Art, Design and Literature

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Welcome to Issue

Rather than actually writing an editorial this month, we decided to take the outlandish approach of mapping the

vagaries of our consciousness as we thought about writing an editorial.

We recklessly discarded comments about style and theme as we plumbed the depths of our collective consciousnesses. We got momentarily sidetracked thinking about the mystic significance of the number three in folklore and mythology.

Eventually we got back on track and with a final push we came to the heart of the matter. Outburst is a place where

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veterans and previously unpublished writers come together to share their work. This, more than anything else, is what makes working on Outburst seem worthwhile to us.

We would like to take this opportunity to thank all those who have contributed to the magazine so far, for without your excellent work Outburst would be little more than a spectral form lingering outside the boundaries of realisation.

And to you, venturesome readers, we throw open the gates and bid you enter.

See you next month.

The Singing Bamboo Eamon Cooke7

Breaking the Rules Mitch Lavender8

12 Poetry

Contributors’ biographies18

The Dark Ciaran Hourican4

Issue Three, July 2010

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Ger FeeneyArthur BroomfieldTommy Murray Michael Fogarty

Keith WalshSally GamgeeSiobhan Kingston

Ciaran Hourican

I spend most of the day sleeping fitfully in the shed at the back of my mother’s house. The birds are singing when I wake

up and I envy them and their ignorance of everything that’s happened. When I finally get up it is already dusk. I concede to myself that I have to make the journey to town as I’m out of food. I feel dizzy and weak and it’s been almost a month since I’ve washed.

I bring my torch and the heavy steel bar that never leaves my side. Glanmire is empty as I walk through it, like a holiday resort in winter. It astounds me how a population can make itself so scarce. There is no one around but I am certain of eyes watching me as I walk, all trying to decipher whether or not I’m a threat. I keep the bar slung across my shoulder so people can see it. I’m not as scared of Glanmire as I am of town.

At this point I know that most of the supermarkets have either been cleared out, or are being protected by the armed private security firms which showed on the news before the dark out. There were rumours that town had become too dangerous even for them.

The Lower Glanmire Road is littered with cars. Fires burn lazily in the middle of the road. Some of the cars have been torched and are black and still smoking. The trees and pathways on either side of the road make me

nervous; I could easily be amubushed. Some of the car’s doors still jut open and I see the ghosts of people fleeing. I wonder if they were screaming. I listen and walk slowly along the road through the ruins of our civilisation. Weeds grow from the tarmac. I keep my finger poised over the button of my torch. The moon is bright tonight, totally unaware of the gloom it illuminates. My stomach catches each time I think I can hear a sound mingling with the rustling of trees and debris.

My anxiety heightens at the Silver Springs Hotel. Fires burn around its grounds and from the smashed windows of hotel rooms. Far off to the left of the flames I see the faint red glow of someone smoking a cigarette at the smashed window of another room. The burnt out remains of two garages simmer and crackle like modern day shipwrecks. I walk along the docks past a partially submerged ship; the railings at bow jut up above the placid water. I move more slowly now, hearing shouting in the distance near the city centre. The lights of the Elysium are still out and pockets of flame wink up over the skyline. Off up in Mayfield, a faint glimmer of fire coughs sheets of smoke up into the silvery night. The rest of the city is horribly dark; each street is like a giant trench, the buildingslooming up on either side of me like hugeblocks of darkness.

I decide upon the Spar shop on McCurtain Street. I don’t want to venture too close to the city and risk the mobs. I think of mouldy, or at least stale, bread, some biscuits and chocolate; I wrestle away thoughts of meat. At the foot of Summerhill I stop and look around. Cat sized rats lurk along the footpaths. Crushed paper, torn plastic bags and sweet wrappers skitter gently along the ground. An empty coke can rattles across the concrete making a tinny echo. I start to wade through the rubbish slowly, alert to every sound. The street curves slightly, and I am unable to see the entrance to the shop. I peer around the corner at the LV and up York Street. It is lined with parked cars and more rats mill about. I move forward.

