Words to Tie to Bricks

by Claire Hennesy

  U is for the ultimatums, why not make some more?

  G is for the good times you’ll never achieve

  G is for the going. Great. Leave.

  H is for the hurt that you know you’ve dished out.

  H is for the hopes you have, too few to count.

  T is for the trauma left lying around.

  T is for timeless: you’ll never be refound.

  Florabotanica

  SEAN CERONI

  Take me to the forest,

  Where all the flowers grow,

  Cover me in lilies,

  And leave me there alone.

  Smile

  AMY CAMPBELL

  MY REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR greets me as I walk in, a silent reminder that after all that I have lost, I still have myself. It’s crazy, because that’s the one thing I really hadn’t wanted to keep. There is a moment of hesitation, a few fleeting seconds when I almost think that my life is worth something. Then I laugh. It punctures the silence in the room like a needle in a balloon. Who am I kidding?

  With the first drop of blood that falls from my wrist, I breathe a sigh of relief, because finally I feel something. After months of fake smiles and self assurances that I am happy, this is something real. The blood pumping out of my wrist shows me that I am a person. I’m crying now, all the tears I’ve been holding in for months. And then, using the scalpel stolen from the science lab, I draw more blood.

  I look at myself in the mirror. Mascara down my cheeks, messy blonde hair, dirt and blood on my dress. This is the furthest from perfect I’ve ever been. I make another incision on my arm, deeper this time. I am frustrated, ready for this to be over. Finally, I feel myself getting dizzy. My eyelids begin to flicker, and I lose the strength in my legs. As I sink down, my grip on the scalpel loosens, and it clatters to the floor. I don’t need it anymore anyway. Not where I am going. I am leaving high school behind; all the bullying, the drama, the betrayal. My eyes close for the last time. My heart rate becomes more uneven. This is it. At last.

  I hear the door of the bathroom open, and then I hear a scream. A cry for help. More people coming. They are getting closer, feeling for a pulse, calling an ambulance. One or two of them tell me to hold on, not to die. But they can’t fool me. I am on my way to my better place, nearly there now. They won’t be able to catch me.

  I hear the battle cry of a siren in the distance. That was quick. But now my time is nearly up. I will outrun them all. Slowly, all the noises begin to fade out. The laborious beats keeping me alive slow down. I am finally done. All I can see is darkness; all I can hear is silence. I am coming home. The world slows around me, until it is nothing but an imperfect blur filled with imperfect people like me. Maybe that’s all it has ever been. I feel my heart beat one last time, and then it gives up.

  I smile.

  Cyborg

  ORLA MCGOVERN

  External, jerky and stiff,

  Internal, squishy and sad.

  Soaked To My Blood

  EMMA SHEVLIN

  The rain makes up

  For the tears I lack.

  The love I once had

  Will not come back.

  He ruined it for

  The rest of the boys.

  I’ve put it away

  With all of my toys.

  I’ve locked love up

  And swallowed the key.

  Now only rain

  Beats down on me.

  Right down through,

  Soaked to my blood,

  I make my way

  Home through the mud.

  This path was once

  As clear as glass.

  I hope that soon

  The pain will pass,

  So my life can heal

  And my heart can escape,

  To be held by a boy

  And not by an ape.

  Frosty Windshields, Glass & Cellar Doors

  CAELEN FELLER

  Scuttling.

  No light.

  No shadows.

  Just Dark.

  Slipping.

  No warnings.

  No help.

  Just Dark.

  Watching.

  I know you.

  I know

  You are there.

  Scratching.

  Glass shattering.

  Scattering.

  Silence.

  Coming.

  You are near.

  You are close.

  You are here.

  Run

  AMY CAMPBELL

  I CAN FEEL THE BLOOD PUMPING in my veins, feel my heart struggling to keep up a rhythm, feel that strange rush of adrenaline that kicks in just when you know that you physically cannot run anymore. I stumble on, trying to keep at the incredibly difficult, yet necessary pace I have set for myself. I chance a look back, and breathe out a ragged sigh of relief. My pursuer is nowhere to be seen. I have lost him. For now.

  I run to the beat of my feet pounding against the ground, like music only I can hear. The rhythm keeps me going, and I keep running. Where I’m going, I’m not exactly sure. Just so long as it’s somewhere that he can’t find me. I dodge in and out of the trees, and hop over roots and fallen branches on the ground. The woods have always been an intimidating place, with big trees that block out the sunlight and strange sounds. It’s even more frightening when you are being chased.

  I feel my breath catch in my throat and my chest begins to protest. I do some quick math in my head. At this rate, I should only be able to keep going for about three more minutes before I collapse. I’ll keep running for now. I count the number of times my feet hit the ground to keep my mind occupied. It’s better than thinking about how tired I am, how dark it is, or how close he is. I figure out the average number of times my feet hit the ground in ten seconds. And, despite the seriousness of the situation, a smile breaks out across my face.

