St. Gerard's Senior School Literacy Magazine 2022

LITERARY MAGAZINE

2021 - 2022

Covers by Aoife Ni Chuinn, Maria Farrell

I was reminded of President Higgins’ s words when I came across a poem by Julia Donaldson called “I Opened A Book.”It is a poem that reminds us all of the magic world a book opened for us as imaginative young readers;the friends we made in the characters,the emotional rollercoaster the plot took us on and somehow that book became a part of us.

It is vital in every way:academically,intellectually and emotionally that we never forget the power of books and the sheer joy of reading.

I Opened A Book - By Julia Donaldson

I opened a book and in I strode

Now nobody can find me.

I’ve left my chair,my house,my road, My town and my world behind me.

I’m wearing the cloak,I’ve slipped on the ring, I’ve swallowed the magic potion.

In last year’s introduction I quoted President Michael D.Higgins when he said “Books are windows to so many worlds,both real and imaginary. Indeed,it has been said that to acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from all the difficulties that life thrusts upon us…a book may be a friend for life” (The launch of the Ireland Reads Initiative in February 2021).

I’ve fought with a dragon,dined with a king And dived into a bottomless ocean.

I opened a book and made some friends.

I shared their tears and laughter

I was reminded of President Higgins’ s words when I came across a poem by Julia Donaldson called “I Opened A Book.”It is a poem that reminds us all of the magic world a book opened for us as imaginative young readers;the friends we made in the characters,the emotional rollercoaster the plot took us on and somehow that book became a part of us.

And followed their road with its bumps and twists

To the happily ever after.

It is vital in every way: academically, intellectually and emotionally that we never forget the power of books and the sheer joy of reading.

I finished my book and out I came. The cloak can no longer hide me.

I Opened A Book

By Julia Donaldson

My chair and my house are just the same. But I have a book inside me.

I opened a book and in I strode Now nobody can find me.

I’ve left my chair,my house,my road, My town and my world behind me.

I’m wearing the cloak,I’ve slipped on the ring, I’ve swallowed the magic potion.

I’ve fought with a dragon,dined with a king And dived into a bottomless ocean.

I opened a book and made some friends. I shared their tears and laughter And followed their road with its bumps and twists

To the happily ever after.

I finished my book and out I came. The cloak can no longer hide me.

My chair and my house are just the same.

But I have a book inside me.

IntroductionEamonn Carr

My thanks to all the contributors in this magazine for providing their “window to so many worlds”.Of course this magazine would not be possible without our wonderful editorial team of Anna Reynolds, Kirsten Connolly, Alannah Whitelaw, Alex Barcoe and Ben McDonald. As always the creativity of the cover art never ceases to amaze and this year is no different as Aoife Ni Chuinn and Maria Farrell have risen admirably to the challenge.

My thanks to all the contributors in this magazine for providing their “window to so many worlds”.Of course this magazine would not be possible without our wonderful editorial team of Anna Reynolds, Kirsten Connolly, Alannah Whitelaw, Alex Barcoe and Ben McDonald. As always the creativity of the cover art never ceases to amaze and this year is no different as Aoife Ni Chuinn and Maria Farrell have risen admirably to the challenge.

Mr Carr

War Photographs - By Tiffany Huang.

War Photographs

The war photograph of the year should be ageless, able to tell a story, and evoke emotion. All these qualities can be found in this image. When people are asked to state what they think of when they are talking about war, many would say soldiers in combat, people dying or dangerous weapons. They never really consider the sorrow war can cause: fearful for their family, leaving loved ones behind and death at the battlefield. This picture, however, does not reveal the horrors of war that other war photographs do.

It depicts a battle-weary soldier who, while off duty, is reading letters sent from his family and friends. The letters look worn out, meaning that he must have read and reread them several times, craving for more. The letters might have contained good news that the family are eagerly telling him about, or of bad news that they are trying to suppress from him. They might have been from his mother, who is trying her best to contain her emotions, while still keeping a positive attitude while writing to her son. Or it could have been from his father, giving parental advice and reassurance that this was for the ‘sake of his country’, and that it was his duty to serve the King. The letter in his breast pocket might have been from his wife, who is fearful for his life, yet praying for his safe return.

The disheveled, worn-out soldier is staring into space, reminiscing of better times in a better place. He is hungry for more news from home, a normality that he has missed during his time at the battlefield. He is thinking of a suitable reply to these letters that will not worry his parents, who are losing sleep thinking about their son. The soldier might be regretting his decision in signing up for the war. At first, he was excited after hearing about the glory of war, thinking he might come home a hero, but now however, he realises it was all something the armchair patriots made up to convince young, naive men to sign up for the war. This photograph clearly illustrates the different emotions war can evoke: sorrow, loneliness and fear for loved ones. As the saying goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. A single picture can tell a story to the audience.

Tiffany Huang

Trinity Essay

Kate Freney

I do not believe I can say what I want. I am offended that I can no longer offend, and that maybe I never truly could. Contrary to my beliefs, I will be exploring the impact of censorship, freedom of speech, free will, and its profound impact on my English studies. Although censorship is not strictly legally enforced in Irish society today, we can still see its effects rippling through each generation to echo our once conservative past. This begs the question: will my generation’s political beliefs be that of a group who told their stories of lofty liberal idealism through the cautionary tales of conservatism, whilst repeating what they define as “mistakes”? I digress, I am not one to limit a group to their beliefs, however, I am bearing witness to a universal cultural reform that seems unstoppable. Are these views just following the patterns of those that came before them: Young People Crave the Satisfaction of Change? Or is the world-changing yet again in an unexpected way? Whichever it may be, whether it’s one, neither, or an amalgamation of both, it has invaded my English class, and I am not happy about it. Whether you choose to align yourself politically or not, we all interpret our fundamental rights in a way that conveys our inclinations, behaviours, and beliefs. Article 40.6.1.i of Bunreacht na hEireann states that “You have a right to freely express your convictions and opinions, However, that right can be limited in the interests of public order and morality”. Immediately, we find ourselves dangling over the precipice of political correctness and the ultimate moral dilemma: How do you define morality? It may be easy to characterise an amoral person, however, a moral person is a completely different story. It seems comedic that such a highly evolved species have self-imposed rules that imply that we should be free to say whatever we want, but if this doesn’t suit those in a position of power, people can be forced into silence. The issue at hand is not whether the laws applied are necessary or right. It is that they have been put in such a vague manner that so much room is left for misinterpretation and error. At the same time, it is no mistake that laws are not clearly defined and the reasons behind this are extremely logical. How can we apply explicit rules to everything in our world without policing our thoughts? But if all thoughts are deemed regular, does innovation and originality dissipate into something that never truly existed in the first place? This cyclical paradox runs much deeper than an elected gover nment body, it touches on human psychology and the question we then ask becomes one of the human psyche and how impressionable our minds are. Most importantly, it provides an unsettling insight into free will and what liberties we truly have.

