He stands alone, with his mask adjusted tightly to his face; He wears it when he wakes up, takes it off for bed. He seems unbeatable, with his clean-cut look and nicely-placed Ace Up his sleeve, his care-free attitude of his own hands, blood red.   He stands alone with his mask, hiding his own worst fears He locks away the negative that rests in his heart. The only escape is a vigilante in a red hood: that is his art; No one sees the pain, the mask hides his tears.   He stands alone with his mask speaking for him; They say he is okay, they say he’s never been happier; That loneliness suits him fine – never been more sure; Yet it doesn’t hurt any less the tears down his chin.   Now all he does is stand alone Locked into his...

We are the Kings and Queens of our promised lands That we are born into; We build ’em up and we build ’em tall; All the work done by you, Your citizens are your memories, your kin, your feelings And your guards are your beliefs – All the while trying to guard your heart from thieves; But evil empires always arise In an attempt to break you down. You build up your walls, and ready for war. You say you’re ready to drive them through Hell’s door But the battles within the castle’s walls Are the worst of all; The destruction of the castle is Your greatest...

7th Annual Short Story Competition Cork City Libraries celebrate the emerging writer by inviting teenagers aged 13-18 years to enter the Cork City Libraries’ Short Story Competition! There are no theme restrictions, and entries should be between 1000-4000 words. Those short-listed will receive a written critique of their work by local writer Kevin Doyle. The winner will be announced as part of World Book Festival during Teen Day on Thursday, 24 April 2014, in the City Library, Grand Parade. Each story should be accompanied by a cover sheet with the writer’s name, address, email address, telephone number, school address, title of piece and word count. Shortlisted entires will appear on the Writing Room Pick up a cover sheet from your local library or download one from our Teen page. Short story competition 2014 ‌(PDF,...

Cork City Libraries Webisodes  webisodes2014draft Enter our short film competition and you could win a €200 cash prize. There are also two runner up prizes of €50. Closi‌ng date for entries: 22 March 2014. HOW TO ENTER Shoot a short film with your mobile phone, based on a book or story ofyour choice. Upload your video to YouTube and send us the link. Call to your local library for an application form or download one from our Teen...

Director Tom Hooper has done a wonderful job making a man whose own family frustrated and tortured realise his true potential. In reality Albert, Duke of York and later King George VI was a stammerer and a traumatised, relucant monarch who was bullied by his brothers and father, starved by his nanny, more or less ignored by his mother and fitted with metal splints to cure his knock knees. The movie is beautifully made with a richness to the colours used when Albert emerges from relative obscurity to become king and a clever use of rooms, walls, household objects and the like to create meaning. The voice was quickly becoming essential in being an effective monarch because of advances in technology. This was bad news for Albert who had a terrible fear of microphones and whose stammer was largely pyschosomatic. In one scene his old father stands over him while he tries to record a speech and loses his patience and shouts unhelpful advice like, “Relax!” “Get it out, boy!” and “Do it!” Needless to say, Albert just crumbles. But Lionel Logue, an Australian elocution teacher, understands something that some of the knighted doctors treating Bertie don’t – that stammering is largely, if not exclusively, an emotional condition suffered by soldiers with shell shock and monarchs who refuse to believe in their own greatness. Lionel is more of a counsellor than a voice therapist; he’s not even a doctor, something Bertie only finds out late into the film. But he has experience and he convinces Bertie that experience is what matters in any craft, that and skill. He takes the dread out of becoming king and allows Bertie to believe that it is something he can do, that he doesn’t have to be imprisoned...