A croaking sound, like a burped gargle comes from the doorway of the LV. I turn as it ascends into a roar. Hands reach for me. A large figure lunges forward and we crash into the street. Darts of adrenaline shoot through me. The roar becomes a wild scream. I land on my back and feel his hot breath on me. I wonder if this is it, the culmination of all that I’ve been through. A thumb presses into my eye causing me to cry out. He screams still as though trying to communicate through some madness. I feel his teeth sink into my cheek. The pain is sharp and urgent. I roar, smashing my torch into his head. Once. Twice. I hear it break on the third strike. He falls to the side of me and I scramble to get the steel

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bar. Turning to face him, I see that he is back on his feet already. He comes toward me growling, blood seeping from his forehead, his eyes flaming with the benign contempt of a madman. I swing the bar before he can come at me and it connects horribly. His skull seems fragile and soft as the bar makes a dull dinging sound. He crumbles to the ground, his energy flooding from him suddenly. Blood spills across the tarmac mingling with rubbish and half eaten food.

I run for the shop, worrying that our altercation will attract others. The doors loll open. Most of the shelves are empty. I find a hard loaf of bread high up where the rats can’t get to it. I stuff bars of chocolate into a bag, along with bottles of coke and water. I find a box of cereal and some biscuits. I storm out of the shop back along the street, past the body of the man I have obviously just killed. I run until I’m out along the lower road. My breath heaves as I stuff bread into my mouth. It tastes like sand and I know it’s mouldy but I don’t care.

I light a fire and boil the water in the back room, upstairs in my mother’s house. The bite mark on my face stings as I dab it with a cloth. I wash my hands and face, it feels unusual and I can’t remember the last time I washed. I go through my usual programme of thinking. It’s like a television schedule at this stage. I think of Eileen and the kids and wonder if I’ll ever see them again. I wonder about what could have happened to my mother. Then the questions start. Where the hell is everyone? They couldn’t all be hiding in their homes. Is

there a plan under way? Has the government dissolved? What don’t I know? I long for an in date newspaper or a radio bulletin. Then I delve back into that dull Tuesday evening when life changed forever, as though by thinking about it I might untangle the horror.

It all began with the recession. I had scoffed at all the sensationalizing of the media. They talked as if it was the apocalypse. I never took a single word I read seriously. My parents had worried away their best years mumbling about Khrushchev and the Cold War. I had read 1984 and that had never happened, at least not overtly anyway. I cringed reading words like ‘anarchy’ and ‘abyss’ in the paper every Sunday, resenting them and never believing a word of it.

I left work and everything seemed so blandly normal. Then Bob texted me.

“Get to an ATM immediately and take out as much cash as you can. Anglo has gone under and brought the whole system with it.”

I scoffed as usual. Bob was a graphic designer for The Examiner and had been drinking with too many highly-strung journalists. I would slag him regularly.

“Any sign of the four horses yet Bob?”

“Go on ya langer.” He’d laugh.

At Turner’s Cross I’d seen the first queue snaking across the car park and out along the footpath. The people all seemed restless. Someone swore at the machine when it was their turn and stormed off. The queue dissolved urgently; some people ran and other clambered frantically into their cars. I still didn’t believe it. A man stood with his back to the bank looking around him as though he needed help. I saw terror on his face like the shine of sweat from someone’s brow. My breathing grew quicker. Shock seemed to swallow most of my panic at first; it kept it at a distance. The radio in my car had been broken for weeks. I wished now that I had bothered to fix it. I suddenly felt blind without news. I tried to call Eileen but the network was jammed. Then I tried my mother even though I knew I wouldn’t get through.

I drove around. The Tramore Road. Ballyphehane. Barracks Street. Town. There was bustle and urgency everywhere. Car horns began to sound. The streets were busier than at Christmas. A van crashed into the side of a number fourteen bus with a

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flat bang. There was shouting but nobody stopped and stared. Some shops began to put down their shutters early. The multi-nationals like Gloria Jeans and Burger King stayed open, but they were empty. Everyone looked so elusively afraid.

No money, I suddenly heard my mind exclaim. I pulled in at the end of Patrick’s Street into an empty taxi line. My hands were trembling. I wanted to hear what the news was saying. But first I decided to get food. Now. Before it got any worse. I had thirty Euros in my wallet. I had to coax myself through my shock. Get to Tesco. Buy food.

Get home. Talk to Eileen. Watch the news. Keep the kids calm.

