CCM Creative Writing and Art ebook for 2022/2023

CCM Creative eBook 2023

Paper texture

I looked for you by the front door, Under my bed, on the bathroom floor, Near the back stairs, in the drawer with my socks, Next to the table, and in the sandbox. My mother is calling me, And I’m calling you. Where have you gone, My missing shoe? Conor Davis, 1 Bann

Aoibhe Mitchell, Nathan Reynolds and Angela Prince imagined how they would express their thoughts and feelings to loved one or to their country if they were exiled or choose exile. This includes an officer with Napoleon in the mid-Atlantic wastes of St. Helena island after Waterloo; the self-imposed exile of an Indian girl forced into an arranged marriage; a man named Michael writing to his wife, Sabina, about his exile living with seven dwarfs! Finally, Darin Bakr writes about the true, near-fatal sea trip her sister took when fleeing from Syria to Europe.

My dearest wife Sabina, I have decided to write to you today as I feel I have finally settled into my new home. Currently I am staying in a small cottage in the countryside in north England with the 7 dwarfs. Over the last number of weeks they have been working night and day to perfect the remake of our beloved home “áras an uachtaráin”. They are doing a fine job on the remake and I am delighted that you and the dogs have decided to join this new life with me.&nbsp;&nbsp;During these few weeks I have taken time to reflect on my actions that have brought me here and although I am aware that I was wrong I strongly believe that my exile was not a fair punishment especially when you take into consideration all the work I have done for the country of Ireland. As we both know I was only nineteen when I made the decision to leave the village illegally and to this day I stand by my decision. And I strongly believe the fear of being caught is what made me truly excellent in my former role as president. I am disappointed with myself because I probably should not have shot those Gardaí&nbsp;&nbsp;with my nerf gun and perhaps I should have handled the situation better.

I often think of things to do to fill my day. Like deciding to pain and dip my brush in the tray. The colours I use are always so bright, to show it won’t always be dark. It can sometimes be light. It’s always fun to do something else, Such as listening to music and hearing sounds of the Christmas song bells. I get excited when Christmas is near. As I love to draw snowmen and Christmassy reindeer. I will go and finish this poem now. But I’m sure I will think of another one somehow. Jamie Kavanagh, 2 Barrow

Slowly, slowly, very slowly Creeps the garden snail. Slowly, slowly, very slowly Leaves a silver trail. Quickly, quickly, very quickly Runs the little mouse. Quickly, quickly, very quickly Round about the house. Ethan Doyle, 1 Bann &nbsp;

Sadhbh Keating, 1 Slaney

Mischa Kavanagh, 1 Barrow

Almost anyone can be creative. But sharing something uniquely your own takes courage. It means stepping out from the crowd and talking directly to the world. You’re sticking your neck out and saying “my experience is real. My sensibilities and my perception matter”. That’s not easy to do as an adolescent. But being creative can be enormously liberating and a big part in helping you find out your identity and prepare for life. This selection of poems, stories and art pieces wonderfully illustrates this unfolding of student experience and flourishing of young imagination. From daily activities that bring joy, to people and pets who mean so much, to responding to images or texts, to imagining (and empathising with) the emotions of others – this ebook is brimful with the character and creativity of our students. We therefore echo Mr. Donoghue's warm congratulations to every student selected for inclusion and especially to the nine winners across the three award categories. We are also very grateful to teachers in the English and Art departments for their great support and contribution. Finally, it has been a privilege to work with these young writers and illustrators over recent months and a real pleasure to see their work finally “in print”. We look forward to enjoying their many further creative works into the future. Kind regards, Paul Martin and Ruth Kelly

I hope that both you Sabina and our beloved dogs can join me soon and that we can continue on with our life in our new home. As well as that it will be a pleasure for you to meet my brothers, although they all have very strong personalities I believe you all will get on very well.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Kind regards, Micheal Aoibhe Mitchell, Transition Year &nbsp;

