She is an astute young Housekeeper, with a ten-year-old son, who is hired to care for him.

And every morning, as the Professor and the Housekeeper are introduced to   each other anew, a strange and beautiful relationship blossoms between them.   Though he cannot hold memories for long (his brain is like a tape that begins to erase itself every eighty minutes), the Professor’s mind is still alive with  elegant equations from the past. And the numbers, in all of their articulate order, reveal a sheltering and poetic world to both the Housekeeper and her  young son. The Professor is capable of discovering connections between the   simplest of quantities–like the Housekeeper’s shoe size–and the universe at   large, drawing their lives ever closer and more profoundly together, even as his  memory slips away. A most unusual and engaging story with maths to challenge you! Enjoy!

I plonked myself down on the corner of Mallow and Catherine Street and glanced at my watch. Feck, no way was I going to be on time for my audition. Hurriedly, I pulled my shoes off and my skates on, getting unsteadily to my feet. Roller-skating had always soothed me; my breath quickening, my legs racing, my arms pumping. I always found my senses becoming more acute when I was pelting between traffic and pedestrians; always on the lookout for any lethal car-doors that threatened to spring open in my path.Ten minutes later and twenty minutes after my scheduled audition time, I arrived at Centre Space Studios. Luckily, there was no-one ahead of me. Great, I’d get to do my song straight away. I handed my sheet music to the rehearsal pianist and jumped lithely onto the stage. I  was singing “Losing My Religion” by R.E.M., one of my all-time favourite rock songs. I got a nod from the director and began. The opening chords filled the room; they were among my favourite of any rock song. I began, allowing the music and lyrics to pulse through me like an electric current. My head bopped, my arms splayed out from my sides. I felt myself intertwining with the intricate mandolin and Michael Stipe’s reedy voice. I loved to sing.

And then, it was over. Auditions always ended so suddenly. I nodded my thanks in response to the look of approval from the director. I hoped that I’d been what they were looking for. Worries threatened to dislodge themselves from the corners of my consciousness, but I smothered them. This one had gone well, I assured myself. This one was going to happen.

Tommy Collison 5^th Year

I received a parcel in the post the day before my 13^th birthday last year. It was beautifully wrapped with pale, musk pink wrapping paper and a lilac ribbon tied in a bow. It was very tempting to have a small peep inside the box but I had to wait until my birthday which felt like a year away rather than a day away.  I woke up on the morning of my birthday and rushed downstairs, clumsily knocking things over in a frantic dash to open my pink parcel. While I was desperate to open it, I was also half- reluctant to, because I would ruin the perfect display. I unwrapped it very carefully, trying not to tear the paper, I opened the box that had ‘Sabita’s’ (Indian for ‘beautiful sunshine’) written on it, to find an Indian elephant ornament. It was from my uncle David who lives in America and had recently arrived home from his summer holidays in India. It was silver with blue, yellow, red and pink jewels encrusted. It wasn’t too big but not too small. It was very beautiful and unique. My favourite animals are elephants so this gift is very special to me. I keep it on the top shelf in my room and I am very grateful to my uncle for buying such a wonderful present.

By Stephanie Fitzgerald, Oisin 1

Life is like a road
set for us to walk
and carry our load
even though others may mock

Life is like a book
with chapters so many
a character will look
quite different from any

By Taylor Myers Oisin 2

“The best story Hemingway has ever written… no page of this beautiful master-work could have been done better or differently.” – Cyril Connolly, The Sunday Times

By Clodagh Callanan, Padraig 5

Eva Bourke

Read the full poem in Poetry Ireland Review 105

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