St. Gerard's Senior School Literary Magazine 2024

A Z I N E

2023 - 2024

The team has been outstanding in the production of this Literary Magazine. Their attitude, endeavour and creativity has been something breathtaking to behold. That this project has been completed so well is a testament to their hard work and commitment.

Also, huge thanks to Holly Danaher for the fantastic cover design. It perfectly captures the essence of the contributions you are about to read.

Absent:

The team was: Back: Robyn Nowlan, Isabella Wilkinson, Aonghus Dungan, Gus Dolan, Trudy Frater, Kate Loughran Front: Amy Roche, Jack Coleman, Kate Kinsella, TIm Langan, Eleanore Bourke

Isabella O’Connor, Katie Fenton

Foreword

As the promise of Summer stretches out before us it is worth taking a moment to consider the year just passed. Over the last 12 months much has changed for us all. For each one of us there have been moments of joy and happiness, as well as moments of despair. We have faced and overcome challenges individually and collectively, and shared our successes and failures.

Within all of this we have grown and developed. With greater maturity and life experiences we have developed a way of expressing our thoughts and feelings. This ability to express oneself comes from our lived experience and the stories we tell. It comes from the evenings sitting with our parents to read bed-time stories, it comes from our reading by torchlight, it comes from reading on a comfy couch on a miserable day, it comes from sharing and swapping stories that we love. It comes from reading.

That is why the students who created this publication and those who submitted their own stories must be admired and appreciated. It is with this in mind, as we approach long lazy days, that we make this offering to you.

Sit back, enjoy the read, and have a lovely Summer.

David Wall

Hopes of Spring

(Winner of the Junior Poetry Competition)

Sophia Ava Diamond Burton 1st Year

As winter days come and go

They seem to pass so very slow,

As spring slowly begins to arrive

The little birds are ready to thrive,

As groundhogs and bears begin to awake

The ice melts on the great big lake,

Tremendous storms puff and blow

And all the plants are starting to grow,

As the rain lashes down and down

The grass and trees look likely to drown,

Fires burn red and orange light:

It’s a wild and stormy night,

As the power goes, nothing to see

You can only hear the fallen tree,

As the days get shorter, we lose the light

But when Spring comes it will be bright,

As the snow falls gently to the ground

You can hear the snows crunchy sound,

There is lots of rain and lots of hail

You can see the clouds dark veil,

As trees grow back their leaves and flowers start to bloom

Everyone can only hope that Spring will be here soon…

T o Action

Matthew Priest 1st Year

We cannot simply be this crass; Forest floors and prairie grass; Turn this world to steam and brass; Sending up tonnes of plumes of gas.

All of the world’s gifts we steal; Cover it up in ivory steel; The water started a gracious teal; Turned to brown like a tale unreal.

If we exploit and bring it up; Get the money from the oil pump; Continue forward to waste and dump; We’re already on the cusp.

Now is time, and we see the light; If only if we’d fight; For this world, our great delight; Save this world, we just might.

St. Gerard’s

Falling

Evan Barry- Keane 1st Year

Sometimes you feel as if you’re falling,

Other times you’re free and wish to stall it.

But we all think life’s flawless till we pause it and see,

All of our problems have piled up underneath.

We balance and dance around Til solutions can’t be found,

So we plan to attack the mound

That forced us to see,

Life isn’t easy, nor is living stress free

It’s a struggle to live, it’s hard to just be.

The falling sensation can be hard to escape from

But as soon as you take on the challenge you’ll see,

Nothing is ever, not a single endeavour,

Is as difficult as it first seems to be.

So you realise, by looking inside

That the way to stop falling is learn how to fly

You begin to try, but you soon realise you knew how to fly

You just needed to breathe.

How Young Adults are Portrayed in Cinema

Emily Roche 3rd Year

Tropes are something that movie producers can use to help move the plot along more easily in films. Whilst these can be helpful to producers suffering from a ‘creative burnout’, they can hinder the viewing experience for the audience. In recent films, there has been an ongoing trope of turning young adults into introverted, awkward, social media obsessed messes. Personally, ever since the Covid-19 lockdown I have refrained from watching any new films that star a young adult as the protagonist.

Many directors try too hard to make the character relatable and ‘up to date with the trends’ which almost never works, turning the movie into a cliched laughing stock. Almost every new film directed at young adults ends up being slated online for the terrible and cringe-worthy representation of our generation. It makes us wonder, is this really how people see us? Producers seem to take one popular trait, exaggerate it, and make it seem as though this represents our entire personality. They see us as ‘TikTok’ and ‘Snapchat’ obsessed and seem to think that our whole world revolves around who’s trending or which celebrity has gotten cancelled or is involved in scandals at the moment.

Young adults have gone from being charming dare devils to narrow minded individuals in films, making them frustrating to watch whenever they come on screen. It was fun to watch young adults being themselves and not being pushed into unrealistic stereotypes. The adventurous traits that old coming of age movies held made them memorable and, most importantly, actually made the character likeable. Another cliche in young adult films is the typical gender based interests.

If you’re a boy, you like football or computers and if you’re a girl you like clothes and makeup. God forbid if you’re a girl and you like sports because that breaks the ‘status quo’. This is usually the case with protagonists: there always has to be something different about them that makes them an outsider even if it’s as small as having an interest that doesn’t ‘suit your gender’ then of course they’ll have to go sing a song about it. All of these clichés make young adults one dimensional characters in film and it makes us wonder if directors even care about real representation of young adults on screen.

Rotary Competition

Lucy Curran 4th Year

Good evening all,

My name is Lucy Curran and I am here today to express to you the flaws present in the current Irish education system, and the changes that must occur to rectify these. My focus in this presentation will be on the issue of sexual assault, abuse and grooming impacting all, but specifically the youth of today. I will be illustrating how schools, universities, and educational institutions of all kinds, could be doing so much more to protect, shield and support students from these problems.

For those who don’t know, sexual grooming is defined as the actions or behaviors used to establish an emotional connection with a minor to lower the child’s inhibitions with the objective of sexual abuse. This can occur in various settings, but I will be particularly focusing on the online world and social media this evening, as I feel it is the most prominent threat to students in our present day.

A survey, published by the nonprofit research organisation Common Sense Media, found that on average, daily screen use among young people of ages 8 to 12 is five hours and 33 minutes, and is eight hours and 39 minutes for teenagers aged 13 to 18. As a result, children are spending literally hours perusing social media sites where, according to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, there are an estimated 500,000 online predators active each day. Furthermore, the most susceptible age group to grooming or manipulation by these individuals are children between the ages of 12 and 15, with over 50 percent of the victims of online sexual exploitation being within this age bracket.

Consequently, it is essential that schools do much more to educate and warn their students of the dangers they face on social media platforms, particularly when interacting with individuals they do not know in real life.

Therefore, I propose the introduction of a new module in all schools for students from 6th class to fourth year, to cover the ‘danger zone’ of ages 12 to 15. This would not necessarily have to take up a large amount of time. Instead I suggest a mere one class every month, educating young students on the importance of remaining safe online; avoiding interactions with strangers, steering clear of unreliable sites and the warning signs that adults are acting inappropriately towards them, no matter how innocent their intentions may seem. Furthermore,

training courses should be introduced for teachers to spot indications of grooming. Already, teachers are trained in how to recognize and assist abuse victims, both sexual and otherwise, but once again grooming is a forgotten factor in this societal issue. As these training courses already exist, it would not be difficult to expand these courses to include the red flags apparent in grooming victims, as well as what action to take once these are spotted.

These simple, achievable adjustments in our education system would make a massive difference to young people across the country. By informing those at risk of these dangers threatening them, the risk of them falling victim to grooming due to naïveté or ignorance is greatly reduced. Even in the cases where this unfortunately does not work, teachers’ awareness of warning signs in victims will act as a safety net to help those impacted. As a result, students will be protected, supported and assisted through the dangers of online sexual exploitation in our society.

