ten minutes, but by the time Francis got there, he
was in a pissy mood, having been unable to light a cigarette on the way over. The rain was
heavy, and the gale force wind that was also blowing didn’t help. He ruined two of them,
dropping the first one in a puddle on the quays, the other one soaked by the large raindrops.
The pub was quiet, though, when he got there, so he found a corner and sat there with
three pints in front of him, hoping he wouldn’t be bothered before his shift began in an hour.
He knew that he was hoping for too much as soon as he saw Julia and Zara, two of the
bartenders, walk into the room. Both of them were blonde, glamorous, wearing fake tan and
big earrings. Both pretty, and friendly. Too friendly, probably.
16

He watched as they climbed onto two stools at the bar, ordering drinks from Zach, the
barman. After a few moments, Julia spotted Francis. Her smile widened and she waved at
him enthusiastically. Francis tried to smile, and waved back, wondering why the two girls
made such an effort to be nice to him, when he was only ever distant and dry in return.
Zara turned now, and waved too, her wave equally as enthusiastic as Julia’s. Zach
placed two gin and tonics in front of the girls, and with great elegance they made their way
across the room, taking the two empty seats at the table with Francis. They didn’t look like
two bartenders on minimum wage, they looked like they owned the place. ⎯You look glum,
said Zara.
⎯For a change? said Francis.
Zara and Julia let out a big laugh, each of them showing off their perfect, shiny teeth.
Francis felt his cheeks reddening a little.
⎯I’m not really looking forward to this shift either, said Julia. ⎯I’ve a feeling it’ll be
a messy one.
Francis watched Julia as she spoke. Her eyes were big and welcoming. They always
looked very watery, as if she could burst out crying at any minute, even when she was happy
and laughing. She was effortlessly gorgeous. Francis watched her as she spoke, her hoop
earrings jingling, her body language relaxed, her eyes absolutely thrilling.
⎯Once it’s not as bad as last Friday, she said.
⎯I’ll put up with it. I hope I never have to clean a stranger’s vomit off me ever again.
⎯Oh my God, said Zara, covering her mouth with her hand.
⎯I’d forgotten about that. That was ​so ​horrible. Were you working that night,
Frankie?
⎯Yeah. I think pretty much every last bit of his spice bag came up there and then. It
was grim.
Both girls laughed, again.
⎯He was in the middle of ordering a pile of drinks for him and his mates, said Julia.
⎯And then he just froze and turned green. Then, boom, projectile vomit. I got it all
over my neck and my top. It was a spice bag alright, there were lots of tiny bits of chicken and
potato everywhere. It stunk, Jesus, it stunk so bad.
Francis found himself laughing. He took a few gulps of his pint. He had almost
forgotten about the drinks.
⎯Are they all for you? asked Zara.
⎯They are. I buy the three at once so I don’t have to keep going up to the bar.
⎯What’s wrong with the bar?
⎯Nothing.
⎯Okay.
17

Francis looked into his drink. It was about three-quarters empty.
⎯You’re a weird one, Frankie.
⎯Yeah, I know.
⎯Fair enough.
Francis continued to look into his drink. His cheeks were properly red now, he could
feel them heating up, and he didn’t want the girls to see that he was embarrassed. The two of
them continued to chat away, seemingly unaware of Francis’s awkwardness. Or maybe they
were pretending to not notice. Either way, he was grateful.
Francis continued to drink away at his pints, finishing them a few minutes before his
shift was supposed to start. Zach left, the two girls took his place, and Francis clocked in. The
night, as Julia had hoped, was a smooth one. Nobody was covered in vomit, the pub stayed
relatively quiet. In fact, for Francis, it was a boring shift, and it dragged. He would have been
grateful for some drama. No one would ever write a book about his life. Nothing ever
changed. Customers would always be rude, Zara would always try and be his friend, Julia
would always be beautiful. Ashtrays would always fill up at the same speed, broken glass
would have to be cleaned off the floor every hour. The bathroom floors would always stink of
piss and drink, in Mullen’s and in his apartment, no matter how many times he scrubbed them
with a mop.
Half one came, and Francis said goodbye to Zara and Julia and the other staff. He
pulled his jacket on, lit a cigarette in the doorway, and set off for his apartment. The rain
hadn’t stopped all through the night. It was hot, too; weird, Irish summer weather. Sweat
gathered around Francis’s collar. He tugged at it.
Soaked from the rain, Francis stepped in through his front door and let out a deep
breath. Flicking the light switch and kicking off his shoes, he made his way into the main area
of his apartment, and looked at the sink of dirty dishes. It was almost two o’clock in the
morning, far too late to be tidying up, so he ignored the dishes as well as the overflowing bins
and the filthy countertop. He realised that he had pretty much forgotten to eat all day long,
apart from a ham sandwich offered to him by one of his co-workers and a small can of
Pringles, so he took a bowl down from the cupboard and poured himself a bowl of cereal,
along with a large glass of red wine. He crashed on the couch.
- Pauric Daniels
18

Untitled
The air of death lingered
for a time.
It suffocated my father
for a while.
He cursed at me gratis
and disconnected for a week.
The dog whined and the door
did open.
He sighed, my father.
She’s gone he said
— she’s gone.
-Anon
Ink
Your pen digs into me and it hurts.
But it’s worth the pain because you’re giving me something.
You’re allowing me to fulfill my purpose, what I was designed for.
Suddenly the pen runs out of ink.
You keep writing and it keeps hurting.
But now there’s no meaning behind the pain.
It’s just pain now.
And when you lift the pen, where you were is blank.
It’s blank to everyone but me.
As I trace myself I feel the dents in my skin and where you etched your message into me.
The pen has run dry and you have put your words into me, the ones you thought I deserved.
My hand glides over the markings and I relish the roughness they bring to my once untouched skin.
You drop the pen, you have no use for it anymore.
You take me then and you crumple me until I am nothing but dents.
I can’t read the words anymore.
I don’t know if there ever were words there to begin with.
-Alexandra Varley
19

The Yellow Coupe Car
On its plastic wheels it trundles down the grass
Past the chrysanthemums and pyracantha
Rustling through the fox gloves
As they bob their heads in solidarity.
The bright yellow car
Blazes in the honnied sun
The autumn moss since leeched to its undersides
Crisp, amber leaves mushing against the metal wheels.
The children call out in a chorus of play,
Craning tiny necks and limbs into the
Front seat of the plastic coupe car.
To them, it’s not a toy,
But a fairground ride in
Their grandfather's garden.
They take turns, push each other,
The toy car burdens the weight of three,
One hanging carelessly onto the red plastic roof.
When they leave it sits in the musty shed,
Winking in the waning sun
That filters through the window.
The golf clubs grumble,
The toy car sighs and sinks its wheels into the
Damp, concrete base of it’s garage,
Decaying screws unbolting,
Half-eaten egg sandwiches wedged
Between the stagnant pedals,
The warmth of the children's hands
On the steering wheel
Slowly melting away,
Anticipating the following day.
-Katie Farrell
20

