Showcasing Our Future Writers for World Book Day

In honour of World Book Day, celebrated on Thursday, 3rd March 2022, we have attached original work from some of our transition year writers and poets. Here in Kinsale Community School, we love to celebrate and encourage originality and creativity in all areas amongst our very talented students. Below is work by students Isobel Bergin, Zoe MacLoughlin, Jessica Moloney and Hazel O’Kelly.

River, Mountain, Sky

by Isobel Bergin, TY

I am the source,

 Rivers running down sleek rock.

The banks burst and flood through the land.

Destroying roads, fields, life.

The mountain moves heavy,

Bowed in an arch, hollow.

The sky is dark,

Fierce and broody.

The rivers flow steady on,

Choppy and cathartic.

The sky shakes, the river roars and the mountain heaves.

The sun has left them. Lost, without purpose or a way.

The river knows not what time it is. How is it to know not to rush?

The mountain knows not what season it is. How is it to grow?

The sky has lost its vision. How is it to know what colour to show?

All because the sun has left them,

So quickly and without warning

 How is one expected to deal with a loss.

 A loss so sudden and unexpected.

When all is right and suddenly all is unrecognisable.

So profound and meaningless.

Is there more they could’ve done, to keep the sun near?

The mountain asks, “Could I have stretched more, to reach her heat?”

The river asks, “Could I have slowed to let her see her own shine?”

The sky asks, “Could I have broadened, to let her stretch?”

Alas, the questions mean nothing, for the sun cannot reply.

 If the sun were here, though, and I’m sure that this is true.

 The sun would simply tell them.

“There was nothing you could do.”

“Ghosts”

by Zoe MacLoughlin, TY

          The midnight storm subsided, leaving behind a hazy layer of fog. The entire school grounds were blanketed in a gloomy grey. It was only possible to see a few steps ahead, before whatever lay in front came looming towards you. The morning dew had freshly settled on the fine cut grass of the school pitch, yet puddles of muddy water lay between the goal posts. Small spikes of stubborn grass poked through the murky surfaces of the miniature lakes. The southerly sun had not been given the chance to show its true nature as it’s rays couldn’t pierce through the thick blanket of fog. Creatures in the surrounding sleepless forest chattered and flitted and watched. The daylight beings awoke, and the nocturnal ones crept back to whichever dark place or hole they came from, while those that did not ever tire, carried on watching and waiting to strike. Their hunger never quenched, always thirsting for warm, tasty flesh and blood. Menacing, flaming shadows of Fades darted and lurked amongst the abysmal, fractured wood. Their alarming red slits for eyes, searching for lost souls who have left their ruined, unrecognisable bodies’. Arms and legs were ripped from their torsos, stripped of their fleshy, meaty substances. Nothing but piles of skulls and bones, not even a splatter of blood was left.

          The famished trees groaned and creaked, stretching their elongated, thick, entangled roots. Their bent, oozing trunks straightened, the toxiferous, slimy sap slithered and slid into open fissures and clefts in the toughened, wrinkly skin. As the sticky, gloopy, deathly sap flowed upwards, it began to bear miniscule nodules from which strands of slim, hairlike limbs burst out, expanding as it carved out its own instinctual path, to create a skeletal structure. Blossoms of metallic, turquoise leaves enlaced with glistening silvery qualities prospered. The trees ripped their roots out from the nutrient depleted soil and clawed their way across to a new feeding ground, and to claim a new territory. When another sapling came to close, it would fiercely whip it’s branches out in aggression, lashing the other tree, leaving mutilated lacerations on the hardened skin. Sickly sap would trickle out of the wounded areas. The injured squealed in pain and anger but would vengefully retreat to recover and heal their bruised and cut forms. They could wait for another day to unleash their revenge.

‘Marketplace’

by Jessica Moloney, TY

I neatly slip a ruby red apple into the deep seat of my linen pockets. I smile in a nonchalant manner at the young woman with deep brown eyes the colour of mahogany and long flowing hair to match, managing the overflowing fruit stall, its bright colours almost stinging my eyes. A rainbow made up of succulent mangoes of sunset shades, ripe oranges and lemons that shine brilliant and neon, and crisp pears that have not quite softened in the scorching summer heat. She smiles back at me, showing pretty, white teeth that sit neatly alongside one another.

Good, she didn’t notice.

I quietly let myself get pulled away from the stall by the crowd of bright fabrics and silks that hang off the townsmen and women. Some wear vivid floral patterns, etched and lined with royal golds and silvers, while others opt for muted beiges, browns and blues, their light airy fabric making the blistering heat fractionally more manageable. The tangy smells of sweet fruit and desserts mix with the soulful scent of honey and spices, and the crisp aroma of fresh vegetables. I take a second to close my tired eyes and breath in the mouth-watering harmony of fragrances before slowly making my way over to the bread stalls.

