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A while back, I decided that I was going to publish the compositions from my English Leaving Cert Mock exam. (I am considering seeing about publishing the actual Leaving Cert ones as well, since as I use a computer for state exams, I may be able to get a digital copy at some point.) I am being joined in this endeavor by none other then the wonderful Aimeeod, Irish Corkian Blogger who will be posting her compositions the very second that she gets her paper back and corrected! We are hoping that we inspire some other Irish Bloggers to post THEIR Mock attempts, and if you do, let me know! Links shall be linked at you! (Rules are thus: You may correct spelling, but nothing else. You hear?)

The first question for which I had to compose was asking me to write the diary entry of a homeless man. Here is my attempt.

Diary of a Homeless Man

21st, July.
I have now been on the streets of Dublin for little over three months. This past week, however, has been much more bearable then past weeks, as the summer is finally here. However, always ready to dampen my hopes, the rain arrived last night and I awoke with the bottom third of my sleeping bag drenched. I had to hang it off a tree, where I know that it might get stolen by somebody worse off then me, although I can hardly imagine such a person. I was talking to a gruff man yesterday, and somehow forgot to note our conversation in this book. He told me of how he awoke one day in January to find himself frozen into his sleeping bag. I’m not sure if I believe him, though. I would think that you would get pretty bad hypothermia or at the very lease frostbite if that happened, and this guy still had his legs and arms.
Today was much like all other days. I woke up hungry, not having eaten since lunchtime yesterday, and even then, just a damn Panini that a kind old man gave me. He told me that he had once been homeless, but I didn’t really believe him. He was too well dressed, tie and all, and there is no chance that somebody like me could possibly work up to middle management in some office or other, somewhere I imagine he works. Deciding to try to get some money, I took out my panhandling sign and found my usual haunt when I’m hungry and in need of food, the entrance do a bank half way up Dawsin’s street. Usually, this place is pretty clean, but I suppose the recession hit the bank as well, as recently I have had to kick butts and pieces of litter away from my spot. It’s maddening to think that after the banks took my house, I still slave away for them, sweeping up their entrance.
It took four hours to get enough spare change for a bagel, a relative luxury out here on the streets. I stood outside The Bagel Factory, staring at it’s red menus, trying to ignore the horrified looks of the people eating lunch inside, and the staff making hurried phonecalls. Women shrank away from me, but the children eyed me with interest. I think if I ever find a home again, I would like a kid. They are so unjudgemental of people like me. But I pushed this thought to the back of my mind, and steeled myself to enter the warm, cosy and hostile shop.
One good thing about being homeless is that you always get served fast, no matter where you are. Shop keepers want to get you out of their establishment as fast as possible. Hell, I used to do this myself, back when I was working in the Centra on Westland Row. I can’t bring myself to go back there. Too many familiar faces who have kept their jobs. They eye me with pity and often throw in a few extra chicken wings. I can’t deal with hat. It starts me off crying like a baby who’s favorite toy has been taken away. So I don’t go any more.
As I left the restaurant, there was an audible sigh of relief from a women sitting at the window with a pram. Closing the door, I heard a small voice asking if it can give me some money. Looking back, I see a toddler staring at me, and I wave, slipping one of my only smiles for weeks. His mother drew him into her arms, as if this little harmless child needed protection from me, the monster under the bed.
For the rest of the day, I sat back next to the bank, trying to get change from people. I only got three euro, so I put it in my pocket and wonder back to where I hung my sleeping bag. To my surprise, it is still there, and is now bone dry. While the overhead sun may have made me thirsty, it worked it’s wonders on my sleeping bag. It was 8 PM at this point, and I was about ready to turn in for the night. The longer I sleep, the less I have to think, so I sleep quite a lot these days. I dream of being back at home, sleeping in on Sunday with my girl, frying sausages and rashers in a pan. This morning when I work up, I could even smell them. In general, I find that the best way not to dream is to take sleeping pills, but my stash is empty, and three euro won’t get me another box. So I just gathered some cardboard around myself and put my sleeping bag back down in the allyway and get into it.