  Math has always been something I can rely on. It has been my safety blanket. About a month ago, a man started following me. He left messages on my phone in the middle of the night. He was always behind me, although I never saw his face. He left notes around my house. He would whisper my name and wake me up. And now he was chasing me. I recited the seven times tables in my head to calm myself. The last month I have been on edge, always looking over my shoulder. Everything disappeared around me, things I thought I could count on were suddenly nowhere to be found. But numbers don’t change. One plus one will always be two, whether or not there’s a man chasing you.

  By my calculations, I should only have a few seconds left. I find one last bit of energy to push myself forward, to give myself that last rush of movement, and then it is over. I collapse onto the ground. It is cold, and uncomfortable and rough. I breathe in, trying to soothe my aching lungs. I lie there for some time, just counting. And then I hear the footsteps again.

  It is him, he is here. They get louder, he is catching up. I need to get up, run away. But I have lost the ability to move. My legs are no longer controlled by me, and no matter how much I will myself to move I am still trapped. The footsteps get louder and louder, he is coming to get me. I fight the urge to scream. And then, I can hear him breathe, so loudly that I know he must be only inches away. I can sense him next to me, feel his glare. I force my eyes open and take a frantic look around.

  I see only trees.

  I wake up shaking, and look around me. Everything is white. White walls, white floors, white lilies, white hospital bed. The man. Running. Counting. Falling. People. Doctors. Being sent here. The lock on my door. The drugs they pump into me every day until I can’t even remember my own name, never mind what exactly happened. I still don’t quite understand. I get flashbacks, like I am watching a slideshow. It doesn’t seem like these are my memories; it is as though I am watching someone else’s life.

  All I know now is the things the doctors tell me. There never was a man. Aside from that, nothing is certain anymore. I can’t remember my name, age, address, phone number. I don’t remember a time befor
e this, a better time. And if you ask me what one plus one is, I won’t be able to tell you.

  The Clichés Are Ready and Waiting

  HANNAH O’BOYLE

  You are a flirt, I’m sure

  and I am misunderstood.

  If this wasn’t real life

  we would make the perfect movie.

  But since this is,

  I’m sure we are destined

  to fail beautifully.

  Needles and Knives

  CAELEN FELLER

  The knives licked her skin, a laced cloak of flame,

  Criss-crossing, weaving lines of red,

  Interspersed by the deep pricks of the needle,

  Her face was unrecognisable to me.

  I picked her up from the bed of needles,

  Still dripping with the serum of her overdose,

  But despite the bag that covered her eyes,

  The petals unfurled. It began again.

  The rose continued to grow.

  Entropy

  ORLA MCGOVERN

  I shouldn’t have said that.

  It probably came across very preachy. I should avoid condescension.

  I’m terrible at talking to people. It never goes right.

  Why do I hate it? I don’t hate it. I just need the excuse. I want the upset, the self-loathing.

  Why do I doubt my motives? I should stop questioning my thoughts.

  Why do questions scare me?

  What am I scared of?

  Why am I asking questions?

  Don’t I know already?

  If I know, why can’t I admit it?

  I wish I could stop.

  Why do I want to stop?

  I want to stop thinking.

  Why can’t I stop thinking?

  What is wrong with me?

  Please stop thinking.

  Stop thinking.

  Please.

  Stop.

  To Find a Name

  CAELEN FELLER

  THE KNIFE IN HER HAND is cold, but only just. She walks out into the hazy twilight, whispering her name for reassurance. ‘Linda, Linda, Linda ... Linda?’ Thinking for a while, she comes to the conclusion that this name is simply not suitable anymore. She will have to acquire a new one, as soon as possible. Simply making up a name won’t do though, a name must be taken. But where to find one?

  As she grips the handlebars of her bike, Linda’s arms shake, almost imperceptibly. The guttural growl of the bike’s engine shatters the heavy silence that lies in the air. A bat drops from the trees above. It lands in front of the bike, startling her. She regains her composure quickly, realising there is no danger from the small creature. Linda likes bats. She had one as a pet once, but she can’t remember what happened to it in the end. The bat’s name was Jenny, maybe? No, something else ... Vera? Yes, that sounds right.

  ‘I’m going to call you Vera,’ she whispers to the bat. The bat does not understand this, unsurprisingly, but as it is much too dazed to fly away, Vera goes with Linda.

  Linda used to read books, before. She still has some in her room. As she goes to the shelf, she feels a strange tingling at the back of her mind, as if she has forgotten something. However, she ignores this. Sitting, she picks a book from the shelf and begins to read to Vera. Her voice is hoarse, and she struggles with the words. Linda enjoys reading, but does not often get the chance. As she reads, she remembers, but not very much. She reads on, until sleep takes her.

  When Linda wakes, something is obscuring her vision. Standing, she pries the sleeping bat from her face. In the far corner of the room is a dollhouse. She removes the mutilated furniture from the house and gingerly puts Vera inside. She then walks away, humming. As she walks, things begin to slip from her mind. Things about bats, about stories and the memories they brought, good ones, memories she would like to keep. She may lose these memories, but they will never leave her, not really.