Thank you. (Lucy won the Rotary Youth Leadership Competition and represented Ireland at the European Parliament in Strasbourg)

Speeches Is a missed opportunity a loss?

Daria Bokovenko 4th Year

Don’t be so rash answering my question. One time someone asked me this and I said: “Of course it is a loss”. But as I keep thinking about it I don’t know if I can be so sure anymore.

We always try to make the most out of everything and I guess that’s a good thing, it keeps us motivated and open to new options. Sometimes those unexpected opportunities bring us so much joy, like meeting a new friend that you can’t imagine living without now. They bring change into our lives. However, we can never predict if it’s going to be for the better or will it be the decision that we will regret for the rest of our lives.

It is said that taking advantage of opportunities is the best way to be successful. It helps us build our future, brings other opportunities and gives valuable experiences. But some of those experiences are failures: it is what our life is about. It can be painful for us and when you look back after something that has happened, you think: “Was it worth the effort you put into it?”

Some of the opportunities that come into our lives are to do with our personal experiences and relationships, those are really common throughout the teenage years. It is a hard decision to make. I watch my classmates and friends going into relationships and being happy together. I watch them having big friend groups, going to different parties, doing silly things and not caring about what’s going to happen next. All the adults tell me to try something new, even if you don’t know if you are going to succeed in it and they say that I should enjoy my childhood while I can. It sounds like I am missing out on so much fun not doing what my peers do.

I don’t know, maybe I should, or will I still enjoy my quiet life more, no drama, peace and stability. Looking at them, I think that most of the couples will break up as it’s really hard to be something serious at our age. Same with friends, a lot of them come and go and it doesn’t matter if it’s a small group or a big one. People hurt each other often and we don’t like talking about our problems, we like to pretend that everything goes the way it needs to be. Is all of this truly worth it, spending time with people that might turn out fake, use you for their own good? Maybe I’m missing out on fun stuff, but from my own experience, I’d rather live a simple and quiet life, keep it to myself, don’t get too close with many people. I’d rather have only one or two friends that I can share my worries

and struggles with. People say that if you are friends with everyone, you are a friend to none. We all have unique personalities and it’s just impossible to like everyone and share the same interests with them.

I used to take every and each opportunity that came across my life and at the end I just found out that I’m tired: tired of trying to be good at everything, tired of giving all of my free time for different things that I might not even like, just to get another opportunity that should lead me to success. It gave me an emotional burnout, I didn’t know how to spend time alone and how to make time for myself. I felt like I was nothing without the things that I used to do. But then after I was forced to move to a different country, I realised that we all should really take one thing at a time and if you feel like it’s not something you want to keep doing, you should drop it, even if others will tell you otherwise.

At the end of the day, you just have to sit down and think: “Is the game worth the candle?”. This saying alludes to a game of cards in which stakes are smaller than the cost of burning a candle for the light by which to play. And all that it means is if all the effort we put into something is really worth the outcome. Was it worth it to be in the relationship if both of the partners got hurt? Was it worth it to be friends with a person that betrayed you? Was it worth it to be happy for a little while even though it ended up being sad or would it have been better if the whole thing never happened at all? Maybe it is worth it or maybe it isn’t, it’s a decision for each and every one of us to make.

Each situation differs from the other one and we will regret some of the things, but the most important is to learn from them. Robert Frost, in his poem “The Road Not Taken” showed that all the small choices we make each and every day also have a big impact on our future. And we will never know what could have happened if we decided to take a different path, would it have been better or worse. We just know that it would have been different.

So is a missed opportunity a loss or not? It really depends on what people mean by this question. If we are talking about our lives being better with every opportunity taken, no that’s not true, success is not guaranteed, and it only brings us new experiences which make our life more adventurous. However, it might be a loss if what people are actually looking for is those moments and memories with people, even if they bring not only happiness but also sadness and become a reason to think about our choices. They make our life alive, real, make us feel. They make us who we are, humans.

Short Stories Lily (of the Valley)

Kevin Day 6th Year

“Five minutes,” the guard says, pulling the door shut behind him. Alice barely hears it over the pounding of her heart, the roar of blood in her ears.

She nods, somehow, and moves to sit in the chair. Her movements are wrong. It’s not difficult to see how rushed they are, how she jerks into motion then falters and shakes in uncertainty.

The walls seem to shrink, mould-green and weathered beige encroaching on her shoulders, forcing her body stiff upright, perched as though ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. She’s sitting now, she distantly realises, feeling the firm plastic beneath her.

She doesn’t remember sitting down, barely remembers the drive here today; if she drove herself or was brought by her aunt.

She chooses not to worry about it, pushing the thought out of her mind. Instead, she stares through the plexiglass, scuffed and dirtied as it is, and into eyes she used to know.

Eyes she thought she knew, at least.

Blue as a sky without clouds and brighter than the night’s stars, they used to hold so much life. Now, slate grey and utterly detached, reduced to mere placeholders for what they once were.

Her mother stares back at her, mouth set in a thin frown, disapproving even behind the blurry screen.

The orange jumpsuit ages her; deepening the wrinkles and draining the life from her skin. Her blond hair, once almost yellow-gold, is flat and dull, similar to Alice’s own – she hasn’t really felt like showering since... everything. Just the thought of it makes her stomach turn violently.

“Nothing to say?” her mother taunts, leaning back in her chair. Alice can tell she wants to cross her arms and drum her fake nails along her arm, but the handcuffs keep her hands down in her lap, nails free of the acrylics she never went without.

“You asked me to be here, Alice, not the other way ‘round. So, speak.”

She knows she should say something, but whatever half-formed sentences she can think of lodge in the back of her throat, unable to escape. What would she say? She doesn’t know. Everything is muted, a monochromatic world of dull grey she can’t find an exit in.

“Why?” Alice hears herself mutter, the sound barely a whisper.

Her mother scoffs, a harsh, grating sound, nothing like the airy dismissal Alice was used to hearing. “Why, what? I can’t read minds, Alice, you know this. If you’re going to ask me a question, the least you can do is be clear.”

“Why–” the sound catches in her throat, but she pushes on despite the stinging

behind her eyes. “Why did you hurt Lily? How– how could you just k– kill her like, like she meant nothing?”

Her ribs shake with every ragged breath she takes, all of them too shallow and short. The air is so dry, acrid on her tongue, and the tears burn as they trail down her cheeks.

Silence hangs between them like a guillotine blade, sharp as the knife her mother drove into Lily’s back just a week prior.

“I made a mistake,” the woman opposite her finally admits, voice full of disdain.

“I waited for the water to turn on, for the music to start playing. And I took the knife from the kitchen, and sharpened it on the counter.”

The woman’s eyes mist over, unfocusing as if really living through the motions of it all again. It turns a knife in Alice’s stomach, seeing the sprinkle of primal, feral glee in her gaze.

“You said you went to shower, and I believed you. How was I supposed to know it was your sister in the shower, hmm? When you said you were going to shower?”

Everything stops, the tears trailing down her face, the pulsing blood in her veins. It all freezes. The woman doesn’t stop, she doesn’t grant Alice that courtesy.

“Christ, Alice, it was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be you,” she shrieks, eyes blazing as she erupts from her chair. “It was supposed to be you–”

Someone takes her by the shoulders, she doesn’t know who, and suddenly she’s outside. She can’t see through her tears.

But she can hear. The echoes of her mother’s deranged screaming will never leave her mind.

The floor is cold under her, and closer than it was moments ago. How pathetic is she, wailing on the floor like a child? But she is a child. She is a child whose father is long gone. A child whose sibling was taken far too soon, and whose mother is lost in the confines of her own mind.