If You Listen Closely
You can hear a motor’s slow rumble at this dead of night. Enniskerry thrums in wait for
morning. She opened the drapery and sat against the moon’s half-light and the room darkened as
cloud-cover slouched over. The curtains’ long fabric hung low and crept across the floor - like a
stage-curtain. It was himself that woke her - his face pressed against hers, his hands clenched her tight
against him. The low house beat and dilating pupils drew tight. The slender, dancing shapes and the
taint of alcohol high in the air. His face the most vivid in a band of tormentors who vowed to hold her
sleepless.
She wrapped her fingers around her knees and pulled them tight. Almost a week now, since
she spoke to another person besides her father. The clock beside the window ticked onwards from
three forty-six - a drag off it as it laboured onwards.
Her father had meandered into her bedroom earlier clutching a packet of ready-made burritos
in clear packaging.
“I got you those tortilla things you like,” he said.
He was in-fucking-sufferable at times.
“Great, thanks.”
“How’s the drawing? I sneaked a look at it earlier on. Looking forward to seeing the finished
article!”
He spoke like he had been practicing in front of the mirror all afternoon.
“Aoife?”
“Can you get out please?”
He left and did not knock on the door again and she heard contemptuous mutterings as he
trudged back downstairs.
She straightened and lay flat against the marble-surfaced floor and saw ambitious clouds’
silhouettes trace themselves upon her ribcage. Her dressing-gown slid off her shoulder and she stood
against the night. She saw his face in the shadows of her father’s suburban house. His guttural slurs
came in whispers from the bushes that lined the garden.
Her father dreamed peacefully upstairs, his slumber unobscured and she listened for a
moment for the monotonous drone of his snores beating a slow rhythm against the silence. She lived
with him for the want of being left alone. He would at least grant her that, so long as she made herself
clear during the day.
The moon’s glow contorted and she lay in the dark, searching for stars in the infinitude above
- dreary mornings, years ago - conversations with her father she only now began to understand.
“The key to security is to have something that makes money while you sleep.”
He bought the house during the boom for over a million quid.
“Our very own winning Lotto ticket, wha’?”
What followed was end-of-days stuff. Redundancy. Disputes with business partners who
made off to the Cayman Islands with his slice of pie. Bankruptcy. Roaring arguments in the kitchen.
Then the affairs.
The clock-face pointed to five past four. She thought always of the sharp angles of the clock
as the “funny hours.” Something odd seemed to go on during these times. She was nineteen and going
on five days without eating. Aodhán would be proud. Most kids are anxiety-ridden; panic-attacks and
the like. But she did not get the shakes when she faced up to some dark underbelly of her existence.
So far gone already that she sat with it on nights such as this one. She felt that hug it gave her.
She moved back into the depths of the house, shadows dancing upon the fabric of her dressing
gown as she tiptoed on the wooden boards of the hall. She wandered into a room and closed the door
21

behind her. Her father’s office projected his own self-image. Bookshelf as high as the ceiling with
special editions beaming outwards. Some with spines that would turn to dust if you stared at them
hard enough. The walls were papered over with an antique aspect. Burgundy tinted. A vinyl record
player on a desk beside the bookshelf with a record box cataloguing hundreds of vinyls. She flicked
through them; Oakenfold, Aphex Twin. Jesus, if she needed any confirmation he was a pill-head in
the 90’s.
No fear of her father hearing any of it through the ​soundproofed office walls​. A man of
tremendous subtlety.
She took a blank vinyl and placed it on the turner. She sat in the swivel chair and the record
spun under its pin: its electric crackle, feeling its warmth come over. The moon, clearer from the
office vantage, cast a beam of white light on the desk and she held her arm in it. The crackle of the
record player filled the void in the room. Brought the walls closer together. This big, lovely, spacious
house out in the greenness of Enniskerry the subject of a quite unrelenting hatred from her.
A feeling nourished itself within her, throbbing and parasitic. Some days she could not rise
out of bed for the overbearing presence of it. Towards three people:
Her father for not simply divorcing and moving to the continent where he could linger among
the finest of women in complete obscurity, so she could live in willful ignorance;
Her mother for very simple reasons. Sheila, it had to be said, was a belligerent old bitch. You
know when you meet a person you cannot decide what you hate so much about? It feels inherent:
genetic. A hereditary fucking loathing. Hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of niggling little
idiosyncrasies that fed into the hatred of her mother. She had a hooting giggle that reared its head
when abhorrence tempted her.
“Aoife, if you don’t *​hoot​* come home with a Leaving Cert in August you may *​hoot hoot​*
forget about getting any allowance.”
It granted a tremendous performative element to their disagreements;
And herself for not being able to simply get on with things after they started to go south.
Divorce was a regularity in this day and age. Married couples split up, much like clockwork. But
divorces are something that happen to other people and you’re supposed to look at them and say
“what a shame it’s come to that.”
Four twenty-eight a.m. Mid-August - Leaving Cert results day. The line between reasons to
cry and reasons to laugh uncontrollably became blurred. Her father sent her to therapy so she could
“sort herself out.”
Doctor O’Brien, however, felt that tossing her a copybook to write down her feelings and
drugging her up to the back teeth was the most effective method with which to deal with the issues at
hand. A fifteen minute consultation and she arrived home with an impressive prescription and a lovely
bindered, yellow copybook with stripes on the cover. Yellow was her favourite colour.
The thought of discussing her experience did not seem to pass between his balding, spectacled
head. That her then-married father seemed to fuck anything with a heartbeat in 2005 appeared
irrelevant. So too did her relationship (​ha!)​ with her mother, who she referred to in conversation as
“Sheila” or “my dad’s ex-wife.” Even more so did Cian Fitzpatrick, whose intrusive hands would not
release her at a teenage disco in fourth year. Whose hands spent an eternity sneaking their way back
up her thigh as she pushed them away. The smell of vodka and the gassy tang of Coke on his breath
that suffocated her in the corner of the hall. How he kept coming back for more and how she
eventually gave up, and let him rummage as he pleased so that he might leave her alone afterwards.
How she did not sleep. How there were five, ten, maybe even twenty Cian Fitzpatricks - some whose
names she knew, some whose names she did not.
She saw their faces in the garden’s dark corners. In the windows when she turned the lights
off. Doctor O’Brien received seventy Euro per session for his trouble.
22

