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Ballydonogue Parish Magazine Winners

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Our current sixth year students recently achieved success with the Ballydonoghue Parish Magazine. Read on below to see their three fantastic stories. It's easy to see how they won over the hearts of the critics. Well done everyone!

Lost

By James Dillon

It was a Sunday morning, the twenty-first of May and although he didn’t know it yet something was happening that day which Doctor Dan would never forget. It was seven o’clock and the sun was streaming in the windows when Doctor Dan woke up. For a minute he didn’t know where he was but then as he looked around at the old-fashioned blue and white spotted wallpaper and the plush, brown carpets, he remembered. He was on holiday with his old friend Pete. Pete had Alzheimer's disease and his memory was failing rapidly. Dan had brought him here in the hope that the old-fashioned nature of the place might rekindle some lost memories in his friend's failing mind. He thought that seeing things from his childhood might bring happiness to Pete, as his life was tough these days. They would be able to reminisce about their memories, he thought and he had been right. Yesterday they had had a great chat about everything they had done when they were young. He rolled over to see if his friend was awake yet. Then he sat up quickly. Pete Bed was empty. It hadn’t been slept in. Dan thought back to the previous evening. It had been a gloriously sunny, summer’s day and they had spent some time walking around the grounds of the hotel together. Although Pete was almost eighty years of age he was as fit as a fiddle. His family joked that he jogged around the house instead of walking. In the evening it got chilly so they had sat down in the hotel lobby in front of the open fire. There had been some traditional music on and Pete had seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. Dan, a creature of habit, had gone to bed early, leaving Pete listening to the music. He remembered telling him jokingly not to forget to come to bed. Now though it seemed as if Pete had forgotten to go to bed. “He might still be sitting down in one of the soft, comfortable armchairs in front of the fire,” thought Dan, “he might have fallen asleep listening to the music.” Dan leapt out of bed and hurriedly dressed himself. Then he went downstairs, taking the steps two at the time. The lobby was empty. There was no one there, except for the receptionist.

“Pete, where are you?” he shouted at the top of his voice. There was no reply. He searched quickly around the grounds, the paths were wet from the rain which had fallen during the night, but there was no sign of his friend. His friend was nowhere to be seen. Dan was filled with a rising sense of panic and a deep concern for his friend’s wellbeing. Dan rushed back to the reception and went up to the girl there.
“My friend is missing”, he told the girl there, “he has Alzheimer’s and his memory is very bad” he said. “I’m worried about him.'' “Sit down there and I will organize a search party and get you a cup of tea, to calm you” she said. Dan sat down with his head in his hands. “Where is Pete?” he wondered, “what will his family say they’ll kill me. Why did I leave him out there on his own, he could have fallen in the river or wandered into one of the dense forests which surrounded the hotel. He could be dead.” These
thoughts and many more rushed through Dan’s head like an avalanche. Each one lead to another one even worse.

Meanwhile, half a mile away Pete had woken up two hours previously. The dark, night sky was brightly illuminated with millions of stars. Everything was quiet. Pete was cold. He reached up to pull the duvet around him. His hand met nothing but air. He felt around, the ground felt soft and damp. “Where was he?” he puzzled, “and how had he got there in the first place.” He stood up, gingerly, cautiously, relieved when his feet met with solid ground. He was an old man and although he moved like someone half his age, his mind was going. Alzheimer's was slowly eating away at his brain from the inside out. He had become forgetful and absentminded. He often got confused, but he had never felt as confused as he felt now. He had absolutely no idea where he was. Suddenly a loud clap of thunder shattered the peaceful calm of the place. The moon and stars had clouded over, the place was completely dark. Pete felt afraid. He was shivering with the cold and he was saturated from the rain which had started
bucketing down like the Niagara falls. A flash of lightning lit up the place. He looked around for something, anything which would tell him where he was. He saw nothing, nothing but trees. They were everywhere, trees of all shapes and sizes. There were deciduous trees, resplendent with their bright green leaves and evergreens, towering up into the night sky. Pete was lost. He lived in a jungle, but not one of trees. He lived in the concrete jungle of the city. His house was the same as the one next to it and the one beside that again. In fact the whole street looked perfectly symmetrical, lined on both sides with large, red brick houses. Pete could navigate the streets of the city like the back of his hand. He had lived there all of his life. He knew for certain that there were no trees there, so where was he, he pondered. He shouted at the top of his voice “Help! Help! Is there anybody there?”. There was no reply, only the sound of the rain pounding against the leaves. When there was no thunder, the night was eerily silent. He started to walk slowly, carefully, putting one foot in front of the other. The ground was covered in a soft green moss and garnished with twigs. It was slippery, a result of the torrential downpour. It was a treacherous terrain. One wrong step and he might never be heard of again. Then he heard a long, shrill whistling noise which chilled him to his bones. He began to move forward quicker, glancing nervously over his shoulder, the sweat pouring down his back. Another crash of thunder brought him back to his senses, breaking the spell which had gripped him with fear. A jagged lightning bolt ripped through the fabric of the dark sky, bathing the place in a harsh light.
Ahead of him the trees seemed to be thinning out and he could see the warm, yellow glow of a light. He broke into a run. If he could find people, he could find out where this mysterious place was. He could get back home. The light ahead of him grew larger and larger, his pace got faster and faster, and then he stopped. He could hear water, Not rain falling from the sky but water flowing rapidly over rocks and stones. He had come to a river. His heart wrenched as he fell to the ground, his legs tired, his spirit broken. He couldn’t swim. The light and human life were so close but yet too far. He shouted again using the same words as before “Help! Help! Is there anybody there?”. Again nobody answered. He fell into a deep slumber, his legs exhausted, his
spirits worn. Back in the hotel the girl came back to Dan. He looked up hopefully, but his hopes were soon dashed, when the girl said to him “we didn’t find him, we have called the police”. Dan, who prided himself on not having cried since he was a very young boy, burst into tears as all his previous bad thoughts came rushing back to him. “Don’t worry, the police will find
him” the girl reassured Dan “ he’ll be fine”. Dan wasn’t reassured. He had never felt so helpless in his life. He waited impatiently for the police to arrive. After what seemed like hours but what was probably only minutes, he saw the blue lights bouncing off the buildings outside the window. Thirty seconds later and a big, burly policeman was asking him questions. “ What did Pete look
like? Do you have a photo? When was the last time you saw him? Does he know anyone else in the area?” It was like a quick fire round in a television quiz show. Moments later the police, their questions answered, departed to search the surrounding countryside.