As I have already stated, the interpretation of the law has invaded my English class,

and we can see this through the censorship of certain books as they are deemed as being too controversial. In May 2021 we saw the right to freedom of expression being challenged within the school curriculum. Senior TD Willie O’Dea contemplated the contents of certain works on the prescribed list of films and books for both Junior Cycle and Leaving Certificate students, citing that some of these texts, “focus on death in a macabre, gratuitous way.” One book that faced scrutiny is Marjane Satrapi’s: Persepolis, which I have read. Satrapi’s Persepolis is a harrowing tale in which she vividly depicts her journey from childhood to adulthood amidst the Islamic Revolution. If Satrapi experienced the Islamic Revolution at a frighteningly young age, we are certainly old enough to understand and contemplate the often grim realities of life. To quote Oscar Wilde, “The books that the world calls immoral are books that show its own shame.” Literature can often provide us with an insight that we could otherwise never begin to imagine. If we are kept wrapped in wool as 16, 17, and 18-year-olds, we only become ignorant as to what goes on around us, and therefore we can go on to lack a basic understanding of the world. Some people just don’t read. It’s a chore for some, and for others, they are far too caught up in their daily rigours to read. This is why it is so important that we study literature in school. I feel I have made it abundantly clear that literature impacts us in a profound way. Even if you aren’t paying attention in English, you have to analyse the text and comment upon it. We are always aware of our surroundings, be it consciously or subconsciously. If you choose to lean into it, you can learn a lot by just listening to others. We live in a world that strives for peace whilst aiming nuclear missiles at one another. By striving for peace, we only fool ourselves and become ignorant. I believe a more realistic aim is compassion and awareness. Without trying to sound like a UNICEF ambassador, we can strive for a world in which people are understood, and their experiences are acknowledged. This does not come from censoring ourselves or others, it does not materialise from not being able to contemplate hypotheticals, but it does come from people feeling like they can share their stories without the fear of them being deemed as inappropriate. Very simply, it comes from books being accepted as what they are and that is real and honest.

They’re Dancing on The Beaches

They’re dancing on the beaches

The beaches full of igneous, multicoloured rock. Some would prefer sand. But they don’t understand that these sharp rocks are our stones.

And it’s black and it’s blue and it’s an abstract painting. Two blocks of colour that I don’t understand but I can feel alive, feel moving, throbbing beneath its night time canvas.

Bray Head watches, she wears her cross. Now reach out. Take it. Weave its shine around your neck and become littered with the detritus of youth - old cigarette butts, clandestine kisses,

The mementos graffitied, carved on trees, on walls. Please understand that love cannot be hidden. It is alive. It’s dancing on the beaches on the golden, speckled shore.

This town, this not-quite city. Abstract painting. Piece of Graffiti. Full of rocks and bits of stones. It is alive. It’s dancing on the shore. This place. It holds our bones.

Murray Sheehan

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse

Ciara Heffernan

Directors: Peter Ramsey, Bob Persichetti, Rodney Rothman

Main Cast: Shameik Moore (Miles Morales), Jake Johnson (Peter B. Parker), Hailee Steinfeld (Gwen Stacy), Mahershala Ali (Uncle Aaron), Liev Schreiber (Kingpin)

When Brooklyn teen Miles Morales is bitten by a radioactive spider, he acquires mysterious spider-like abilities. After discovering evil crime boss Kingpin is about to destroy every universe in existence, he must master his superpowers and become Spider-Man before it’s too late. With the help of Peter Parker and some other Spiderpeople, can he take a leap of faith and defeat Kingpin before he demolishes the multiverse?

Although the plot is relatively simple, the film still intrigues you from the start until the end due to how interesting the characters are, especially Miles. It’s extremely satisfying seeing how Miles grows from an inexperienced boy trying to fit in at school, to Brooklyn’s new, skilful Spider-Man.

The main characters are Miles Morales, Peter B. Parker, Gwen Stacy, Uncle Aaron and the Kingpin. Personally, my favourite character is Miles, since he’s very relatable and his journey to become Spider-Man is a lot more compelling than other Spider-Man movies.

I loved the film because of the incredible music, engaging characters, emotional moments and straightforward but gripping story.

The leap of faith scene is one of my favourite film scenes ever, as it marks the moment Miles finally masters his powers, exceeds the other heroes’ expectations and becomes his own Spider-Man. Seeing him fail over and over again earlier in the movie only makes this scene even more rewarding, with Morales’ epic web swinging and the triumphant ‘What’s Up Danger’ playing in the background.

I would definitely recommend this to a friend. In fact, I’ve recommended it to every friend I’ve ever made, even people I’m not friends with. I’ve watched Spider-Verse almost every month since its release in December 2018. This is because there’s something in it for everyone. The witty humour, the stunning visuals, amazing music score, and relatable characters. There’s even onomatopoeia, giving a comic book feeling.

If you’re a Spider-Man fan, or you’re just fond of excellent movies in general, then Into the Spider-Verse is for you.

My rating: ★★★★★

Soroptimists

Scarlett Glynn

Good evening Chairperson, Adjudicators, lady Soroptimists and fellow speakers. My name is Scarlett Glynn and I would like to talk about the effect that climate change is having on women. I understand that the topic of climate change seems to be an unchanging headline nowadays- and I can acknowledge the desperate desire to click off the doomsday articles detailing how the chair that your sitting in and the phone in your pocket and your car sitting outside are all single handedly causing our descend into a bleak future. I really wish I could stand here today with a smile and 6 minutes ahead of us to talk about how that’s not true - but environmentalists never lie. The only thing I can truly hope for is to attach a new lens onto the microscope that we view climate change from.