I was one of those supposed purists who said he’d never get one and I didn’t but I was given one for Christmas and I admit I like it. It’s a Paperwhite. It’s small, flat and convenient, like a biscuit, except there’s lots of power in it. Anyone who’s got one will probably know that you can “X-Ray” a text which means you can locate references to people, places and the like in the book quickly allowing you to navigate the text like an academic might. It enriches not necessarily the reading of the book but certainly the study of it because it makes the whole process of picking it apart faster. When you’re reading something like Christopher Hitchens’ “Hitch – 22” the “X-Ray” function is more or less required, especially if you have any intention of remembering much of it. Hitchens was so prolific that he encountered innumerable people, ideas, sensations, places, ideologies and to recall them I had to scan for them and remind myself of who was who  and what was what. Then there’s the “Go-To” function which is basically a contents page where you can touch a particular chapter and go right to it – basic and without any need for flipping and Post-its. You can manipulate the size of the font to suit your eyesight and you can share thoughts on social networks like Facebook and Twitter. My favourite function is the dictionary. Just touch on a big or unfamiliar word and the Kindle will define it for you. Every word you look up is stored in one place, called your “vocabulary builder” which is found on your home page. What’s more, you can display the sentence the word originally appeared in to remind yourself of what you were...

This is an aerobic step rather than a book; it’s almost eight hundred pages of intellectual maelstrom. Hitchens approaches writing like a vocation but one that appears to demand little effort though I’m sure that’s not the case. There are over thirty pages of references in the index and if one were to casually scan the entries it would become clear that this man knew a lot about a lot. Anyone who’s anyone is in there and many less familiar names appear: so we have Isaac Newton and Abraham Lincoln of course but also van Gogh (not Vincent but Theo); there is listed the name Hitler (whose absence might seem a farcical oversight) but there, along with Adolf is Hoshyar Zebari. Who’s he? you might ask –  well, quite. It turns out Hitchens can write about anything and anyone and very well too. How do I know? One way to tell is when you find yourself excitedly telling friends about his essay “Why Women Aren’t Funny” and photocopying it for one female colleague in particular and wanting to know what she thought. One of his ideas is that the original purpose of humour was the mocking of authority: “Irony itself has been called ” ‘the glory of slaves.’ ” Then on the subject of Mark Twain he gives us this: “I reflect on Mark Twain and I see not just the man who gave us Judge Thatcher’s fetching daughter but also the figure who wrote so cunningly about the charm of underage girls and so bluntly about defloration.” I need say little else in this respect other than that such words raise an eyebrow and provoke thought. Then there’s the vocab: “bowdlerizes” on p. 43 caused me a little consternation since I felt I...

I In you I see the Earth. When others are cold and indifferent & I am bitten by their harshness & the repeated slips on the fragile ice that is friendship I turn to you, a solid foundation! You support me & give me a fresh start Giving me a place of solace where life is the point. II In you there is the Majesty of Clouds Large and uncontained, yet defined in shape; You part gracefully & the sun falls on my face & I am given wings to join you on your Heavenly Throne Where I feel like I belong & I cannot turn away, mesmerised. III In you there is the moon, always there Longed for yet out of reach; The beauty holding me spellbound Under your luminescent gaze. You are always there for us to turn to As we often do, to admire The serenity and beauty of this celestial body – That is the moon – You are the sun, Giving warmth & life to those who are lucky to be struck By the dazzling rays full of love and care Nurturing good in every son The centre of all that is fun, authentic and loving: That is what makes me fall in love with this world Which is lucky to have you in it Lucky to have your smile Lucky to have your laugh. With your gifts you replenish our stock Of brilliant...

I I feel numb, Walking on autopilot; Suddenly I hear a ring & answer hesitantly, & your angelic voice fills my head. My mind fumbles & trips over itself In an effort to be of interest, in hope of hearing your laugh: I succeed & am rewarded with a chuckle: If love had a voice this would be it. Not even the phone Can distort that melody. II You tell me about yourself & I am filled with wonder, Brimming with excitement Curious & expecting to hear more. You describe your pains to me & my chest constricts At the thought of an Angel in Pain I feel a pain in my heart: Sharp, yet dull & malevolent. I say something To make you laugh & ease the pain You apologise & I laugh to forget the...

This is a new series of humorous anecdotes from our resident globetrotter, Cormac. I’ll recount the things I’ve seen and heard on my travels and write them for your bemusement,  starting with this gem from when I was away at Christmas. So I’m walking to the beach in Puerto de Mogán in Gran Canaria, and what do I see? On my way from the Marina, just next to the bridge I see an elderly man sitting on the side of the pavement with a nasal cannula and an oxygen tank beside him. Poor guy, you might think. But what was he doing while this was happening? He was smoking a big fat Havana, that’s what! This fogey there with his emphysema and then puffing away! Like something out of Harry Hill it was! I’d say it “took my breath away” but that’s probably a bit insensitive. That’s all for now, there’ll be a new one soon....