The moon hung low against stars and she moved back to the kitchen floor. Digging the
smartphone out of her pocket she dumped a lighter and a pair of earphones onto the marble tiles. The
phone lit up in her hand and cast her silhouette across the screen doors.
Objects whispered to her at night. Their voices rose out of the fading trundle of tractors in the
distance. Her father’s favourite lamp often tried to convince her to poke a fork into the toaster. The
Adelaide 4 sided, double taper cable lamp with Diamonte banding. She laid out ground rules the first
few times this occurred - under no circumstances was she to reply. Conversations with the Adelaide
were off the table. As soon as that happened she would walk herself into the Dundrum Mental and
never look back. Hearing voices is one thing - everyone hears voices - chatting to lamps is entirely
another.
A stir from upstairs. Heavy footsteps. She listened as her father moved across the landing and
heard the click of the bathroom lightswitch. A few moments’ silence and the toilet flush echoed above
her and the click again before he felt his way back to bed. Silence once more.
She opened Whatsapp and saw that each of the texts she sent were delivered but not read. She sent
them yesterday afternoon. What degenerates resist looking at their phone for this amount of time? The
price to pay for cosying in with a mass of unapologetic alternativity who remain unaddicted to their
phones. She appeared to be the sole civilised individual of the group.
Aodhán didn’t even own a smartphone - that’s what you’re dealing with.
Very little occurred in Enniskerry at the best of times. If you listen closely though, you will
hear the countryside greyly rise. The coming of five o’clock brought on the rumble of prehistoric
tractor engines that trundled by the end of the driveway.
The moon’s semi-crescent ducked beyond the horizon and a shade of blue painted itself
gradually onto the sky. She reasoned with the Adelaide’s request. It truly was a magnificent morning
for it. Against the rising sun’s peek over Sugarloaf mountain, a flutter of sparrows took flight.
She looked over to the Adelaide and heard its low whisper and how its shade seemed to flitter
as it spoke. She couldn’t hear fully what it said, but it made sense somehow. The rattle of trailer
wheels on the narrow road outside. She stood and walked to it, sitting there on the mahogany coffee
table handcrafted by a carpenter from Morocco or Algeria. A beautiful lamp, all the same. Its
annoyingly perfect white shade. The transparent glass pyramid centre. The hourglass shape of its base.
She found herself agreeing with its whisperings. She broke the rule and whispered back,
“Fuck you.”
She ripped the plug out of its socket and marched to the kitchen with it, the Adelaide hanging
by its wire. She made for the windows but they were locked and she was in no humour for negotiating
a key. She opened the dishwasher and flung the Adelaide into the bottom compartment and the
tangled wire in with it. She flung the door closed on the dishwasher and clicked the switch on the wall
so the red light turned on and waited a moment for the machine to wake and turned the dial to ​Mega
Wash​ and pressed ​Start​.
She sat at the kitchen table for a long time and imagined the rumble of the dishwasher
drowning out the Adelaide’s screams. She imagined the excuse she would have to give her father
when he awoke. Something along the lines of midnight spring-cleaning gone terribly, terribly wrong.
A text came in and her phone vibrated on the marble-top counter:
Sophie​: ​Sorry 4 the late reply. Been up all night working on art stuff. How’s 1 o’clock for
today?? Nice Mexican place in town. See u later xx
A dawn’s chirping filled the void in the kitchen and she sat with it. Tractors continued to
rumble by the driveway and she saw them from the kitchen window as they passed. She was nineteen,
and going on five days without eating.
She stood and moved towards the balcony doors and stepped out onto it. Barefoot she swayed
in the easy breeze and embraced all the morning offered. The chirping became louder and rose
23

towards euphony. She leaned on the balcony fence and looked out across the countryside at the life
before her.
Her stomach rumbled - she wondered whether the Mexican joint does chips. She stayed on the
balcony and felt something like sleep coming on. She wrapped her pale arms around her sides, held
herself against the slant of the morning sun and felt its warmth there. The phone indicated it was past
five. Exam results would be released in a few hours, but for now the morning’s quiet held her. The
sharp angles of the clock began to blunt and open up to the new day. Very little appeared to happen in
Enniskerry this morning. Sheepdogs yapped playfully as farmers shepherded flocks across fields.
She stood in the sun’s early rays and forgot to remember his face, and felt the smooth breeze
come down the valley and its soothe. She stayed in the sunlight; felt that hug it gave her.
- Shane MacDomhnaill
24

River
I listened to the rain today
And wandered through the emerald forest’s animated alcoves.
The river was hurrying,
Gushing through rocks and gullies;
Panicked and energised,
Sporadic and afraid.
It sounded as though it was gulping for air
as I would do if I lost my breath.
Water does not depend on air
for survival or remedy.
It only needs itself in order to flow and gush and dance and be.
It is gasping for what is already inside,
The ever-present,
The thing which curates and depicts its very being.
Fighting against what wishes to help and heal,
What knows the answers and the cures.
A falsely veiled enemy, disguised by the panic and
the fear.
Fighting against oneself.
The thing that is already inside,
That which epitomises my vessel and my core
The very thing that I challenge and refuse;
I need it most of all.
-Ellen O’Brien
25

As Babies
when we could wade through the ocean
encased in our
mother’s stomach
it was all we had ever known
and if we were to have caught a glimpse of the outside
we would’ve,
with a quiet gasp,
set our soft and rounded feet
down on the base of our world
and with tiny tightened arms,
folded defiantly,
refused to leave the safety of our murky, warm, swirling reality.
once our skin touched the air
and our lips the supple skin,
every inch of our existence
changed.
and from then until the day
we are presented to the earth’s
cool, crumbling undergrowth,
it does not cease.
it is not a single change
but rather millions of tiny and tumultuous shifts
drifting and skimming
past us like rocks and anchors
plunged into the ocean's sandy rest. and we ​will ​rest,
you and I,
these heavy burdens will once again be weightless
and we will rejoin the warm, dark misty land
where only the rhythm of humanity might stir us from our slumber.
- Katie Farrell
26

Parfum
there is something incredibly complex
about the little glass bottle
perched upon my bathroom shelf
it is half full,
yet i don’t remember
using it this morning, or the last.
its stuck with me
although stripped nightly -
reapplied and removed mindlessly
it wraps itself around my
neck my wrist my hair
its essence a reminder of
a dying flame, loose embers of emotion
driving through fog
a dewy june morning
my mothers loving embrace
a perseid shower
the writing of this poem.
oh little glass bottle
you follow me everywhere!
the fragrance of memory,
half full.
- Julia Labedz
27