She is a child, and she is alone.

She sobs. Maybe she should have taken that shower.

Death’s Kiss

Chloe Holohan 4th Year

“Assistant, toss me those files for signing! And hurry up and open that window, the ravens have to deliver their letters before they can hunt.” Seriously, did I hire an assistant or a failed brain transplant patient? “And we really need to invest in another lint roller. All of this hair floating in the air is ruining my stylish blazer! Assistant, write it up as a business expense!”

The hectic whooshing sounds that mimic my work stress level stopped as that same raven descended upon my shoulder, coughing out a letter from its beak with a suspicious wet patch. As I look into its pitch black, seemingly omniscient eyes I see a faint picture. Is that - a waxen face with dark eyebags and blood red lips stares back at me. The illusion is an alarming reminder of who owns the bird. “Oh God, is that really what I look like?!”

Even my brain dead assistant turns at my exclamation. You see, the lord of the dead has a really mean streak and enjoys playing rude tricks on me. It’s bold of him to ask for help and insult me in the same breath! He has some nerve. Nevertheless, I like money. And I can appreciate someone dedicated to their aesthetic (even if it makes me moderately concerned about how much free time they have). Lifting the obsidian wax seal I examine the cursive letters. They hunger for you, neither eating nor sleeping.

This shall be your only warning; consider yourself blessed by death. The chase has begun.

Why does he feel the need to -

A thunderous howling followed by the strikes of nails against wooden flooring. In one instantaneous moment my grand mahogany door is ravaged and the beast emerges. I have no time to even yell as it slams me to the floor. All I see is black, and the agonisingly slow dripping of poison from above. Although I know death is coming, I cannot - will not accept it. Finally, a droplet falls on my lips. The burning feeling and atrocious smell fills my mouth, lungs and eventually reaches my heart. I let out one last frenzied scream before I am blessed by death. Suddenly, a hand emerges: “BOSS GET UP! YOU’RE BOTH STRONGER AND SMARTER THAN IT, YOU CAN WIN!” That frail hand belonging to someone I called brain dead a moment ago suddenly feels like a godsend.

“Angel Gabriel - ”

“Assistant Gabe.”

“My spectacular assistant, you have granted me salvation.” I take the hand and rise above my attacker. While it stood at 6 foot, I’m 6 foot 2 and suddenly two inches feels like a lot. With my suit covered in battle scars, poison still on my lips, I have overcome this beast and triumphed.

“Gabe, get the leash. Hades has never potty trained his dog, and I don’t think he’ll start now.” The hardened look on my face made the beast’s heads cower below me.

“Sure, sure. But first here, for the fur.” Abruptly wielding a lint roller, I begin to tackle the battlefield that is my formerly black suit now covered in hair. “And for the... drool.” Shuddering with the memory of my forced inoculation I swiftly wipe my mouth with the silk handkerchief.

You might be thinking ‘Dog walking is a stupid business, there’s no money in it blah blah blah I’m annoying’. In regards to those first two points you would be wrong, but fear not for the last one is definitely correct. Although I’m more of a cat person who had to make do with dogs (cat walking would definitely be a stupid business) there is plenty of brain and brawn that goes into my work. Whether it’s stopping a dog from growling at children or slightly encouraging it to do its business in your neighbours garden rather than your own, I have a strategy. That’s why even Hades, the overly dramatic lord of the underworld relies on my services. And Cerberus is no normal three-headed dog, believe me. I have experience (don’t ask) and Hades is by far the worst enabler. Also you should never buy a dog based on purely aesthetic reasons, it’s unethical.

“Are you ready yet?”

“Perfection takes time, Gabe” I lecture while picking the final piece of hair off my trousers. “Could you imagine seeing Cerberus being walked by some poorly dressed loser? My morals simply couldn’t allow that to happen.”

“You need to get going. Hades’ impromptu visits are so inconvenient to schedule.”

“Yes yes.” stepping over the rubble of my formerly handsome carved door, I add “And make sure to invoice Hades for the door, my clothes, and the millimetre of drool that touched me.” After that incident I’ll definitely be scarred for life. The least he can do is pay me my weight in gold.

Short Storiess

Short Stories Perfection

Colm Kavanagh 4th Year

Frost covered the conservatory windows as the temperature dropped that night. Snow cascaded down across Vienna’s streets and created a pristine white blanket. The city lay asleep, quiet and tranquil. As the morning approached the bustle began. It started with the walkers getting their morning stroll. From then on the streets started to fill with workers and shopkeepers heading off to begin their day.

Sweet sounds of music echoed through the streets from the conservatory. In the hall, Camille practised. She was the academy’s harpist. She was a local girl with no background in music. She came out of nowhere and took the place by storm quickly becoming the orchestra’s first harpist. She practised. Every day. Every night. Hours a day. Her hands were defined and strong with discipline. She was of a calm disposition and good nature. She was patient, kind and funny. She was the life and soul of the place.

That evening the orchestra was performing a harp concerto. Camille was on edge. It was her first big performance. Her breathing, strong and full of tension. Her legs were shaking with excitement and nervousness. The light shone down from the roof. The orchestra was sitting on the stage. She walked on, the crowd gave her a huge applause. She sat down and began playing. It was a beautiful, heart wrenching melody. She played and played. But as the music climaxed she plucked the wrong string. A wrong note. A mistake. It rang around the hall for everyone to hear. It echoed across the walls, its ominous presence filled the room. Camille continued playing. But from then on it wasn’t the same. Her performance was ruined. She wasn’t perfect anymore. Her reputation was tarnished. She was tarnished.

There was no after-party for Camille that night. She took a stroll instead. She thought about her mistake. It shouldn’t have mattered, it didn’t matter, but it did to her.

A man walked up to her, full of excitement, “I heard you playing tonight Camille, you were incredible, you should be so proud of yourself and how far you’ve come”, he said, “I couldn’t find you at the bar tonight, thought you’d be there.”

Camille just walked past not paying him any attention. He seemed hurt. “Hey! Camille!” he said, raising his voice.

She just continued walking and ignored him. He scoffed and walked away “I guess I’m worth nothing” he muttered in disbelief.

Camille walked until she reached the lake. She could hear whispers of the city behind her. In that moment a wave of unhinged anger filled her. She beat the ice on the lake until it cracked and tumbled in the icy cold water. The sensation calmed her. After a minute she emerged and walked back to the conservatory, her clothes frozen onto her yet she felt no cold. None at all. At night she went to the hall, sat down and started to play. It was a sharp, cold melody. She practised all night, and did not stop for one break. The man from earlier came in the next morning and found her slaving away, eyes bloodshot, fingers calloused, and back arched. He started to worry. This girl was not the same.

From the corner of her eye, Camille noticed him walk in.

“Get out Omas!” she screamed “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

“But it’s Christmas,” he replied, “don’t you wanna come out? I got you a gif...”

“No Omas. Go away!” she screamed again.

This time he didn’t leave. Omas ran over to her only to notice the blood on the strings of the harp and Camille’s wounded fingers. She still played.

“Camille! Oh my God your fingers!” He exclaimed. “I’m getting you out of here.”

He dragged her off the stage and into the auditorium. Eventually, she gave up resisting and just trailed behind him, it seemed she had lost her prior need to stay.

Light blinded her as she walked out of the auditorium. Festive greetings berated the pair. They ate a meal together. A Christmas breakfast. Camille seemed different though. Omas was clueless as to the cause of her problem. He didn’t even notice the mistake. As they talked Camille slipped further into her own mind. Little did Omas know that this would be the last time she talked, truly with words.

After their last supper, she went back into the auditorium and continued to play. She never stopped, never talked and only took a break to eat breakfast with Omas. Forever, chasing perfection.