A grown man bumped into me outside the Crawford Art Gallery. Our knees clashed making me grimace. He didn’t apologise and I could feel the fear coursing though him. I kept moving.

It was loud in Tesco. The word anarchy occurred to me. A woman was weeping in the fruit and veg aisle. The staff at the checkouts looked nervous and security guards milled about restlessly. I got what I wanted but I didn’t feel like I could handle an hour standing in a queue. I walked out through the middle of

the self-checkouts. Nobody seemed to notice. I passed a security guard trying to send a text message on his phone.

When I got back to the car I wondered about checking in on my mother or bringing her out to the house with me, but I got into my car and drove straight home. When I reached Wilton, the shopping centre was a deluge of cars. They were lined up two deep on the footpaths and completely surrounded the bus stop. People pushed shopping trolleys along the street towards their homes. An army of Garda cars lined the perimeter of the shopping centre. Guards stood sentry at

the doors and as I passed, I saw two paddy wagons with sirens wailing approach to join them. I wondered what everyone else knew that I didn’t.

Eileen’s face looked like glass when I got home. The kids were playing quietly in the corner and both ran towards me. They searched my face for clues to the feelings of anxiety that they could obviously sense. I sent them back playing and went into the kitchen with Eileen.

“Have you seen it?” She asked.

“No. Bob just texted me,” I replied, stopping short of begging her to come out with it.

“The world’s financial system died.” She said, her voice reminding me of sandpaper.

“You mean crashed.” I said, feeling stupid.

“No, they said died not crashed.”

We were silent.

The kids stopped playing and looked to me, their faces reminding me of dead relatives. I tried to make light of things for my own sake as much as theirs. They looked at me nervously, sensing the panic that stalked my every move.

A tearful looking Sharon Ni Bheolain anchored a special edition of Six-One. Cowen appealed for calm in a stilted address to the nation. He used the phrase ‘financial flat line’. Enda Kenny announced a suspension of party politics. “We’re in this together now,” he said. They showed disturbances at supermarkets throughout the country. The Garda Commissioner, Fachtna Murphy, appealed for calm and assistance in maintaining order. Chillingly, he asked that Gardai remain in their posts as much as possible. Scenes of rioting in New York and London followed. The same is happening in Berlin and Copenhagen. Bush declares martial law in the U.S. McCain and Obama appear together and jointly suspend their campaigns until order is restored. Sharon Ni Bheolain states that people are being asked to remain in doors and avoid public areas as much as possible. I sat in silence with Eileen once it was over. It was as if 9/11 had crawled out of the television and into our front room. We had become the

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news along with the rest of the world.

Later that evening the lights began to flicker. The television signal weakened. As the days rolled on the atrocity deepened. Looting became rampant throughout the country. Corporations drafted in private security personnel to protect their interests. Pictures of armed mercenaries stationed around Tesco were shown. Stories of home invasions and mob rule came to dominate the news. It showed gangs of young fellas wearing tracksuits with scalded looking faces, prowling the streets like human piranhas. Rumours of dissenting civil servants began to emerge. The Gardai were looking after their own families and had stopped showing up for work. Anarchy began to spread. The lights continued to flicker making me nauseous. Sky News showed a sleepless looking Gordon Brown saying that civilization had begun to unfurl. The lights began to dip and lurch. The dips became longer and then the television died with a ‘zoot’.

That was when the dark came. Our house was enveloped by it. Far off in the hills there was only the vague outline of farmhouses, seemingly blinded and devoid of any winking lights. But the big silence came from the news. We lost all perspective. Our immediate surroundings came to replace the larger world. The radio only transmitted static. The phones never returned. I thought of my mother and hoped that she was okay. The notion of the mob kept me from sleep. The fridge no longer hummed or clicked, and the standby lights of the television and DVD

player were out. The display on the alarm system was blank.

Days passed in this horrible limbo; we lived in blinded silence. The kids played and still laughed at times, but their innocence seemed dampened. Eileen and I worried quietly. We spoke little. The food began to run out and still there was no power and no word from anyone. I came to realise how dependent I was on the news. It seemed to give me a sense of control, directing my resources of worry to specific areas. Now it is just a big mass of the unknowable, an edgeless blanket of fevered imagination. The roads are empty but for the occasional whoosh of a jeep in the dead of night. Joy riders I think, enjoying the fruits of the chaos. I waited hungrily for news, but after five days none arrived.

