Alliterati Issue 7 by Alliterati

A L L I T E R A T I CREATIVE WRITING AND ARTS MAGAZINE

I S S U E

ALLI TER A TI ISS U E

Hello Aliteratians! Welcome to Issue 7 of Alliterati Magazine! Once again we have pages stuffed with creativity from all over the world! It has been an exciting few months at Alliterati HQ. Editor Bethany Rogers has flown the nest and is now spreading the word en route to New Zealand. Meanwhile, back at the hub, the team is expanding left, right and centre. Check out the work of two of Alliterati’s new faces, Felicity Powell (literary sub-editor) and Maria Abbott (art sub-editor) kicking off this fantastic issue! Maria and fellow art editor, James Ricketts, have some great ideas for reinvigorating our Go Between Project, so if you’ve ever wanted to create something with another writer or artist, drop them a line at gobetween@alliteratimagazine.com. Don’t forget to like our ever-growing Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/alliterati, follow us on Twitter @AlliteratiMag, and check out our website www.alliteratimagazine.com for more info on our contributors.

We’d also like extend lots of thanks to Lucy Coult for helping read all your wonderful submissions! Alliterati is a growing project; help us to be the biggest and best we can! Enjoy! The ‘A’ Team

CO N TE NTS LITERATURE 8 THE UNDEAD FORESTS FELICITY POWELL 12 NIGHT AND DAY JIM MEIROSE 18 THE SHAPE OF NEW WORDS J. MURPHY 20 HOW TO BECOME A SHADOW HOWIE GOOD 22 BITTER TASTE EMMA WHITEHALL 26 ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD KATE HAMMERICH 28 WORD FIRE RODNEY NELSON 30 CONSIDER THE BIRDS CARL GRINDLEY 32 A GRAND UNDERTAKING DANIEL HINDS

42 LEGACY OF THE VISUAL POET CLAIRE ASKEW 44 PARIS JOHN STOCKS 46 THE ONLY CHILD HELEN VICTORIA ANDERSON 48 BATTLEFIELD PARK MELANIE WEBB 50 BOY MATTHEW DUBE 55 BRUNTSFIELD, 6 AM CLAIRE ASKEW 56 DREAM CHRISTOPHER BRYN VINER 58 DIVISION BRIAN KAYSER

CO N TE NTS ART 6 THE BYKER WALL MARIA ABBOTT 9 UNTITLED ALICE JONES 19 UNTITLED HANNAH SCULLY 24 THE SCREAM PAIGE SINKLER 27 UNTITLED ALEX ROBINSON 31 LANDSCAPES MIRIAM HANCILL 41 FREDERICK DAISY BILLOWES

43 UNTITLED JAMES HINDLE 45 STRETCH KIT GRIFFITHS 47 STARFISH ELEANOR BENNETT 54 UNTITLED ELLIE HEGARTY 57 UNTITLED ALICE JONES 61 LINE AND CIRCLE ON BLUE FABIO SASSI

THE

BYKER

FILMED

WALL

INSTALLATION

MARIA ABBOTT

I’ve always been drawn towards the Byker Wall even before I came to Newcastle. I think it is an intriguing idea - making a council estate in the shape of a wall. Walls are used to separate and section which seems opposite to what an estate should be. I’m also interested in the wall itself - each ‘brick’ within the wall is a home, a life. All these lives are stacked, one on top of the other, playing out in unison. A wall made of lives. When I moved to Newcastle I heard many things about the Byker Wall. That it was ‘ugly’ or even that it was a place to be avoided, often coming from the lips of people who had never visited the estate. Intrigued by the bizarre ambiguous reputation of the Wall, I decided to visit it myself. It was my aim to create an art piece that would reflect the TRUE nature of the wall, good or bad, not a filtered version based on the fear and prejudice of the ill-informed. I came to Byker to explore and interview locals to see how living in a ‘wall’ effects their life and whether they believe it oppresses or unites them as a community. Here is a film documentation of my installation piece which features films of the interviews and the wonderful architecture of the Byker Wall.

WATCH THE VIDEO

THE

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UNDEAD

FELICITY POWELL ALICE JONES

You can still smell the smoke Trapped between the paper leaves, The wood sawn and pulped Into a mass of crinkled autumn. But still the dead trees grow; The oaken cases stand in rows With shelves like branches stemming fruit; The books, where inky tree sap flows To hidden seeds who take their root.

FORESTS

NIGHT AND DAY

JIM MEIROSE

Night. Round were the wheels. Great and round and big and dirty. Gurty smiled to Jimmy and went under the stopped train. Jimmy followed scrambling across the trap rock and when they got to the other side there was a great filthy blue locomotive. The engine rumbled inside idling and there was no driver. They went up into the locomotive. And just like that, as though she’d been doing it all her life, Gurty drove the locomotive out of the yard. Men were running after them, but they left them far behind. They rode and rode and night locked about them, and they rode and rode some more. Fun, said Gurty. She leaned forward on the dead man’s throttle. It was dark outside, but for the stars. How far will we go, asked Jimmy. Miles. Miles. They hurtled through the seeming void, the tracks rolling by under them, surging forward through the hole made in the dark by the headlight. Whew. It’s getting hot in here, said Gurty. I know, he said It’s like we’re passing by something large and hot. But I can’t see anything. Me either, he said. It’s pitch dark out. You know what Jimmy? What? Apollo—I had a boyfriend once who used to shave his back and as he shaved, he would strike a naked pose and say Apollo in a deep voice. Was he in love with himself? Jimmy asked. Probably. They shot forward; the stars showered over them, and the roar of the engine surrounded them, as Gurty began muttering low. Helios; I can hear that word in the engine—Helios means Sun. That’s what’s so God-damned hot—it’s all coming clear. It’s the Sun. What? the Sun? but it’s pitch black outside. There’s no Sun— She turned to him. Sun? What are you talking about the Sun for? He threw up his hands. No, no, no, he said—it was you—you mentioned the Sun. What did you mean? Oh. I don’t know. Maybe it was something about wanting a son. I’ve always wanted a son. I wonder if I will ever have a son? The steel walls shuddered. He threw out a hand. How can I tell? Are you and your husband trying? Yes. He shrugged.