  The business of taking a name is a tricky one, and Linda isn’t entirely certain how she will go about it. She knows it will first be necessary for her to travel a while. From there, she will know what to do. She has faith in herself, even if she is not sure why. She walks to her bike, and begins the journey. She is not worried about losing her way. It will be a long journey, and will take time. As she rides, Linda watches the sunrise. She thinks only of the road in front of her.

  It is sunset by the time Linda reaches the house. It feels right to her, feels of beginnings. It stirs many memories, ones she would rather not remember. The doors to the house are secured with heavy chains. She remembers the bolt cutters though, in the outhouse. She left them there, after she finished. After rummaging in the dark for some time, she finds them, and opens the doors. Without the support of the chains, the doors collapse, their hinges unable to support them. She waits for a moment, until the dust settles. She makes an effort to clear the entryway of debris, but it is tedious work, work she dislikes. The darkness of the house is comforting, it welcomes her.

  What is inside is of no surprise to Linda. As she picks her way through the dried bodies of the bats, she feels like she is forgetting something. The bats are only partially there. They all seem to have chunks missing from them. Most rooms of the house are empty of life. However, Linda stays well clear of the extremities of the house, the cellar and the attic. She knows that these parts of a house are never empty.

  She leaves the house with a single item. As she leaves, she takes care not to make too much noise – she knows her searching could have attracted unwanted attention. Linda’s hands tremble as she stands on the steps, a scrap of paper clutched in her hand. She doesn’t want to remember the things that happened here, what she did. As she forces the memories away, her trembling hands become peaceful again.

  Linda has found what she came for. She has no cause to stay any longer. The woods surrounding the house and road are not welcoming to her. They carry with them a certain wish to be left alone. Though some urge causes Linda to think of this place in the woods as home, she knows it is not, and can never be. It holds nothing for her anymore, and it is not her home.

  As she lights a match and watches the house burn, she sees a bat fly from the smoke. She thinks of Vera and longs for company. But she soon forgets, staring blankly into the flames. She forgets everything, forgets Linda.

  Throwing the paper into the flames, she walks away.

  Those Temptations

  EMMA SHEVLIN

  There’s an open bottle,

  Bubbles breaking free.

  The smell is quite enticing,

  It’s got a grip on me.

  But I won’t take a sip.

  The drug won’t quench my thirst.

  Even though my head and heart

  Are nearly fit to burst.

  There’s an open fag box

  With cylinders to light,

  To blow away my problems.

  I could give up the fight.

  But I won’t take them out.

  The tips will not glow red.

  My teeth will not go yellow.

  The smoke won’t fill my head.

  There’s a knife right here,

  A blade that has been sharpened

  Ready to carve into my skin;

  The flesh that can be opened.

  But I won’t pick it up.

  It won’t change a thing.

  Cuts just leave some ugly scars

  With a momentary sting.

  These methods of forgetting

  Will quickly fade away.

  I widen my eyes and look around;

  There’s a bigger game to play.

  A Frozen Life

  SAMUEL H. DOYLE

  There lies the suckling babe at mother’s breast,

  A slight inconsequential life, defenceless.

  How are you now?

  Infant weak and powerless, transformed and yet

  Ravaged by the incessant revolutions of time.

  A haughty figure, condescending, has stolen your place.


  A babe no more but an indeferential heartless creature,

  Mutated by lusty power and subsequent

  Ignorance of your abuses.

  This life shamed with the prolonged suffering

  And terrible injustice of old age.

  For now you do attempt futilely to depart

  From your enveloping and everlasting sorrows,

  For you feel your last winter come upon you.

  The snow falls thick; an indomitable blanket of white,

  Encroaching, invading, seizing, suffocating.

  Out of the favoured haunt of despots and brigands

  You emerge resplendent in an ale-encouraged sheen of sweat,

  Rags reeking with that distinguished alcoholic aura,

  The proclaiming stench of your hob-nailed path to eternal damnation.

  A body drunk meanders through the building drifts,

  More likened to ash they seem in your confusion.

  Your stressed inebriated mind echoes eerily

  In sodden slush-filled wanderings.

  A tempered stride leading from the fore,

  Its hopeless aim the well-trodden path of life;

  That elusive route always escaping you.

  Your ramblings begin to weave off course, a weary trudge

  As you waken from your liquor-induced stupor.

  For now you see the damning life you chose.

  Your end is fast approaching.

  Your weighted step does falter, uncertain

  As you succumb to an unmitigating fear.

  Now you know the truth, poor man.

  One frail stumble of that broken soul,

  Bent from the killing dust of coal man’s lungs,

  Shielding scraps torn asunder by the icy

  Death-ringing winds of frozen lives and winter storms.

  You have reached your final fall.

  Ceasing, blue to the skin, you force

  Frostbitten seized-up limbs into a ball of frost.