Rose to the Occasion
Rose Flynn was late, meaning Lily Flynn was actually late. Rose woke up on that snowy,
Saturday morning thinking the only task she had was getting herself ready to go down to the pub that
evening, with the hopes of bumping into Colin O’Toole. She had met Colin a few weeks ago down in
the Connolly Arms. When their parents had been asleep, herself and her twin sister, Lily, had snuck
out to find some decent men. They were both tired of the lads that they always seemed to end up with,
and the late-night bonfires in Moore’s field – as if that was going to be sufficient to ignite Rose’s
affection. She only ever went to keep an eye on Lily. She had a tendency to over-indulge in most
things, men and alcohol were her Achilles’ heels and both landed her on her back more often than she
would ever care to admit.
Colin wasn’t like anyone Rose had met before. She was standing at the bar, with her head
bowed low, trying to get a sherry, when he had come up behind her and slipped a glass of brandy in
front of her.
“Don’t mean to be forthright, Miss, but you’re more precious than gold. Ever held any?” he
had asked her.
He pressed a medal into the palm of her hand and sealed her fingers closed with a soft kiss.
He belonged to a secret brotherhood, which one specifically Rose couldn’t be sure – and knew better
to ask – even telling Rose that he was a member was precarious but it only made her more infatuated
by him. They spent the night together, falling deeper in love with each second that passed. His lips
were soft and his gaze was hard. He was the one. She knew it instantly. She hoped she would see him
again soon and had returned to that same pub every Saturday night since. Instead, she was now
spending Saturday night walking up the sludgy, cobble street that led to the mistresses’ house. Old
Julia and Old Kate with their niece, Mary Jane, had hired Lily a couple of years ago to help them
around the house. Lily was welcome of the work and to be away from her father’s undertaking
business and terrible puns. Mr. Flynn couldn’t be asked about his day without replying “Business is
dead” followed by a hearty chuckle – as if it was his first time to make the remark. Lily was only
interested in dancing and drinking with an all-consuming aspiration to marry affluently. She went
swilling poitín with the cart men last night down at the new train tracks, against Rose’s objections.
Lily came home as the winter sun crept above the Liffey and has been in bed since. She begged Rose
to cover her shift so she wouldn’t lose the day’s wage. Rose was beginning to regret agreeing to it.
She had never worked as a maid before but if Lily could do it, so could she. Rose arrived at the
sisters’ house and knocked on the door with numb knuckles.
“Where have you been? The guests will be here shortly. Hurry into the kitchen, Lily, and
dry your shoes for God’s sake,” greeted Miss Kate.
“My apologies, Miss,” replied Rose as she removed her snow-soaked coat.
Rose didn’t know where the kitchen was, so she followed the scent of roast goose to the
rear of the house. Mary Jane stood at the counter, stirring a pot of potatoes.
“There you are, Lily. Stir these spuds for me, that’s a good girl. Take this spoon, now, the
table is to be laid and the door to be answered – of course, you know what to do,” said Mary Jane
without a glance towards Rose as she made her departure.
Rose didn’t know what to do. She stirred the pots and was thankful to have the kitchen to
herself. She could search for cutlery and glassware without judgement or suspicion from prying eyes.
She had found the water jug and the plates when the sound of the door interrupted her.
28

smile.
“Lord Almighty, give me strength,” muttered Rose as she opened the door with a tight
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Rose returned to the kitchen to complete her cutlery quest when she heard a noise from the
pantry. Even richer folk get rats, Rose thought to herself, as she grabbed the coal spade and edged
slowly towards the pantry door. Rose swung the door open with her spade raised when her eyes fell
on Colin.
“Colin! What in the heavens are you doing in there?” spluttered Rose.
“I went down to Connolly’s and the publican said you were here,” replied Colin. “I have to
go on a mission with the brotherhood. We leave tomorrow. I couldn’t bare not seeing you again, my
love.”
Colin took the spade from Rose’s clasp and kissed her hand tenderly with one smooth
movement. Rose blushed and wrapped her arms around Colin before remembering where she was.
“I need to stay here and work. Right now, you need to leave,” said Rose as she pushed
away from Colin.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Colin and pulled her against him.
Colin lifted Rose up and she wrapped her legs around him. He pushed the goose aside and
placed Rose on the counter. He pulled her dress up around her hips and kissed her neck.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered into her ear.
Rose obeyed and after a moment felt something wet between her legs.
“What is that?” she asked blindly with a smirk tickling her lips.
“I found it in the pantry. Does it feel nice?”
“Yes, but what is it?”
“Apple sauce, it will make this feel so much sweeter, my sweet.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The next few minutes passed in a sticky blur. By the end, they both tasted like apple sauce and
sweat. The door sounded and Rose jumped down from the counter in a fluster.
“Stay there. Duty calls,” she said as pushed Colin back into the pantry.
Colin pressed his finger to his lips and winked. Rose rushed through the hallway to the
front door. She smoothed her apron and tucked a loose curl into her bonnet.
“Good evening, Mr. Conroy,” Rose said as she answered the door.
She was thankful to recognise someone at last. Mr. Conroy was a solicitor and as a result was
often in the Flynn’s funeral home, sorting the affairs of the deceased.
so.
“Good evening, Miss Flynn,” replied Mr. Conroy.
He removed his top hat and dipped his head with Rose noticing a small, bald patch as he did
“Would you be so kind as to assist me in the removal of my galoshes? The drawing room
should suit just fine.”
“Certainly, Mr. Conroy.”
Mr. Conroy stood expectantly with a smile playing on the corners of his thin mouth. Rose
paused. She was unsure of the drawing room’s location. Mr. Conroy raised his bushy eyebrows.
29