Harita Rynhart, 1 Liffey

Colaiste Chill Mhantain Creativity Ebook 2023

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get angry. I'm just in pain, lots and lots of pain" I say, my strategy of staring at the books failing, I'm starting to cry. She brushes one of her deep brown locks of hair behind her shoulder. She's quite lean but strong. She has rosy cheeks, paired with a pale completion and amber eyes . If she wasn't my therapist I think we'd be good friends. What kind? " she asks. "Every kind" I answer. "I feel pain all over my body. And my mind, heart and emotions love playing tricks on me. Cruel, cruel tricks." "What do you mean? " she says as she writes something down in her notebook. "My heart likes to make me believe that I can achieve some dream and just as I start to believe it my brain strikes and reality hits and shows I could never have it." "If you don't mind, can I ask you to share one of these hopes with me?" She's holding back a smirk, I can feel it, she knows she's getting somewhere. "When I was younger, I believed that I would live happily ever after with all my friends and family. But as I got older, so did they. A lot of people have left, including someone very close to me. After I'd lost him, so many more went with him. That's when it really hit." I can feel

my tears streaming down my face, burning like fiery coals. "Mhm" she says, once again writing something in her little notebook. She checks her watch and says" we're done for today Lyn. See you next week," as she leads me to the door, dismissing the fact that I just had a mental breakdown in front of her. "Thank you Ms Sand," I say, wiping the tears off my cheeks. "Please call me Carol," she smiles and rushes me out the door. Margaux Lenoir, 1 Liffey

I start my morning by prepping my face. I put on a bit of mascara and a bit of blush. I keep everything neat and tidy in my beauty case. But have to hurry because I am in a rush. I then put on some highlighter. And some shimmery shiny gloss. Anything to make the skin brighter. I’d pay any cost. I like to wear makeup. It makes me feel pretty. When it all runs out It’s a bit of a pity. Kelly Kavanagh, 2 Avoca

I’m going to be a beautician when I’m older. I’ll get paid for making skin golder. Make up makes you braver and older. Contour and colour I can make your lips fuller. Lipstick lashes beauty that flashes. Hairspray, highlight you’ll sparkle beyond twilight. Make up will make you braver and bolder. Thanks to makeup you’ll never look older. Kayla Connolly Doyle, 2 Barrow

Ramona Mantorova, 1 Liffey

“Read, read, read. Read everything — trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it’s good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out of the window.” ―&nbsp;William Faulkner&nbsp;

This story began when I was seven years old. I was living with my parents and three sisters. I lived in Syria. Syria is a beautiful country, but it is very dangerous. There is war, robbery, kidnapping….. My parents were always afraid for us, even when we went to school. My mother, she was very afraid that we would not come home again and so was my father when he was going to work. So my parents decided to send my two older sisters to Ireland because it is a safe and beautiful country and can be safely lived in. But unfortunately getting to Ireland was not easy at all. My sisters were about to drown while they were trying to flee from Syria to Greece and then to Ireland. My sister told me that when she saw a bird flying while their boat was sinking, she wished that she could fly to the arms of my parents. Every time my sister tells me this story I cry because I feel that they sacrificed themselves for their family of course. Thank God a rescue team came and saved them. I thought we would never come to Ireland but I am very happy to be here and I wish all the people in Syria would be safe. Darin Bakr, 1 Liffey

For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn

When the police arrive the next evening, they find the victim, who is assumed to be Lenore Anderson, the homeowner, burned beyond recognition. Reports claim that there was no indication of a fire, and that the body was returned to her house post-mortem. The only lead police have at the moment was an advertisement for baby shoes in the victim’s hand. They have also pleaded that anyone with information come forward. Louise Farrell, Transition Year

“Imagination is like a muscle. I found out that the more I wrote, the bigger it got.” ―&nbsp;Philip José Farmer&nbsp;

Thoughts from our Principal, Padraig Donoghue, 8 Defining Experience, Paul Martin &amp; Ruth Kelly, 10 CCM Creativity Awards 2023, 12

Snowy Woods, TJ Cromie, 29 Floating Through Woods, Daniel Rowan, 30 Forgotten, Abbie Mai Delaney, 31 Swing, Leah Crabb, 33

