Aisling Walsh

Aisling Walsh Celebrates the Return of the Iconic Outcast
“Have you ever been told you’re different, odd, or simply don’t belong? In a world full of normies, do you feel like an outcast?” So says principal Larissa Weems (Gwendoline Cristie) as she introduces Nevermore Academy in the upcoming Netflix series Wednesday. In Tim Burton’s adaptation of the classic Charles Addams cartoon, premiering on November 23rd, Nevermore Academy receives Wednesday Addams (Jenna Ortega) after her eighth public ...

Celebrating life on the spectrum through cinema’s oddballs, misfits & rebels.

‘They have come to find joy, create explosions and reach ecstasy. The circle throbs with the pulse of shared expectations.’

Congratulations to our winners and our runners-up whose entries can be read below.

I thought she would scream at me but, it was worse. She just stared. At the shock on my face, my reddening cheeks and the shards of glass glinting on the carpet.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ I said in a rush, expecting my mother’s retort of: ‘that’s what you always say.’ But she didn’t. She said nothing. She turned around, got in the car and drove away, leaving me to gape at an empty square of air where the pane of frosted glass should have f...

How might we facilitate students to process what they're learning through embodied pedagogies that go beyond the concept of trigger warnings?

In the climax of Stranger Things 3 a giant laser punctures the wall of an underground bunker, breaching the veil between ours and the Upside Down. An alternative dimension which lies parallel to our own, the Upside Down is governed by an evil hive-mind intelligence known as the Mind Flayer. The fissure between worlds looks remarkably like a vulva.

I see vulvas like Cole sees dead people in The Sixth Sense: in rock faces, in clusters of petals, in art, in TV and film. My own predilection for v...

Don’t Write Alone | Writing Life
I had always used writing to try and make sense of myself, without realizing just how much of this was a way of processing a divergent experience of the world.
In the first short story I ever attempted to write (still unpublished), an adolescent girl wakes up to an empty house, her family apparently disappeared. Rather than looking for an explanation for the sudden state of abandonment or trying to resolve the situation, the girl embraces the freedom granted b...

Aisling Walsh
My cervix has been weeping for longer than I know. The pearl-pink nub at the neck of my womb is marked by a lesion which releases a constant trickle of blood. The ulcer was first spotted by my gynaecologist, Linda, when I first visited her clinic on moving from my home country of Ireland to Guatemala in 2014. It is like a grazed knee, but one that refuses to heal.
There is no apparent cause: no infection, no bacteria nor virus; no growths, no other alterations nor injuries. I’ve...

content warning: sexual content
People often believe witches should look a certain way. They imagine us as haggard crones with black hairs curling out of warts protruding from the tips of hooked noses. They project us on screen with our gnarled fingers, tipped with black talons, wrapped around the shaft of straw brooms as we speed across the sky. Or they show us cackling as we wave our wands over steaming cauldrons to cast our spells. On Samhain they dress their daughters in our image – point...

The last Christmas I spent with my mother, we watched two movies of her choice: Casablanca (1942) and The Terminator (1984). Between rounds of chemo and radiation for the cervical cancer which would soon be declared terminal, Mum had little energy to do more than watch TV. Twenty-three at the time, I skipped the usual holiday revelries at the local pub to join her for a glass of wine and fill in some of the gaps in my cinematic history.
Casablanca made sense: the romance, the impossibility of...

The city of Galway is protected from surging tides and increasingly ferocious, year-round, storms by a fabricated wall of rocks stretching from the modest docklands four kilometres west. The promenade, snaking alongside this wall, has allowed the city’s residents a much-needed outdoor respite throughout a year of rolling lockdowns. It is, mercifully, within five kilometres of my sublet and so I break no rules by going there.
I park my bike at the shelter by the diving board where, no matter t...

Runner up of the Spring CNF Contest 2021

They did not believe in ghosts but they were scared of them. On weekend visitations they would sleep three-in-a-bed in the guest room of the rented cottage. The older two would fight over who got to share the double bed with the little one and who had to roll over onto the fold-out camp bed. A single bed lay at the far end of the room, but they were ever annoyed enough with each other to banish anyone to that lonely corner. The unfortunate occupant would have to squeeze their eyes shut agains...

The narrow passage of cinder block painted matte white, with its grey industrial carpet and fluorescent lighting was my eventual weekend and summer playground from eleven years of age until my late teens. Left alone to wander the corridor I would do rounds reading over each framed poster documenting theatre performances from the early 80s, before I was even born, to the present.
It was the only exhibition at the public theatre-gallery where my father worked that was not open to the general pu...