Short Storiess

Short Stories Out of the Ashes

Hannah Magee 4th Year

A forest so quiet surrounds the sloped landscape somewhere. This place has no name. It is no man’s land, and it will stay like this till the end of time. It holds the rare silence that the open world could not offer anymore, instead screams cast over the continents. These screams of terror are emitted by every creature and all living beings, from innocent mammals to cawing crows, are caught in the grip of a relentless struggle for survival. Survival is key, it has been for the last few months and not one thing can see it change anytime soon. There is no-one to see –no-one to see anything – because death has been an infectious disease. This very forest hides people. People who have had to flee the grips of death. Their sobs and screeches echo throughout the night as their loved ones meet their demise. They couldn’t stay close. They watched, witnessed, how their families and friends turned pale and groggy. Their skin became a decomposing mess, but they still remained upright. Their faces oozed a sticky liquid, their teeth crumpled into chalk and their eyes groaned as they rolled to the back of their heads. This type of death is aggressive because people can’t just obtain it from air or sickness, they have to be bitten.

The survivors are set into ‘cliques’. The groups are set into age, gender and strengths. Families are in their own little huts, but there aren’t many because death has to snatch at least one member. Weaknesses in the forest aren’t permitted either. So many people became victims to this. I’ve made an oath to hide mine. My “weakness” isn’t anything to worry about, but people think asthmatics are inferior just because they can’t help but wheeze when their inhaler is out of reach.

I sit by a crackling fire in the dark. I rub my hands together seeking warmth as the yearly winter is peeking its head around the corner and my gaze travels from the dancing flames over to the tent where my sisters lay, sound asleep. Or so I hope. The world has made me paranoid. The small things irritate me, such as Katy playing close to the barbed wire—the same barbed wire that prevents the zombies from tearing us to pieces. She shouldn’t be anywhere close to it, and when she is, I get all bossy and “mammy-like,” but I have no choice.

“I’ll watch over the tent now.”

I look up, blinking away my daze. Alex is standing there, her eyes alert but tired, her hair resembling a haystack.

I say, shaking my head, “No, tonight is my turn.” She settles down on the log I’m perched at and hushes me. With a gentle sigh, she clings to my arm and breathes into my ear with her warm breath. I don’t protest. I have become used to her clinginess ever since I was a small child. “Katy is still asleep but she cried again...” Alex whispers. I hum, scratching my cheek before dropping my hand onto Alex’s.

“Denise said it’s just from her chickenpox.” I say, turning to face the tent. Alex’s frown was apparent, and I could tell she didn’t like the forest medic.

I’m about to talk, suddenly my words are cut off by the siren blaring throughout the campsite. My eyes widen as everything happens in slow motion. My soul jumps out of my body as I’m running with Katy in my arms, her wails blasting in my ears. Alex shouts incoherent words in my direction. My ears ring and I wince as I sprint. Blood covers the trees, seeping into the roots and I hear the gurgling and growling of zombies tearing apart the limbs of life.

I scream, telling my sisters to “GO! GO! GO!” as my throat dries.

The tents are ablaze, and smoke is wafting through the trees. I’m gasping for air, coughing, barking, and the feeling of weak, trembling legs overtake my body.

“What’s happening?” with tears running down her cheeks, Alex hiccups. She’s attempting to match my motions, but I have no intention of slowing down. I guide her to keep running instead of saying anything. To the right of my eye, I notice a boulder, and we sprint in its direction, dipping beneath it. It’s the ideal location for hiding.

By my side, Katy is whimpering and trembling in terror. “We’ll be okay, yeah?” I reassure her, but I don’t know if I believe myself. The forest remains still, the distant flames heating the atmosphere and I make myself a promise; we will get out of here, even if it’s the last thing we do

Short Storiess

Winterscape

Cuan Woods 4th Year

I remember the first time I awoke. I was lost. I rose from the snow only to be met with darkness. Peering around, I couldn’t find anyone. I spent my first night wandering aimlessly through mountains of ice and forests of snow-covered pines. I had looked around and seen nothing. It was only the beginning, yet I was already alone, lost in the bleak abyss of ice and frost. All throughout the night I trudged without end, searching for respite I knew I would not find. Eventually, I settled in a clearing. I sank slowly into the ground, letting myself slide under the sparkling white sheet. It was the only cover I had. Peering up into the sky, past the dark, stretching branches, deep into the twilight, all I could see was the glint of frost swirling in the air.

I spent days out in the woods, I searched and scavenged, desperate to find a way out, desperate to leave, but to no avail. I was trapped in the winterscape. I could not accept it. I moved through the vast, unyielding woodland, using every fibre of my being to keep going. Before I knew it I was crawling, having spent all my energy I still could not stop, I could not for a second sit with my thoughts, I would delay the realisation of my solitude for as long as I could. All the while, I could feel the chill seep further and further into my core, the more I exerted myself. I collapsed. No more could I force myself out of the snow.

The polar quilt engulfed me once more, this time allowing the sharp, numbing flood of rime to take hold of me. I felt sated. It was strange. In my dream I felt my world being shaken. I saw the trees shift and the mountains slide, all while the frozen crystals formed in the sky and floated down to the surface. When I woke up it was different. I still had no idea where I was, not even within this cruel, twisted version of a forest. My tracks were gone and my progress was lost. I began to etch a line into the nearest trunk, but I could not find it the next day. So, I carved a line into every tree that crossed the path of my senseless drift. Thus began the calendar.

It had been months. Months of wandering and carving, months and I had not felt hungry even once. What was going on? Still, there was no exit. I stood under the glacial sky, staring, laying in wait, hoping that something would pass by. I reasoned that if there was someone, or something else in here with me, that they had to have been avoiding me. So, I would wait, wait for as long as it would take. A branch snapped. Cursing myself for having fallen asleep, I pulled myself up from under the frozen canvas and swung my head around. As I slowly paced around the area I wondered if the sound had come from my dream. Was I still

dreaming? I doubted it. In my dreams, the chill never feels as harsh, the whirling sleet never cuts so deep. Then I saw it. A line in the snow.

Something had pushed its way through the deep, white fluff, leaving a single wide trail in its wake. Carefully and silently, I stalked down the path, I would not give up my only chance to break free from my solitude. It had been hours, I was sure of it. For hours, I had followed this trail, long into the hours of darkness. However, I would not give up hope so soon. Maybe it was just the thought of meeting someone that lightened my mood, but for the first time, I saw my surroundings, really saw them. I watched as intricate, complex, icy flakes flittered down from the air above. Huge, dark trees bursting through a sheet of shimmering powder. Droplets of ice sparkled in the twilight abyss. I saw it then. Beauty, not as a concept, but as a resource, one in bountiful supply.

But as the line before me began to fade, once again, doubt crept into my mind. I wondered if I would really find anyone. Had I made the track? I forced the questions out of my mind. I ran. I no longer cared about noise or threat, I had to escape my thoughts, I couldn’t be alone, I couldn’t be trapped. I hit something and tumbled backwards. Lifting my gaze upwards and pulling myself up, I approached it. I placed my hand on the curved, glass surface and looked past the lumpy white reflection. I let the cold take me, and wondered:”What is life like outside the globe?”

(Winner of the Senior Short Story Competition and winner of the prestigious Enda O’ Brien Young Writer Scholarship)

T he origin of the smile

Choni Wong Cotter 4th Year

I had lived my whole life in grey. There was colour, but it meant nothing. People wearing the tight red of work, just bloody gashes against the pavement’s cracked skin. Living seemed painful for everyone though they never showed emotion. I ripped hair from my head and pulled at my dry eyes but still it was as if my face was hard plastic that was neither as beautiful as porcelain nor as mouldable as heated metal, it was simply hard and dull and toxic. Everyone was the same. All sick with this illness of inadequacy, completely devoid of meaning or will or fight. There was no point, after all, all there was ever need to do was to work and move and make and die. Always die and die and die and there was never any point anyway.

