‘What? The airport! What happened?’ Sam said as she dragged him down the steep steps.
‘Let’s go away and never come back, that’s all,’ she said as she let go of his hand, rushed to the road and hailed a taxi.
Sam hurried down the steps to meet her. She hopped into the taxi, leaving the door open for Sam, and leaned in toward the driver and said, ‘Aeroporto.’
Sam fell rather gracelessly into the taxi, out of breath. Cece put her head on his shoulder.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Sam said as he lit a cigarette.
‘Yes,’ Cece said, staring into space, thinking about everything and nothing.
She clutched his hand. They sat in silence, enjoying the intense feeling of bliss. Cece looked out the window; the city was getting thinner and thinner. There were more trees now.
She closed her eyes and smelled the smoke drifting around the cab.
A Wet and Foggy Season
CONOR KELLEHER
Fog was thick last night.
The grass was wet and boggy.
Just an accident.
I’m so sorry, Ma’am.
He was a good boy, Alfie.
Didn’t deserve that.
Now, don’t blame yourself.
No one’s to blame here, Miss Black.
He was a young lad.
He knew the place well.
The chances were so slim, aye?
No, Ma’am, not his fault.
But not yours, neither.
Now look; there are always fights
‘tween mothers and sons.
Just dealt a bad hand,
That’s all. Just terrible luck.
Now look, Ma’am, now look,
You did not kill him.
Not your son, Miss Black, not you.
A mistake, mark me.
He walked by the cliffs.
The fog was thick, it was wet ...
He fell, Ma’am, he fell.
Okay? Not your fault.
An awful turn of events.
We’ll all mourn with you.
Sorry, what was that?
A note? Never mind that, Ma’am.
Never you mind that.
Just let me sleep
GRACE COLLINS
I’M NOT TIRED. NOT IN the way you understand tiredness. I feel like I’m being swallowed by it. It’s taking over my body, it’s planted its seed in my belly, it’s growing around my ribs, letting its vines coil around my legs and arms. But this isn’t a beautiful flower; no, it’s a cold, grey, rotting ivy that’s slipping into all my nooks and crannies, slowly weakening them. Its grasp getting tighter and tighter until I eventually will snap. And then it will simply move on to another victim.
It is hard to concentrate with this tiredness; it’s hard to do simple things, like walk, hold a conversation, eat, write. I seem to be in a constant state of confusion. It’s like I’m missing part of my day. I seem to suddenly wake in a classroom having no idea what has happened as the last I can remember I was going to bed. And it’s terrifying but I can’t tell a soul.
They will pump me full, weigh me down, slap a smile on my face and send me back out if they knew. They’ve done that before. I’d go for endless tests. Nothing being certain, never being told what was wrong. They can’t admit that I’m a mystery. And when they were finished with me I’d be sent away feeling so much worse. They will tell me I’m crazy, I’m ill, I’m broken and I’m hurting. But I’m not. I’m fine. I’m just tired.
Please, I beg of you, let me prick my finger and sleep for a thousand years. But don’t let a prince’s kiss come to wake me. Please turn them away. Tell them the princess is gone, beyond repair, and let me sleep and sleep and sleep until there is no more time. Even then don’t wake me. Let me sleep through it and then let me fade and fade until I and everything we know of this world ceases to exist. And then I shall smile, and I shall be mended and all will be well.
If I Left
EMMA SHEVLIN
If I left
Would you care?
Would you know?
Would it show?
If I left
Would you weep?
Would you cry?
Would I fly?
If I left
Where would I go?
Heaven bound
Or underground?
If I left
You’d all be fine.
You would not pry.
You would not die.
I’ve done that part.
Notes on contributors
CATHERINE BOWEN
Catherine does not (and cannot) write poetry. She works mainly in prose, and has started several novels, although has not yet found the one she wants to finish. She writes a lot of fantasy; she particularly enjoys writing tall female protagonists, because as a tall reader, she feels underrepresented. She likes sailing, but doesn’t really like to swim. She likes films for children. She loves to read as much as to write.
AMY CAMPBELL
Amy is sixteen and lives in Clonakilty in Cork. She is known as a rainbow-type individual who functions entirely on glitter and plans to name her future pet unicorn Blaine. She favours muffins over croissants and naturally, if given the opportunity, two of the things she’d rescue from a house fire would be her sparkly eye shadow and peach-coloured high heels with bows on. Her hobbies include drama and skipping. She began writing when she was smaller than she is now and she enjoys writing prose.
SEAN CERONI
Sean Ceroni is fifteen years old and from Leitrim, in the north west of Ireland. He doesn’t like living there as it is dull and there is nothing to do. He is interested in music, fashion and film. He likes to write thrillers, romance and crime. He would love to live in the fashion capitals of the world, Paris, Milan or Tokyo. He started writing seriously in January 2013.
GRACE COLLINS
Grace is a fifteen-year-old prose poet who is a fan of the colour yellow and soft jumpers, and is hopeless at deadlines. She likes to write on her bed, preferably with some green tea, perhaps in the company of her two dogs. Trains are her favourite mode of transport. Before doing the Anthology of Writing course, revision was a mystery to her and she had never shown her work to anyone.
