Words to Tie to Bricks

by Claire Hennesy

  The only other people out here are the ones who smoke. I know I must look weird, standing here alone, but I don’t care anymore. I watch the flare from a lighter and hope the gang will decide to go home soon.

  They won’t, of course.

  It’s so loud at these places I never hear any music, just noise, pounding against my skull, and the lights bounce off my eyes and make my brain swirl and ache. Those same lights transform the vast space with the sticky floor and nondescript walls into a prison that glows with bright colours in some corners and gleams with black in others and it’s all mixed together and compressed in my head into one blinding, blaring moment of light and dark and it just makes me stand there feeling utterly confused and stupid.

  But that’s not what you’re supposed to do here, is it? Here you’re supposed to have fun. You’re supposed to mingle with the mass of twisting bodies and you’re supposed to do what they’re doing. You have to find people to imitate because you know that any move you attempt will just look idiotic. You have to stand in the sticky air with the tang of perfume and sweat and worse burning your nose and force a smile onto your face and look like it’s the best place in the world to be.

  And I don’t even have the heart to be sarcastic or irritable about it, because I just feel so miserable and out of place, like I’m that one jigsaw piece that not only won’t fit in with the rest of the puzzle, but turns out to be in completely the wrong box.

  I’ve never understood the appeal of being in that environment, where it’s too fast and too loud and too hot and too bright and too dark all at once. It only ever makes me feel slightly sick and really I just want to be at home, where it’s safe, or reading a book or watching some random movie or doing anything, really, rather than be there.

  But I get put in this social situation, and the worst part of all is worrying about what they’ll think when my awkwardness is tangible and people stop and look at me and laugh and say, ‘Just relax!’

  I take a last deep breath, enjoying for one final moment the cold smoky air that can’t be had inside, because I know I’ll only last ten minutes max before I can’t stand it anymore and I come back out here and begin this whole routine again. I look up at the sky and realise the clouds have shifted, and that up in the heavens I can see some stars.

  Then I return to the door with my jaw set and I go back inside and feel the music pounding through my chest once again.

  Mistaken

  SAMUEL H. DOYLE

  There. Look!

  Yes, you see her

  Finally a friend you know.

  A buoyant stride closing in

  On the savouring prize.

  That hair you remember,

  Long and sinuous, an inky shade

  Reminding you of blackberries,

  The ones we shared last year.

  Reaching for her shoulder,

  Sheer delight, the tanned collarbone

  Identical to that in your dreams.

  She turns effortlessly,

  And says ...

  ‘Do I know you?’

  Eve

  SEAN CERONI

  SHE SITS ON THE RED chair in the dressing room. She stares at the mirror. She loathes the image in it. She feels ugly even though she has spent the day walking down runways. She feels fat even though her stomach shrieks from under her white Chanel dress. She opens a drawer of the dressing table. She removes a small red velvet box. She gently clicks open the silver clasp on the box. It is full of white powder.

  Her name is Eve.

  She pours some white powder onto the table using a small silver spoon. It is her grandmother’s. She gave Eve all her silverware. Seashells are lovingly carved into it. It is now covered with tiny white crystals. Eve fishes a 100 euro note and a credit card from her purse. Using the card she taps the crystals into a neat line. She rolls the 100 euro note tight, and places it gently into her left nostril.

  She moves slowly over the line, inhaling every last crystal into her system.

  She straightens up. She clears up all signs of her habit before placing the velvet box back in the drawer and rushing out of the room. The corridor is brimming with busybodies. Members of staff jostle by her. ‘Eve, you’re needed now for makeup!’ is shouted at her from down the corridor. She hurries towards the makeup area, where she is grasped and pushed into a chair. She is quickly plastered with various substances before being gestured forth for final inspection by Karl Lagerfeld. He looks her up and down quickly. She can’t see his eyes from beneath his sunglasses. He adjusts the positioning of the dress on her shoulders and pushes her towards the catwalk. She is hit by the bright lights of a thousand cameras. She has done this thousands of times, a thousand times too many.

  She collapses onto the catwalk, her white dress billowing behind her. She can feel the flashes of camera light on her eyelids as the photographers rush onto the catwalk. It is the last thing she will ever feel.

  Even This Much Chocolate Couldn’t Make Us Sweet

  A CLASS EFFORT

  Challenge: Describe chocolate in one sentence, without reference to taste.

  CHOCOLATE MELTS IN YOUR MOUTH then slides down your throat like medicine for the soul until it fills your stomach with regret.

  The sound of a vibrating bass string, dipped in liquid gold.

  It creates an instant sweetness and tingles in a person’s mouth; it brings relief to those who feel fear, illness, despair or simply addiction, it is a joyous substance that is magical and comes in many different forms.

  A thick solid that will melt on touch and coat every part of your being in smiles.

  Imagine you’ve never slept your entire life; everyone always talks of how glorious it is but you don’t give it too much thought, you convince yourself it’s fine and that you’re losing nothing and that the extra productivity is worth the constant restlessness and the feeling of hot sand in the throat – with all of this, chocolate is falling asleep in someone else’s arms.

  Chocolate is like empty words of velvet that let you down after you hear them.