If you didn’t already know, the biggest issue concerning climate change is the current and projected effect that it will have on the agricultural sector. Consequences such as changing rainfall patterns, higher temperatures, droughts, desertification and natural disasters, just to name a few. All of these changes will make it next to impossible to grow and harvest crops - increasing the price of food and lowering a farmer’s income.

Therefore developing nations stand to lose the most from climate change. According to the UN women make up 50% of the recorded agricultural workforce in developing countries - however they only own 20% of that land. This lack of ownership makes women more vulnerable to extreme weather events. They are less likely to have the cash in hand to replant and recover their lost crops and miss out on external aid due to their invisibility in cultures that do not value the work of women.

Another reason women farmers find it harder to bounce back from a climate disaster is the lack of basic education. Education is the single most important factor in social mobility, reducing maternal and infant mortality, disease risk,and reducing vulnerabilities to climate disasters. When we arm women with the tools they are entitled to - they succeed - it can truly be that simple. Which, I’m sure, is not news to any women sitting in this room.

Gender-based violence tripled in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina - Hurricane Harvey in Texas also increased serious domestic violence offenses - including murder. In 2011, after two tropical cyclones crashed through a small island in the South Pacific, new cases of domestic violence increased by 300 percent.

In 2005 Oxfam International reported that after the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami four women died for every man in Indonesia. Oxfam related this to cultural norms - women were less likely to be taught how to swim, climb trees, and more likely wear restrictive clothing and to be in charge of taking care of children and the eldery which impared their self-rescue abilities. This is the basic education we’re talking about. In terms of decreasing our environmental footprint - women come out on top. In a study done by two of Canada’s top universities - women showed greater levels of concern for the environment where on the other hand - men displayed a competitiveness for resources. So why is this the case? Girls are taught empathy from a very young age - which is decidedly a “feminine” trait. Women feel more guilty about the damage they are doing to the environment.

I can see this in my own life - all the women in my family are vegetarians, including myself. I bring a metal water bottle to school everyday , and my lunch in a tupperware, I compost , I recycle. But sometimes I wonder if these actions are void of any gender roles - do women see themselves as less worthy of the world’s finite resources? Is that how I see myself? While I don’t think I’ll be tucking into a steak in the name of gender stereotypes - it’s something to think about……..Isn’t it?

I don’t want to exclude gender from the conversation. In an attempt to equate gender neutrality to gender equity we gloss over the unique struggles of women in the midst of climate change. The male experience is not the default - which is why the need for women in government is so dire.

I can’t change the world - I can’t even vote. I still have 8 months and 14 days until I’ll be able to cast a ballot. So next time you head to the polls - I ask you to reflect on my speech - and to think of the women suffering unsafe working conditions, abuse, and higher death rates. Of the women that feel guilty for existing in a world on the brink of irreversible climate change. Because an inclusive, diverse multi generational climate movement is the only one I want to be a part of. Thank you so much for listening.

Someone in My Village

His weathered face wrinkles in a smile, His chapped lips, bleeding and dry.

His eyes carry a certain pain that no one who hasn’t spent a, night under the blind innocence of the moon can have.

I watched as he calls out asking for help.

His cries echo in my ears, As the lonely sound of the coins in a metal can shrieks greedily.

His lips tell the story of the street, But there’s no one to listen.

He cries to the never ending sky, But still there is no answer.

People turn away shielding themselves from the fact, That this man used to be their neighbour, Their friend.

Even a fellow human being, but no longer. Now he is a part of the hungry shadows that wander alone in the night.

I watch as people turn away in disgust, Sneering at the nightmare that is his life.

All caught up in the numbing cage of their own life. He looks up to the trees as their leaves sing the story of life, Whispering their secrets.

And he knows his eyes will always bear the mark of an outsider. The mark of someone who will forever observe from afar.

Amber O’Donohoe.

A War of Inequality

Amber O’Donohoe

I watch as they wash the blood stained streets. The tears of a war. A war that is invisible.

Soldiers are injured not with bombs or bullets, But with the raise of a jealous eyebrow, Or the hiss of a dishonest tongue.

They look through the world with eyes that only see differences. With words that compare, They paint images using a palette of envy and greed, While the innocent stand by unprotected from these artists. Children watch confused as they are thrust into a war. A war of inequality.

My Town Is Every Town

Write about a person, Sounds easy doesn’t it? But how do you know who to choose? How do you know who’ll fit?

And even if you’ve chosen, How do you know it’s real? Is it just some sixth sense? Something that you feel?

How do you know what you’re seeing, Is a person’s truest self? And why do we expect that, When we don’t even give it ourselves?

And you can claim I’m wrong all you want, But you and I both know, That all that people see, Is what you choose to show.

So I could write about anyone, Create stories about what they hide, And no one will every know, Whether or not I lied.

Pay attention to those who pass, Study their face, their eyes, Try to force your piercing gaze, Through the cracks in their disguise

This town is filled with mystery, Covered by a layer of grime, So why don’t you wipe it off? Just to pass the time.

Lucy Curran

A Picture’s Worth a Thousand Words

Eva Harbourne

In all of her years being a detective, Cygnus Carver had never seen a house quite so enticing as that before her. Ivy-infested and formidable, it looked as if it would fit in a 1960’s Hitchcock film, as though it were trapped in time. It was akin to folklore among the village’s people that the inhabitants of this menacing estate kept keepsakes of their alleged murders. The wretched wailing surrounding the house was most commonly explained as the Mallory’s trapping their victims within its bleak walls - the latest being the heir to the family fortune, Lucifer Mallory himself, whose disappearance was the most exciting thing to ever happen in the sad town of Sombreville. However Cygnus blamed the bothersome groan of the almost decrepit structure to poor architectural design. The warnings issued to her by civilians speaking in hushed voices did nothing to dampen her curiosity. As far as Cygnus was concerned, ghosts and spirits weren’t real, only a coward’s poor excuse to explain their weakness. Besides, she had never been one to back down from a challenge.