Dancing, Freya Roche, 2nd Yr, 17 Art Poem, Jamie Kavanagh, 1st Yr, 18 Slowly, Very Slowly, Ethan Doyle, 1st Yr, 19 My Lost Shoe, Conor Davis, 1st Yr, 20 Make Up Poem, Kelly Kavanagh, 2nd Yr, 22 Make Up Poem, Kayla Connolly Doyle, 2nd Yr, 23 Happy Signs, Sean O'Brien, 1st Yr, 25 Feathers, Cian Goulding, 2nd Yr, 26 Ann Coffey - My Nanny, Sean Byrne, 1st Yr, 27

Star Gazing (Novel Extract), Margaux Lenoir, 1st Yr, 37 Suspect No. 1, Matthew Dowling, TY, 41 Soulless (Novel Extract), Saoirse McInerney, 5th Yr, 44 I am a Piece of Pizza, Emily, 1st Yr, 47 For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn, Louise Farrell, TY, 49 Letter to Sabina, Aoibhe Mitchell, TY, 61 Letter to France, Nathan Reynolds, TY, 64 Letter to Saptha, Angela Prince, TY, 66 My Sister's Journey, Darin Bakr, 1st Yr, 68

of newspaper from the shoes, more out of curiosity than anything else. In one shoe was an old headline, dated December 1923. The other was an advert, like from the same paper. Lenore read the headline first. MAN MURDERS WIFE AND CHILD: CLAIMS GOD ORDERED HIM Eyes scanning down the column, Lenore was horrified by the details. She felt sick. How could someone do such a thing to his own family? She quickly turned her attention to the other article. She recognised the grainy black and white photo immediately. It depicted the baby shoes, the same ones sitting on her mantel. The advert was the exact same as the one in the coffee shop, except for the address at the bottom. FOR SALE; BABY SHOES, NEVER WORN How cool was that? Now she’d have something else to show her friends when they came around. The grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight. How long had she been home for? Lenore wasn’t sure. She folded the newspapers up delicately, and placed them behind the shoes on the mantel. She then headed to bed. o0o

Whose plastic bag is that, I think I know Its quite sad though It really is a tale of woe He gives his plastic bag a shake And sulks until the tears make The only other sounds, the break Of distant waves and birds awake The plastic bag sad, thin and deep But he has a promise to keep Until then he shall not sleep He lies in bed with ducts that weep He rises from the bitter bed With thoughts of sadness in his head He idolises being dead Facing the bag with never ending dread Daniel Rowan, 2 Slaney

Her name is forgotten, Her dreams left rottin’. And their tongues left wagging. All smile. Her faced down in the hay, Yet not One is astray. Shows Their bitterness all worth while. Her mind rests blank, While all men drank, To the success of Their party hunt Her shell’s left in the shallow, No label, unmarked, While all hollow thoughts bear no tears, Only the party’s loud cheers These men around give thanks for their game , Forgetting the unnamed in her untimely grave, As the seasons reform and their smiles turn to wind, The forgotten one’s tale passes on, Passes on to the bin. Abbie Mai Delaney, 2 Finn

Gabrielle Cuddihy, 1 Slaney

Originally written as an explanation of the digestive system in Ms. McDonald's science class, Emily Crean's playful piece images the short life of a piece of pizza!

I was bitten by the incisors and chewed thoroughly by the molars. After that I was swallowed and moved down the oesophagus with the process of peristalsis. I reached the stomach. It was hot down there. The acids were bubbling and sizzling. It felt like I was in a hot tub at first. Then it just started burning. It felt like I was being ripped apart. It took five hours for me to finally reach the small intestine. The small intestine was cold and slimy. After being ripped apart in the stomach I was stripped of all my nutrients, not that there was much. After a long slimy journey through the small intestine I finally made it through to the large intestine. Too much water was taken out of me in the small intestine, and I got stuck halfway through. After what felt like an eternity I started moving towards the rectum. I had to wait in the rectum for ages before I was pooed out into the toilet, then flushed down into the sewers where I was eaten by rats. Emily Crean, 1 Liffey

Reputedly the shortest in the the English language, this short story attributed to Ernest Hemingway contains just six words. Louise Farrell uses these words as the basis for her gripping short story.