Back in the forest, he was woken by voices, echoing loudly through the trees. They were shouting something but he couldn’t tell what. For a moment Pete couldn’t remember where he was, but then he realised that he was lost in a forest in goodness only knows where. He got up, his legs slightly better for their rest, and made his way away from the river, towards the voices. He stopped again. The voices seemed to be closing in on him from all directions. He didn’t know which way to go. He peered through the trees, but although the sun had risen high in the sky, the thick canopy of leaves blocked most of the night and he could see very little. He took a deep breath and then took another step forward. He stopped again. Was his mind deceiving him or were the voices calling his name. “I’m saved,” he thought. He began to move forward slowly, the voices closing in around him. He began to look around while he was walking, trying to see the source of the voices. All of a sudden his foot got caught in the root of a tree and he was sent sprawling to the ground. He tried to get up again, but to no avail. He couldn’t get his legs under him. Before he
could call out again, he passed out. A couple minutes later, a police officer came upon him, lying on the ground under a large oak tree. He wasn’t moving. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle. “I’ve found him,” the policeman roared into his large megaphone. “He’s unresponsive, I need medical help quickly”. He sent up a red flare into the sky so everyone would know where he was. In the blink of an eye, more police officers had arrived with medical supplies. They performed first aid on Pete. He had probably collapsed from sheer exhaustion, they said, although he was probably suffering from severe pain, as his leg was broken. They placed him on a stretcher and rushed him to the edge of the forest where there was an ambulance waiting to take him to the nearest hospital. Then they rang Doctor Dan to tell him that his friend had been found, that his leg was broken but that he would be alright. They told him that he could see him in the hospital. Dan was filled with a mixture of elation and sadness. He didn’t know whether to be happy his friend was found or upset that his leg was broken. He rang a taxi, and waited for it to arrive, the weight gone off his mind.

Eventually Dan arrived at the hospital. His friend was awake and seemed to be in good form, but he was confused and he didn’t know where he was or how his leg was in a cast. Dan sat down beside him and gently explained what had happened, recounting how they had been on holidays when he had gone missing. He had fallen and broken his leg. He was safe now, Dan said, but his family were worried and wanted to talk to him as soon as possible. When Pete had finished on the phone,
they began to chat together. Pete asked Dan about a drug he had mentioned which was
supposed to help cure Alzeimers. “I think I’ll take it," he said.

(Significance of Birthdays) – IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT MUCH ANYWAY

By Jack Enright

In the grand scheme of things, nothing has value. We, humans are the beings who give anything valuable, value. Money is just an abstract piece of paper, yet families divide as a cause. Cars are just machines to move us from point A to B, yet you are judged on the price of yours. Sport is just people kicking, hitting, or throwing round objects most of the time yet some people cannot live without it. A birthday is just another day in your life, a marker of where the earth was in relation to the big ball of gas we call the sun at your time of labour, even at that, it is not wholly exact, a quarter of a day early then a day late every four years. Why do we take this day for something special? Why must I make others special on their day? Why did my special day bypass my being like I never had one?

