Words to Tie to Bricks (10 page)

When Linda wakes, something is obscuring her vision. Standing, she pries the sleeping bat from her face. In the far corner of the room is a dollhouse. She removes the mutilated furniture from
the house and gingerly puts Vera inside. She then walks away, humming. As she walks, things begin to slip from her mind. Things about bats, about stories and the memories they brought, good ones,
memories she would like to keep. She may lose these memories, but they will never leave her, not really.

The business of taking a name is a tricky one, and Linda isn’t entirely certain how she will go about it. She knows it will first be necessary for her to travel a while. From there, she
will know what to do. She has faith in herself, even if she is not sure why. She walks to her bike, and begins the journey. She is not worried about losing her way. It will be a long journey, and
will take time. As she rides, Linda watches the sunrise. She thinks only of the road in front of her.

It is sunset by the time Linda reaches the house. It feels right to her, feels of beginnings. It stirs many memories, ones she would rather not remember. The doors to the house are secured with
heavy chains. She remembers the bolt cutters though, in the outhouse. She left them there, after she finished. After rummaging in the dark for some time, she finds them, and opens the doors.
Without the support of the chains, the doors collapse, their hinges unable to support them. She waits for a moment, until the dust settles. She makes an effort to clear the entryway of debris, but
it is tedious work, work she dislikes. The darkness of the house is comforting, it welcomes her.

What is inside is of no surprise to Linda. As she picks her way through the dried bodies of the bats, she feels like she is forgetting something. The bats are only partially there. They all seem
to have chunks missing from them. Most rooms of the house are empty of life. However, Linda stays well clear of the extremities of the house, the cellar and the attic. She knows that these parts of
a house are never empty.

She leaves the house with a single item. As she leaves, she takes care not to make too much noise – she knows her searching could have attracted unwanted attention. Linda’s hands
tremble as she stands on the steps, a scrap of paper clutched in her hand. She doesn’t want to remember the things that happened here, what she did. As she forces the memories away, her
trembling hands become peaceful again.

Linda has found what she came for. She has no cause to stay any longer. The woods surrounding the house and road are not welcoming to her. They carry with them a certain wish to be left alone.
Though some urge causes Linda to think of this place in the woods as home, she knows it is not, and can never be. It holds nothing for her anymore, and it is not her home.

As she lights a match and watches the house burn, she sees a bat fly from the smoke. She thinks of Vera and longs for company. But she soon forgets, staring blankly into the flames. She forgets
everything, forgets Linda.

Throwing the paper into the flames, she walks away.

E
MMA
S
HEVLIN

There’s an open bottle,

Bubbles breaking free.

The smell is quite enticing,

It’s got a grip on me.

But I won’t take a sip.

The drug won’t quench my thirst.

Even though my head and heart

Are nearly fit to burst.

There’s an open fag box

With cylinders to light,

To blow away my problems.

I could give up the fight.

But I won’t take them out.

The tips will not glow red.

My teeth will not go yellow.

The smoke won’t fill my head.

There’s a knife right here,

A blade that has been sharpened

Ready to carve into my skin;

The flesh that can be opened.

But I won’t pick it up.

It won’t change a thing.

Cuts just leave some ugly scars

With a momentary sting.

These methods of forgetting

Will quickly fade away.

I widen my eyes and look around;

There’s a bigger game to play.

S
AMUEL
H. D
OYLE

There lies the suckling babe at mother’s breast,

A slight inconsequential life, defenceless.

How are you now?

Infant weak and powerless, transformed and yet

Ravaged by the incessant revolutions of time.

A haughty figure, condescending, has stolen your place.

A babe no more but an indeferential heartless creature,

Mutated by lusty power and subsequent

Ignorance of your abuses.

This life shamed with the prolonged suffering

And terrible injustice of old age.

For now you do attempt futilely to depart

From your enveloping and everlasting sorrows,

For you feel your last winter come upon you.

The snow falls thick; an indomitable blanket of white,

Encroaching, invading, seizing, suffocating.

Out of the favoured haunt of despots and brigands

You emerge resplendent in an ale-encouraged sheen of sweat,

Rags reeking with that distinguished alcoholic aura,

The proclaiming stench of your hob-nailed path to eternal damnation.

A body drunk meanders through the building drifts,

More likened to ash they seem in your confusion.

Your stressed inebriated mind echoes eerily

In sodden slush-filled wanderings.

A tempered stride leading from the fore,

Its hopeless aim the well-trodden path of life;

That elusive route always escaping you.

Your ramblings begin to weave off course, a weary trudge

As you waken from your liquor-induced stupor.

For now you see the damning life you chose.

Your end is fast approaching.

Your weighted step does falter, uncertain

As you succumb to an unmitigating fear.

Now you know the truth, poor man.

One frail stumble of that broken soul,

Bent from the killing dust of coal man’s lungs,

Shielding scraps torn asunder by the icy

Death-ringing winds of frozen lives and winter storms.

You have reached your final fall.

Ceasing, blue to the skin, you force

Frostbitten seized-up limbs into a ball of frost.

A poor excuse this hollow makes

For your final resting place.

Curled tight, as your life blood freezes

To the ice from which your heart is derived.

You lie, a freezing beggar, at Mother Nature’s breast,

One slight inconsequential life, defenceless.

G
RACE
C
OLLINS

S
HE SAID SHE WOULD RUN
away with me. I told her my plans and she sent me directions from the train station to her house along with twenty euro for a
ticket. She said that once we got there we would go to the docks and ask one of the cargo ships if they would take us. We would tell them that we would cause no trouble; we would get off at the
first stop because once you’re on the continent you are able to travel easily. They would agree and we would give them fake names and tell them that we were lovers and that we were fleeing
from our families who didn’t approve of our affair. At night she would play with my hair as I sang until the two of us were fast asleep.

And when we arrived at the first port we would thank the kind men and get off. And we’d busk on the streets until we had enough money to get a train to the furthest place that we could get
to. We would take it all in. Watch the world that we’ve known for so long slip away as new hills and winding rivers replaced them. And we’d ride until we got kicked off. And we would
never have a problem with passing over borders because we could charm our way out of anything.

And we’d reach a town where we’d meet a nice man who was driving to the city in the morning. And he would take us in for the night and we would stay with his family and play games
with his dog and in the morning he would take us in his car to the city so we could try and get jobs. And we’d waitress in a dingy diner for a few weeks. Singing to the cooks and dancing with
the brooms. All this before leaving again. We would never stop. We would get by on what we had; two small suitcases and barely enough money to make our next trip, pay cheque to pay cheque. We
wouldn’t read the papers, or listen to the news; none of it matters.

We would never stay more than a month in one place. There is so much to see. Isn’t this the best way to see it? She would never make me feel guilty and I would never remind her of what we
had left behind. We would be happy happy and if we didn’t like somewhere, we would leave. Simple as that. Two girls with nothing to hold them back.

Forever and always faithful to each other.

O
RLA
M
C
G
OVERN

Why do you cry?

You believe in

Life eternal.

Your family’s

In heaven, right?

Just gone to God.

Surely that death

Is better than

This painful life.

Why grief and black

Not the joy and

White of new life?