The numerous trinkets on Lenore’s keychain jingled merrily as she locked the lime green door of her house. She smiled as she replaced them into the back pocket of her bell-bottomed jeans. It was Thursday, her day off. Preparing lunch was a daunting prospect, so Lenore thought it best to head to the coffee shop in town. The walk was short, and the weather was pleasant, the journey shortened by the blasting of 80’s power ballads in her ears. By the time she had crossed the threshold of the Café, Hall &amp; Oates’s Private Eyes was fading out through her headphones. Lenore placed her order, and sat at her usual table, the one with the mismatched chairs, opposite the large notice board. It tended to be devoid of leaflets most days, with the occasional missing person poster plastered on the bulletin board. Today’s singular notice caught her attention. Upon closer inspection, she could see a grainy black and white image of a pair of vintage baby shoes, beautifully crafted from dyed leather. The description was vague. FOR SALE; BABY SHOES, NEVER WORN Lenore, ever the enthusiast for a new mantelpiece conversation-starter, was deeply intrigued by these shoes, and fumbled around her pockets for a pen, to scrawl the address beneath on the back of her hand.

CCM Creativity Awards 2023

CCM Creativity Ebook 2022

Mr. Martin, Ms. Kelly and Mr. Donoghue are pictured with 5 of CCM's 9 2023 Creativity Award Winners: Conor Davis, Louise Farrell, Freya Roche, Bonita Crowe and Mischa Kavanagh Poetry: Conor Davis, 1st Yr, My Shoes, (1st Place); Abbie Mai Delaney, 2 Finn, Unforgotten (2nd Place); Freya Roche, 2 Liffey, Dancing, (3rd Place) Stories &amp; Prose: Louise Farrell, TY, For Sale, Baby Shoes, Never Worn (1st Place), Matthew Dowling, TY, Suspect No. 1 (2nd Place) Emily Crean, 1 Liffey, A Piece of Pizza (3rd Place) Art: Jack Alcorn, 1 Slaney (1st Place), Bonita Crowe, 3 Bann (2nd Place), Mischa Kavanagh, 1 Barrow (3rd Place)

https://read.bookcreator.com/zFBfON1cy CPE5jfD5N8w1rgwJ0G3/QlKxYV8gSJWjSufXsDU06w

room, toward the fireplace. Lenore realised what was happening now, and froze in pure terror. Her voice died on her lips as she witnessed the young boy’s crying and pleading turn swiftly to agonising and piercing screams. Lenore was unable to tear her eyes away from the scene, held in place as she was. All breath left her lungs when the man hurled the child into the flames. When Lenore awoke, she was screaming. o0o Lenore was still shaken from the nightmare. (it had felt like more than that, but for sanity’s sake, Lenore was calling it a dream.) She ventured downstairs, headed to her kitchen. Water will help. She had barely reached the bottom step before she was screaming once more. At the foot of the stairs, head nowhere to be seen, bone protruding and blood contrasting starkly on the cerulean flagstones, lay the mutilated carcass of Lenore’s beloved cat, Bongo. She hardly made it back up the stairs to the bathroom before she hurled up her dinner into the sink. When her stomach was emptied, and her dry heaving ceased, she glanced upward at the mirror, expecting to see her own reflection.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. Scrawled in large letters in what appeared to be blood, were the words; THIS IS MY REVENGE Lenore’s insides churned once more. She raced back into her bedroom, tears falling freely, reaching for her phone. Her hands shaking, she dialled 999 in a frenzy. It wasn’t ringing! No service. She could hear the screams of the burning child still echoing in her ears. She screws her eyes shut, sobbing, begging for it to stop. She curled into a ball, but the soft carpet beneath her brings no comfort. Lenore opened her eyes. She wished she kept them shut. She hardly recognised her room, usually so bright and cheerful. Everywhere she looks MY REVENGE is written. On the posters adorning her walls and ceiling, on the pastel blanket she had crocheted in dark crimson blood, and gouged into the painted plywood doors of her wardrobe. It is over. Lenore understands now. She sinks to the floor in despair. In defeat. Waiting for him. He is coming. o0o