I decided I must go to check on my mother and find food. I tried to ignore the horrible indignity of having to scavenge for my family’s survival. Eileen appeared tired and stretched as I kissed her goodbye. I hugged the kids but couldn’t bear to look

to their faces. I expected deserted roads and scattered debris, like a heavily littered Christmas Eve. For the first time I saw abandoned cars with their doors still open. Some had smashed windows. I realised that most of them ran out of petrol. I parked the car by the viaduct and stole along the old Bandon Road towards Bishopstown.

A Super Valu lorry was jack-knifed across the road near the grave yard. The cab door yawned open and the trailer’s doors clanged loosely against the wind. I wondered if it was an attempt by whatever authorities remained to block the road. The idea cooled me. Then I saw a man lying face down in the weeds at the side of the road. It was like coming across a coiled snake. Blood glistened from the back of his head, thick and oily. It was the lorry driver. I crouched down behind the ditch; I was peering over, struggling to get my breath back. Anarchy I thought. Mayhem. Death. Thoughts cluttered my mind. Eileen and the kids. My mother. That man is dead. Murdered. Reality descended on me like a haemorrhage. We’re alone. There’s no hope.

I wake up screaming in the back room of my mother’s house. The fire’s light dances lazily among the shadows. I clutch at my metal bar wielding it madly at the empty room. I gasp for air, nearly choking on my own breath. Being in the house makes me uncomfortable I am unable to see my larger surroundings. Is there someone in the next room, or outside? It feels horribly similar to not having any media, to being without context, but remaining helplessly stuck within it. The

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shed in the back garden gives me a better perspective. I can see what’s coming there and hear the immediate world better.

I struggle to get up. My body rattles with panic, my diet of sugar and cereal making me jittery. My face throbs reminding me of being bitten. I remember that I am a killer now and it gives me a weird sense of strength. I think of the madman whom I have killed. He is one of many that I have seen since the dark came. People gripped by a fevered desperation have become a regular part of this hell. I imagine the papers having articles concerning the alarming rise in such cases of madness in recent months. I long for the voice of opinion and analysis to help me tease out my own thoughts on the situation. I crave context.

I wonder about the mobs patrolling the city and whether or not they will eventually annihilate each other. Fragmented memories

of my bare survival after leaving Eileen and the kids come back to me. I

remember all the hiding and breathing quietly in ditches and behind walls and

under abandoned cars. I hear the frenzied cawing of the mob and the choked screams of that old man I watched them rip from his car and kick to death. Perhaps madness has descended upon us all.

I stamp out the fire and walk into the hallway. The house, which I’ve known since childhood is drenched in darkness. Slabs of light from the street, which used to hang on the walls and stretch across the floor are absent. I hear shuffling coming from downstairs. The stairway is black and I can’t see down it. I listen, hearing my own blood thumping in my ears. Voices whisper and I see the shadows alter slightly. Fear steals my breath from me. Someone is in my house.

There is the faintest rustle of movement beside me before something cold and metallic connects with the side of my head. I tumble violently down the stairs, descending into the shattered silence. My body smashes into the phone table at the foot of the stairs. I make to get up but shards of pain in my

back warn me against it. The steel bar seems redundant in my hand. Three figures approach me, walking slowly within the darkness. I hear mumbled voices void of all empathy, ‘warriors’ I catch myself thinking, or perhaps just madmen. They pause above me, cold and uninterested. A second blow connects with the top of my head and seems to bring more darkness with it. I surrender internally, losing the fight, the tormented energy in me slipping away. Eileen and the kids flash across my mind, as do images of my mother, and my friends. I push the thoughts away as I have learned to do.

An easefulness consumes me. I hope they remain unaware of me and my death, if in fact they have managed to survive this long. My passing won’t make the news. It will go unreported, swallowed up by the chaos, the dark silence its only witness. My consciousness starts to slip away, my thoughts scattering like sand into the wind. I follow civilization into its voiceless resting place.

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The 1950s were a dark time in small town Ireland, though not alway so. Revolving, whirling, ecstatic - the

Carousel theme on lunchtime radio. It was Saturday. Jeremy, aged ten, was reading a bumper Donald Duck comic about the Duck family on vacation. Vacation – that’s holiday, he thought. Donald was on a gondola in Venice singing “O Sole Mio”. Jeremy would soon be getting his own school holidays.