“My coat!” a shrill voice cried from behind her, the strong wind doing nothing to muffle her voice. Cygnus turned around and faced Edie - her trainee and arguably her biggest challenge yet - looking at her with the same tired expression she always did. Cygnus elegantly raised an eyebrow and said, “Fell over again, have you?”. Edie looked up at her, giving her what she hoped was a very withering look, but only really made her look like a dejected puppy. “Yes,” she admitted, “And now my coat’s all dirty.”

“Oh dear,” Cygnus said, sarcasm dripping from every word as she turned on her heel and strode toward the manor.

The sound of crunching snow beneath her leather boots comforted her, helping her to bury the fear she felt as she approached the sinister looking structure. As much as the house lured her in, a part of her wanted to take Edie and run the other way. Something about it felt cold and threatening, but its beauty made it so inviting, as if the building were begging you to come in.

Edie, who had gotten up and trudged her way over to Cygnus, stood next to her and marvelled at the manor. “Wow,” she breathed out, “Quite impressive, isn’t it?”. Cygnus merely hummed in agreement, making her way to the door, placing her hand on the knocker. She hesitated, attempting to block out the memories of going door-to-door, night after night, trying desperately to find shelter.

She lifted the knocker, but before she let it drop the door swung open, a cliche that she thought occurred only in films. A woman with a fresh face yet haunted eyes appeared,

her lips curled into a grin that made Cygnus’ blood run cold. “Hello, madam,” she said. “I’m Detective Carver. This is my partner, Edie Albright.” She gestured towards her clumsy trainee. Edie only nodded, barely acknowledging the woman, her gaze fixed on a portrait that hung above an old table, wood chipped off the corners. “We’re here to enquire about the disappearance of a young boy, your nephew.”

“Come in, come in,” the woman replied, still grinning. She scurried across the hall to another room. Cygnus pulled Edie by the sleeve of her dirt-smudged pea coat, whose eyes were still transfixed on the portrait, following the woman. She took one last look at the hall, from the intricate design of the wallpaper to the dusty and cracked mirror that hung crooked on the wall, before entering the room.

The woman and Cygnus sat down on a couch that looked to be more expensive than everything Edie and Cygnus were wearing put together. The room itself was small, with a high ceiling and constant buzz, soft but apparent. There was a plate of biscuits out on a table that looked like they had been laid out several years ago and never eaten. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.” Cygnus said, observing that the woman hadn’t blinked once since her and Edie’s arrival, missing the malice and flash of loathing in her eyes.

“What’s your name?” She asked. “Lilith Mallory.” The woman stated. Cygnus looked to Edie, who was supposed to be taking these answers down in her notebook, but was instead looking at the woman with an odd look, almost one of recognition, one of disgust.

“Edie,” She said, “Take this down.”

“We need to leave. Now.” Edie whispered urgently. Cygnus looked apologetically at Ms. Mallory and walked over to Edie. Upon her puzzled expression, Edie said, her voice low, “I don’t have time to tell you why right now, but we need to leave this place.”

It was seldom that Edie was ever serious, Cygnus thought. “Can’t we finish questioning Ms. Mallory?” Cygnus whispered. Edie looked at her with an enigmatic look that Cygnus couldn’t decipher.

Finally, she shook her head slowly. The silence that followed was more deafening than the thunderstorm that roared outside the manor walls. She and Cygnus stared at each other, daring the other to disagree with them. Cygnus was tired - she had stayed up too late the night before researching this case, and surely, a voice in her head said, they could come back tomorrow? The determined part of her, the part of her that made her such a good detective, told her to drown the voice out, but she trusted Edie’s gut, and knew she wouldn’t make such an important decision based on foolish factors such as cowardice or fatigue.

Cygnus looked back at Lilith, to find she was now standing at the door, blocking their exit, staring at them with intensity.

“We must go,” Cygnus declared. “Why leave now?” she said. “I was just about to ask if you’d like some tea.” Her voice cut through the air like a dagger, sharp and sinister. There was nothing hospitable about it.

“We really must go,” Edie said quickly, her voice stern and professional, and nothing like Edie. “Thank you for speaking with us.”

“Pity.” Lilith said quietly, so neither Edie nor Cygnus could hear her. She opened the door, her pale hand bright against the dark doorknob. Cygnus looked the woman’s eyes for a few seconds, searching them for anything, but found they were now empty.

They stepped outside, the chill wind shocking them momentarily. “What on Earth was that about?” Cygnus demanded, as she and Edie made their way back to the car. Edie’s blonde hair whipped in the wind, covering her face. Even with this, Cygnus didn’t miss the anguish in her expression.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her tone slightly softer now, almost imperceptibly so. This caught Edie off guard. Cygnus’ closed-off personality made it difficult to have many heart-felt conversations with her.

“It was nothing,” Edie said, shrugging. “I just had a bad feeling.”

Cygnus glared at her. Edie was far too earnest to be a good liar, and they both knew it. Edie sighed. She stopped walking, and looked at the ground, suddenly finding the snow she was complaining about earlier very interesting. “That portrait, the one in the hall,” she said. “It was my mother. The woman in the painting, not the painting itself, obviously, as that would be quite impossible-”

“Detective Albright, get to the point,” Cygnus began to interrupt her, but Edie continued.

“It was in my house for years, until my father was murdered. That night, when the murderer broke in and killed him, they took one thing with them: the portrait. We searched for it for years, but it was nowhere to be found. And the whispers in the walls, didn’t you hear them? Calling my name? Maybe the rumours are true. They must be. I’m not deranged, you must have heard them too.”

By the end of her tangent, Edie was on the verge of tears, her desperation and hopelessness widening her impossibly big eyes even more.

For a long time there was silence. Cygnus, of course, didn’t believe in spirits, ghouls or zombies, but Edie looked so fraught, and telling her she was a lunatic would likely not make her feel better. Cygnus eventually spoke up. “You believe that Lilith

Mallory killed your father.” It wasn’t a question. “And, if the rumours and conspiracies are indeed correct, he - or rather his spirit- lives within the walls of her house.”

Éire Duit

Labhraím Béarla sa bhaile, Ach is féidir liom theanga a labhairt cúig. Is aoibhinn liom ag labhairt teangacha, Ach níl mé ag iarraidh foclóir don Nollaig.