After writing something, I always notice a certain quality, a je ne sais quoi. I just used a French phrase to sound intelligent, when in reality I got a D in my French Junior Certificate. It is just the way I write, and for the time being, nothing is going to change that. Unless, God forbid, I become a better writer. But not at this time; I abandon any pretense to a greater intelligence, talent, or wisdom to write something very important to me. I want to be a film critic. As simple as that sentence seems, I cannot express how long it took me to realise that about myself. It fits so beautifully. I have always loved stories, and that is a passion which has only intensified with age. I have been exposed to so many stories through the different medias and visuals of film, television, literature, audio drama, graphic novels, video games, animé, and web series. That is just what exists right now. There are so many many more brilliant and beautiful stories just waiting to be experienced. When I find a story that is truly great I cannot express the sheer joy and jubilation I feel. I am passionate about the things I enjoy and I want to devote my life to learning about film and being able to watch and think about it and discuss it as a career. I see it as a way to make a living. It is a concept so unbelievably perfect it cannot be put into words. I would like to consider the road not taken. There was a long time when this passion was lying dormant inside me and I did not even know it was there. If it had continued like that, I can only imagine...

Dónal Ryan’s The Spinning Heart is raw with emotion and is brutally honest. We get a glimpse into the lives of both young and old in a local Irish setting. This community, like so many others in Ireland today, has been left desolate by the Irish recession. Ryan lucidly articulates the words and thoughts of this post-boom generation. Ryan creates a powerful sense of place as each character is either from or lives within this local community. The story is a collection of twenty-one internal monologues. Each monologue comes from a struggling character who has their own story to tell. The local building company, Pokey Burke’s company, which was the main source of employment and income for the area, has collapsed and now each character is figuring out what will happen next. Some of the characters were builders and are now looking at emigrating to Australia and London. There is an account from a mother who has lost her son and how each hour of each day is a struggle. Ryan provides us with an insight into the mind of a schizophrenic. There is a also foreign national, Vasya, who has worked for Pokey and is owed money from his former boss. However, we learn that Pokey has abandoned his debts, his crookedness and his country. Vasya could be like any other Irish emigrant who is a far way from home and longs to be able to return to their homeland but the notion of shame and failure stops him from returning. There is a toddler who tells the story of witnessing her parent’s deteriorating marriage. Her loving father is out of work and is unable to find any other gainful employment. Then there is the disenchanted single mother who is one of the...

Dear Thelma, We’re all hungry. Cooper ate his shoes. Tawny’s been looking at me funny. He said he liked my thighs but not as much as liked my “glutes” (?) Scott suggested we improvise a rope with knots on it to measure the distance we’ve travelled. The scheme would involve throwing a stick, to which the rope is attached, in the direction we’ve come and counting out the knots. Each knot is roughly the length of Scott’s chifferobe, the one he saw in the Sears Roebuck catalogue and has been carrying around on his back. He’s invented a new unit of measurement called a “chiff” which is, I presume, short for “chifferobe.” “Won’t that mean going home before we’ve reached the Pole?” asked Browny. Scott looked at him and closed his eyes; he rubbed his temples and asked the Lord for patience. “How else are we going to know how far away the Pole is from home?” He said Browny didn’t “get it”; nobody did, except Scott and Cooper’s aunt. Palmer’s had a pet chicken hidden in his chicken-box. It was discovered when he’d forgotten to nail the top down and the creature poked its head out and sneered at Browny. The latter was discovered talking animatedly to the thing about corn when Scott demanded to know who was responsible for saturating his pin cushion with an 1878 Chateau Lafitte. “Never mind the bloody pin cushion,” I said, “who’s been keeping this bloody wine secret all this time?” “Never mind the bloody wine!” Tawny Owl yodelled, “who’s been hiding this pheasant?” “Chicken,” said Scott; “it’s a chicken.”  ...

