Words to Tie to Bricks

by Claire Hennesy

  I stepped gingerly off the slope and slipped into the woods. I stared around in awe. There was sparkling snow dripping from the evergreen trees and the trees themselves were broad and welcoming. A tiny chestnut rabbit hopped a few feet away from me and I shouted with joy as I began to ski. Slow at first, but gradually getting faster and more confident as I whipped through the woods, singing to myself. I had never felt so alive, so perfectly happy. Little did I know it was all about to change.

  I stopped abruptly, slipping off my skis. I could feel the presence of another being in the woods. A cold chill ran down my quivering spine as a dark figure came into my sight. I stepped back with shock. He was tall, very tall, and gangly. His face was pale and pinched and his eyes sparkled bright red. His lips, blue with cold, were twisted into what I interpreted as a cruel smile. He seemed unnatural, not of this world. Yet I was transfixed by him.

  ‘Hello, Maria,’ he leered. ‘What are you doing here? Have you come to play with Danger?’

  I don’t know how, but I plucked up the courage to speak. ‘The w-woods aren’t d-dangerous, are they?’ I stammered.

  He sighed, with obvious annoyance. ‘They get more stupid every year,’ he muttered. ‘No, mundane being. I am Danger, which means you should not cross me by entering my woods. Many have entered and never came back. What makes you think you are so special?’

  I evaded his question and asked him, ‘Who are you?’ He must have heard the obvious wonder and fear dripping from every syllable.

  ‘I am Danger. I am not yet dead but not alive either. I lure foolish skiers into my woods and few ever return. I know what it is like to feel the pull of the woods, the confidence and daring that fills us and chases away all your reason.’

  I tried to run but I was frozen to the spot, transfixed by his words. He spoke slowly, a hint of menace in his voice. ‘You don’t listen, your ears are blocked, and all you hear is false bravado. But I have had my share of trouble. Now, Maria, you must pay for what happened to me. It is your turn. Come with me.’

  What I did next was a split-second reaction. If I hadn’t, I might have been stuck there forever. All I remember was grabbing my ski and whacking the ghostly spectre with it. He fell to the ground unconscious.

  I pulled my skis on and got out of there so fast I could feel the wind whooshing in my ears. I reached the slope and shot a frantic look back in the direction I came from. He was nowhere to be seen. I sighed with relief and realised I was shaking uncontrollably.

  Just then, my sister Melissa came skiing up to me. ‘I did a blue run,’ she said proudly. I smiled weakly and said nothing as she gushed on and on.

  The following week, we went skiing once more. I did not go in the woods, nor anywhere near them. I told no one of the phantom keeper of the woods, preferring to keep my encounter secret, although I warned anyone I met not to go in.

  They must have had the insight I lacked; I still hear ghostly moans of rage echoing from far away.

  I thought wrong

  GRACE COLLINS

  I WALKED DOWN TO HER apartment block. Three weeks since she’d been there. For three weeks all her stuff had lain untouched by human hands. I had no idea what to expect. I knew they had cleaned the room where she did it; they had to. But would the whole house be like the little princess that I’d nurtured from the day she was born? Or the rebellious teen I’d spent four years arguing with and every day worried if she was going to be okay when she cut us out, and became secretive about her life.

  I walked up to the door. Still air met my lips. The apartment was small; pictures lined the hallway. Dancers rinsing out their costumes in St. Petersburg after the show had been a flop but their faces told a different story. They got to dance. A spoiled box of chocolates sweeping away in the wind in Philadelphia the morning after Valentine’s Day, left by some rejected lover on the pavement for her to see the beauty in. Herself right when she came home after the hospital. A big smile stretched across her face. It was a genuine smile, the kind that one only has when they really believe in the fact that right now things are going to be okay. They were all taken by her. She never believed in her art, thought she couldn’t do it as well as we all saw she could.