“Oh, after you, sir,” said Rose with a bow of her head.
Rose followed Mr. Conroy up the stairs. Each step creaked under the weight of his incredible
mass. He was a man almost as wide as he was tall, and he was by no means a short man either. He
almost took up the full width of the stairway, brushing against the portraits and photographs adorning
the wall in the process. Rose straightened the frames as she ascended the staircase behind him. She
gazed at the taut seams of his tailcoat and silently commended its craftsmanship.
“Here we are, Miss Flynn,” said Mr. Conroy as his ecliptic stature engulfed the green, leather
armchair beside the drawing room’s fireplace. “I struggle with these little straps, the ones near my
ankles. They require the gentle, intricate touch of a woman.”
Rose nodded and sank to her knees to remove the galoshes. As she bent her head, Mr. Conroy
placed his heavy hands on her shoulders. Rose avoided the urge to look up and continued unstrapping.
Her fingers worked nimbly under the added urgency and within a few seconds the first galosh fell to
the floor.
“Now the other, Miss Flynn,” said Mr. Conroy.
“Certainly, Mr. Conroy.”
“I enjoy hearing you say Mr. Conroy.”
“Well, it is your name, sir,” said Rose as she hurriedly paired the galoshes together and set
them aside. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“Oh, Lily! Come now! These games of yours are sending me berserk!”
Mr. Conroy jumped from the armchair with much more fervour than anticipated for his
colossal build. Rose clenched her fists.
“I must attend to the preparations. I’ll take my leave, sir,” said Rose as she turned on her heels
towards the door.
“There you go again with the ‘sir’. It’s quite becoming actually. You have a wicked sense of
humour, Lily, one of the qualities I admire most in you – one of many.”
Mr. Conroy took a step closer to Rose. She could feel his warm breath on her neck. She
wondered what Lily had gotten herself into. Although they were twins, and Lily had actually been
born first, Rose had always taken on the role of big sister. Mr. Conroy was just another one of Lily’s
messes for Rose to clean up.
“I’m feeling rather unwell,” said Rose as she unclenched her stinging fists and feigned a
smile. “I really must return to the kitchen. Good evening, Mr. Conroy.”
“Wait, Lily, take this,” said Mr. Conroy as he placed a pound beside the four red,
crescent-shaped indentations on her palm. “I hope you make a speedy recovery. Excuse my behaviour
but after our last encounter...well, you know.”
Mr. Conroy left the drawing room in an abashed manner leaving Rose staring into the fire
perplexed by what had just happened.
“Colin!” gasped Rose.
She rushed down the staircase, skipping steps as her heart skipped beats.
“Lily!” said Miss Kate, intercepting Rose at the kitchen doorway. “Mary Jane is basting the
goose and she requires the apple sauce.”
Rose’s cheeks flushed. The pool of apple sauce in her underwear felt heavier than her
conscience did.
“I’m sorry, Miss, but we don’t have any,” replied Rose.
“Did you check the pantry? I’m sure I’ve seen some.”
30

“No! Don’t check the pantry! I just organised it and there is definitely none!”
“Move aside, dear, and watch your tone. I’ll check it myself,” said Miss Kate as she pushed
Rose out of her way.
Rose’s stomach felt like she swallowed a handful of stones as she followed Miss Kate into
the kitchen. Rose hid her face in her hands as Miss Kate opened the pantry door.
“What on earth! Lord, merciful Jesus!” exclaimed Miss Kate.
Rose dug her fingernails into her forehead and excuses began racing around her head but
nothing surfaced with adequate validity.
Her father would kill her.
Her undertaker father would kill her and bury her.
“You call this organised!” continued Miss Kate. “You must see a physician, Lily, why this
pantry is appalling! But you were quite right, there is indeed no apple sauce. I must have been
mistaken.”
Rose peered through her fingers into the pantry and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw
it was without apple sauce or Colin.
“Why this is an embarrassment! No apple sauce to be served with the goose! Oh, I’ll just
pretend that goose is better without, that’s right, I’ll say it was always good enough for me without
sauce, quite right,” said Miss Kate as she left the kitchen.
“Colin?” whispered Rose.
When silence was the only answer she received, Rose went to the dining room to lay the
table. She had just placed the last wine glass on the table when the guests arrived with booming,
whiskey-infused voices. Rose scampered back to the kitchen before anyone had the opportunity to
engage in any conversation with her, especially Mr. Conroy. A note from Colin sat on the counter. He
asked her to meet him in the Connolly Arms when she was finished her shift. Rose beamed and the
rest of the evening passed smoothly and quickly.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It was still snowing at 11 o’clock when Rose left the sisters’ house. Apart from her
footsteps, the only sounds on the streets were the clip-clopping of the passing horse cabs and the
clamouring of cart men. Rose’s excitement warmed her journey and she reached the pub’s doors
quicker than expected. She took a couple of deep breaths and stepped inside. There were two fires
blazing with several people huddled around each of them with high spirits on low stools. Laughter and
chatter filled the warm air which was accented with the clinking of glasses and the hollering of men.
Rose scanned the room for Colin to instead spot Lily slouched at a table in the corner. Rose stormed
over to her.
“What on Earth are you doing here? I’m after working all night with those pretentious hags
for you! And don’t get me started on Mr. Conroy,” hissed Rose.
“Oh my God, I know but look,” slurred Lily. “I started feeling a great deal better after you
left and sure it was too late then, you were already gone, so I thought I’d go down for a drink and
make it up to you another time but, Rose, I have found the love of my life!”
Lily hiccupped and held her hand to her chest before continuing.
“We’ll be married, I’m sure of it. Oh, you must be my maid of honour! Oh, Rose! It was so
romantic! We barely talked – he just came over and – look there he is coming now!”
Rose rolled her eyes at her drunk sister and turned around to see Colin walking in her
direction. She smiled and he froze. He took another couple of steps and froze again. His eyes darted
31

from sister to sister and Rose’s face flattened.
“Wait until you meet him,” said Lily.
“I already have,” replied Rose through clenched teeth.
Colin arrived at the table with a gaping mouth.
“But I thought...” he began.
Colin shuddered as he cast his thoughts back to the preceding hour in the alleyway and the
intimacy. The intimacy he thought he had shared with Rose.
“This is my twin sister, Lily,” explained Rose.
“Wait, how do you two know each other?” asked Lily through heavy eyelids.
“Rose, I thought it was you! I...I...I feel terrible,” said Colin.
“Don’t act innocent,” snapped Rose. “Lily, you’re inebriated. Home. Now.”
Rose grabbed Lily’s elbow and dragged her to her feet. Lily slapped a hat on her head and
stared at the ground as if the hat made it too heavy for her to look anywhere else. Rose started towards
the exit when she felt Colin’s hand on her shoulder. Rose spun around and punched him hard in the
face. Colin’s nose exploded like a crimson firework and he fell to the ground. He stared up at Rose in
bewilderment as blood dripped onto his white shirt. The hustle and bustle of the Connolly Arms
dimmed. Silence fell as all eyes turned to Rose.
“He’s a unionist,” shouted Rose over her shoulder as she stormed out of the pub with Lily.
As the sisters closed the door of the Connolly Arms, an orchestra of flying furniture and
breaking glasses erupted, littering the icy air. The sisters walked in silence through the snow dusted
streets of Dublin. Rose stopped on the Ha’penny Bridge and stared down at the black currents of the
lapping Liffey. The only noise either of the sisters made on the way home was the single splash of a
dishonourable medal falling to the depths of its watery death.
- LJ Morris
32