Tá mé i mo chonaí i nDeilginis, Agus is maith liom Éire agus Gaeilge. Is breá liom é nuair a bhíonn sé ag cur sneachta, Is aoibhinn liom ag labhairt teangacha.

Olivia Vondrys.

The End Times

Aoife Ni Chuinn

Humanity’s end comes with less of a bang and more of a series of stumbles, the eyes and mouth lurching greedily forward, the legs dutifully disintegrating underneath, the inevitable fall softened by the fact we were already on our knees. The remains of civilization sink softly into the soil, and the new world grows around the inedible bones. A lot changes, and a lot doesn’t. The oldest tree in the world, whichever one that is, becomes very slightly older, as does the oldest turtle, as does the oldest mayfly. A sea cave fills with water and is slowly drained. A spider spins a web in perfect eight point symmetry and does not understand the concept of perfection, or symmetry, or eight. The world keeps turning, though, as of now, its inhabitants aren’t aware of that. Welcome, all, to the end times.

In the bowels of one city, becoming less urban and more jungle by the minute, a number of nocturnal opportunists rethink their game plan. Flags whip themselves to shreds on the wind, helped along by nesting birds, hungry for scraps. One of a now finite number of windows is smashed. Two weeks into this whole affair, the power grid finally gives up, and perfect darkness floods the streets. The milky way spills across the sky like the night was torn open, and the moon is the most visible it has been since the invention of the light bulb. It shines proudly on the new growths of the pavement cracks and garbage heaps, and on the community gardens slowly conquering their streets. It reflects white in the eyes of the skittering masses foraging for something edible amongst the inedible bones, but it is not, to them, noticeably different from the dead yellow streetlights. It shines on a statue, in the middle of a square. Its face, with no living comparison, can no longer be recognised as a face. None of this, any of it, is beautiful. The idea of beauty came with us and our ships, and it left with us too. A meteor dashes itself to dust in the atmosphere, dies in a shower of fleeting, scarring light, and not a thing on this healed earth does it the courtesy of looking up. A mountain stands tall and worn and dignified, peak illuminated by the early morning sun and shadows pooling at its base, and all anyone can see is an obstacle. Somewhere in the desert a fox, beady eyed and skittering, stares vacantly at a great and towering bone of rock and glass and metal, before moving quickly onwards, not sparing the building a second glance. It was something worth looking at once, beautifully designed, masterfully constructed, thoroughly earthquake resistant. Its skin of windows outshone the moon, and required quarterly cleaning by an eight man team. It is unbroken in the way something swallowed whole is unbroken. The sand around it circles like wolves, and with every sandstorm, every windy day, a part is eaten. The windows at the base are coated so heavily by sediment they may as well be rock, but the upper layers, above the sandstorms for now, still reflect the sky.

Library Monitors

Mr.Carr

This year saw a record number of Fifth Year students applying for the position of Library Monitor. We had 29 students involved which was fantastic to see and a great credit to their very evident school spirit.

So what does the role involve apart from a nice badge on the lapel of a blazer? Well to start, each student gives up their lunch time at least once every three weeks to supervise in the library and help younger students select books. This is really crucial I believe as it allows younger students to see the senior students running the library for the whole school community; taking on a sense of ownership and pride in the facilities made available to them.

The year started with the Covid cloud still hanging over us so activities were necessarily limited. Nevertheless once we had a little light open to us a team of Monitors decorated the room for Halloween and organised a week of treats, spooky moving skeletons and suitable titles for the First Year students. That was a real feature of this years group-because we had so many students involved we ended up with various sub committees taking on various responsibilities such as the IT team training the TY Library team in cataloguing and covering new titles,the decorations team (the Book Christmas Tree was a particular highlight), the events team and the ‘shelving team’ to name but a few.

This last team came up with the idea of reorganising the entire library. They rightly identified that it was confusing for younger students in particular to select a suitable title when all books were organised in alphabetical order. Their solution? They suggested dividing the titles into Senior and Junior sections. Within these categories they further subdivided the books by genre i.e. horror/fantasy/historical fiction/romance and so on. Thanks to Gerry Murphy and his team for our snazzy new signs!

Well words can be cheap but not with this dynamic group. They spent months rearranging the shelves in their free time. It was a huge undertaking and is almost complete as I type this. It was a great example of students taking genuine ownership of the space.

So a huge thanks to our fantastic team- Aaron Corry, Abigail Tuthill, Adah Lynch, Aisling Lyons, Alanna Reboul-Geraghty, Alannah Whitelaw, Alex Barcoe, Anna Reynolds, Aoibh Merrigan, Ava Stanley, Ben Malone, Ben McDonald, Caoimhe Lennon, Christian Higgins, Dzhuliia Ovcharenko, Eppie Gavin, Hannah Holly, Hugo Wyse, Isabelle Kidd, Jack Loughran, Jess Mortell, Kate Callan, Kirsten Connolly, Louise O’Riordan, Sarah Indie O’Donohoe, Scarlett Glynn, Shannon O’Farrell, Sophie Rhatigan and Victor Cullen.

Library Collage

Library Collage

Transition Year Library Team

Mr.Carr. Library Coordinator

Now into the second year of our TY Library Team we saw an increase in the numbers involved. This year saw the introduction of Team Gaisce and Team Volunteer(thank you Ms.Ni Mhairtin!).

Both teams spent an hour a week in the library on a rolling rota. Each group learned how to use our library cataloguing system, how to cover each book and contributed to the general running of the library.

Team Gaisce used their hour each week as part of their Gaisce Bronze Medal Award. Team Volunteer was a new idea whereby students volunteered to get involved each week. It was great to see this sense of school spirit and our hope will be that students from both groups will become Library Monitors next year and can teach others how to use the cataloguing system and so on.

Well done to both teamsTeam Gaisce: Sadhb McGloughlin, Leah Hogan, Charlie Doherty, Max Wells, Bozhena Chaban,Lucy Willoughby, Caoimhe Swan and Adriana Mulloy. Team Volunteer :Ruby Geelon, Ethna Vondrys, Ella O’Neill, Charlotte Ballagh, Isobel Lynch,Ciara Carroll,Brionna Quigley and Ella Stening.