  It was cleaner then than I remembered her ever saying. Not that she said anything to me. Pretty bottles filled with wilted flowers lined the windowsills. I imagined her collecting them from her friends and rinsing out them in the sink because they held the flowers much better than any vase. An unsent letter sat on the countertop, addressed to that old friend. I wondered if he knew. Should I have delivered that letter with the truth? Or had he read it in the paper?

  I left it.

  This was too much. I found myself in her room. Handbags organised by both size and colour sat under a large rail full of old sweaters and loose fitting dresses, with baskets of tights and scarves on either end of this makeshift wardrobe. She had been layering up, ready for the cold winter. I sat on her bed. Blankets over blankets met my backside. I counted them; six blankets and a thick duvet to keep out the cold. I ran my hand under the pillow, folded pyjamas just like my little girl had always done. And something else. The box.

  I took it out. I shouldn’t have done that. The box looked out of place in my hands, in her room, in this apartment but I knew it was hers. I knew because she used to have one in her room as a teenager, I knew it was full of her own little poisons. I cursed myself. I thought I knew what to expect when I came here. I thought she was better. I thought I had done a good job. I’d followed all the books, I’d tried not to push, I had made sure her prescriptions were always filled and that she always took them. I thought, I thought.

  I didn’t care about my runny nose or the tears on my cheek, I opened the bathroom door. I needed to get out of her room. I surveyed the area, still holding the box. Unlit scented candles lined all available spaces along with mutable beauty products. The scale sat like the monster in the corner. And a small empty bottle of gasoline by the sink. It was a cold room. Too clean, too much for me, this whole place. Why had she done this? Why had she done this!

  I crawled into the empty bathtub. This is where she did it. This is what she saw. This. This dingy old place where she lived alone. Here is where they said she lay, here is where she was found. Here is where she poured the liquid over herself, letting it sting her wounds, collect in the hollows of her fragile remains of a body, and here is where she took the flame and let it finally warm her cold soul.

  I cried and never returned.

  Glitter

  SEAN CERONI

  I have no mind

  And no morals,

  Just glitter.

  Filling the Void

  CAELEN FELLER

  Picture the space between two points,

  A and B let’s say.

  Now think of these points as places,

  And the space as far, far away.

  Think of these points as vectors,

  Moving with mathematical grace.

  Think of this distance as growing smaller,

  Think of closing the space.

  Now think of filling the void,

  With words stretching from A to B.

  Think of these points as people,

  A equal to you, B to me.

  First Day

  ORLA MCGOVERN

  Subtle touch of eyes,

  Glance, then look away,

  An uncertain smile,

  Frantic – what to say?

  Shift from foot to foot,

  Break the old taboo,

  Take the leap of faith,

  ‘I’m new ... are you too?’

  The Trials of Miss Elisa

  CATHERINE BOWEN

  I SHOULDN’T HAVE READ that book.

  It was too fanciful for me, you knew that when you bought it. I was enraptured by the prose. The long, flowery descriptions drew me in like a light attracts moths and poured ideas into my head until they overflowed and I was forced into action. I couldn’t help it. You know how easily influenced I am.
If you didn’t want me to try to frolic in the woods in a dress, you shouldn’t have given me The Trials of Miss Elisa. I’m at an impressionable age.

  In hindsight, telling you that I was leaving might have been a good idea but I was trying to be whimsical. I knew you would try to crush my new spontaneous attitude or convince me to wear trousers. I crept out while you were watching the rugby. The floorboards creaked horribly with each step but apparently the referee was showing bias so all noise was drowned out by your yells of indignation. I doubted you would even notice my absence.

  Fantastic parenting skills, by the way. I’m lucky to have you.

  (Why would you watch rugby on one of the five nice summer days we get, anyway? I can admit I felt certain smugness that at least one of us could appreciate the beauty of nature.)

  The walk to the woods was lovely. Dappled sunlight streamed through the canopy of leaves created by the trees along the roadside and a cacophony of birdsong joined with the music of the brook to fill the air. (Those lines may come straight from the book but I feel they are appropriate.)

