Words to Tie to Bricks (7 page)

A
MY
C
AMPBELL

Your eyes wide with the question,

But I don’t know what to say.

There’s no right way to phrase this,

It wasn’t meant to be this way.

Each second we are silent

Drops off of us like rain.

I really should say something,

You must think I’m insane.

I try and fail to make something up,

But to lie you must be calm.

I gibber out the awkward question.

‘Oh,’ you laugh, ‘I am.’

O
RLA
M
C
G
OVERN

‘I’m a girl.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I’m neither.’

‘I’m both.’

‘I’m Catholic.’

‘I’m Protestant.’

‘I’m atheist.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m homosexual.’

‘I’m straight.’

‘I’m asexual.’

‘I’m bi.’

I feel like I should know

Which label’s mine.

(An excerpt from a work in progress)

C
ATHERINE
B
OWEN

D
ECLAN SNIFFLED AND WIPED HIS
running nose into the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His damp clothes hung off the fire guard behind him. He sat
hunched on the stones of the hearth with his back to the flames. His mother had wanted to run him a bath but he was too stubborn to ever willingly take more than one soak a week, even while
shivering. He began to regret this decision as a tickling feeling started to crawl up his throat. He knew he was getting a cold.

The idea of being sick over the weekend irritated him. This occurrence would normally have elicited a feeling of outrage from Declan. Normally, however, there were things to
do
at the
weekend.

It had been raining and sleeting continuously for a full week now.

Every lunch and break time, the teachers kept the students locked inside. Not that the girls minded. They giggled and coloured and were generally as annoying as usual. Meanwhile Declan and the
other boys clutched their hurleys and pressed their faces mournfully up against the glass of the windows.

By Friday it had reached the point that the boys had run off at the end of school to the field by the river to play. The rain had eased into a drizzle which clung to their jumpers in droplets.
The river was close to overflowing and the field was saturated. The ground glistened and a pond had formed by the hedgerow.

They were about to try to brave the sodden earth when Joe’s mother found them. The boy was dragged away by the ear while his mother screeched in it. It was a grand total of two minutes
before the others were given the same treatment by their own parents.

After Mam had finished reprimanding him, she had left him here to wait until his clothes had dried. Or possibly until he died of boredom. Rose sat opposite him on the couch, writing into her
hardback copy. The books from her schoolbag had spilled out around her feet and he could see an old essay covered in little red markings peeking out from her English book.

Declan never wanted to go into secondary school. Homework at the weekend! What kind of monsters would do that?

Any other time he would leave Rose be. If she wasn’t talking about some boy with ‘dreamy eyes’, she was prattling on about makeup and neither were topics he had a smidgeon of
interest in. Then again, his trousers were still dripping onto the stones and he was going to collapse if he didn’t do
something
soon.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, cutting through the silence.

‘Homework,’ she replied without raising her eyes. She coughed into the back of her hand and kept writing.

‘What kind of homework?’

‘I’ve to write an essay for English.’ Her eyes were narrowed in suspicion as she answered. He knew that she was questioning his motives.

‘Read it for me,’ he requested, flashing a smile. When he was younger, he quickly learnt that little boys with big smiles were generally considered ‘cuddly’ and
‘cute’ and had turned his grin into a work of art. The dimples of his cheeks never failed him.

Rose sighed, clearly feeling put upon, but began reading nonetheless.

‘There is a sense of anticipation as
–
’

‘What’s that mean?’

Her glare was icy and he threw his hands up in surrender.

Rose cleared her throat and started again.

‘There is a sense of anticipation as winter ends.

‘Snowdrops force their way up through the hardened soil to act as standard-bearers for oncoming forces. The sun begins to linger in the sky each day to watch as legions of daffodils
gather. Their bright petals pay tribute to the sunlight.’ She seemed quite pleased with her choice of words there and Declan tried not to mock her hand gestures as she spoke. ‘A tension
builds and animals cautiously venture from their hideaways.

‘With the war cry of a bird, it begins. Buds fire open. Frost sweeps over fields at night and chokes the life from new sprouts. Hordes of rabbits,’ Rose paused to turn the page,
‘pour out from their burrows. An icy wind brings blankets of cloud to keep the grass from growing. After countless battles between flora and frost, the land is painted green. The forces of
spring rejoice as their enemy is forced back and finally banished.’