Rye, Brown, Wholemeal, Naan, Pittas. every bread you could think of was stacked high on the stall’s wooden boxes, displaying a variation of tans and browns. My own brown eyes flicker quickly to the stall owner, a tall lean man with olive-toned skin, thick brown hair that curls softly in the thick humid air, and striking emerald-green eyes that peek out under a coat of dark eyelashes. He doesn’t make eye contact. Hes talking to another man, engaged in a bartering battle of sorts over a large loaf of spiced soda bread.

I listen for the jingle jangle of coins being exchanged before I do anything, my eyes narrowed like a lion that stalks in the grass before pouncing on its prey. I hold my breath, listening closer. My senses sharpen as I focus. The barter eventually folds, sighing in disappointment before reaching into his trouser pockets to fish out his payment.

Jingle, Jangle.

I don’t waste any time, darting my nimble hand to a smaller loaf of rye that hangs off the edge of a crate. It is still warm. I can feel the remnants of flour brush off my fingers. Perfect. I pull my arm back towards me slowly. I don’t dare look up at the stall worker, instead fixing my eyes to the stall behind him that sells ‘Homemade Artisan Jewlery.’ my mouth waters as I imagine how sweet and satisfying the bread will taste. Hell, maybe I'll even splash out and steal a wedge of cheese to pair with it, like some French monarch. But as I go to slip the loaf under my shirt, a deafening shout snaps me out of my daydreams, loud and sharp over the buzz and chatter of thew townspeople. “Hey! You gotta pay for that!” I look up to see the angry emerald eyes of the stall owner narrowed at me, his thick eyebrows furrowing above them. He was heading straight for me.

Time to go.

I spin on my heel, not looking back, and ran as fast as my thin leather shoes could carry me. I slip between folds of people, almost knocking over a small boy toddling with unease beside his mother. Clouds of dust emit from the rubble-ridden floor as my feet pattered along its uneven surface. I envelope myself in the vast crowds, dodging around the curves and dips of the townspeople. I quickly glance behind me. The stall worker struggles to quickly move through the throng, his tall gangly frame awkward and slow, chest heaving from exhaustion and his face still red with rage. I can see his mouth moving, animated and angry, but the roaring buzz of townsfolk is so noisy I can't pick up on anything he is saying. A whisper of a smug smile spreads on my face. He may be bigger, but I'm nimble. He may be fast, but I'm definitely faster.

My heart hums in my chest as I dart and dance through the Market Square, sweat softly glistening on my face. As I come to the end of the vast sea of people, I spot my exit.

I steam towards a nearby alleyway, a dark and cold passage from the square to the docks. It was never really used anymore, only when old sailors came back with the tide after seasons away on fishing trips and expeditions. It was the perfect hiding place. I tuck myself behind its corner, grimacing as I feel the walls damp and mould seep through my shirt. The sour, dank smell of dirt and fish tickle my nostrils, and make me scrunch my nose in disgust. Only the whooshing sound of wind and the timid squeaks of a stray mouse echoes along the clammy walls. After about thirty seconds or so, I dare peek out around the alleyways corner. My eyes scan the masses, searching for the stall owner. A couple of seconds later, he emerges, looking ragged and fatigued. Hes so angry, steam practically gushes out of his ears, but all he can muster is an anguished throw of his arms to the sky before storming back into herds.

I lean back against the wall once more, closing my eyes and allowing myself to relax, feeling my chest heave up and down, up, and down. I grin to myself I pull the now slightly dishevelled loaf from under my shirt. It's still warm.

Walking, always walking….

By Hazel O Kelly, TY

Walking, always walking. That is all I ever do now. I saunter along, stumbling, falling, but always walking. I’m walking without direction, without purpose, without meaning. My feet sink into the soft, sodden soil beneath me, but I continue walking. If I do not, then the soil will swallow me whole. So, I keep walking, always walking.

I raise my weary head and see the cloudy fog which surrounds me. It looks cushioned, almost silken, like a blanket wrapping around me, urging me into an everlasting sleep. What I would give to sleep. To finally stop and rest my broken limbs, currently stuck in motion. To lay down and let the ground swallow me up. To close my eyes and rejoice that my suffering has ended. I can see it in my mind's eye, as clear as the blue sky that I miss so dearly. The image calls to me, coaxing me and for a moment I want to give in, but I can't, I won’t. Instead, I distract myself with my surroundings once more. Tall firs stretch above me, fog disguising their tips. It’s quiet, too quiet. Occasionally a light breeze will pass through, rustling the trees, a stag will prance along in the distance, or a lone bird will chirp, soaring away as quickly as it came. No creature stays here for very long, none except me. I welcome any change because otherwise I'm left with the wilting flowers of my thoughts, sorrowful and hopeless. Change reminds me that this isn't a dream, that I'm still alive and that I must keep walking, always walking.