  I already felt more graceful, like this walk was filling my eyes with stars and giving me a swan’s neck. Maybe I would go wading in the stream or weave wildflowers through my hair. My head was so occupied with these thoughts that I barely registered the blister forming on my toe.

  You really should remind me to break in my pumps before using them for walks. Just for future reference.

  I pranced onwards, convinced my footsteps were light as the mild summer’s breeze that whispered through the trees. (Yes, that was another quote.)

  As I reached the laneway that leads down to the forest, I noticed a distinct difference between the novel and reality. While the elegant Miss Elisa danced among the oak trees and flowers, there was never a mention of brambles. The trees in our woods are choked with them. Still, I was determined to be carefree so I held up the end of my dress and stomped down the thorns until I reached the stream. I imagined myself as a dryad, seeking to reclaim her home from the sharp, blackberry-bearing invaders.

  I don’t think I played the part well. I’m not entirely sure what a dryad is, but I assume they don’t curse as much when their ankles are scraped.

  Once I reached the stream, I plopped down, not caring about mud or grass stains. I dipped my bleeding ankles into the decidedly not crystal or sparkling waters. It may have been the numbing effect of the freezing water or seeing flowers growing further along the bank but my sense of optimism was revived. In a fit of fancy, I decreed that our calm stream would be forevermore referred to as a babbling brook.

  Pleased, I spotted a tall, grand oak tree across the brook. I sprang to my feet with the aim of climbing into it and looking mysterious. I didn’t get the chance.

  Miss Elisa may be able to wade through her brook with ease but ours has slippery, slimy rocks at its bottom. I toppled and fell as soon as I stood and was utterly drenched in the process.

  And to think I could have drowned horribly with no one there to rescue me. Not to mention that I cut my hand on a stone. We’re almost out of plasters, just so you know.

  After I had stopped shrieking from the cold, I picked myself up out of the stream. (It doesn’t deserve to be called a brook.) No birds sang as I hobbled and squelched my way back up to the road. I think I scared them off.

  I was despondent. No, that doesn’t begin to describe how miserable I was. There’s not even a term invented yet. I was dripping onto the road with each step I took and the sun had heated the tarmac enough to stick to my shoe. (One fell off in the brambles and I just couldn’t bear the thought of going back for it.) I probably looked like something out of a horror film.

  By some great stroke of luck, I had stepped onto the grass and into the shade by the hedgerow when I saw it: Michael O’Shea’s car coming down the road. I couldn’t risk being seen in that state. I had no choice. Don’t you dare tell me you would have done differently in this situation. I did what had to be done.

  I dove into the nettles patch.

  I have no regrets. This probably saved me from a lifetime of total, soul-crushing mortification. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt though.

  So you see, by the time I reached home, I was wet and in pain and miserable. All I wanted was some dock leaves and a bath. But do you know what I got instead? I got to be yelled at, laughed at and finally lectured. I may have ‘disappeared with no word of warning’ but taking pictures was a cruel and unusual punishment and you know it.

  I hope you’re happy with yourself.

  Irrationality

  SAMUEL H. DOYLE

  I was afraid of the past

  In case it influenced my present

  I am terrified of the now

  As it will determine my future

  I will be scared tomorrow

  For I only know fear.

  A Walk along the Brussels Road

  (An excerpt from a work in progress)

  CAHAL SWEENEY

  Introduction

  PROJECT PICTURES/FILM CLIPS RELEVANT to Napoleonic wars during this speech. Break between each line. Narrator should stand in the middle of stage.

  Narrator: Our story begins on the fifteenth of June, 1815. Fourteen months prior to these events, the French emperor Napoleon Bonaparte was captured and sent into exile. He was permitted to bring along 5000 men from his beloved Imperial Guard and rule the tiny island of Elba. He was not to be gone for long however. After eleven months, he returned to France. The newly crowned French king fled and Napoleon was back in full glory.