So here I am, for day 95 of homelessness. I stopped trying to get a job ages ago, and now am just waiting to die. Reading over what I have written in past weeks, I wonder why I even allow myself thoughts of houses and kids. It doesn’t get me anywhere. I just need to survive until I can no longer, and since the summer is coming, at least I won’t be waking up with a light dusting of snow any more. That always manages to take the spring out of my step. Oh, and I was wrong. The inside of my sleeping bag is still damp. And I’m running out of diary paper. I should stop writing these huge entries.

Tags: Leaving Cert, school, Writing

Standing outside the cinema, Chell took a long, drawn out puff of his fag. It was 9PM, and he was waiting for his mates to arrive for the 21:15 showing. He didn’t know what movie would be running. It was a small town with a small cinema, so they didn’t really get to choose what they would watch. It was usually reruns of old ones anyway. He heard his nickname being yelled across the empty car park and saw Joe and Mad (or Madeline as she was known by her parents, much to her chagrin) slouching over in his direction. He waved. Two down, one to go. Thomas, or Tee as his friends called him (after T-Pain) due to his proficiency in the boxing ring, was always late. Or almost late. But never on time. He preferred to say that he was almost early, but that was just stupid. Late is late.

The three stood in silence, after the usual grunting greeting. Chell took another drag, feeling the warm bonfire light up in his chest. He had just started the week before, and was still not so sure if he liked it, although he was getting used to the taste. Joe and Mad were already lit up, hand in hand. Mad couldn’t afford cigarettes, so mostly survived on discarded butts. She claimed that the fire burnt off any bacteria, which was Science, Chell supposed. She called it “Dragging the Dregs.” These days, Joe usually bought for her anyway. He inhaled, but lacking full concentration, began to cough and splutter. Tee had been smoking for five years now, trying to quit every few months. He described the feeling after a day going cold turkey as if “your favorite food, pizza, chips, whatever, had just been taken off the face of the earth. And you are hungry.” Chell hoped that he would never have to stoop to dragging the dregs.

10 minutes later, Tee still hadn’t arrived. The group conferred, and decided that they were getting cold, and didn’t want to miss the start of the movie. Chell would have preferred to wait for Tee, as attempting to enjoy anything in a dark room with Mad and Joe was just impossible. Awkward to the highest extreme, but he went along with it anyway. It had started to rain, and the small dead looking trees surrounding the car park weren’t offering much shelter. They crossed the road, heading towards the bright lights of the cinema, and entering the foyer, were hit by the smell of buttered popcorn, soft drinks and a slight twinge of bile. It was the late showing, after all.

As always, the group didn’t pay for entry. Joe distracted the ticket attendant, as Chell and Mad snuck in past her, perfectly silent in their huge, scuffed, black boots. Joe then waited until a larger group of kids started showing her tickets, and followed them in. Flawless entry. As he went up the center isle, he took a large popcorn and Coke from a seat, glaring at it’s owner, a younger kid who was there with his sister. The kid didn’t say anything, just continued to stare ahead. Best not to mess with the older kids, he had been told. And this suited Joe just fine.

The movie was called Requiem for a Dream, and Chell didn’t like it one bit. The story bugged him. Nobody could end up that screwed up from a little bit of speed, right? He didn’t use anything himself, and the smoking hardly counted. But still. Everybody knows it is mostly safe. He kept thinking about this until he heard a commotion from the lobby, and heard Tee’s voice ring out in anger. They must have tried to make him pay for the ticket. Bad move. Standing up in the isle, he brushed against the knees of the other audience members, none of them standing for him. Blinking his eyes in the brightness of the lobby, he saw Tee being held up against the far wall by two huge security guards, protesting. “It’s against the law! I’m a British citizen!” he howled. He wasn’t one for the reality of rules and regulations, Chell smiled to himself.