Sunday Lunch
In the conventional sense I'm a vegetarian
But I've been well trained – from the tender age of 8
To hold his flesh on my tongue each Sunday
In the hopes that I'll continue this pattern
Which forms the basis of a healthy society.
A neatly severed head, which one can carry around without worrying about the carpets.
The lions go hungry again today, held back by the divine hand
With stomachs growling.
Don't eat rabbit or swan or anything interesting
This you will throw to the dogs
As you are my chosen people. Vegans.
The animal left lying on the new-hewn altar,
Blood pooling wasted in the hollows
The meat burnt up so he can taste it.
I don’t want to see you when you're bleeding
Go pour yourself out on the sand.
My knees swaying into the pew in front, thinking "I'm not hungry"
Until I can slip into line
And brace myself for the accidental drag
Of dry fingertips against my palm
Exchange completed, stumble back,
Heart in my teeth,
To stow myself into the bench
Eyeline neatly locked to the nape in front
And hold there.
Tasting nothing, because taste is obscene
Of course, I am not allowed to chew.
Later on, pointedly subdued,
I’m thinking about sinking my teeth into your thigh like a bulldog
In a promising sort of way
There’s a dream where you watch as I aim perfectly
And the sound slices off a chunk of air
Our pointer trots back through the damp grass with a pheasant in its jaw,
Soft grip barely displacing the jewel feathers
Your hand is resting on my lower back.
33

I glance over at you bowed over the table
Delicate fingers digging out shot from goosebumped flesh
Watching it cook, sweating out fat
Leaving the air rich.
Sitting opposite,
Chewing on the sight of your mouth moving
Again and again
Until there’s nothing left to do but
Sink back into swollen upholstery
Obscenely replete.
- Beth Daly
34

City Reflections
The pavements glisten with rain
That doesn’t exist in the air
Silver beads of water sit in my hair
One of those soft, city nights
Warmed by the streetlights
The bustling crowds
For even now it’s busy
I’m one with the crowd of strangers
The dusty daytime haze, city
Glazed by the fall of night
This beautiful jungle of moonlight
And tonight I’m part of it
The beauty of this seemingly natureless place
Is alive and mesmerising at night
Dad always said rivers make a city
But to me its the lights,the reflection, refraction
And the people they keep awake
- Anon
Hope
Hope , hope come to me
like a candle that flickers,
with each blowing breeze.
Hope, hope sink your claws,
So deep into my inviting skin
With each cut reminding me,
That scars can never heal.
But yet again
Hope, hope don't flee,
For as I cling to you, there might exist
Some form of mercy
In these dark shadows for me.
Hope, hope stay with me
Choke me with your sweet symphony,
And at the crescendo
Suck everything that made me, me.
Hope , hope now I see
It was you that ruined me.
- Manvi Jindal
35

1932
Waytown, somewhere.
It was the kind of place that people passed through. That was why the man caught Amelia’s
attention. He was older, at least as old as her mama, Amelia thought. He, too, had wrinkles along his
brow, and she imagined that his smile might reveal crow’s feet around the eyes. His hair was cut
close to his head, though his curls were floppy and brown. He had some stubble and a crooked kind of
grin, but mostly Amelia noticed his funny-looking nose. It hooked to the right, too big for his round,
sun-kissed face. Though, she supposed that was what made the man interesting. Perfect folk were
rarely ever worth reading about.
She’d first noticed him when he hopped off a train car passing through town. Amelia prided
herself on knowing anyone and everyone in Waytown. If folks were smart, they made it a mission to
get to know her. It was her town, after all. She’d spent a good ten years getting familiar with
everyone, and Amelia wasn’t the type to let things go on without her knowing. Even if they were only
passing through. She especially liked to guess where visitors had come from and where they were
going. In the case of the man, she started off thinking that he was one of them hobos her mama had
warned her about.
They traveled on train cars and along railway lines, sleeping in ditches and telling folktales
that no one bothered to listen to. They were dangerous, her mama said. Amelia wasn’t bothered by
danger, though. Even if she was, the man looked about as scary as a broken-winged bird. Aside from
his funny looking nose, he was, as Ameilia would put it, entirely unremarkable. He never spoke to
anyone, barely even glanced her way.
If her mama hadn’t told Amelia to grab some flour from the shop, she probably wouldn’t have
bothered with him at all. But when she’d left Old Man Bailey’s corner store with the flour in hand,
Amelia noticed the man smoking on a nearby bench. He was sitting with his back facing the town, his
gaze on the withered treeline just beyond. There was only a small grove of them, maybe no more than
a dozen trees, most of which had dried up. But that didn’t keep the man from facing them intently. ​As
if the trees have anything interesting to say. ​Amelia snorted, about to turn back home when a sudden
urge crept into the back of her mind. She knew not to talk to strangers, but there was something in the
man’s stillness that perplexed young Amelia. Sure, he was older, but so were her parents, and they
were anything but calm. Her mama was always worried about something. Lord knew her daddy
wouldn’t rest until the day he kicked the bucket. Yet here was this strange man, watching trees like
they were the most interesting thing in the world.
As Amelia approached that old bench, holding her flour close, she recalled a few lessons that her old
man had taught her. If the stranger pulled anything, she was reasonably sure she could fend him off.
Amelia had a wicked bite. You only needed to ask her brother to confirm that one.
When Amelia came around the bench and sat down, the man said nothing. He didn’t even
look at her. He just flicked his cigarette into the dirt, and watched the reddened glow flicker out.
Amelia wasn’t sure whether or not she should be offended, and elected to say nothing in return.
However, her protest was short-lived.
“Is it far?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Where you’re going, is it far?” she repeated.
36

The man frowned but eventually lit a second cigarette and said, “What makes you think I’m
going anywhere?”
Say what you will, but Amelia wasn’t used to adults entertaining her queries. It was, as her
mother would phrase it, “Impolite to bother a man about his intentions if he ain’t keen on sharing.”
Even now, Amelia anticipated the ripe scolding she’d receive when she returned home, but the young
girl was curious. Far too curious for anyone’s good.
“No one ever stays in Waytown,” she said. “Not for very long, anyhow.”
“You stay.”
“Ma and Pa live here. I don’t got much a choice.”
“But you don’t want to stay?”
“No.”
Her father would read to her at night, tall tales where heroes roamed the earth, saving each
town along their way. A hero’s life was one of excitement and adventure. Meanwhile, Amelia spent
her days washing the clothes, cooking, and taking care of the lil’ uns. Every day she dreamt of the
roads out of town, and every day the dust clouds climbed higher in the sky. At this rate, Waytown
would be buried beneath a mile of dirt before she ever got the chance to leave. But that didn’t stop
the girl from dreaming. Hell, when Amelia closed her eyes, she could very well taste the salt of a
midnight ocean on her tongue.
“I wanna see the world, like you,” she said. “I wanna hop on the rail line and take it all the
way to California, maybe climb the Rockies, see it all. But mama says I’m too little to see the
world. There are more important things. And anyhow, a girl of ten should be working, not
exploring. Not since the dust came in.”
The man said nothing, just grunted as he took another drag of his cigarette. His fingers
looked calloused as ashes pattered to the ground. All of his clothes were ratted, but not in a sort of
desperate way. Each stitch screamed, ​anywhere but here​. The soles of his boots had been worn
through from every footprint he’d left behind. His trousers had been torn and mended, caked in mud
at the hem. Amelia couldn’t help but wonder if that mud was from the valleys of Virginia, maybe the
fields in Louisiana, or even the cold streets of Chicago. Every room, road, and path played out in
Amelia’s head as she considered the man beside her, encouraged no less by his silence. All they
seemed to have here in Waytown was dust.
“Have you seen the mountains, Mr?” Amelia asked.
“I’ve done and seen all that I need to have done and seen,” said the man. Still, he kept
his eyes somewhere between the trees and the sky. “It’s time to go home now.”
“Where is that?”
“Just o’er the river.”
“Why, that’s just a day’s walk away! What’re you doing waiting around here
for?” “I’ve yet to find the way.”
“Well now, don’t you remember?”
She met the man’s amused blue eyes with a daring pout. If there was one thing she hated the
37