On a day, it doesn’t matter which or what the weather was like, that was all meaningless. It was a day and my body was dripping with the red that meant nothing but eventual death. I moved, as we all did to a place that I didn’t care to remember the name of. It was big and cold and wide with open spaces for our work. What I did that day didn’t matter, I moved rocks and handled metal of some bronzed green variety. That day was insignificant. But somehow I saw him, his hair as mucky as the others so there’s no way he could have stood out to me: I have never understood it. He moved around with a buzz, I suppose, that didn’t fit his surroundings. His hands were bloodied but the gold dustings around the gashes made his hands look sacred. His eyes were as black as soot but I never looked anyone in the eye so I have no idea why I thought about his so often. If I could explain my life in a word it would be insignificant but this moment, when I first saw him ,gave me significance.

After breaking off the last of my fingernails and finally allowing myself to go home, I bandaged my fingers so the scabs would come quick enough for me to pick off and fend off my emptiness. For the first time I really looked at my hands though, they were small and yellowed but they did not seem to shine, like his, the blood was caked on them, crusted and flaking rather than flowing and falling gracefully to the ground as his had. The place I slept was grey and square, it was hard and had a stillness that accompanied my aching quiet and lended to my insanity. As if I could ever be so exciting as to be insane. If I were to compare it I would compare it to a rock, it was just that kind of lifeless grey.

Sleep was not a pleasure but it did bring with it things that rushed through the fibres of my brain and made me feel more alive than during the day. This night my sleep brought wild magic and swirling colours like I had never seen. I breathed and felt the air actually move through my body and do as it was supposed to do, bring me life. Waking up was especially cruel the day after. I

have never wanted so much to just keep in my sleep forever and never lay eyes on another living soul that did not reside in the world of my sleep.

Thankfully I never want for long. I defrosted my sleepy bones and wrapped myself once again in the clothes of work. There was a ringing in my ear that followed me no matter how I tried to run from it, even as I scraped stone against stone and metal screeched beneath my clutch still it persisted.

There he was again. And it stopped. As if the whole place went silent and didn’t move and I saw him again. This time he was closer, more defined like the camera of my vision had finally been able to block out the ugly masses that formed between us and simply focus on him. There was something about him that made me feel uncomfortable, the kind of uncomfortable that I couldn’t place and it made my skin itch as if bugs had claimed my body. I paused, that was it, he had the sleeves of his boiler suit bunched up around his elbows. I looked around, not a single person had anything askew with their bloody shields, perfect armour that separated us from each other. I looked down at my own sickly arms, the bottom of my sleeves were frayed slightly and dark shapes had begun to climb their way up, turning to an even darker red. What was wrong with him to do such a thing? The heat was no excuse, no matter the weather we worked in perfect uniform in a silence so clear it felt practised, but here he was. When I looked back away from him, I had the most sickening realisation dawn on me. My work lay unfinished at my feet, discarded because my mind had wandered. I felt sick and the world around me seemed to swim, the reds mixing together in an ocean so frightening I wanted to peel my eyes out so that I would never have to see such a thing again.

This time sleep was not so kind.

The sun dragged me from my darkness once again and I felt something. I didn’t understand why all of this was happening to me, I was noticing things, looking at eyes and even leaving my work unfinished. I felt sick all over again but this time the ocean was a kinder, cool grey rather than the bleeding red. When my eyes opened again my face was blessed with a new colour. A faint purple mark shined on my cheek, a gentle kiss the floor had left as a parting gift. Once again it was the red and to work and to hell. He was right beside me. All dark tones and pale skin and golden blood. From this close he shone, a light that seemed to push back the grey and lift the colours from where they stood, raising them to the sky and dancing in the air. Sensing my gaze he turned, physically made the movement of looking at me, in the eyes, rolled up sleeves on full show. My lips sagged open and my eyes sunk deeper in the bag’s sleep had given me as if trying to see even more than was possible. He was pale, as we all were and dirty and bloody and red and grey. But there was life in him that had died in me so long ago. He blinked at me for a while and then dipped his head in an odd sort of acknowledgment. The last time I was given such a privilege was when I cried too loud and the woman who birthed me forced me to still. He went back to his work and me back to mine.

When night came this time I didn’t search for sleep, but he did search for me. He moved outside my space of rest and I noticed instantly because nothing ever stirred me from my quiet. Going outside, I saw the same gold dusted hand ruffling the sleep out of the very dark curls that had haunted my mind for what seemed to be centuries. When he looked up and our eyes met, how this was

even possible I will never know, he simply began to walk away. The strangest part is that I did something ever odder, I followed him. He led me away from grey sleeping block after block and came to a halt at the edge of our world. I had only ever dared to venture here once and even then the second the steady scratch of shoe on pavement turned into a soft thud on grass I ran away more filled with emotion as I had ever been. But here we now stood, in the green expanse that was the edge, doing nothing but taking in the softness that lived suffocated at the back of the cool hard grey that covered everything else. We spent a while there until the sun began to stretch itself awake and our peace ended.

Once again dressed in red I moved with a small amount of purpose, toward work. When we saw each other, we didn’t need to talk or even be near each other but we communicated more deeply than I ever have with another human. As he settled beside me for more pointless actions in the pointless pathetic little world that we lived in, his hand brushed mine and sent a new feeling through me. I tried desperately to hide it but the hard plastic of my face was cracking and he noticed. Everything was bad, my hands would never be as innocent to this world as they once were, I would live my life pointlessly and no one would notice when I died but, he was beside me and despite myself, despite everything, I smiled.

T

he Year 3000

Jack Leahy 4th Year

Samekh

The Muse of the Void

En route to Quaoar

The Kuiper Belt Sol System

6/10/3000, antiquated Gregorian calendar

Cryopreserved baseline human designated “Somnus”

Storage facility for early 21st century cryosleepers Quaoar

The Kuiper Belt Sol System

Dear unidentified cryosleeper

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I believe there were many other

convoluted formalities involved in the beginning of written letters, but that’s mostly unimportant. What is important is that you do not panic. Which is, admittedly, quite easy for me to say - I haven’t just woken up after being in a state between death and sleep for 975 years. I’m beginning to think that my word choice so far has been more panic-inducing than intended, but I’m really not used to putting a pen to paper. It has none of the convenience of thought-totext, and lacks the subtle intricacies of biochemical messaging, but it is probably the most comprehensible and familiar form of long range communication for you. I’m sorry, I may have just distracted myself looking at the ink flow, so I’ll get straight to the point.

You are not where you once were. Archaeological research suggests that in the year 2025, you volunteered for an experimental cryopreservation programmeyou might begin remembering the details as you read on.

The timeline we have pieced together indicates that after a few decades of storage, you were transported to a new location near the northern polar region of Earth because of a climate emergency. Unfortunately, while you were being transported, the rather crude cryopreservation methods temporarily failed, and your internal organs were slightly damaged. You remained in the polar location for a number of decades - at this point, you had spent approximately 100 years in cryosleep. You were then transported to a station orbiting Earth, due to unstable geopolitical circumstances. From there, you and other cryosleepers were passed from scientist to scientist, who had limited success with resuscitating you. Remember, when you began cryopreservation, cryogenics was essentially a pseudoscience. The task of safely returning you to consciousness was more difficult than expected for them, especially considering your internal damage. Cumbersome bureaucracy, lost archival records, and black market dealings complicated the affair. Centuries past, things happened that I won’t bore you with, and here you are.