The ninth of the first ‘74, that is my date of birth. Nothing seems out of order but when you think about it, it is awkwardly close to Christmas. I grew up in a small village in the north of Kerry, a place where everyone knew everyone. I had seven sisters and three brothers. Most days in the house were mayhem. I often worked in our neighbour's farm across the road, not for the money but to get out of the house, away from daily chaos. My parents did not know how much I earned, although they thought they did. Half of my earnings were stashed under my mattress. My mother always wondered why I always offered to do my own bedsheets and often wondered why it was the only chore I did with willingness.

I am not sure for certain at what age you grasp the concept of morals as a child but my earliest memory of my birthday not being the same as my siblings was my twelfth birthday. I got a soccer ball for Christmas, a present that was labelled as mine but in reality, was a present for all of us. Whenever it was kicked into the ditch parallel to our house, I was the one in charge of fetching it. “I am not getting your ball” is the argument my siblings made many times. By the time my birthday came I woke up in exuberance, running into the kitchen while my mother was preparing breakfast. I greeted her in expectance of something back, I still do not know exactly what I expected but it was not a diluted “good morning”. “It is my birthday, Ma” I said. “Happy birthday”, she said. The smile disappeared from my face as if there were weights attached to the side of my lips by strings. The only sibling older than me was Charlotte, I walked past her on my way outside and was met with a big smile and a hug. My happiness was slightly restored but from then till lunch, that was the only interaction that acknowledged my birthday. That night, my mother came to my room and explained that money was tight which I knew and that it was tough to get two presents only weeks apart. I nodded in agreement and had a satisfied look on my face which wore off when she left the room. It was not the present I was worried about, I wanted to feel acknowledged and made feel as if it was my special day.

In March, it was Charlottes 16th birthday. She woke up to a cake at breakfast and everyone acknowledging her special milestone. At this stage I forgot about my own birthday and felt obliged to make her feel special. The feeling of emptiness when my back hit the bed that night was something unexplainable. I pondered if I am ever going to have a special day, or I am simply unlucky with the day I was born on. Throughout my teenage years I never had the same birthday as my siblings, my mother would always explain that money was tight, and my satisfied face would always drown out with every step she made towards my door, left to wonder why I am cursed.

I am now fifty years old with a wife and three children. From the moment I met my wife twenty seven years ago, I have had twenty seven special days. I have so many tools in my shed I could start my own tool hire business. But it wasn’t the presents, the cake, the tools that made me happy. It is the hug from my wife, my kids running down the stairs and jumping on the couch next to me although that has slowed down as they got older. I have been made feel like I mean something to them. I finally have a special day. I would go through one hundred uncelebrated birthdays to have one day with my family in my own home now. Do not get me wrong my parents were great, I would not change them for the world, but sometimes a child's cravings cannot all be met.

Christmas is just done, and we bought our son a car, something he is forever grateful for. But what inspired me to write this, I found an invoice on the kitchen counter that says what my son got me for my birthday that is coming up in a few days. I have always complained about not having a vice for my shed. But he just bought me one of the most expensive there is. You reading this may not even know what that is, it does not matter, all that matters is that is means a lot to me. Maybe birthdays do matter in the grand scheme of things. We made birthdays to be valuable not just to celebrate a day of one person but to bring everyone closer together. You should not see your birthday as a formality for you to be treated differently, instead be grateful that you are privileged enough to have people that care about you on your special day.

My Significant People and Places

By Jack Moloney

In the rich tapestry of our lives, entwined intricately with ripples of memory and experience,certain people and places emerge as pillars of significance,anchoring us in the currents of time.I am inclined to explore the profound impact these individuals and locality have had on shaping my identity,and understanding of the world around me.Each encounter,whether evanescent or enduring,has left an ingrained mark on the canvas of my existence. I navigate the web of remembrance,weaving together the narratives of those who have decorated my world and the landscapes that have served as the backdrop to my unfolding story.

Birthdays,those annual milestones marking the passage of time,hold a profound significance in our lives. They serve not just markers of another year lived,but as poignant reminders of growth,reflection and celebration. My sister's eleventh birthday two months ago was an enormous revelry of extravagant pre-teen proportions. She and about fifteen others spent the day frolicking around an obstacle course in Cork,with regular breaks for ice cream and birthday cake. If there was any deep reflection going on,it wasn’t obvious to me.If my sister lived a happy and healthy life,she would have lived another seven eleven year old lives before any time catches up with her. I now understand that their presence on this special day reminded me of the strength of our bond and of cherishing those closest to us. In a world filled with distraction and responsibilities,it’s easy to lose sight of the importance of taking time to celebrate the people and places we care about and the moments that bring us joy.