most, it was when adults thought they knew more than she did. They always had this look, maybe a
reserved smile or snort as they shook their head. Now, as the man looked at her, she saw only the
arrogance of those who’d lived longer. As if she didn’t wake up to the same sun that they did. As if
she didn’t breathe in the same stupid dirt. Amelia figured the only real difference between adults and
children was the former’s inability to have any fun. All her mother ever seemed to do was work. All
her father ever seemed to do was drink. And this man before her had that same smile, one that shook
with the amusement of supposed wisdom. Yet, somewhere in those shimmering blue eyes, there was
a touch of exhaustion. Though, that didn’t feel like the right word. In truth, Amelia hadn’t a word to
describe it. So she did her best to ignore the glimmer, or even question how a smile could feel so . . .
sad. She just huffed, crossing her arms and digging the toe of her boot into the dirt, considering her
next words carefully.
“I can show you the way if you like. Mama won’t miss me for a day. I’ve been to the
river with my daddy plenty of times.”
The man laughed. “I appreciate the notion, little girl, but some journeys are best taken
alone.” “Oh.”
There was a somewhat awkward silence, or at least Amelia thought so. For a man of so
much mystery, he was really rather dull. She'd thought their encounter might offer more in the way
of tall-tales, especially with a man like him. That was, she thought, kinda the point of riding trains,
wasn’t it? Why live the life of a vagabond if he didn’t have any intention to share a few laughs? She
had begun to consider finding something else to entertain herself with when a roll of thunder echoed
in the distant sky. Above the little grove of nearby trees, the clouds had begun to darken, casting the
earth in a hollow grey. “I think a storm is coming in.”
“Looks like it,” the man agreed.
It had been a long time since Waytown had seen rain. The rumble of the distant storm shook
with the promise of it, a flash of brilliant lightning cracking across the horizon. “Will you stay
then?” Amelia asked, turning to the stranger. “Till the storm passes through.” “I’m afraid I can’t
wait.”
Amelia’s brow rose, and her little button nose twisted in confusion. She couldn’t help
but think that if he was so desperate to be on time, he oughta’ve left a while ago. But she kept
those thoughts to herself.
“But you’ll get sick or slip! You must stay!”
“I know my way is rough and steep, but unless I conquer it, I don’t rightly know what
may become of me.”
“If I’m being quite honest here, sir, I don’t think there’s much you can do to conquer lightning.
Whatever’s waiting for you at home will probably be there once the storm passes.”
“I’m afraid I don’t get to choose when or how I get through all of this. Beyond that river lay golden
fields. And once I’ve made my way over Jordan, I suppose it’ll just be―rest at last.” Amelia could
see it. No more dust, no more dirt. “It sounds beautiful.”
“It is.”
But to trade the trains and towns for something so still and unmoving, Amelia wasn’t sure it
would ever be worth it. Could a man really see it all? How long would it take to sail every sea and
eat every dessert under the sun? There would never be enough. Yet the man was as sure and quiet as
a tree, ready to lay down and dig his roots into the dirt.
Amelia swallowed, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “Are you afraid?”
38

“I used to be. Frankly, I used to hop on every train car and byway to get away from it. But
it’s been a long time coming. I haven’t seen my Ma and Pa since they crossed the river. Suppose it’s
time I see them again, yeah?”
“I see mine every day. I don’t see the charm,” Ameilia said, and the man started to
chuckle, coughing as if to hide it. Amelia could feel her cheeks begin to heat and burn. “Don’t tell
me I’ll understand when I’m old enough. I hate it when people say that.”
The man shook his head and finished off his cigarette. “Well now, you’ve got a few
mountains to climb yourself, don’t ya now?”
Amelia couldn’t agree more, her thoughts suddenly caught by the sound of a train chugging down
the tracks. She traced the course of steam emitted above the trees and leaped to her feet. It was
coming in fast, from the east and likely full of coal. It was the type that probably had an empty train
car, the type that would take her anywhere. Waytown was the kind of place you passed through, and
the dirt itself seemed to shake with the train’s arrival. But unlike this man, she couldn’t leave. Not
just yet anyhow. Amelia’s mother would be working on supper by now, her brothers done helping her
father in the fields. Times were hard enough as it was. If she left . . .
“The train’s coming in, headed west,” she said. “Suppose that’ll take you on towards
the river.”
The man nodded, humming something Amelia couldn’t quite make out before he glanced
down at her. “I suppose it will.” And with that, he made to grab his things, nothing more than a hat
and his muddy boots. Amelia was sure he must have some sort of way to get by. It would be awfully
tiresome to lay down after a hard day’s work with nothing to show for it. She didn’t say that,
though, not as he stood to his full height and turned to face her. He towered a decent three feet
above, blue eyes half-lidded against the dust. Amelia stuck her hands through the loops of her
overalls and held her nose high.
“It was nice meeting you,” said the man.
Amelia had to admit she’d rather enjoyed their little conversation, though she’d never let him
know it, lest he gain some sort of upper hand. But that didn’t keep her from shaking his hand.
“Pleasure doing business with you, sir.”
The man laughed to himself again, though this time, she was okay with it. Partly because
she thought the whole thing was funny too. He tipped his hat to her as he went, and Amelia watched
triumphantly from atop the bench, having learned nothing and everything she needed to know. “Be
careful, mister!” she called.
“Don’t you worry about me. I’m only going over the river,” he called back. “I’m only
going home.”
Then there was nothing but steps, his every step away, and the stillness of watching him go. Amelia
had never liked standing still, but for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to chase after something.
For the first time, though she couldn’t explain it, Amelia felt as if she had all the time in the world.
The man’s slow descent into the horizon was nothing remarkable. After a while, the details
of his figure were obscured into a shadowed silhouette, and the light of a setting sun swallowed him
whole.
That image stayed with Amelia, a shadow flickering out. When she ran home some hours
later, her mother scolded her, and though she tried to explain herself, there wasn’t much use. She’d
been soaked through with rain, her hair sticking willy nilly across her forehead as her mother
reiterated the terrors of the common cold. Amelia didn’t care. That night she fell asleep to the image
of the man finally making it to those golden fields of his. When the morning came, she traded those
39