All things considered, you were quite lucky to end up here. You are in the care of the Cryosleeper Integration Community. Our goal is to find cryosleepers, usually from the 21st century, and help them adjust to current society so that they can continue to live their lives. It can be... quite the adjustment to make. Many things you might have been familiar with- states, capitalism, hierarchical social structures... don’t really exist anymore.

This may have just spawned a slew of questions in your mind, which will all be answered in time. If you need to sit down, please do. If you need water, or endorphins, or anything like that, just say it aloud. The room can hear you. It’s technically a person, so be polite. And please, relax. Try not to worry. You are in good hands.

Kind regards, Samehk

P.S. I will arrive in a day or two, but in the meantime feel free to ask the room anything. Their name is Bayit and they’re a lovely fellow. Also, don’t do anything potentially harmful! It would be a shame for you to die when you’re only a few days away from immortality. I’m definitely getting Bayit to send me the look on your face right now. I’d imagine it is quite amusing.

Short Storiess

Breaking Promises

Laura Cullen 6th Year

The moon light trickled through the window, just beginning to peer from behind the clouds. It was one of those nights where the air was so crisp you felt like you didn’t need to breathe. The perfect night at the end of a perfect autumn. We sat inside by the warmth of the fire, listening to the crackle of the burning wood.

I don’t remember much from those days but this night has always stuck with me, never far from the front of my mind. Like a record that spins on in the background I had learnt to ignore it, but it was always there.

We were chatting and giggling in a way only people with no real concerns can, that only children can. The joy inside was in stark contrast with the stillness of the outside world. We were waiting for our grandfather.

A squeak from his walker caused the four of us to turn in perfect unison. It was time for a story. A nightly ritual that had gone on my whole life. He began as he often did ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ but then he froze as if suddenly stuck by a wave of inspiration. ‘Have I ever told you the story of X and Y?’ I remember shaking my head vigorously. Had I known what would come next perhaps I would have lied to avoid the pain and fear. Unfortunately, I didn’t know. How could I have? He began, his voice hoarse.

‘It was a warm day but the beach was desolate. Clyde didn’t mind the solitude though. He had his book and he had his dog. They made for a strange silhouette on the water’s edge. Clyde was a large man burly and some might even say brutish, in his hands was what appeared to be a small book. However upon closer inspection you would have found that the book was “The Way of the Wind’’, an extensive novel about family and love. Two things Clyde didn’t have. Beyond him Stella could be seen jumping in the break of the waves. Being a maltese she was small, glowing white and beautiful.

If you are thinking what an odd pairing you wouldn’t be alone this is exactly what Delia thought as she crested the hill. However for some unknown reason she was compelled to approach him. She strolled down the beach before starting up a conversation with him. Asking about the dog and the book, before long the conversation was shifting and changing to other topics and so they sat until the sun went down and the sand got cold. Agreeing to come back the next day they went their separate ways. And so the days passed turned into weeks and months and the strangers turned into lovers. Eventually though, as it always must, summer came to an end. They said their goodbyes exchanged addresses, promising to return and then they walked away. The following year Clyde

returned alone and once again the beach was desolate. He turned whispering under his breath and got on a bus with Stella on his lap. He travelled for 3 days before reaching his destination. He knocked on the door. Delia answered, confounded by his presence, she let him in. It was only then she saw the knife. No-one heard the screams. A few days later the delivery man opened the door after finding it unlocked. There he found Stella with blood covering her face and fur, happily eating something on the floor. His screams echoed throughout the neighbourhood.’

I sat in a sort of stunned silence, wondering what could have compelled our grandfather to tell us this story. My sister, always braver than me, asked him. His response was to take out an old photo album. He turned to a page with a photo of him as a young man, his small white dog sitting beside him. Captioned ‘Stella and Me Spring 1958’. After a few minutes of silence he spoke his voice much clearer now ‘Girls’ i recoiled away from him ‘We don’t break promises, we don’t break hearts.’

Short Storiess

T he Magic of Storytelling

Ethna Vondrys 6th Year

My earliest memory is of my grandmother telling me a story. I’m not yet three years old and we’re living in a countryside village in the mountains of Northern Austria. There was this great, hulking forest full of coniferous trees next to our house, and in my memory, I’m there, sitting on a tree-stump three times my size. My minute shoes have velcro-straps, and my hands are encased in warm, white mittens that hug my fingers. Granny, or ‘Babi’ as I called her, is standing in front of me. The trees have parted, leaving a little clearing, allowing feeble rays of sunlight to reach us. What we were doing there, I have no clue. I just remember her voice, as she told me a tale of a ginormous wolf who lived in these woods, a little girl with a red cape and basket full of cake and orange juice, on her way to visit her grandmother. My first fairytale, and my ‘Babi’ my first storyteller.

“Never wear a red coat in this forest, Ethi,” she said, the affectionate nickname rolling off her tongue. I never did.

We moved away a year later, after my sister had been born, and I haven’t been back in ‘Little Red Riding Hood’s’ Forest since. But Babi didn’t stop with the stories. I asked her once, where she learnt them all, and a faraway look came into her eyes. “My Babička,” she said with a slow smile, the kind of smile that contains recollections I’d never be privy to.

We’d act the stories out, my sister and I, on the nights she babysat us. In ‘Cinderella’ I’d be the horse, and the prince, and the fairy godmother, while my sinister starred as the eponymous Cinderella. I didn’t mind, Why limit yourself to one character? As six years old I could be whoever I wanted to be. My grandmother had a never-ending treasure trove of tales to tell us; ‘Hansel and Gretel’, ‘Sleeping Beauty’ and the ‘Gold-Haired Princess’; stories that haven’t been translated to English. She never told us the same story twice. Sure, maybe Cinderella always went to the ball, but sometimes she had two sisters, or one brother, while sometimes she lost a hair clip instead of a glass slipper, and sometimes she didn’t marry the prince. My grandmother was a multitude of stories, and these translated into the fables she told us.

At seven, I wrote my first story. An ‘epic’ which was a whole three pages long. I still have it now, in the memory box in the attic. My mother calls me a ‘hoarder’, but you can’t throw away a story. We all contain so many stories, what are we here for if not to share them?

My youngest sister was born when I was nine. At that age I was an awkward, spindly child, who read too much and spoke too little. I didn’t want to speak if I could listen. However, my sister proved to be the audience I needed. Lying all trussed-up like a turkey in her bassinet, she had no choice but to listen to me as I warbled about my day in school, what our other sister was doing, how I was feeling. She’d regard me with the clear blue eyes that are only ever seen in newborns, and she heard me. I began to understand why my granny had such a passion for sharing stories. There’s a magic created when you bare your soul for someone else to see and hear. A connection is formed, a spiderweb connecting my heart to hers.

When I was eleven, I went on my first overnight trip without my parents. I returned from the school tour bursting full of new tales to regale. The dinner table became my stage, my auditorium. My younger sisters would listen enraptured, and my mother and my father shared knowing smiles over the fishfingers. My baby sister, then a toddler, would demand the same every evening. So I’d settle down, knife and fork discarded, and begin:

“On the last night of the trip, we had a talent show.”

I’d pause, sip some water for dramatic effect, and continue.

“My group decided to dance. Dance the-”

“-Macarena!” My family would shout.

They’d heard it all before. It was my sister’s favourite. And she always got what she wanted, in the true fashion of a youngest child. We’d clamber to our feet, on my chair under the disapproving eyebrows of our mum and dad, and begin to dance.