Parents stand as pillars of love,support and guidance. I fondly recall a poignant moment with my father,a tranquil yet heartfelt reflection of his steadfast presence in my life. It was during a tempestuous period of my adolescence when doubts and uncertainties clouded my path. My father offered a steady hand and a listening ear,guiding me through the storm with wisdom and a heart overflowing with unconditional love. His words,simple yet effective, brightened my path forwards. Thinking back,his words instilled within me a sense of resilience and determination,that without,I fear I would have felt adrift. At the time I hadn’t realised, but as I look back I am reminded of the overwhelming influence parents have in shaping our identity and nurturing our growth. They are not only our first teachers but our sustained companions in our lives,endeavoring lessons of resilience,compassion and courage each day. I carry with me the invaluable lessons and love of my family,supporting me in times of uncertainty and propelling me towards a future with hope and possibility.

Home holds a profound significance in our lives. It’s more than just a physical space,it is a place of memories,a current of warmth and security that surpasses the boundaries of four walls. Thinking back,I am reminded of countless moments spent together. Oh how sweet it was to play at home in my treehouse,chase my friends around the yard and read classics on the hammock. I wish I could repeat it all. Being at home nurtured my childhood. I now understand the blessings entrusted to me within its revered walls-the laughter,the tears,the moments of quiet contemplation that have shaped me today. Home,a beacon of light guiding me back to the warmth of family love and the comforting embrace of belonging.

Friendship,camaraderie and shared experiences holds a unique significance in our lives. I am reminded of a cherished memory with a dear friend,Joe. It was a summer evening when we embarked on a spontaneous road trip,music blaring and windows rolled down we set out to the unknown. The cares of the world faded into the rearview mirror,replaced by laughter and the thrill of adventures. I realized the depth of our friendship,a shared sense of kinship and understanding transcending time and space. I now understand the impact friendship has had,shaping my identity,enhancing my life. They are the support that holds us up in times of need,illuminating the darkest of days. I am grateful for the gift of friendship,and for Joe. Love,laughter and the enduring camaraderie of friendship enhancing my existence.

Church holds a profound significance in our lives. For many,it serves as a sanctuary of connection and solace,a place where faith is nurtured and community is cultivated. I affectionately remember Sunday mornings spent attending mass with my family,the resonance of hymns echoing through the nave. One Sunday morning,as I knelt in prayer,surrounded by fellow parishioners,I felt an indestructible sense of peace and belonging. At the time,I found solace amidst the chaos of the world,drawing strength from the rituals that anchored generations of believers. Thinking back, I recall the power of faith to uplift us in times of trial and triumph. Church is more than just a physical structure,it is a spiritual home,a beacon of hope that sheds light on a greater understanding,compassion and communion with the divine. Church is a testament to the power of grace,love and community in shaping my life.

Teachers hold a special significance in our lives. They are not just purveyors of information but nurturers,mentors and champions of potential. I remember a transformative moment in school,a time when a teacher's belief in my abilities sparked flames of inspiration. It was during a challenging period when self-doubt threatened to dim my aims,but a teacher's unrelenting encouragement and guidance provided the catalyst for growth. Thinking back,I am reminded of the impact they had on shaping my character,intellect and worldviews. Teachers are the mentors who inspire curiosity,confidants who offer support. Teachers transform lives and empower individuals to reach their potential.

Role models,beacons of inspiration whose actions inspire us to reach for greatness. For many,Johnny sexton,the Irish rugby teams greatest all-time player,embodies the epitome of resilience,dedication and leadership both on and off the field. I recall with admiration a match-winning drop goal in the dying moments of a fiercely contested game,showcasing not only his technical prowess but his composure under pressure. Johnny’s battle cry to his Ireland team mates when the team was under pressure made all the difference. Thinking back, I am inspired by his relentless pursuit of greatness,his never say die attitude and his unwavering dedication to his craft. Sexton serves as a role model for me beyond his athletic achievements. Sexton serves as a role model for perseverance,resilience,leadership,discipline among others. I look up to him,hoping I can be like him. I draw inspiration from Sexton’s example,embracing lessons of leadership,resilience and dedication. In a world fraught with divide and uncertainty, role models like Johnny Sexton serve as guiding lights to a path of excellence and inspiring me to dare,dream boldly,and reach for the stars.

From the cherished moments spent with family to the quiet solace found within the church walls,each serves as a reminder of the profound significance of human connection and community. As I reflect on the significance of birthdays,friendships,teachers, and role models like Johnny Sexton,I recall the power of resilience,love,inspiration,in shaping my identity and guiding my path. As I navigate the ebbs and flows of life’s journey,I carry with me the lessons learned,memories cherished, bonds forged,weaving together the narratives of past,present and future into a tapestry of love,resilience and significance.

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