A Poppy’s Lie

The poppy seeds our foes do sew

Our broken hearts lie deep below

Our loved ones cry and call our name

Our bodies shall never be the same

Red petals fall upon the land

As majors call out their command

A screams of peace on high

But as we know, these poppies lie.

Choni Wong Cotter

Mother

Jack Loughran

Bernadette had spent her endless childhood days on the narrow stretch of land her father owned - there was their little cottage nestled in the thorns of the country, and a vegetable patch, and beyond there were a few threshing mills where farmers came in from all around to have their corn seen to. Bernadette was a quiet child, a child who with her entrance to the world had almost killed her mother. She had been unexpected, arriving seven years after Ellen, nine years after Pat, twelve years after Kathleen. She was always raised in the shadow of someone else, she slipped away into the corners of their little house, melted away between the furniture. She meandered through the meadows, along small brooks and streams, while her father and siblings went out to work.

Her father was a staunch man with a wire-brush moustache and hair black as the night. His voice could move mountains, and listening to him speak passionately, fervently, was like riding the crest of a wave, it was like flying. His mother had wanted him to join the priesthood and no-one doubted what a great priest he would have made. But instead as a young man he had been drawn into the world of rebellion, goaded along by the preachings of Padraig Pearse into the crux of a fierce and bloody conflict where he had killed, and watched life leak from the eyes of other young men. And it was there, amidst all that rebel-talk, that Bernadette’s father met a woman with a sharp and shrill tongue and hair that flowed like ink over her shoulders. Her father had found love among a sea of blood and war. Bernadette could never, no matter the stories she was told, picture the woman her mother had once been - a proud rebel in her own right, who joined Cumann na mBan and was a passionate suffragette. Bernadette’s mother had borne the weight of back-breaking matrimony and motherhood on her shoulders and it had aged her, put holes in her head. She wilted in her little cottage, she was torn apart by each child, her mind cut deep. And she was never the same after Bernadette was born, people always spoke of that - her black moods, trouble with her nerves, days and weeks of nothing but bedrest. Oftentimes, on her mother’s better days, Bernadette would sit with her and coax some aged story out of her, and she held each word to her heart as though they were golden. Some days Bernadette glimpsed who she must have been once, and on other days the only things that escaped her mother were repetitions of her husband’s fondest sayings. The cottage only grew quieter as her elder siblings fled - Kathleen to her broadshouldered and bronze-skinned Kilkenny farmer, Pat to California, Ellen to New York. Bernadette grew used to the sounds the old house made when no-one was listeningthe solemn ticking of her mother’s prized carriage clock, the whisper of the wind through the windows, the crackle of the hearth, the creaking of the front door, the scurrying of mice. And in the blackest parts of the night the sound of her mother, shuffling aimlessly from room to room, feeling her way through the darkness.

Bernadette was sixteen when her mother was sent away. She always suspected it had been the doing of her father and the parish priest, who was a family friend, but had never found a clear answer. Her mother ended up in St. Gobnait’s, way out in the country, reached by a winding trail that looked out over the churning sea. On a rare Sunday, after Mass, seized by some pious sense of daughterly obligation, Bernadette would cycle out there and visit her mother. She had a room that faced the sea and a little narrow bed. There were no photographs in that room, no reminders of who she was, and she spoke rarely, tactlessly, her words dripping with careless venom. Bernadette soon stopped visiting her, and then her mother grew sick, and pale, and the weight fell away from her, she became some frail and bone-thin creature, consumed by consumption. She died three weeks after Bernadette turned eighteen, and there were a few bluebells beginning to blossom in the woods behind the cottage. Was there a funeral for her mother, or was she simply tossed aside and buried in some far-off place? Looking back she could never remember. All she recalled was her father’s honeyed words and false joviality as she skirted around him. She took a job in Cobh and it was there that there were men, sailors who crested the stormy waters of her heart, who weathered her ivory exterior, long enough to love her. All these men who hailed from far-flung foreign places, places with names her tongue could not wrap itself around, places that weren’t even in the atlas. Oh, she loved all of these sailors, or rather the idea of them, the idea of a different place, another land. She grew to lust after the places painted on postcards, and understood how Pat and Ellen and Kathleen must have felt, confined to their narrow slice of Cork, sectioned off from a world rich and bountiful.

When Bernadette found out she was having her baby she sent word to Ellen but knew in an instant such plans would never come to fruition. Instead she told her father, who told Kathleen, and Kathleen took that boy in, a boy not her own, and reared him with a mother’s love.

Oh, Bernadette knew she should be grateful, grateful that she was saved from the fate other fallen women faced. But when she had her boy and looked down for the first time into his blotchy, tear-streaked face, lost in peaceful sleep, the rush of love she felt was incomparable, unparalleled, and all throughout the rest of her life she would search for that sense of splendid, unfiltered love, and never find it. She looked into her little boy’s face as she lay in bed in her sister’s spare bedroom, and through the thin net curtains came slivers of moonlight. Oh, what a time that was. Her boy, her Seanie, held tight against her chest, close enough that she could feel the beating of his tiny heart, his own sound of life.

She told Kathleen who the father was and after that Kathleen packed her off on the next train down to Cork. She did not go home to her father, no, she headed straight for Cobh and got the boat to England. And her family ties flickered and waned, after her father died, having lived far too long, and then Pat in a car accident, and Ellen of cervical cancer, neither of them with any children. And Bernadette married a man she did not love, and there were no more children for her - God had given her only one, and he had been perfect to her. Her Seanie.

Home Again

Long tiled hallways, Impenetrable by the heat. The heat so heavy, It’s melting the dusty concrete.

The sweltering air, the birds Taking a siesta from singing, The only sound to be heard is The drowsy school bell ringing.

The canteen is deserted, As classes are resuming. In the tranquil courtyard, The orange trees are blooming.

The view out of the tall windows, A picture painted using Orange and green and brown By leaving this, I’m losing.

The earth outside burnt umber, The cracks are begging for rain, The sky finally opens - I close my eyes And it’s like I’m home again.