The door opened and Mam leaned through. ‘Tea, anyone?’

‘No thanks, Mam,’ they chanted in reply. She smiled and shut the door, sending a wave of cold air through the room.

Declan shivered once and waited as Rose searched for her place.

‘The armies rejoice in their triumph. Grass reaches to the sky in exuberance. Flowers burst open as fireworks of celebration and foxgloves serve as bells of victory. Honey bees are
messengers of the good news. The landscape brims with life. Plants stretch and bear fruit for a banquet. The scorching sun now remains astonishingly long in the sky to watch the festivities.

‘However, with time its interest fades. The ethereal witness,’
–
the smug way Rose said ethereal didn’t sit well with him
–
‘grows weary and
drifts from sight earlier with every passing day. The warmth it provides slips away and the growth of life slows.

‘The lush leaves lose their brilliance. Cold mists flow over hedgerows and cling to the ground each evening. A howling wind warns of an inevitable defeat. As a farewell to a time of
plenty, the leaves turn golden and branches hang heavy with nuts and berries.

‘Frost returns, hungry for retribution. Soon leaves fall to the enemy and the animals retreat. The trees become dormant, waiting until they can once again reclaim the land.’

Declan frowned, unsure how to feel about the piece. On one hand, it was war, which he liked. On the other, it was about
flowers
. Why ruin the fighting by making it all girly? And if she
was going to make it girly, why didn’t she just make it all about kittens and rainbows and dresses?

‘What do you think?’ Rose drawled out, getting up to stoke the fire.

He stuck out his tongue in reply, causing her to roll her eyes and smile as she threw a turf briquette into the flames. She sat back down, switching copies and taking a calculator from the bag
at her feet. He returned to checking his trouser legs every few seconds. Why were they taking so long to dry?

S
AMUEL
H. D
OYLE

I laboured all night long,

Hunchbacked, hiding in homely robes.

My eyes strained, pupils dilated with the depth of the darkness,

Striving to express the extent of my emotions.

Hurrying hands growing cramped,

Crooked fingers curling and clenched.

The inky nib scratched irregularly

As I scrawled, blotching my page.

My mind loosely rambled onwards

Towards a completion that couldn’t come too soon.

A writing wreck, as salty moisture welled

Within weary eyes that craved for release.

Beyond witching hour the cartridge ran dry,

My word-wand’s scribblings forced to stall.

Arms thrown back, writhing and grasping at air

Before slamming shut the stained paper sheaves.

A fiery arrow ascending above the hills,

The cheering sun, a candle of hope

Renewing all of Earth’s natural splendour.

I rose refreshed; confident and prepared.

Later ... all beliefs found dashed against the wall,

Splattering, smashed on the brutal brickwork.

A labour of love lasting all night long,

And in the end, good for nothing.

O
RLA
M
C
G
OVERN

Wet face,

Racing mind,

Sobbing breaths,

Blade kind.

Quick slash,

Sharp pain,

Short pause,

Blood fain.

A
NDREW
D
UFFY

I
CAN SMELL
. I
T IS
glorious; the delightful aromas liberate me from the mundane. The smell of home fills my nostrils and floods
every hole and crevice of my olfactory system with fumes of beauty and grace in the form of a freshly prepared specimen.

I can touch. I rub the edges of its space. With every scrape of my fingers over its form I can feel my bones shake with the delight of the feeling, a moment where my skin freezes and I am
completely locked in the embrace of this beautiful object.

I can hear. It is the clatter and banter of those around me, some of whom are too caught up in their socialising to truly embrace the deity in front of them. There are some who take time out of
their social lives to enter this world of wonder but tragically only stay for small periods only to return to the dull world of human interaction. Then there is myself, too caught up in my quest
for enlightenment to pay the slightest bit of concern to the affairs of the human world.

I can see. It is bright and brilliant, it is a parade of colours marching down towards my eyes, and my eyes open eager to greet the blessed colours of the day. All of the colours melt together
to form perfection right before my fortunate eyes.