Jack Alcorn, 1st Yr, Cover Darin Bakr, 1st Yr, p10 TJ Cromie, 1st Yr, p29 Bonita Crowe, 3rd Yr, p67 Morgan Crowe, 1st Yr, p46 Gabrielle Cuddihy, 1st Yr, p30, 32 Lorcan Culbert, 1st Yr, p20, 24, 34 Kelan Fenton, 2nd Yr, p25 Cian Goulding, 2nd Yr, p9, 26 Robyn Harvey, 2nd Yr, p23 Reece Hughes, 1st Yr, p21 Stephen Joseph, 3rd Yr, p7, 36, 48, 52 Eira Kavanagh, 1st Yr, p14, 27 Mischa Kavanagh, 1st Yr, p17, 19, 59, 65 Sadhbh Keating, 1st Yr, p18, 62 Ramona Mantorova, 1st Yr, p22

Conor McEvoy, 2nd Yr, p69 Reece O'Neill, TY, p16, 40, 55 Harita Rynhart, 1st Yr, p63

In these poems, students describe activities, hobbies or experiences special to them.

Reece O'Neill, Transition Year

I dance with my heart, soul and body. Dance is my favourite hobby. I’m dancing to the music that is very loud, Trying to make my parents proud. I practice everyday. I don’t care what people say. I’m waiting for success to come my way. Hoping to be a dancing star one day. Sometimes I make mistakes. But I remind myself that I still have what it takes. Freya Roche, 2 Liffey

The whole school went dark and the emergency exit signs lit up a bright green. Faintly lit up the end of each hallway. I thought about this moment over and over. This thought would play so many times in my head I couldn’t believe it was real. It was the present. This wasn’t a dream. It was really happening. Adrenaline pumping, heart rate rising. But I knew the time wasn’t right. I had to control myself. I’ve been in such a bad mental state the last few months. All my friends have left me. Last year my dad left me and my mam. It was tough on my mam working 2 jobs. The least I could do was go to school and try to be good. That didn’t always happen, I’m afraid. I knew it was the day to show my real self. It was now much later in the day. It was freezing. You could see your breath in the air. I was sitting near the back row. I was being very quiet. I had my earphones in. Stuck in my thoughts I was. I was thinking of how it would feel. Would I feel powerful, happy, sad? I really didn’t know, only time would tell. I had been doing lots of research, mostly American sources. I asked my teacher to go to the bathroom. I snook off to the back rack where I got my guitar it was now time to play my instrument. I decided to play my instrument first in the music room where I fell in love with music, the sound of the guitar. There were screams. They were happy for me. I played it for them.

I started walking up and down the halls playing it for all the teachers, calling into all the classes. I decided to take a break and walk up to the first floor to my favourite teacher, Ms. McAndrew, my guidance counsellor. She was crumbled up in a ball behind her desk. I looked her in the eye and said ‘this is the last time you’ll hear me play my guitar.’ I played it for her. I was sorry but also not sorry at all. I had made everyone suffer. I now will pay the price. As I walked out the door I knew it was over. There was a line of army soldiers standing like a brick wall. They told me not to move, put my guitar down and put my hands up. I put my guitar down, stood up and opened my jacket to show my hand grenades inside. I looked at the men and smiled. My instrument, my guitar, my gun was silenced. But it would never be forgotten. That’s what I always wanted, to never be forgotten. Matthew Dowling, Transition Year

Students share their feelings about people and animals who have been important in their lives. Cian Goulding wrote Feathers in memory of his grandparents, imagining how feathers might tell us loved ones are still near.

The wiggle of an ear When you are near. A tilt of the head From something I said. Tail wagging everyone Is laughing. Jump up and turn around. Happy signs without a sound. Sean O’Brien, 1 Bann

Suddenly impatient, and not willing to wait for her tea and scone, she unceremoniously grabbed her coat, and left, much to the confusion of the approaching waiter. o0o Lenore generally avoided this street. She had assumed that it was uninhabited. Having been built in the 1920’s, most of the houses were decreed unfit for purpose, due to asbestos or being structurally unsafe. She glanced at the address on her hand again, just in case it had changed, and she didn’t have to venture into any of the unsettling houses. It had not. Number 10 Tailor Street. Steeling her nerves, Lenore ventured up the driveway, and saw no signs of life. There was no car parked beside the house, but that wasn’t too unusual, but the windows were all boarded up. Weeds grew unbothered through the cracked concrete driveway, and the door was barely suspended on its hinges. If she was more observant, Lenore would have noticed that something was amiss with this whole idea. The house was like something out of a clichéd slasher film, with the axe murder laying wait inside. But Lenore ignored this inkling, if she had suspected it at all. A tattered cardboard box garnered her attention. Lenore stooped to pick it up, and the bottom fell out of it.