After a hard year with Brother Robert it seemed a brilliant prospect. His friend, Johnny Monaghan, at the scout’s band practice the previous evening had reminded him: “Just imagine. In a couple of weeks we will be camping in Enniscrone. All that sea and waves and sand hills!”

“Valley of Diamonds!”

“Valley of the Setting Sun!”

“It’s hard to believe.”

“Sure is.”

They had marched up the Gallows Hill and over by Killymooney Lake. At the blare of accordions and drums, cattle came racing across the fields to the hedges. Green hills, blue sky, and white clouds said it all. Later he had asked Johnny if he was going to the matinee on Saturday.

“Ah, I don’t know. I think it’s a love film.”

“Mightn’t be so bad.”

Johnny was probably right. Everyone enjoyed a good cowboy or sword fighting film, but at love films the younger children got bored. They ran around the cinema and in and out of the toilets. Also, he was slightly concerned for Johnny, who sometimes became afraid in the cinema and had to leave.

By the time they got to the Magnet’s box office, with its sepia toned pictures of Nelson Eddy and Jeanette Mac Donald, it was after three o’clock. While they were finding their way to the seats, the screen showed African women crossing a river with large bundles on

their heads. That was enough for Johnny. He started crying and ran out of the cinema.

Jeremy decided to stay. At the start of the Tom and Jerry cartoon he broke his penny toffee on the seat in front. A black and white Riverbrook short featured a small village in England with a church and churchyard that had some association with a king or queen. A single car drove down the quiet street. He always found these films strangely enjoyable. The main film was ‘Pagan Love Song’. It was in glorious technicolor. Howard Keel arrived on a south sea island; exhilarated, he cycled on an open road singing in the morning sun. Later he was with Esther Williams in a small house made of bamboo canes. They got musical notes by hitting the walls with sticks and joined in a duet about their house of singing bamboo.

By the time Jeremy came out to the glaring light he had concluded that a love film was not so bad after all. Even a pagan one.

Singing BambooEamon Cooke

The

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Rule 1: Check that there is one bullet in

the revolver.

Edmond locked the

door of the home and

pocketed the key, along

with the other keys he

had collected from the

family. He posted the

‘No Trespassing’ sign on

the door, and with a sigh,

turned around. Facing the family he had

just evicted, he said the words he has said

hundreds of times before.

Rule 2: Close the revolver and cock it.

“In accordance with the laws of the United

States of America and the contractual

agreement with your lender, you are hereby

evicted from this residence and are not to

occupy or stay upon these premises from this

day onward. Violators will be prosecuted to

the fullest extent of the law, including a fine of

up to a $60,000 and/or incarceration for up to

five years in a state penitentiary.”

Rule 3: Spin the chamber on

the revolver.

He looked at the family in front of him; a

man, his wife and two children. They had

left the home willingly. Most don’t, and

law enforcement has to be called to help

complete the eviction.

“Where will we stay?” a little girl asked. She is

maybe five years old.

Edmund didn’t answer. He

never

did. He didn’t have an

answer. He walked past the family

and past the piles of tattered belongings,

clothing and furniture that they had hurriedly

carried out of the home after he arrived. He

walked to the street and got in the van. His

face was grave but unexpressive.

Rule 4: Put the barrel of the revolver in

your mouth.

Edmund called the home office to let them

know this eviction was complete, and he

checked the address of the next. He drove to

the next location and parked in front. It was

another old home in a poor neighborhood.

There were toys in the yard.

Rule 5: Imagine that you only did good

things for people, and that you are loved by

everyone.

Edmond took the revolver out of the glove

compartment. He checked that there was

one bullet in it; the same bullet that has

been in it for the last seventeen days. As

he had done on every eviction for the last

seventeen days, he closed and cocked the

revolver, and spun the chamber, listening

to the mechanical “whhhhhhrrrr.” He put

the barrel in his mouth and he thought

of what it would be like to do a job where

people did not hate you.

Rule 6: Pull the trigger.

Click. Just as had happened the previous

times he had followed this ritual, the gun did

not go off.