The Landscape is always the same, water-logged soil, towering trees and thick fog. The air is freezing and constantly humid, however at this point I am numb to it. I was once scared, then rageful now I am numb, crushed by the weight of unrelenting hopelessness. The more I walk, the worse I feel, but I can’t stop. I can’t stop and I can’t go back. Instead, I’m stuck here, always walking. Even though I'm moving forward, I feel trapped and chained, forced to continue with no breaks nor promise of an end. My only measure of time is how much more my body and mind can take. From what I can tell, I don’t have long left. Part of me fears what that might mean. Part of me welcomes the change, anything but this torture. Either way, the end is near, but for now, I continue walking, always walking.

My body trudges forward, while I lose myself in my thoughts. My limbs function as though programmed to do one thing for the rest of my life. The fog tempts me with the chance that something new is hidden behind it’s impenetrable layers. However, the monotonous scenery drones on as expected. Deep inside I secretly hoped something would change for the better. Now, that last hope fades like the trees, drifting away out of reach. Squinting, I'm almost tricked into thinking that the grey light which surrounds me darkened slightly. I forget the thought, this place likes to play tricks on me. A distorted shadow in the distance or a lone creature I hope will stop by. The biggest ruse of all is the damp dirt. Scattered with decaying flora, the softened soil looks cushioned and comfortable if I stare at it for too long. The deep, earthy brown colours call out to me like a warm embrace. I’m tempted once again to collapse and fall into a deep oblivion. I close my eyes, attempting to rid the thought, but the action only worsens my yearning. I try with all my might to continue to do the only thing I know how, walking, always walking, but I can’t anymore. It’s finally happening, my body gives out, consumed with the thought of an infinite slumber. 

I stumble, knees buckling, hands instinctively reaching out, eyes shut as I brace for impact. My body slaps against the moistened mud. Sludge fills my eyes as I clamp my mouth shut. I can't scream or cry for help. Even if I could, no one would hear me, I’m all alone here. All I can do is lie on the ground, as I sink lower, and lower. The soil approaches my ears and suddenly I start to panic. I’m suffocating. My nose filled with the stench of the slurry enclosing me. This isn’t what I want anymore. I was mistaken, this is worse. I resented the world which surrounds me, the breeze which would momentarily refresh me, the creatures that never stayed, the trees which tops saw above the fog, the fog that clouded my vision and cloaked the woods. I hated all of it, but this is worse. My body jolts awake, and I wrestle with the bog that threatens to consume me. I’m scared now, the once tempting mud now tries to devour me.

I struggle to stand up, scrambling and tripping as my legs sink into the vice grip holding me in place. I try to lift a leg, but it's no use. I start to lose hope once more, until my gaze locks on to a raised root from the tree before me. I franticly grab on to it and pull with my last ounce of strength. While it may be true that my life is pointless, I find myself wishing for change. I'm desperate now, even though I know I will have to keep walking, even though I know my torture will continue. All I know is that I don’t want to ever feel the sopping muck absorbing my helpless body ever again. All of a sudden, my legs are ripped from the clutches of the bog, and I'm flung against the tree. Iron fills my mouth; I've bitten my tongue. Dirt oozes from my being, and for the first time, I start running.

My pace quickens, I’m sprinting now. The frigid air wooshes part me as I wildly try to put as much distance as I can between myself and that terrifying marsh. I’ve decided I no longer want to aimlessly saunter through these woods, I want to get out, now. As though responding to my thoughts, the fog lifts slightly, goosebumps form on my skin as the temperature increases. For the first time in what might be centuries, I catch a glimpse of sunlight peeking through the slightly more transparent fog. A melody of relief and desire fills me at the joyous sight. Glancing around me, I'm overcome with wonder. The trees appear greener, the ground hardens to a sandy dirt, the fog is a hazy mist and through its patches I can see the promise of a blue sky. I slow to a stop, and I take in the world around me. The woods that once tormented me now seem luscious and magical, however I'm still stuck within them, but maybe not forever. I start strolling once more, one foot in front of another as I try and get my bearings. The mist lifts even higher, and I'm met with a blinding light. I halt at the sudden disruption, my eyes adjust to the stark flash, and I realise that behind the expanse of trees before me, there is a bright blue sky and rich green fields. The end is near. I’m elated at the prospect of leaving the grove that I'm confined in. Even though it is miles away, I know I will reach it at some point. So, once more, I start walking, always walking.