A pristine pair of baby shoes fell out fell out, old newspapers balled up and shoved into them to prevent the scarlet leather from collapsing out of shape. Like a woman entranced, Lenore cradled the vintage shoes, running a finger over the stitching, marvelling at the simple beauty they held. She had no idea how long she stood there. The day had changed. Gone was the cheerful sun, and in its place was an overcast sky that threatened rain. Glancing around to ensure she hadn’t been seen, Lenore gathered the shoes and rushed home. Lenore sprinted the last hundred metres or so to her door. She couldn’t properly explain her urgency, but there was a lingering sense of being watched. She didn’t technically steal the shoes, but that did nothing to ease her fears. Her hands trembled violently as she fumbled with her keys. She dropped them twice, swearing colourfully when she finally opened the door. She swung it back viciously, so that it crashed against the wall with such a force it caused her countless ceramic ornaments littering the sideboard to rattle precariously, threatening to shatter on the blue tiles on the hallway floor. Lenore ignored their racket, and swept into the sitting room, where she lovingly placed her new treasures front and centre of her mantelpiece. She removed the scraps

Saoirse McInerney was awarded 1st prize (story category) in last year's CCM Creativity ebook for her novel The Wings of the Valient. Since then she has continued writing and has recently completed the second novel in the series. This opening extract is from that second novel, Soulless.

Chapter 1 - Silent stares Death had always been a huge part of Sage’s life, ever since he was just fourteen. Every time he went asleep he still saw his brother’s dead and bloody face lying on that battlefield. And now that Sage was seventeen death had become even more prominent in his life. “I am telling you Sage that sickness is no common cold,” said Neith. “Now, pass me the brown sugar.” Neith had been Sage’s best friend for many years – she was one of the only people who didn’t think he was weird. It was strange because Neith was very popular amongst the rest of the Nytophilians, people of the stars. Sage often wondered why she chose to hang around with him when she could be friends with anyone she wanted.

Anytime Sage tried to make friends they just used that fake smile and told him they were sorry but they were busy. Sage knew it was because they’d expect him to be too emotional to talk to – and sometimes, yes, that was true. They stood in the castle kitchens as Neith had been assigned to the week’s baking, naturally Sage joined her. She was a small plump girl with blonde hair and beautiful brown angel wings. She was a Nytophilian like everyone else on Inishmurray island, just off the coast of Ireland. Nytophilians were the first beings to ever walk the earth, it would be expected as their Queen Melantha was the one to create it. Their purpose was to look after the earth and human beings, who had no idea Nytophilians existed. They listened to the prayers and wishes of all the people on earth and the army protected them from dangerous creatures. “Neith if the sickness was more than a common cold people would be dying,” Sage replied. “There were rumours that Lilith’s Guardian had it, he died a month ago,” Neith’s violet eyes were wide. Saoirse McInerney, 5 Slaney

To France I wish to return to my home lands once again, I failed France and I failed it’s people. I ask not for another chance but only for forgiveness. I have been on this island for five long years, I grow weary of only talking to the same few men. There is nothing on this island i have been trapped on except for blue as far as the eye can see and on the island there is naught but a sea of green trees. I was exiled to this hellhole due to my defeat at the hands of Admiral Nelson, surely you must have realised that the only reason I lost was due to the unexpected arrival of the Austrian reinforcements, there is not a single man alive who could have predicted that. I hope you can forgive me for my loss and let me return. My daily life here is monotonous; I get up and eat the same food, I talk to the same people who tell the same stories and to pass the time I reread one of the few books that were brought to the island or I relive the days of my former glory as the ruler of France. I grow so tired of of these unending days. I miss my homeland, I miss the foods and the wines, I miss sleeping in a proper bed and wearing comfortable clothes, I miss the people and I miss the noise. I desire nothing more

than to return to France to live out the end of days. I hope to see my wife and my family one last time. I know I have failed France and it’s people but I hope you can forgive me just this once. I hope to once again lead the glorious country of France. If you give just one last chance I can help France return to its former glory, the glory it deserves and so desperately needs. Napoleon Bonaparte Nathan Reynolds, Transition Year

In this opening extract from Margaux Lenoir's draft novel, Star Gazing, the main character, Lyn, explains her feelings of anxiety and anger with her new therapist, Carol.