Rule 7: If the gun does not go off, do

your job.

Damn the rules. He pulled the trigger again.

Click.

And again.

Click.

He put the gun down in the seat next to him

and began to cry. This just wasn’t meant to

be. There must be another way. He wiped

away the tears, started up the van and drove

to a local homeless shelter. Walking up to

the volunteer sheet posted near the door, he

signed his name and went inside.

Evictions would not stop. If he didn’t do it,

someone else would and nothing would

change for the people thrust into the streets.

But it’s like our carbon footprint; we can’t

stop damaging the earth, but there are things

we can do to mitigate that damage.

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Even in Pissing Rain By Ger Feeney

Even in pissing rain

You’ll find him

Creak from his tractor

Like Tinman on his

Yellow brick road

Old arthritic hips

Yearning to seize up

But there’s no time

For seizing up

When cows need tending

Or minding

Or herding

Or whatever old men do

With cows

And a stick

Even in pissing rain

Family Law Court - Kilkenny Castle

By Ger Feeney

They used to hang people

up those steps

Mr Icebreaker

my solicitor

Distracted me from

My compass point

Facing north

Breaking my ice

While my estranged

On her compass point

Facing south

Was having her ice broken

Thawing us out

To be

Hung

Drawn

Quartered

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Fazed By Arthur Broomfield

It may have been in his blue phase,

in the way that things make sense to us eventually,

the white-skimmed cones that he

later called peaks were high enough to be trivial,

that he pondered the absence of detail,

the formlessness of the chora.

All this matters, he thought,

as he gazed at the blue haze,

from these beginnings.

It was then he saw the light

it may have been sun taking issue

defining the mountain top

scrubbed and shaping

a reality that made him

feel at home.

Handyman By Tommy Murray

You will recognize him

From the sack bag

Of bits and pieces

And the saw sticking out

He will have the box plane

He inherited from his father

And a villainous looking nail bar

Boxwood rulers

And hickory handled squares

And a punch drunk spirit level, that

Has long since lost its certainty

He will have a bradawl

To double as a pipe cleaner and

A length of shelving with about

Nine pence worth of knots+

And there will be an urgency

About his every step

The Roadside Tavern.By Michael Fogarty

He pulls the pint with expert skill

And the man-with-taps has only been.

They let the bubbles rise to just before

The name Guinness on the glass.

They drink it fast the men of old

- 3 glugs is all it needs to set a soul

And poets free.

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I stand alone on a broken rock,

Gazing out to a sea of waves,

That seem to be whispering to me,

your very name.

My mind is cast back,

To a time once before,

Whilst I am surrounded,

By this lonely shore.

A sight to behold my heart jumped tenfold,

But composed myself I did.

For alone you had stood your shoulders so bare,

As a cold wind whipped through your hair.

Exposing your cheek just long enough for me to see,

A teardrop flowing free.

I watched as it fell and the sand drank it deep,

Till no more of it could I see.

Then I looked to you again and said “Hello,”

Expecting a startled response.

Instead you turned slowly,

Your lips withholding,

Anything you may have wanted to say.

You just gazed into my eyes,

With tears running freely.

I said to you then,

“My name is Keith” and asked,

“Would you like me to leave?”

But you just turned away from me,

And once more stared out,

At that empty sea.

At this stage I felt pretty sheepish,

But I was never a defeatist,

And so I just stood close by,

Until a dark cloud appeared,

And a new breeze was born,

Sweeping across the beach.

Your arms crossed,

You clasped your shoulders and shivered.

I removed my jacket and placed it around you,

But you just let it fall away.

And I thought that strange.

For it did not happen that way on the day.

And as I strained to find an answer,

To what had just transpired,

You turned to me and spoke,

“Time for you to wake up now,

For this is just a dream,

And in reality you are the bastard,

Who did this to me.”

Just then my eyes blazed open,

My heart beating fast,

Until,

I regained my surroundings at last,

And realised I still stood standing,

On that broken rock alone,

Facing the sea.

And the waves were angry now,

Just like me.

Angry at the memory of what had come to bear,

And what would never be.

Thanks wholly to my,

Insanity.

Take it back By Keith Walsh

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An Orange balloon

Bobs around the Green rocks.

It looks trapped.