As he made his way towards the scuffle to try to talk everybody down, Tee managed to take a swing at the smaller of the two guards, landing a punch against his right cheek with a thump. In that same instant, a sickening crack split the air, and a beat later, the guard was on the floor, cradling his broken jaw in his hands. Chell sighed. This was not the first time that something like this had happened. Only last month, he had to bail Tee out of a barfight because he started shouting obscenities at some Celtic fan. Chell had walked away with a broken nose, but “Auld Hoops” as Tee had called him had been the worse for wear.

This time, though, the fight was entirely Tee’s. Chell had nothing to do with it, and didn’t want another visit to the hospital for a painful examination. So he acted as if he hadn’t seen anything and continued past the scene right out the door. There was nothing he could do. Tee would spend the night in the station again, and all would be fine.

Except it wouldn’t, would it? Tee would likely not be pleased with Chell. But they could deal with that when they came to it. Suddenly, he heard a gunshot ring out from inside the building. He started, and looked back. The second guard was on the floor now, seemingly unconscious, and a man with a suit was standing with his back to Chell, pointing a handgun directly at Tee, who now had his hands in the air, and was backing towards the popcorn stand. Chell instantly saw why. There was a pan of hot oil on the counter, waiting for popcorn kernels. Damn. Tee was about to get himself shot. Chell calmly strolled into the foyer, unclipping his small penknife as he did.
“Come on guys! Lets all just think about what’s happening here.” The gun wielder looked around at the same time as Tee flung the oil, landing it just inches short of where his target stood. The world seemed to slow around Chell. Snorting in anger, the man re-aimed the pistol and pulled back the hammer. Without saying a word, he pulled the trigger.

Blood. There was blood everywhere. On his hands, on his combats, on his t-shirt. Tee was nowhere to be seen, but the guy with the gun was lying on the ground, whimpering. Looking down, Chell saw his penknife on the ground, bloodied. He shrunk back for just a second, before kneeling down next to the man on the floor. His nametag said “Hello! My Name Is Matt.” Chell looked into the mans eyes, and began to rock on his soles. “I’m sorry”, he assured the man, who just stared back at him, wide eyed in shock and pain. “I thought you were gonna shoot Tom. I just wanted to scare you. I…” Chell broke off, feeling a few drops run down his face. “We’re going to get you fixed up. Don’t worry.”

Chell called the guards, hot tears now streaming past his nose, down his cheeks and dropping into the ever-growing puddle of blood. The cinema-goers gathered around, Joe and Mad holding hands, white knuckled. One woman was crying, hysterical. A teenager Chell didn’t recognise was using her phone to video the scene, no doubt to send to her friends. What a story she would have!

Stooping over the man again, Chell tried to stem the flow of blood with his torn up shirt. The wound was deep but small, and it gushed. Chell tried to patch up the wound as best as he could, but he just couldn’t stop the bleeding.

One of the guards, the one with the broken jaw, brought over a first aid kit, and started wiping around the wound, pushing Chell away violently.

Chell sat in the corner, feeling completely useless, and waited for the police to arrive.

Tags: fiction, short story

Glider

By and copyright Cian Mac Mahon

Arthur Taylor slept on his single bed, softly snoring. There was a copy of Intelligenz- Blatt on the floor next to him, dated August 20th 1945, 10 days old. The men in charge claimed that this was for “Sicherheit”, security. Taylor had always suspected that it was just to piss the inmates off, but never complained. He had to stay insignificant. Average. Of course, in Colditz, average was slightly off kilter. Every prisoner of the once lunatic institution was there because he had attempted to escape from a German prison. Taylor had always seen this as rather amusing, as from what he heard from the other POWs, all the other prisons were pretty hellish. People staged escape attempts just to get sent to the safe haven behind the tall stone walls in Saxony. Which was why Arthur was there. Gotta keep things interesting for Jerry.

And interesting they were. Walther von Manstein was sick and tired of cleaning up after the guests. He laughed to himself, spitting out the word. “Gäste”. He laughed again. Even the word felt funny in his mouth. All the officers knew that calling the pigs locked up in their cells “guests” was just a scapegoat for the administration. “Look!”, they would say once the war was won. “We even kept your little fighting men!” Maybe then the British would see that the German rule would be a good, fair rule. Evolution would be accelerated in Godʼs image. Only the best would continue the race.