  Horrified, his old enemies met in Vienna to form the Sixth Coalition and plot against one man. The old enemies, listed off the fingers of a hand: Spain, Britain, Prussia, Austria and Russia. Napoleon tried to appeal for peace by appearing publically in white robes as opposed to his famous brown overcoat and sending envoys equipped with treaties to each of the other powers, but any requests for negotiations were overturned. Everyone had learned from their previous mistakes and assumed correctly that Napoleon was not to be trusted. However, despite the danger that faced France, Napoleon’s newly reformed army had certain positional advantages. The Austrian and Spanish armies were not mobilised and were encountering logistical problems due to distance. The Russian troops marching all the way from Moscow were not due to arrive for at least a year.

  Only two armies, one British under Sir Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, the other Prussian under Gebhard Von Blücher, were deployed near France and were in any way prepared for battle. Napoleon had set his sights on Brussels in order to crush both armies simultaneously and establish permanent dominance over mainland Europe. The fate of Europe, and indeed the world, hangs in the balance.

  Act One, Scene One

  A tent. Enter Duke of Wellington, his staff, some soldiers etc. Enter Prussian messenger holding a sealed letter

  Messenger: Your honour, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. I bear news from my leader, marshal of the Prussian Army, Gebhard Von Blücher.

  Wellington: What news would this be? I received word of his advance toward Ligny only last night.

  Messenger: I bring word of a skirmish, sir. A French army has been sighted in Belgium.

  Wellington: (stunned) An army!

  Messenger: Yes sir. Under the command of the French Emperor himself. Marshal Blücher’s 124th Musketeers engaged them. A light skirmish – they seem to have more Voltigeurs than usual – and a brief cavalry charge by French Dragoons. Hardly another Austerlitz but –

  Wellington: (suspiciously) Did Blücher himself send this message?

  Messenger: These words have come from Blücher himself, your Grace. (Shows him seal on letter) The armies engaged just as the clock struck eight. I was dispatched at once. Marshal Blücher is going to stand ground at Ligny. This French army, according to spotters, appears to be on a road directly between us. Marshal Blücher feels they want to push us apart, sir.

  Wellington: Was there a sighting of Napoleon himself?

  Messenger: T
he Imperial Carriage was spotted at an inn a few miles west of the skirmish, your Grace. Blücher believes that unless this is the biggest bluff the Emperor has ever attempted, he commands them directly.

  Wellington: (nods) Message received and understood. I must consult with my staff. (Waves hand behind him) Send your marshal word that I shall be in touch very soon. You may go.

  [Exit Messenger, leaving letter on table]

  Wellington: The clock has just struck one. If Napoleon’s advance began at seven o’clock, say, they could have advanced a far distance into Belgium. (Thumps table) Goddamn it! How could this have happened? Could it be a bluff? Ploys to make us think France is more powerful than they are in reality and hence deter us launching an invasion?

  Staff 1: Your Grace, I feel this is no bluff. Why would the Emperor –

  Wellington: Silence, Moore.

  Staff 2: But sir ...

  Wellington: Silence! You all know damn well I don’t think this is a bluff, but nor am I willing to accept at present that this blasted French bugger who crept back from exile three months ago would have the nerve to march a full army straight onto British-occupied soil. (Wellington puts map on table. Staff gather around. Project map of Belgium for audience)

  Staff 3: Assuming that messenger was completely accurate, the Emperor is ...

  Staff 2: Your Grace, we do not know for certain that messenger was not a fraud. For all we know, he could be French –

  Wellington: With a strong Prussian accent and Blücher’s personal seal. No, I do trust him, I believe he is as he says.

  Staff 4: Supposing the messenger himself was genuine, do we know for certain that it’s the Emperor? Could he not have sent Ney or Grouchy, perhaps?

  Wellington: (Almost amused) Men, men! I do not wish to believe that it really is Napoleon – I know many of you still think of him as formidable after Spain – but I do not assume he would send Ney or Grouchy to Belgium. It just is not in his character.