Like it can't escape to explore the world.

Or perhaps

It's resting?

Maybe,

It's taking a break

from a full day of unforgettable experiences?

In come the white horses

Threatening to wash it away,

To take it from the safety of the shore.

Or is it giving it the push to start

It's next adventure?

The setting sun, so beautiful,

Creates a magical sky

The horizon, so far away,

But still seems almost tangible.

Would it be possible to reach it?

Bobbing out to sea,

All directions but backwards touches it,

That magical world of impossible dreams.

Everything there, ready to be reached,

Every way, a path to that horizon,

Just one last question,

Which way to go?

The Rocks and The Sea By Sally Gamgee

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Awaiting verdict

In the wooden box

Crouched on cracked tiles,

A shaking hand reveals

A pink line.

She is her own juror.

Her breath rises against the fading sky,

Her feet brush the clay soil,

She swings higher and higher.

She doesn't want to stop,

It'll be blown out of proportion,

But can she deal with abortion?

She is her own judge

Darkness fills in the shadows

And streets quieten

She shivers in her ripped schools tights,

Silently she boards the bus,

She glares at her reflection,

Hating every imperfection,

She'll be the executioner.

I watch her closely,

Her future cloudy.

The window fogs in icy smears

And she disappears.

Judge, Juror and ExecutionerBy Siobhan Kingston

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3 Dr Arthur Broomfield is a Beckett scholar and poet. His poetry has been published in Salmon, Cyphers, The Honest Ulsterman and Sunday Tribune, among others. He is writing a book on the works of Samuel Beckett at present, which he hopes to have published in early 2011. Arthur teaches with County Offaly VEC.Eamon Cooke has had work published in several Irish journals. His collection, ‘Berry Time’ was published by Dedalus in 2002. Ger Feeney was born in Waterford but has lived in County Wexford for over 20 years. Ger has previously had work published in a number of magazines in Ireland and the UK including The Stinging Fly, Inclement, Quantum Leap, Tandem, Poetry Nottingham, The Limerick Poetry Broadsheet, The Waterford Review and Cobweb amongst others.Michael Fogarty is a 20 year old poet living in modest circumstances in Dublin. He sleeps too much and enjoys skimming stones, in his spare time he can be found at btweenpoetry.blogspot.com Sally Gamgee is a 22 year old UCD graduate of Irish and German. Having performed on stage from the age of 6, she is now focusing on writing and producing for the theatreCiaran Hourican completed his degree in English and Politics at University College Cork in 2009. His literary heroes are Ian McEwan, Zadie Smith, Philip Roth, Alice Munro and George Orwell to name but a few.Siobhan Kingston is an eighteen year old aspiring writer from a small town in the heart of WestCork. Having been born in London, where her parents migrated to in 1985, she moved to Ireland at the age of 5. She was instantly captivated by the freedom the country side provided for a true tom-boy. Her love of the outside and the beauty of nature became the main inspiration for her to begin writing at very young age.Mitch Lavender lives with his family in a suburb of Dallas, Texas, USA. He likes cake. He does not like zombies or clowns, even if they have cake. Breaking the Rules is his first published fiction. He hopes to see more of his writing published and have lots of cake. Or at least, have lots of cake.Tommy Murray has won numerous awards for poetry; his work has been published in a number literary publications including Fortnight, Riverine, Revival anf Crannog. His work has alsofeatured on the UTV documentary, ‘Valley of the Kings’ and on RTE’s Nationwide. His latestcollection,’Counting Stained Glass Windows’ was published by Lapwing belfastKeith Walsh was born in Dublin, Ireland. He has been writing since old enough to hold a pen and construct a sentence. He lost his passion for writing due to work responsibilities. He is now one of the many unemployed in Ireland, and has decided to come back to his passion and put his full effort into it. ‘Take it back’ is his first published work, and one, he hopes of many to come.

Thank you for reading

Issue Three of OutburstMagazine

Outburst magazine is currently accepting submissions for the

foruth edition. Our focus is on short stories (up to 2,500 words) and poetry (up to 40 lines); if you have written a longer piece, we may be willing to publish it in serial form. We like to keep an open mind, so we may publish articles/works beyond what has been mentioned. Feel free to get in touch, or send in your work to: submissions@outburstmagazine.com

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