"How does it feel " she asked. I tilt my head to the left and begin focusing on her shelves in the hope of not crying, listening to the soft tick tock of the clock. "It's killing me, ya know". "Can you elaborate?" she says as she pushes her thick black rimmed glasses up from her nose to her eyes. "It eats away at me, sometimes I wish I could disappear," I say, examining the books on her shelf. For a therapist she reads very emotionally altering books but I guess that it makes her better at her job. "Okay, now why do you let it eat away at you? Why don't you try to fight back?" she said in a particularly perplexed yet judgmental tone that I don't really appreciate. "I do fight back, with every ounce of strength, I do. But it's easier said than done." I start to raise my voice and stand up. She puts her hands on my shoulders and sits me back down. "You don't need to get aggressive. This is a safe space." She reassures me in a way others can't, in a motherly way I suppose. Seeing as my parents have joined our dearly deceased it's nice to have someone like this.

To my dearest Saptha, I am writing to you from exile, I have left Jaipur for good. My parents did not take it so kindly when I refused their proposal for an arranged marriage and proclaimed my love for you. My extended family took it upon themselves to make the executive decision of my exile from the family for my ‘dishonorable and unholy’ actions. Though I’m surprised they did not go about the exorcism route, they brought the state into the matter -whom were just as disgusted as the family, which has inevitably led to my forceful departure from town.&nbsp; This letter will probably be my last chance to contact you. If I have not been killed yet, I most definitely won't be able to ever return to town, so I apologize that this must be our final encounter. However, this was a risk I knowingly took when I fell in love with you. Though I am angered that my own blood could discard me like vermin for loving a woman, I am no longer in the shadows of the person my parents built me to be. My only regret is, in doing so I have left you, who has willed me to live on. This guilt and the look of repulse on my forsaken mother's face will forever gnaw at my conscience. But know it was no easy decision to throw away everything we had however I rather die in pride of my ‘vileness’ than live untruthfully with a man I could never love in some arranged union for my family’s benefit.

This is my final farewell to you my love, I pray to the gods who have failed me in this life that we will be able to find each other in the next. Love forever,&nbsp; B. Angela Prince, Transition Year

Creativity is an indispensable part of the Coláiste Chill Mhantáin student experience. In our school we constantly seek to provide our students with opportunities to develop, communicate and celebrate their individuality and creativity as they are so vital for their learning, well-being and life-success. For this reason, last year we launched the inaugural CCM Creative Writing ebook as the centrepiece of our expanding creativity programme. We very soon appreciated - especially after the emotional and personal disruptions of Covid – that the 2022 Creativity ebook scratched the surface of the reality of our students’ lives but there was much more to be tapped and explored. The trove of art and writings gathered in this year’s ebook delves even deeper into that rich vein of student talent. This version of the ebook offers wider access for more students to describe their experiences and feelings. This year we invited students to contribute through both written and visual mediums. The end product of exclusively CCM student creations can be found in the upcoming pages; each entry a prompt to turn the page and enjoy a little more. &nbsp; Fostering creativity is an integral part of CCM life. We hope our “published” student writers and artists will play a role in future years in inspiring more students to find their own voice and expression. We are therefore now planning an

expanded creativity programme which will incorporate formal elements in First Year and Transition Year learning activities. I have enjoyed reading this creation and the quality of the creative entries this year was again outstanding. While acknowledging the nine award winners across the three categories of poetry, story/prose and art, I would also sincerely congratulate and thank every single contributor. I also look forward to witnessing and welcoming the continued creative expression of all students in our vibrant school. Finally, I wish to thank Mr Martin and Ms Kelly for the development of this innovation and the organic nature of its growth with classrooms and teaching &amp; learning in our school. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In appreciation, Mr Padraig Donoghue Principal