Pedro was a tree, and he didn’t like it. The costume had taken him five hours to produce and perfect, but Pedro realised now that it had been a waste of time. He stood as a tree on the side of the Ramblas, watching the crowds pass by, and earning no money at all. He had put a small shoebox at his feet for coins from pedestrians. It was empty. Pedro stared glumly at it. He had gone to a lot of trouble to make his tree costume as realistic as possible, with his arms outstretched into two sleeves painted meticulously to resemble branches, his eyes peering out from knots in the bark and his nose painted greenish-brown to resemble a small twig protruding from the front of the tree. Pedro had planned to draw people over to him with his amazing tree costume and when they would put coins in his shoebox he would perform a little dance.Unfortunately, passersby saw him not as a street performer, but simply as a tree, and they walked right past him. The only thing to come right over and investigate him was a scruffy little dog which, once he had sniffed at the trunk a few times, proceeded to urinate on Pedro before ambling off to rejoin its master. Pedro began to think deeply, a skill he wasn’t quite sure he had mastered. He forgot about keeping his arms up, and his branches sagged. A gust of wind blew over the shoebox. Another dog came over to relieve itself on his trunk. Pedro continued to think deeply. And at last he had an idea. His tree costume obviously wasn’t catching anybody’s attention so he needed something else that would. On the opposite side of the Ramblas he...

How many people can point out the Central African Republic (CAR) on a map/globe? How many people have even ever heard of this landlocked African country? To most ( of those who have heard about it, of course), the CAR is synonymous with Jean Bokassa,  the self-proclaimed emperor of the country back in the 70s, a man who converted to Islam to obtain weapons from the Libyan despot, Gaddafi, only to reconvert to Catholicism so he could be crowned as emperor in the cathedral in the capital, Bangui. He was a dictator often compared to that other eccentric African leader, Idi Amin, who declared himself the King of Scotland. However, earlier this year, Francois Bozizé was overthrown by the “Seleka,”an Islamic organisation who are bent on introducing an Islamic state to the predominantly Christian country (roughly 1 Muslim to every 4 Christians.) After months of endless persecution of Christians, the “anti-balaka” began to fight back, leading to an escalation in violence. The thing is, the Central African Crisis has the potential to spill over the borders into South Sudan to the east, a young country with its hostile neighbour Sudan to the north. South Sudan is itself unstable, and any violence could push it over the end. Just last year, the two countries, who separated due to religious differences, fought a war. To CAR’s west, then, is Nigeria, a country divided again between religions, with the Boko Haramfighting a similar campaign as the Seleka are. It is quite believable, and probable, that the conflict could spread out over central Africa, likely to be more deadly than the ongoing Syrian Civil War ever will...

American Hustle has been receiving mixed reviews and opinions; there is praise for the strong cast, criticism of under-development of characters and of Jeremy Renner, Christian Bale and Amy Adams. One thing everyone seems to agree with is Jennifer Lawrence’s performance. American Hustle follows Bale, playing Irving Rosenfeld, and Adams, his mistress Sydney Prosser (alias Lady Edith Greensley,) following her arrest, are forced to assist FBI agent Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper) perform a sting operation on the mayor of Camden, New Jersey, Carmine Polito (Renner). The hitch in the plan comes in the form of Rosenfeld’s long-suffering wife, Rosalyn (Lawrence,) a woman unaware of Rosenfeld’s con-artist career. The film is good, but has a tendency to ramble slightly. Bale is good as Rosenfeld. Renner brings Polito to life and shows him as a man, working for the good of the community, but who gets caught up with the wrong sort of people. Lawrence, however, steals the show, or she would if the camera was focused a little more on her. Ultimately, though, most emphasis is put on Cooper, who is poor in this, and Adams, whose English accent is about as convincing as the sheikh (Michael Pena, acting a Mexican acting a sheikh, barely able to communicate with Robert DeNiro when the latter speaks Arabic. “Who’d have thought an Italian could speak Arabic?”) A worthwhile watch, maybe not an obvious Oscar contender but, sure, surprises...