  It starts as a small block of solid joy and wonder, before melting into a pool of liquid comfort and warm coziness that slowly coats your whole mouth in a layer of love.

  If it were sound, a harmony that builds to cacophonous crescendo of sweet, silky and rich.

  My Prison

  HANNAH-ROSE MANNING

  I STARE AT THE WHITEWASHED wall, wondering when my life will begin. This room encloses me, trapping me in a prison of despair. I sigh heavily, hot tears running down my already stained cheeks. Nothing to do, nothing to see and no one to talk to. I run my slender fingers through my hair until its silkiness soothes me. Every day like the one before. Waiting for someone, anyone. Even my parents would do at this stage, despite their abandonment. She said my ‘isolation to think about what I have done’ would be temporary. Day 16 and counting. No more, no less. I keep a record of the date so I won’t lose the parts of my mind that are still intact. Every day, the desperation increases. Every day, I realise what I do not have anymore. Every day, I forget why I did it and then I remember his eyes. The eyes that saw into my soul, past my prickly exterior. I hope he knows what I did for him.

  The days grow longer. Each day takes a little bit of me and I see no way to get it back. I try not to wallow in self-pity, but the difficulty of trying not to do something overcomes me. I do not have long to live, I think. Not like this. I have no food now and scarce amounts of water. I dream of him coming to rescue me, yet I know the truth. He left and nothing can change that, not my letters, not my pleas, not my hopes, not my dreams. A few short weeks ago he held me as though he would never let me go. I felt beautiful, loved. Now look at me. A 16-year-old girl so thin her bones are showing locked up in a room with no windows or doors. Whenever I hear footsteps I think it is her. I imagine her pitying me and giving me back the one thing I want above everything else: freedom.

  I try to find things to occupy my day, but the room is bare and bleak and does not accom
modate the residence of humans. Every day I draw pictures on the walls but every night while I am asleep she washes them off. I cry a lot which takes up time. I hope she hears my tears, I hope she knows what she did to me. At twelve o’clock I run around the tiny room fifteen times. I eat whatever will not kill me and I drink whatever water there is. I clean and clean and clean with an old rag until my hands are raw and filthy but the room is fairly respectable. I sing until I cannot sing any longer and I shout nonsensical words to entertain myself.

  I talk to myself and to him. I answer back, but he never does. I know that he is long gone, but he will always be in my memories. I miss him every second of every hour of every minute of every day. Yet the sun keeps shining, although he is gone. The world keeps moving, although I am gone.

  Heels against the Cobblestone An Interlude

  SEAN CERONI

  IN 1960S FLORENCE, IN A café with green shutters, tucked away in a maze of cobblestone, a man sat enjoying a coffee. His name was Samuel Broesman. He is one of our protagonists.

  Samuel was not an interesting man. He was head of Cadillac’s Italian branch and was at that moment enjoying a break from a dull business meeting. He was just one more rich American among the seemingly millions who plagued the city. He was 46 years of age and he looked well for his age, with a full head of dark, slick black hair and the odd wrinkle. He wore a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.

  At this particular point in the endless sea of forgotten memories, Sam was sitting comfortably at a table outside the café, bathed in sun, drinking an espresso and smoking a cigarette. It was a busy day in Florence; the summer had brought the usual floods of tourists to its narrow streets. Sam had escaped the crowds and cameras to this café in the back streets of the ancient city centre. The only sounds were the occasional hum of a vespa in the distance and the soft cooing of pigeons flying above. It was in this silence that he heard her approaching – the rhythmic sound of heels tapping against the cobblestone. Sam could not help but stare at her as she emerged from behind the street corner. She was pencil-thin with a lithe, boyish quality to her body. She wore a baby blue velvet dress that ended very high on her thighs and chunky blue plastic boots. There was a small white (presumably faux) fur draped over her small shoulders. The icing on the cake had to be the massive pair of sunglasses that dominated her face. The blue frames curved into the grooves of her cheekbones ending with cat-eye points at the corners. She had sharp but delicate features and pale skin that distinguished her as foreign. Her hair was styled in a blonde pixie cut. She was the most beautiful woman Sam had ever seen. She is our second protagonist.

  She went by the name of Cece. No one was sure of her origins but she sounded vaguely British with a somewhat aristocratic tone. She was one of those people who seemed to have always lived in Florence, forever playing the role of the mysterious socialite. She earned her keep as some form of a call girl, with the occasional modelling job. She had always wanted to die alone.

  Cece noticed him the moment she rounded the corner. It was hard not to. He was the striking type. With his dark eyes and expensive suit. He looked elegant as he sat there, cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, smoke gently drifting from his lips as he lifted his espresso cup. She hadn’t set out for coffee but she wanted to observe him a little more. She walked up to the counter with a slight nuance of moxie in her steps. She noted that he was looking at her the entire time. She leaned against the counter, and in velvet tones said, ‘Espresso per piacere.’

  ‘Certo,’ was the waiter’s reply. She strolled out again and sank into a chair at a table directly next to Sam’s. When she removed her sunglasses, they revealed huge, grey, doll-like eyes framed in thick eyeliner. She grasped a pack of cigarettes out of her bag with her long blue pointed nails and rested the pack on the table. She considered getting her lighter but thought better of it.