Matthew Dowling's chilling story, Suspect No. 1, explores a deluded mind and the horrifying consequences of his actions

A huge storm hit the west cost of the Ireland and we had just started school. This storm had been talked about for days and Met Eireann had given it an Irish name just to confuse the BBC forecasters. The shells came in the post this morning. I had ordered them way back in the summer. They came from some country miles away in Asia, probably China. I grabbed my guitar case and left the house. I didn’t even say goodbye to my mam. It wouldn’t have been worth waking her up just to say goodbye. The door almost blew off the hinges, the wind was that strong. It was some struggle to carry my bag and the big case. It wasn’t all that heavy, more just an awkward weight. I loved playing guitar. I was in the school band. We played every Friday at break time. I would get the bus most days but this morning I was too early and just decided to walk. It was only about a kilometre from door to door. News came in about 10.25 when we were sitting in Irish class. I don't really like Irish. Just can’t get my head around it. The principal made an announcement over the intercom that there was a red rain and wind alert and we were to remain in the school until the warning passed. Would have been too dangerous to leave. Just as he was near the end of his long, boring speech it suddenly cut out. The generator had failed. There had been no electricity all day.

Whenever you come On a windy, dull day I’ll pick you up And put you away Away from all the wind Away from the rain just because I know who you are I’ll keep you warm and snug Inside My small tight pocket Cian Goulding, 2 Foyle - Poem &amp; Image

“Where are your manners Sean? Under the pillow? That’s no place for them.” That’s what my nanny said. Manners are for every day I think that’s what she meant. So I’ll use the ones she gave me. I’ll try not to forget. My nanny was amazing She made me feel so calm &nbsp; I miss her hugs I miss her love I miss her on the FaceTime Sean Byrne, 1 Bann

Lenore had no idea where she was. Well, she could tell she was in someone’s living room, but apart from that, she’d no clue. It was very expensive looking with a grand piano, intricate wallpaper and carpet, a large bookcase covering an entire wall, and a chaise lounge, with plump tapestried cushions and matching footrest. The room was illuminated by a pair of stained glass lamps, and a roaring fire burned in the massive carved fireplace. A man in a pin-stripe suit, who wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Peaky Blinders episode, stormed past Lenore in a fuming rage, muttering incoherently to himself. He never acknowledged her presence, standing in the centre of the room. The man, obviously upset, went to pour himself a drink from the decanter in the corner, but dropped the tumbler, shattering and emptying its contents on the carpet. In a temper, the man swept his arm across the sideboard, sending the decanter and glasses flying. Lenore flinched at the cacophony. A toddler, barely more than two years of age, staggered into the room, barefoot and bleary-eyed. “What’s going on?” The child rubbed his eyes. The man, still fuming, swore loudly, grabbed the boy by his ear, and dragged him across the

Students responded to poems and novels they have read in school. TJ Cromie and Daniel Rawan replied to Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening from the point of view of the horse and from the sense how a plastic bag might float through the woods Abbie May Delaney gave voice to the nameless and often forgotten character of Curley's Wife in John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. Finally, Leah Crabb gave her poetic reaction to the image of an empty swing.

On this snowy evening, we gallop on our way through woods so unfamiliar, as night takes over day, He grips me tight to make me stop Bring my gallop to a stand. But this is not where the journey ends I do not know this land. I shake my head to let him know of my unease here, my nostrils flair, The air I breath looks thick in this cold air. The night is dark and our journey long, I long to be at home. So off we will continue on, together, not alone. TJ Cromie, 1 Liffey - Poem and Image

When I look at the swing I remember the day my dad put it up. I was so excited. I would swing for hours and hours. Now it’s broken. Lonely. Swing in the breeze. No one to play with. Leah Crabb, 3 Bann

“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have”. ―&nbsp;Maya Angelou

Our World Selection of Student Creative Writing and Art

Cover image by Jack Alcorn, 1 Slaney, is the Overall CCM Art Award Winner, 2023 All the images created by CCM students Copyright, Coláiste Chill Mhantáin, 2023

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