Taylor woke up, staring into eternity for a beat. He had work to do. So far, he had only helped four. The standing record before being thrown into solitary confinement was nine, or so he was told three months before he first entered the cursed place. The first was the easiest. Back in June, Hamilton-Baillie had made a break for it into the sewer. He slipped right down the shower drain. Hamilton had hated the place, so Taylor only had to do a bit of backround work to help the situation along a bit. A mention of the wide drains here, the question of how long a man could live in the sewers left hanging, and soon Hamilton went spelunking. He was caught of course. They always were, he was told before he entered. That canʼt have been true though. Arthur had escaped though, hadnʼt he? Not him though. That had been George Wynn, British soldier of the Yorkshire Hussars. Not Arthur Taylor, officer in the Sussex Regent. Different men entirely. Or at least on the outside.

On his first escape, George Wynn had gone straight back into the service. However, as one of the only successful escapees from Colditz, the Queen had decided that he would offer his (until recently undiscovered) talents not on the battlefield, or in a bird, but right back smack where he had just escaped from. This displeased George greatly, as he felt that all his hard work, the hungerstrike, quick dash from the back of a truck all must have been for nothing. But if the country decided that he had to go back in and give the bastards in charge a headache, he would. He started training for his new position, along with 9 other men, all recent successful escapes from other prisons. The only recent successful attempts from other prisons. Somehow they just couldnʼt keep away.

Two months later, A Taylor, 60th Rifles, A10842 (until recently, George Wynn) had got himself captured. Quite well, actually. The only surviver of a leaked airstrike on a bunker. Just as planned.

Walther finally finished filling in the tunnel under the kitchen. The guests were getting a bit unruly. Something had to be done. They could shoot one of the people who
Cian Mac Mahon
attempted escape, perhaps. Publicly. One was an American Pig. That wouldnʼt go amiss. It might give him a couple of nights proper sleep, at any rate. Scare the guests a bit. If only they werenʼt under orders to leave them well kept… The fun that he could have. They were all on double shifts, no more then 5 hours of sleep a night. If this kept up, they might just show the guests the door themselves. Or shoot them. Whichever was quicker.

Fully alert now, Arthur sat on the side of his bed, thinking. He didnʼt really know any of his fellow inmates very personally, just by numbers that he had assigned them. He had been told not to see them as people, but as objects. Tools to be used to bring Colditz to itʼs knees. The kitchen job had been sloppy. Left a hell of a lot of mess to clean up though. Rubble, and that. Would keep the Nazis busy for a week or so, anyway. It also had the duel effect of stopping food production for two days, which lead too some hungry American and British stomachs, and a heightened want to get out of the place. That went in his favor as well. It left less work to do. But enough thinking. Time to go take a look at the makeshift glider that Best and Goldfinch were hiding away on the Chapel Roof. Hiding well enough to sneak past the Jerries, perhaps. But not Arthur. The Colditz Cock they called it.The launch system was extravagant. Arthur took special pride in suggesting that they used a bathtub filled with concrete as a catapult to get the glider off the roof. At the worst, it would provide some entertainment for the other inmates, at best, it would be his most glorious work so far. Two prisoners escaping from the highest security prison in Europe, by building an airplane. Gliding to safety (or more likely, recapture) and once again proving to the Germans that the British were superior. Smarter, faster, better. That was what itʼs all about, right? Just a few more days, and off she would soar.

Two weeks later, Walther tried to swallow. He reread the order again, trying to comprehend. He couldnʼt. It was over. No more Colditz. No more superior race. No more Fuhrer. The better world would never see the light of day.

Staring into nothingness, A Taylor, 60th Rifles, A10842 wondered why. Why couldnʼt it have gone on just one more week? He had really wanted to see that glider fly.

Tags: colditz, english, fiction, story, Writing