  ‘Do you have a light?’ she asked Sam, presuming he was of English-speaking origin.

  ‘Naturally,’ he said in the tones of a man who smoked heavily. He produced a lighter from his inside pocket and leaned towards her.

  Cece leaned in, cigarette between her lips, until the lighter was directly under the cigarette. With a flick of Sam’s thumb the flame burst into life and lit the cigarette. Cece and Sam leaned back and the first hurdle to a human bond had been overcome.

  ‘You come here much?’ Sam said, looking up at her.

  She gave him a wry smile as smoke swirled from her nostrils before she replied with a simple ‘No,’ her eyes boring into his soul. ‘I had a hunch the coffee would be good,’ she said before emitting a throaty laugh.

  ‘So is it appropriate to ask your name yet?’ Sam asked before taking a last drag and putting down his cigarette.

  ‘Cece,’ she said softly as the waiter arrived with her espresso. She put out the cigarette and slid a slim finger inside the cup handle, her blue nail chinking against the depth. ‘You have endless eyes.’ Her voice was ethereal.

  ‘Well darling, the man you see around those eyes is called Sam.’

  Cece giggled. ‘You remind me of a skeleton.’ She stared directly into his eyes. It was at this point that Cece normally made people uncomfortable, and before long they usually came up with an excuse to leave, but Sam didn’t flinch. He returned her stare. They sat together in silence for a few minutes. Despite only knowing him for mere minutes, Cece never wanted to leave his presence.

  She broke the silence by saying, ‘Well Samuel darling, how about we leave now that we know simply everything about each other.’

  ‘But you haven’t paid.’ Sam looked at her, rather alarmed.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, smiling as she got out of her seat.

  Sam also rose and Cece darted off around the street corner without him. Sam rushed after her as fast as he could, terrified of losing her. After coughing and spluttering for a few blocks, he found Cece standing at a street corner adjusting her makeup.

  ‘What was that?’ Sam asked as he sidled up to her, scrunching his face in the effort to breathe.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to end up in jail again, do I?’

  Sam wondered what he was getting himself into.

  ‘So where shall we go, dearest?’ Cece said as she applied a final layer of lipstick and snapped her mirror shut.

  ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’

  ‘Let’s just do something Florentine,’ she said as she grabbed his hand and led him down the cobblestones.

  The pair walked side by side, fingers tangled.

  ‘Why are we doing this?’ Sam said as they walked through the streets, hands linked, without any direction.

  ‘Because we are in love,’ was Cece’s simple answer.

  Sam wondered why he wasn’t disconcerted by the statement. It just seemed right. They continued in a comfortable silence.

  ‘Buy me ice cream,’ Cece said suddenly, in an unusually soft manner for a demand, dragging Sam into an ice cream parlour packed with tourists. Cece pushed ahead of the crowds ignoring the queues and annoying many. She pressed against the counter and looked at the vast tubs of coloured creams.

  ‘Which one you like?’ the man behind the counter said in stilted English.

  ‘Blue,’ she said tapping her nail against the glass.

  ‘What colour cone?’

  ‘Mmmm ... I don’t know. SAM!’ she shouted across the shop. Sam emerged from the corner of the shop and pushed through the increasingly annoyed tourists to get to Cece. ‘Sam, darling, which colour cone do you think would suit blue?’

  Sam shook his head, guessing she simply wanted an ice cream to match her ensemble. ‘White, I think.’

  The man behind the counter didn’t bother waiting to see whether Cece agreed or not, which was only sensible considering the entire room was fuming and wished them dead.

  ‘2000 lire,’ he said as he shoved the ice cream in Cece’s direction.

  Sam quickly threw him a note and rushed after Cece, who had already left; he found he
r outside experimentally licking the blue ice cream.

  ‘This ice cream tastes like plastic,’ Cece said as she scrunched her mouth up to her nose.

  ‘Well it was expensive, so enjoy it for my sake,’ Sam said, putting his arm around her.

  They continued on into the streets. As strange as it sounded, Sam enjoyed the feeling of being obnoxious; it made him feel iconic.

  They soon arrived at Piazza della Signoria. Cece wandered over to the fountain with the enormous statue of Neptune. She gazed into the water, a constellation of copper coins reflected in her eyes. She dumped her blue ice cream into the quivering water and ran off quickly, giggling as she went.

  She sat on a bench where Sam had already settled down. She began feeding pieces of the white cone to the pigeons. The stupid birds leapt upon the white flecks, battling each other off to win what seemed to be the most precious thing in the world. She loved birds. She always felt sorry for the pigeons; they were never treated with compassion in Florence. It showed how people only seemed to care for beautiful things. She gazed at the buildings around the square, tall and foreboding, surrounding her, closing in on her and the pigeons.

  Cece leapt up from the bench and said to Sam, rushed, ‘We have to leave now.’

  ‘What do you mean? What’s wrong? Where do you want to go now?’ Sam asked, getting up from the bench.

  ‘How far is it to the airport?’ she said as she grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the square, displacing flocks of pigeons in the process.