thoughts for the newest adventure of the day. Those days threaded into weeks, those weeks to
months and those months to years.
After a time, Amelia forgot about the man.
- Sophie Nichols
Doorways
The door opened, and the candles flickered.
The footsteps echoed.
A cough, a sneeze, the sound of a handkerchief being used. The crinkle of a piece of
paper, a special prayer.
The murmurs, the talking.
The bell. The time, running by quickly, slipping out of his hands.
- E. Boyle
40

into the soil
she grinds me down in the same way
Rocks
are ground into sand
chipping away
bit by bit until i’m just a flimsy
shell of a girl
a useless skeleton of a soul
a lifeless being
dragging my limbs to make it
to my next destination without much
enthusiasm or strength
she sits back and digs her nails
into my skin
releases rats that claw their way
through my stomach
and i stumble in agonizing pain
as she turns her head the other way and
pretends not to notice
invalidating my entire reason in a word
questioning my every move in a look
breaking me down in a whisper
a hiss like snakes that coil around my ankles
and yet she wonders why
I flinch at her touch.
- Katie Farrell
41

Cherish
Please hold me, embrace me, save me.
Cherish the warm nights, the frozen mornings
For nights are warmest when the ice is understood.
Soon, the curtains will call.
Cherish the begonia of summer, the snowdrops of winter
For summer’s garden cannot blossom without espousing winter’s kiss.
Soon, the violet of twilight shall fall.
Cherish the elementary of small talk, the gravity of late-night chats
For through small talk, the most elegant of words commence.
Soon, the singing of birds shall forestall.
Cherish the wholesome days with, the wearisome days without
For the days together cannot be treasured without a familiarity of separation.
Soon, nature will be dominated with distant memories of all.
Cherish the naivetés of love.
Cherish the perplexities of lust.
Cherish the beauties of now.
Cherish the sentiment of nostalgia.
Cherish the innocence of childhood.
Cherish the wisdom of elderhood.
Soon, a new chapter will begin.
Far below, Orpheus wallows at my efforts
to revive what is lost.
Instead, cherish all.
Cherish.
I will hold you. I will embrace you. I will try and save you.
- Jordan Feeley
42

The Replantation of Old Trees & Divorce
The terrain is unforgiving. The cold slabs of stone with jagged edges don’t care that the sole of his left
shoe is worn down to the point that he can feel each tiny pebble or crack on the trail, or that his pack
is so heavy that it’s suffocating him. Suffocating him. Perhaps he himself doesn’t care about his shoe
or his appearance or the rough terrain. Maybe that’s why he continues to lumber forward with his
beard as unruly as the dried fir trees barely standing around him. “You shouldn’t replant old trees”,
his mother once said to him. That echoed in his mind for it meant that change is only achievable and
acceptable when you’re young and naïve and just graduated highschool with a measly couple hundred
of communion savings in your bank account and a Toyota that won’t even start up on cold days.
Because then you can make a mistake and return back to your cubicle at your mediocre office job or
at the local supermarket where you stack shelves and talk about coupon deals with customer’s that
also had different dreams and aspirations. It just isn’t for divorced men in their forties who haven’t
rock climbed a centimetre since they were young and reckless.
Click. The rope he holds in his hands finally latches onto the rock at the top of the wall that he is
about to scale. Unsure foot movements and slight shuffling on the ground to figure out the best
approach last 10 minutes before he finally hoists himself up on the first ledge and lets out a grunt. He
didn’t remember this being so hard, and for a second he wishes he was 19 again and his future wife
was standing at the bottom in her red helmet cheering him on. “You’re so close to the top!” she’d
always bluff, especially when he was far and struggling to find any points to grip on the wall. What he
loved most of all was when she would be nervous for him. He didn’t particularly like to make her
worry - but in a way it felt good to be noticed and cared for by such a striking woman, especially at
such an age. No matter how discreet she tried to be about it he always seemed to be able to read right
through her. That was when he had time and passion for the things and people that he loved in life. It
seemed like as time went on it took everything he valued with it, ranging from his lively personality to
his ability to climb and finally the connection he had with his wife. That’s partially the reason she left
him, his drastic change in how he perceived and reacted to the world around him. “You’ve changed,”
she said. How ironic.
He didn’t make it to the top that day, nor the next after this recollection of events. He came to terms
with the fact that he probably won’t get there for a while, and unlike his younger self he accepted this
realization with little struggle. Maybe it would be better to be young and reckless for a while again.
In the next few days following many failed attempts at climbing, the trek that he had planned for
himself takes him on a winding trail upwards further into the mountain range where there is more
grass and more trees and soon twigs and pinecones replace the blunt pain of pebbles on his tired feet.
By the time he gets to the cabin marked on his map as the first pitstop he comes to the realization that
it’s his first time having contact with people in many days and before he can convince himself to
spend another night in the wilderness he’s walking into a room filled with laughter and warmth
looking and smelling like exactly what he’s been through – unforgiving terrain with awful shoes and a
backpack that’s suffocating him. Nothing special happens when he walks in, not even a flitted glance
in his direction. Everyone busy and engrossed in the story telling of a young man who had an
encounter with a grizzly just South of where he would be heading tomorrow. In a way this comforted
him, the lack of response to his presence and therefore their lack of expectations from him. There
were times where he would go above and beyond for people until he aged and holed himself up in his
office with a wife on the outside of it starved of the person she married and loved. “You don’t replant
old trees” was what he said to her when she told him to change, offering to move and do anything just
43

to get him back. In his mind everything was so stable, so clear and unmovable at the time. Perhaps it
was this type of ignorance that led him to be in this cabin on a trail through New Zealand alone rather
than with his wife that booked this holiday with him a year earlier. He was stubborn and his pride
spoke for him - “I’m not a charity case nor your next project” he said to her. But the first step to
improvement was flying out here and doing the trail. The second happened 3 weeks later when he
applied for a NZ migrant worker Visa.
“You shouldn’t replant old trees” is what plagued his mind for many days before he made his final
decision. So he ripped the roots out with his bare hands and left them frayed at the ends like the t-shirt
that you use to clean the bathroom because you don’t care if you get bleach stains on it. He let them
dry and shrivel right before digging a shallow hole in Kiwi soil with the hope and drive of a high
school graduate who doesn’t have money or a car but one good hiking boot and a backpack weighing
more than himself.
- Julia Labedz
44