Ethna Vondrys

Rejuvenation

tentative optimism, a subtle shift perhaps in this instance old reticence will lift

Amelia Dolan

the veiled luminescence of the moon, refracting in an inchoate manner the platter of sterling silver below

ephemerally enveloped in this placid stillness, you stand beside me, here we are sheathed,

while elusive silence endures, I discerned something sonorous lie amid

Learning How To Provide Your Very Own Nuclear Fission

Dolan

Warm, pale strands of streaming sunshine stream through the window pane, caressing the tip of my nose. It’s cascading tributaries in tandem with the tendrils of light breezes together to achieve a slight lessening of my grey mood. I turned my face up at this beaming star, offering myself, letting it aboard me, and bathed in its light I felt myself recess inwards. Ah, escapism. That was all I desired. Utterly beaten by the interstellar path I appeared to be led down, I felt beaten, completely hopeless. We all desire control and I had not an iota, I was crushed by an impenetrable, immovable dense gravity - and quite thoroughly exhausted, what with my attempts to fight it off.

Gradually opening my eyes, I returned to reality. I had a broad view of the surrounding landscapes from my little vantage point. Not ten feet away, there lay a quaint little kind of cove carved into the side of a prominent knoll; one of the many rolling hills surrounding the vicinity. Like children gather around a father, these humble steeps surround the largest elevation - which looks down in a benign, yet patriarchal fashion over the drowned drumlins of Ormen.

This knoll housed a solitary candle, mounted to the clay wall in an embossed gold candlestick. Transfixed, I watched it, the candle - a symbol of individuated light - the life of an individual like myself. And in the centre of it all, I saw its flame, candle, guttering and spitting wax violently - I saw its eyes.

Alas,the day of execution was well underway, and the cierge drew one last pained breath, guttering one final time before dying out completely, immersing every surrounding plane in bottomless shadow. Star eclipsed star as the black sphere eclipsed our own golden sun. And as though a veil was lifted from my eyes, irregardless of the all pervading night - I could see. The gauze of human rationality for a moment was lifted and in the center of it all, only women and children knelt in front of the grassy knoll, the candle and its permeating eyes.

Transfixed, I was speechless - silent, for how could human language possibly attempt to define the bizarre, undefinable beauty of such a scene.

Gripped by an overpowering sensation of wonder - I watched the wick reignite itself, first browning delicately at the tip, and then growing gradually into a wild tangle, moving - as though it was breathing; inhaling, exhaling. Wordlessly, I felt its eyes turn

Amelia

to lock onto my own. I felt its tendrils burst forward, tugging at my heartstrings as it spoke to me, connecting with my own bright inner light. The flame erupted forth, enveloping me in rays of fantastic light, dissolving all sense of separation - we were one.

Mouthless words were whispered wordlessly; the bright inner light illuminating every depth asked me it’s potent questions, How many times does an angel fall? How many people lie instead of talking tall?

I know that something insurmountable happened on the day it died - its spirit rose a metre then stepped aside, I felt myself rise up and take its place, and bravely cry ‘I see right, so wide, so open-hearted it’s pain I want eagles in my daydreams, diamonds in my eyes

Something happened on the day it died, its spirit rose a metre and stepped aside, but I took its place, and bravely treading on sacred ground I cried loud into the crowd

‘I’m a black star, I’m a black star!’

The flame - held up by its balance of internal pressure against gravity, and existing in a state of dynamic equilibrium had at last exhausted its energy sources, matter had been pushed to its outer limit - collapsing inwards onto itself into a heap of stuff rubbery material. With its nuclear reactions no longer producing energy, for it has passed this energy onto something else, someone - me.

Diametrically changed, I was once collapsing under my own weight but fulfilled with this legacy I was pulled inwards, heated, invigorated - revitalised; and with this boost I found myself wholly capable of my own nuclear fission. I was - I am my own powerhouse.

life with Sharon.

Books or movies?

Both. We couldn't pick, we love both.

AN INTERVIEW WITH SHARON AND SINEAD

Do you have any funny encounters with teachers or students?

Yes, on a regular basis, we promote fun and happiness in the Administration Office.

What’s the weirdest thing that’s been delivered into school for a student? A hot chicken fillet roll at 10 in the morning.

If you had to pick an extreme sport what would it be?

Sharon - Downhill Skiing. Sinead - Formula One Racing. (I’m an excellent driver) (Sharon- Don’t believe her she’s dreadful)

What would you do if you won the lottery?

Give up work and move abroad.

What is one thing on your bucket list?

Sharon - Parachute jump. Sinead - Wine tasting in Australia.

If you could live in any movie or book what would it be?

Sharon - All the Bridget Jones movies. Sinead - Downton Abbey (not the servant’s quarters though!)

What’s your favourite quote?

Sharon- A smile costs nothing. Sinead - It’s nice to be nice.

What was the first book you remember reading?

Sharon - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl.

Sinead - The Famous Five - Enid Blyton.

Do you have any conspiracy theories? No.

If you could travel anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?

Both - Corfu, Greece with five star accommodation. (Of course, always.)

What would your autobiography be called?

Sharon - My life with Sinead. Sinead - My life with Sharon.

31

Books or movies?

Both. We couldn’t pick, we love both.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MS. NEWTON

What’s your favourite thing about being a teacher?

It is unpredictable, no day is the same and kids are absolutely hilarious.

Do you have a favourite memory at St. Gerard’s?

I haven’t been here for sports day yet, so as a PE teacher I cannot answer that yet.

Would you relive your secondary school days if you could?

Absolutely, they are the easiest days of life.

What was your favourite childhood book?

The Hungry Caterpillar.

What would you call your autobiography? Life on the Move.

Funniest excuse a student used to get out of sports?

Something to do with toes. The amount of times people have taken their toes out at PE is incredible.

If you could live in the world of any book or movie, what would you choose?

Nim’s Island.

Who was the most influential teacher in your education?

My Irish teacher suggested I should do teaching, and I’m glad she did.

Do you have a favourite song? No, I love way too many songs.

What is on your bucket list that you haven’t completed?

So much, travel more... waiting to go to Peru but Covid happened.

What fictional character do you identify with most?

I don’t, I’m too individual for that.

Where is your favourite place?