SAMUEL H. DOYLE
Samuel Harry Doyle was born in Croydon, London in 1998 (yes, the same place where the riots were a few years ago). His greatest memories of life in England are falling into the garden pond and walking to school in shorts during snowy winters. At six his family returned to the rural homeland of Ireland (just in time to miss the Celtic Tiger and hit the recession) and he now lives in the middle of Monaghan’s boggy countryside, where he attends St. Macartan’s College. While at CTYI he appeared in many guises including but not limited to Sam Doyle, a Dalmatian, the COW, Grim Reaper, a Chicago mobster to rival Al Capone and your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman!
ANDREW DUFFY
Andrew Duffy is fifteen years old and lives in Dundalk. He only started writing seriously in January 2013. He finds writing to be a good way to release his feelings. He does not like to limit his writing to one genre, preferring to be versatile in the forms and genres in which he writes. He enjoys reading and reads a lot of graphic novels. His hobbies outside of writing include going to the gym, acting and playing guitar. He is an only child, which he thinks is great with the exception of Christmas time and the holidays. He dislikes Dundalk and would love to live in London when he is older.
CAELEN FELLER
Once, there was nothing. Then, nothing gained an interest in knitting, and other things related to yarns.
It then made a pink woollen hat, named Kandy.
This hat’s attempts at knitting were less successful, and the name that was given to the conglomeration of its work was Caelen.
He writes stuff sometimes.
CONOR KELLEHER
Conor doesn’t really know what writing is, or what it’s for, or how English works, and he’s especially confused as to the exact mechanics of how
he came to be trapped within this book. He likes words, pianos, music, remembering, and friends, and although he understands very little about any of these and routinely breaks them into tiny pieces, he finds he has a certain knack for using them to make people happy.
He may or may not actually be a Secret Yorkshire Terrier.
He thanks you kindly for reading.
HANNAH-ROSE MANNING
Hannah-Rose is a sixteen-year-old reader/fantasy writer who visits Florida regularly. She has been interested in writing since she was a child. She maintains a good relationship with her twenty-one-year-old brother. She likes skiing, table tennis and basketball. She enjoys writing prose and likes to read most genres. She is thinking about writing crime as well as fantasy in the future.
CAROL MCGILL
Carol is fifteen years old, and has blonde hair and green eyes.
When she isn’t writing fantabulous short stories, she enjoys hockey, swimming and drama. She lived in Belgium for two years before returning to Ireland with a new outlook on life. Carol used to do archery and is not afraid to shoot an arrow at someone if they try to steal her chocolate stash. When asked what she would save in a fire, she said her entire bookshelf, so one may presume she has supreme strength.
She has been writing for as long as she can remember, and her first completed work was a picture book she sellotaped together for her sister. Carol doesn’t favour any particular genre, being somewhat of a free spirit. She writes her first drafts by hand in one of her several dozen notebooks, before typing it out in Shruti, her favourite font.
ORLA MCGOVERN
Orla McGovern is a fifteen-year-old poet. She’s the youngest of three and has a cat called Pepper. Orla sings and has recently started to write short stories. She likes to handwrite her work and keeps a notebook beside her bed as she’ll often get ideas in the middle of the night. She’s a big fan of structured poems. Orla comes from a sciencey family and finds that her writing is strange as there’s no one to read it. She found workshopping very helpful and wants to continue to do it as it helped her work. Orla still isn’t sure about her future but knows she want to do something interesting with her life.
ANNA MULLIGAN
Anna is a tea-hating Dubliner and proud of it. Anna enjoys writing poetry, flash fiction, monologues, screenplays, short stories and novels. When not writing in all these media, Anna spends her time watching films, playing the piano and surfing the internet. If Anna were an animal she would be an owl and she will never entertain thoughts of living outside a city.
HANNAH O’BOYLE
Hannah O’Boyle is a sixteen-year-old, brown-eyed girl from Leitrim.
She regularly teaches the class to dance, as she knows ballet, modern dance, tap dance, jazz and hip-hop.
Her favourite colour is yellow and she started writing poetry as a young, misunderstood girl.
She has bi-coloured hair and enjoys long walks on the beach, stealing fake casino money and crying while reading Marianna Paige’s poetry on Tumblr.
EMMA SHEVLIN
Emma Shevlin is a sixteen-year-old from Louth who likes teenage romance novels, dinner and a show.
Standing at a perfect 5 ft 5, she has bi-coloured hair and stunning grey eyes. She enjoys wearing fake glasses to trick people about her eyesight. She started writing poetry after she broke up with her boyfriend, as it was less violent than throwing bricks through windows. Her favourite quotation is, ‘This too shall pass.’
CAHAL SWEENEY
Cathal/Cahal/Sheldon (take your pick) was born in Chicago but has lived in Ireland since he was three. He has always liked writing and reading but only got into writing drama when he was fourteen. He lives in Drogheda with his family and four pets but hates it and wants to move literally anywhere else. He is hoping to study either Drama or History in college.
Words to Tie to Bricks Page 11