Secondary school, which for so long, had been the bane of all the books I’d read, arrived and with it a whole new world. Hundreds of people rushing past in corridors, 6th Years with faces so serious they looked like businessmen hurrying to work, lockers that clanged and a canteen that buzzed, it was all fodder for the imagination. Living in Ireland, I didn’t see my Babi everyday. Or every week. It was summer and Christmas only. So I wrote letters, stuffed full of scrawling handwriting, recounting the mundane and the miraculous, most of it true, some furnished with extra details to add flair. I wrote stories in notebooks. I didn’t tell stories anymore. Which teenager is keen to share their inside with the outside world?

If the reader presses ‘fast forward’ on the remote control of my life, and stops it on last weekend, we’d come to what some might call a ‘turning point’. A realisation of sorts. I was putting my ‘not-a baby-anymore-baby’ sister to bed. We were home alone, and the house was full of the orange glow of bedtime. Teeth were brushed, hair was combed, and lying in bed she asked me if she could tell me a story. Exhausted after an evening as arduous as cattle-wrangling,

Short Storiess

if cattle were eight year old girls with an unlimited store of energy, I mumbled: “Sure.”

“The story I will tell you today is my earliest memory.”

I perked up. She looked at me, and for a moment she was a few weeks old and I was still a child, hanging onto her cot, telling her fairytales, not new ones, just echoes. She had no memories of Babi. Just me. The thought flooded through my veins. I thought when Babi died, my storytelling had died with her. Yet now some great beats slumbering inside me stirred awake. It blew fire through huge nostrils and incinerated the self-consciousness that had gripped me in a ‘clenched fist’ for long enough.

“Go on,” I said.

“Don’t interrupt me! What I was saying is, my earliest memory is when you’d tell us the ‘Macarena Story’. Do you remember?”

I just nodded, dumbfounded. She went on to describe it to me, as if I hadn’t been there, in the methodical way children are taught in school. Setting. Characters. Problem. Solution.

She finished, extremely satisfied with the silent audience I’d been. I tucked her in, her pink duvet soft and slippery. She yawned. I turned off the light.

“What’s your earliest memory?” she whispered in the dark.

I smiled into the grey of her room.

“My earliest memory is of my grandmother telling me a story…”

Ms Ní Cana, Lexie Hopkins, Lauren Roche, Amy Roche, Isabella Wilkinson, Trudy Frater, Mr Reidy

Book Club

Stephen Martin

L-R Ms Stapleton, Sophie Ava Diamond Burton, Jack Holohan, Mylo Pust

L-R Grace Atherfold, Chloe Enright, Sarah Jane O’Connell, Molly O’Donnel Egan, Ms Fanning, Stephen Martin

Oxford Debate

Reverse Day 2014

Charlie Geelon & Lucy Curran

Luca Gheta Memorial

All Ireland Linguistics Olympiad

National Final

Model United Nations

L-R Ellie Bourke, Kate Kinsella, Liam Finn

Patrick Chen

L-R Tim Langan, Eva Harbourne, Charlie Geelon

AN INTERVIEW WITH MS SCALLAN

What is your favourite book?

All the Harry Potter books- typical millennial

If there is a book you could read for the first time again, what would it be?

“You’re a wizard Harry(Niamh)”. 100% the Harry Potter books.

Do you prefer hardcopies or Ebooks/ audiobooks?

Audiobooks keep me busy and it is easy to correct assignments when listening to an audiobook.

Last thing you wrote?

“The business plan notes” for Second Year Business.

Favourite Quote?

“Nothing changes if nothing changes”

Favourite Gerard’s memory?

In my first year (8 years ago) there was a non uniform day and the staff dressed up in the school uniform.

What advice would you give to your 12 year old self?

*In deep thought* There is so much I would tell myself. Everything gets better in the end and time is a great healer.

Do you have any secret talents?

I play the saxophone

How has the school changed since the Covid pandemic?

I got a classroom as me and Mr Wall were homeless in the sports office. And the student numbers have increased.

What makes your day in school better?

When I’m in class I see the penny drop in the students mind (especially in accounting), my accounting students know… and most importantly when the 5th year girls give me all the gossip!!

What is your favourite fictional character?

I have three favourite fictional characters. I read a lot more fiction when I was younger and I enjoyed Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse and Robert Ludlum’s Jason Bourne. I sometimes read fiction during the summer holidays to switch off from work. I like Lee Child’s Jack Reacher. He is a great antidote to the woke-world.

What’s your favourite book?

I don’t have a favourite book, I don’t have any favourites because it’s impossible to have a favourite song even, so I don’t have a favourite book. There are many different types of books that I like so I can’t really settle on a single genre even. I think if you like reading, and read often, you are going to have a diverse mix of interests. It is much like people who love music; they tend to have eclectic collections of various artists. So no, I do not have a favourite book.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MR. ROCHE

You’ve been in the school for 25 years, what’s the biggest change you’ve seen?

Technology. Google classroom, Ipads, being able to put powerpoints on the whiteboard for visuals, being able to pin video clips onto the powerpoints. Learning has become more visual which is good, but the irony is the more visual learning has become and the more technology has come into the classroom, the students are less engaged in reading. People seem to want an answer immediately instead of having to think and develop one. Students who engage in reading are better able to understand concepts and processes. They are better equipped to develop a rational answer and essay. Technology has somewhat eroded this. It’s a bit like instant coffee - convenient but never as good as what is allowed to percolate.

Who is your favourite childhood author?

If childhood relates to my primary school years, perhaps Enid Blyton was my favourite author. That was what most of us had access to. I also read Childcraft encyclopaedias which I found engaging. Once I was around 10, I was a weekly and devoted reader of Shoot magazine.

What do you think about reading on electronic devices?

No time for it whatsoever. It’s like trying to make scrambled eggs in a food blender - pointless. I am really heartened that the latest research shows that reading from an electronic device is not as effective as reading from hardcopy. I have been saying this for years. Maybe because researchers are now publishing these findings more people might sit up and take notice.

What is the best history film adaptation you’ve seen?

Very often those adaptations aren’t always very accurate, they’re more for engaging the audience and entertainment than anything else. But for the sake of being entertained and holding my attention, one film that I saw recently and that I really enjoyed was about female mathematicians who worked on the Apollo programme called Hidden Figures. But if I want History, I will always opt for the book.

What was your dream job when you were younger?

When I was younger it was all about getting a job. It was a very different Ireland with a much smaller economy. So the thinking was not about a ‘dream job’, it was more about “what do I have to do to get a job?”

What would you call your autobiography, if you had one?

‘Don’t Ever Call to My House’.

What’s your favourite sports team?

The students know I follow Liverpool FC. I have always had a very keen interest in a variety of sports. I would have read numerous sports biographies, especially on holidays, when I was younger.

What’s your favourite genre?

I suppose it has to be History because I can’t help the fact that I have always enjoyed the discipline. Sometimes I need to get away from that, so for example when I have the time I like to read Joseph Brady’s books. His books are about planning and urban development in Dublin over the decades. I like reading books about architecture and about the development of church buildings in Ireland. When I get my holidays in the summer I always read one piece of literature. Last summer I read Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’.

What book are you reading at the moment?

I have just finished reading ‘What a Bloody Awful Country’ By Kevin Meagher. I am about to start ‘Rejoice, Rejoice: Britain in the 1980’s’ by Alwyn W. Turner.

AN

INTERVIEW

WITH MS. NÍ FHÉINNEADHA AND MS. BUCKLEY

What do you enjoy most about reading? Is it escapism, characters or something else?

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: Escapism… transported into a different world.”

Ms Buckley: “I love autobiography, to be able to connect with the characters is amazing.”

How do you choose which books to read next?

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Ryan Tubridy. His book club is great..”

Ms Buckley: “We are doing great, are you impressed?!!!”

There are giggles for several minutes….

Who was your favourite childhood author?

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Oh, for me it has to be Enid Blyton.”

Ms Buckley: “Me too, I used to love her. Don’t you remember going to the local library on a Friday?”