Two places: anywhere where my dogs are, and Kenya.

AN INTERVIEW WITH SIMON AKA SAMMY

Where do you find inspiration for your music?

Everyday life, really. Sometimes when me and CJ are trying to write a song, we’ll just talk about our everyday lives, how we live and what we’ve gone through.

What’s your best memory of working here?

I’ve had a few, it’s been a great ride. I think St.Gerard’s Day when Mr.Drummy dragged me to sing in the Junior School Hall was so great.

Do you have a favourite book?

I’d have to say the Bible. See when I grew up, my mum was quite religious.

What kind of things do you do for fun or for entertainment?

I’m a big Arsenal fan, so I spend most of my weekends watching football, and if I get the time I play some video games like FIFA, or else Netflix. I also like to play a bit of flight simulator and pretend to be a pilot.

Do you have any conspiracy theories?

I’m still sceptical about aliens and their existence. I believe there is someone out there for sure, even though I haven’t seen them.

Do you have a song to describe your life?

I’d say ‘Wild’ by John Legend Because my life has been a rollercoaster - moving from Africa and Malawi to here in Ireland, then moving around Ireland - from Ballymun to Arklow, to Dublin then to Bray. I’ve been all around..

Do you have any pet peeves?

It’s an Irish thing - my girlfriend does this too; she always leaves her teabag and tea spoon in the sink - why not just take it to the bin?! It even happens here in the school...

If you were to write a song about the school, what would it be called?

I’d probably name it ‘The Gerard’s Way’. The music video would be sick too - a pan of the school and then some shots of what goes down here.

If you could live in the world of a book or a movie, what would it be?

Just like I said my favourite book is the Bible - I’d love to have lived back then, or even in the mediaeval days - just to see how life was back then, even if they had no internet or none of that. Those time periods made us who we are now, I’d love to have a peek at them.

What fictional character do you most identify with, and why?

Will Ferrell from ‘The Yes Man’ - I’ve been told I say yes to everything - maybe I need to say no to more things.

What is your current goal?

I know it’s important for people to set goals and that, but I like to live my days one day at a time. I like to thank God that I’m here today, and please God let me be here tomorrow. I live day by day - and thank myself for what I do.

There’s a lot of people out there who have everything - but they won’t get to see the light of tomorrow. We can’t take it for granted.

What’s your favourite Ice cream flavour?

It’s a bit weird, but I like Banana flavoured ice cream. I don’t even like actual bananas though..

What’s your go-to takeaway on a weekend?

Two things - I love peri-peri chicken from Chipmongers, with some cajun fries and ‘slaw - heaven. If not that, I’ll go for a Chinese, maybe a stir fry.

in? 1980s, so I’d have to say my favourite film - ‘When decade. haven’t I’m just opportunities always wanted Iceland and future? few weeks. overnight hike. I Lofoten Islands in would you do for sure as I’d also give a

Are you reading any books at the moment?

I’m reading two books currently. One of them is called Breathe by James Nester. It’s about the different ways we breathe and the impacts it can have on our health. The second is Untamed by Glennon Doyle. It’s a very empowering book!

What is your favourite book and why?

I have two! My absolute favourite is a book from my childhood called Eloise. It had a really strong impact on me, I still have my original copy - I even called my first cat Eloise! From adulthood however, Love by Angela Carter.

AN

INTERVIEW

WITH MS. FLANAGAN

Best thing about being a teacher?

Honestly, the students. Getting to know all the different characters, everyone has their own story. Being there to witness each student grow up and seeing them go on and do really cool things in their life, it’s amazing! It makes me feel so proud.

Do you have a favourite quote?

It’s by C.S Lewis - “We don’t have a soul. We are a soul. We happen to have a body”. Another one I like is by Mark Twain - “What other people think of me is none of my business.”

Do you have any conspiracy theories?

I don’t think I do! I’d like to think unicorns exist ... but is that a conspiracy theory?!

Favourite Memory of Gerard’s?

A good few years ago we had a fundraising day in the school for two little boys who were unwell. We had a massive fundraiser for them - activities were on all day. It was for a great cause and it was beautiful to see the entire school community come together during a difficult time.

If you had to, what extreme sport would you choose?

Ice swimming for sure! I sea swim most days here through the winter, I love cold water. I’m gonna do it one day.

If you could chat with any historical figure or celebrity, who would it be and why?

I would like to hang out with Taylor Swift! She likes cats, I like cats, and I just think we’d be good friends.

What movie or book would you like to live in?

I have this fascination with New York in the 1980s, so I’d have to say my favourite film - ‘When Harry met Sally’. I love the style of the decade.

What is on your bucket list that you haven’t completed?

I’m not really a fan of the term ‘bucket list’. I’m just happy to be here, to be alive, and I take opportunities as they come along. Having said that, I always wanted to see the Northern Lights. I’ve been to Iceland and saw them, so I’m blessed.

Where do you want to travel in the future?

Norway is next on my list. I’m going in a few weeks. I’m hiking up to Trolltunga on an overnight hike. I also want to go to Tromsø and the Lofoten Islands in Northern Norway.

If you won the lotto tomorrow, what would you do with it ?

I’d spend it on travel with my family for sure as there’s lots of places I’d like to go to. I’d also give a load to charity of course.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MR. HUGHES

Do you have a favourite memory or day in the school so far?

38

I enjoy every day working in St.Gerard’s but in particular when the girls won the Leinster Senior Hockey Cup.

What is the best thing about being a teacher?

To positively influence young teenagers and to pass on a body of knowledge and understanding.

What is your favourite book? The Great Gatsby.

What is your favourite quote? “Not everything that counts can be counted” - Albert Einstein.

What fictional character do you identify with most and why? Del Boy but I feel more like Rodney!

If you had to choose one extreme sport which one would you pick?

None: not my scene.

Where is your favourite place in the world?

Anywhere in the West of Ireland.

Where do you want to travel in the future?

Anywhere in Southern Europe.

What movie or book would you like to live in?

The narrator in The Great Gatsby, as he detailed the Jazz Age in America.

Do you have a favourite song?

Guy Clarke’s ‘Desperados Waiting for a Train’ or ‘Suspicious Minds’ by Elvis.