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Yes, no bookshops or anything in our day, can you imagine that?

The local library was all we had.”

What’s your opinion on reading on electronic devices?

Ms Buckley: “No, I do not like reading on electronic devices. The smell and feel of a new book, you can’t get that from technology.”

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “A real book on holidays, the escapism from it. Back to basics!”

Ms Buckley: “Absolutely!”

What’s the funniest or most memorable excuse a student has given for not doing their homework?

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Dog ate the homework. Classic!”

Ms Buckley: “Let me think now, it has to be my bag was robbed from my car.”

If you could teach another subject what would it be and why?

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Maths. Actually no, very boring.”

Ms Buckley: “Home Economics, to teach students about upcycling.”

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Yes the arts and crafts, that is our forte Cliona. I feel it would bring out our creative side.”

How do you choose which books to read next?

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Ryan Tubridy. His book club is great..”

Ms Buckley: “We are doing great, are you impressed?!!!”

Which superhero would you be?

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Elle Woods, she is my idol.”

Ms Buckley: “We want to be her.”

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Well is Elle Woods a superhero though? I would love to be wonder woman - Mná na hEireann.”

Ms Buckley: “Incredibles!!! I would be the mother in “The Incredibles” (Elastigirl). “Adaptable and flexible!”

What makes a ‘good day’ in school?

Ms Buckley: “That’s a lovely question. Easy, students. Students stopping to say hi or how is your day going, that makes my day. Just creating a happy and safe environment.”

Ms Ní Fhéinneadha: “Having the chats with the students. Laughter, fun and making memories. But getting the work done - don’t make it out as if we’re having a party!!!!!”

So how long have you been working in the school?

It’s 18 years. 18 years and it’s absolutely flown by.

I enjoy it every minute. Yeah, and it’s a lot of work. And keeping pitches has been the main thing that I really, really liked.

Pitches weren’t in great condition when I started and it just turned out really well. And I’m happy with that. And that’s my legacy, if you want to put it that way.

Not to mention flowers and gardens and things like that.

The grounds look great.

Yeah, it’s very varied. It’s a lot of different stuff and it’s a lot of different things. And I just threw myself into it and liked it.

What’s been your favourite thing about St. Gerard’s, working here?

I’ve never seen, among the kids, I’ve never seen a real row. No bad temper, no problems, nothing like that.

A lovely calm place from that point. And the kids are mannerly and good. But my favourite thing is the legacy of the pitches and what I’ve done.

I’m very pleased with that.

BRENDAN WHELAN ON HIS RETIREMENT

And so you’re proud of the rugby team then as well?

Very proud of the rugby team. I was, for what it’s worth, I was delighted to see the big smile on their faces when they actually won at the end of the season, which was terrific. And I was absolutely thrilled for them. And they’re good fellas like. And not to mention the great win for the girls in the hockey, I have two daughters myself so to see them win, I was thrilled for them all.

That’s great.

Yeah.

What is your favourite book, both now and in your childhood?

Yeah, before this I was a stud farm manager and I worked with horses. And my favourite book was “The Horse’s Mind” by Lucy Rees. She’s an American woman, but it’s getting inside the horse’s mind, getting the horse to come to you rather than the other way around and treating them with respect and learning more.

I think if you learn more about animals you learn more about people. Yeah, that stuck with me for a long, long time. I have that book at home still.

I would have bought it about 35, 36 years ago. It’s a brilliant read for anyone who likes horses. And psychology, how to handle them.

Sure. Would that be your favourite book now as well?

Still is.

That’s fair enough. If you were to start things all over again, what would you do differently?

Yeah, probably something with horses. I mean, as I said, I worked as a sports brand manager. I was on the verge of moving to France years ago. And changed my mind at the last minute. My family didn’t want to go. That type of thing. So, yeah, probably some regrets looking back at that. But at the same time, no real regrets. I’m very, very happy the way life has gone since.

That’s great to hear. What would be your Desert Island desk? The one album you’d listen to forever?

Forever and ever. Yeah. American folk singer.

She’s dead now. I don’t know if you’ve heard of her. Eva Cassidy. And I would play that pretty loudly in the car.

And Somewhere Over the Rainbow is my favourite single from her. Absolutely wonderful. And she had a terrific voice.

And she came from an ordinary background. She was a person who worked in gardens and all that. Into flowers. Very shy person. Went out and started to sing. And never looked back.

And then got sick and finished her career early. But her singing lived on. That’s why I say never look back.

Have you got any hidden talents that no one knows about?

Well, again horses. Horses? Yeah. I like preparing top class yearlings

for top class sales. That’s what I used to do. And I enjoyed that. And I travelled a lot doing that. Not many people up here know about that. But that’s my past.

What would be your favourite quote in life?

“It’s nice to be important. It’s more important to be nice.” I tell a lot of people that.

And I think it’s a great way to go about things.

It’s a great quote. I’ve never heard that one before.

There you go. Well, it’s actually up in Eamon Carr’s room. I’m on the quote board up there as well. That’s always been my one that I’d stand by. And when you think about it, it makes sense.

Fair. And what do you think about the film adaptations of books?

People who are lazy readers can enjoy the film adaptation and things like that, Instead of having to pick up a book.

A film is never the same as actually the book though. But the book is probably always better. But the film can have twists in it that the book wouldn’t have had. And it can be changed. So, it depends on how you look at it.

I mean, if it’s a good film, it’s a good film. If it’s a good book, it’s a good book. If it’s written well.

And if it catches your imagination, and that’s what you like reading. It’s a hard one to answer that.

Interviewer: How long have you been working at St Gerard’s School?

Ali: I’m going to say definitely 23 years, But I think it’s more. Maybe more. It could be 25, 26. Actually, Cathy McKean’s mum did my interview. And Miss McKean went to the school as a student. And Cathy’s dad, I worked here when Cathy’s dad worked here as well. Her mum was head of catering and her dad was a teacher.

Interviewer: What do you like most about St Gerard’s?

Ali: Being there for the kids. The interactions with the kids...trying to help them and... guide them, and get them through their ups and their downs. I have so many kids come up with different little issues, or...you know? It’s the kids that keep me going.

Interviewer: I think that’s definitely a good reason to be working in a school.

Ali: Yeah, no it is… it’s the kids that keep me going. You know, I have certain kids that, like... They’re like my own. And they’re coming up... You know, they come in and they’ll chat with you.

Interviewer: Oh of course, I forgot you have all the little ones, as well, from the Junior School.

Ali: Yeah, and then I have after school. Those little ones, as well, are in here all

AN INTERVIEW WITH ALI STACK

the time. They’re so cute.

Interviewer: What is your favourite St. Gerard’s memory?

Ali: That’s actually a hard one, really. It was one of... I think it was the valedictory, that I was working down the sports hall, and Sharon was the parents’ name, I’m not sure of the surname now. But she had a band. And I was working, and it was an amazing night. She was the singer, and the band was amazing. But, like, I had all the kids and obviously, they were all leaving, but when the band started, the whole place lit up. It was amazing. So that would have been a really good one.

And… I have so many… Different kinds of memories, you know. Certain kids that maybe... Not all, but some of them that I would have given a lot of time to…when they’ve left and then they come back to see me. That breaks my heart…

And, actually, Hozier. You know Andrew?

Interviewer: Yeah.

Ali: One of the students was going over to his concert in London, and she was telling me about it and I said, “Tell Andrew I was asking after him.” And she came back, I have it at home, with Andrew’s playlist, signed… “To Ali, all my love. Hozier.” And we had it framed. It’s things like that that make me go ‘that’s why I’m still here’.

Ali continues..: : I’ll have to stop now because if I tell anymore I will be in tears.

Interviewer: Well thank you so much.

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