So—keep trying. I think you will get what you want. Think so? Sure. Don’t you always say you always get what you want, Gurty? I generally do—oh look— A grade crossing shot by. The crossing gate bells rang their way past. They were shocked. In all the noise, they had almost forgotten they were in a locomotive. It seems cooler now, said Jimmy. We have passed the hot thing by, she said. What do you think it was? The Sun? Even though it’s pitch black out? Who’s to tell? Say, you know what? Speaking of sons. My friend Diana’s going to have a son. She’s going to name him Fred. Oh yeah—hey you know it’s getting too cold in here now. Can we close these side windows? It’s suddenly damned cold out there— The stars flashed by the windows. Don’t see why not. Artemis would like them shut. As would Selene. What? Who are they? There’s nobody here but you and me— That’s right! How observant of you. They’re outside. Outside? How can anybody be outside— Just slide the windows shut, Jimmy. Don’t worry about it. Jimmy slid shut the windows. There—good, she said—they don’t want our heat coming out on them. Who? The cold ones outside. Artemis. Selene. Who? Never mind Jimmy. It’s clear to me you’d never understand. You don’t have to be insulting— Sorry. They didn’t speak for a while. The roar of the engines wound around them—and even with the windows shut, it grew colder in the locomotive cab. Brr, said Jimmy, rubbing his hands together—it reminds me of when I went hunting as a boy and you’d get a chill, it was so cold. When the deer were there you could see their breath— I bet that was beautiful. Well—looking back now, I guess so. But at the time all I knew was I was freezing. The locomotive shuddered under them. The cold stars continued flashing by. Gurty. What? Where are we going anyway? What do you mean? We’re not going anywhere. We’re just stealing this locomotive. I’m offering it up in honor of Chandra— Who’s Chandra. Hindu God. Since when are you into Hindu Gods? I always have been—haven’t I ever talked about it? No. Well—now I have.

Jimmy stepped up next to Gurty. Gurty listen—we must be going someplace—everybody’s always going someplace. Where does this track lead? She pointed at him. Don’t be so impatient! How should I know where it leads? We’ll find out where we’re going when we get there. Then we’ll stop the train and get off and go on our merry way. Like nothing happened you know—like nothing happened at all. But listen—what’s that damned feathered thing on your head? What? He felt his head. There’s nothing on my head. Well there should be! To hide the shining of your bald head! You don’t have to be insulting—say, you’re really leaning on that throttle. We’re going full blast—how fast you think? This thing got a speedometer? The speedometer’s right there. It says a hundred miles an hour. My God! Don’t you think we should slow down a little? Why? So we don’t get killed— Oh get out! Speed never killed Hermes. Speed never killed the Buddha. The Buddha? The Buddha didn’t speed—they didn’t have cars or locomotives back then. What do you mean speed never killed the Buddha? And who is Hermes— I mean what I said—and Hermes is just Hermes— A sudden bump in the tracks jolted them. Gurty slowed down some. Gurty—you better keep the speed down. Maybe the tracks have bad spots. Okay. I know the Buddha would drive more carefully. I don’t think the Buddha drove. How do you know? Gurty, don’t be stupid, said Jimmy. Oh, she said, smiling—who’s being insulting now? Oh never mind, I’m sorry. They were silent a while again wreathed in the noise. At last Jimmy spoke up. Gurty—don’t you think they might be after us for stealing this thing? After us? Yeah. Like switching switches to get us onto a siding or something. To try and stop us. She shook her head. Oh, no, I’d crash before I’d ever stop. I’m not letting up. But I don’t want to die Gurty! Oh for Christ’s sake. Nobody’s going to die! She ignored him. He fidgeted next to her. The black sky and stars flashed by them. The ride was smoother. She smiled as she spoke again. It’s like this train is flying on some big kind of wings, she said. This is more like an airplane than a train. Just look outside at the stars and the black! We’re flying! Do you hear tracks underneath? I don’t. It’s not a train, he said, ignoring her claim. It’s a locomotive. What’s the difference?

train.

A train would have many cars, and a locomotive. We’re just a locomotive with no cars. Not a

Think you’re smart don’t you? Sometimes. Another grade crossing rang past. Their speed was increasing again, because the ride was so smooth. The smoothness came up in Gurty’s legs and caressed her. I suddenly feel romantic, she said. What? I’m thinking of love. I’m thinking of sex. That’s not like you to talk that way Gurty. Well you don’t have to worry. You’re my brother. Worry? Who said I was worried— I don’t know—I’m sorry. I am really sorry for having said that. I don’t know what came over me. I would much rather be a bringer of peace than a sexpot. But I often think of Aphrodite, of Shukra; Goddesses of romance; clear, pure, bright. I can almost see them here with us—it’s like they’re close somehow—they’re in the floor—this heavy steel plating under us— He looked down, then up. What do you mean, in the floor? I’m not sure. Its like driving this locomotive is—giving me ideas. All this noise. All this vibration. All this damned steel. I am thinking about war. What? War? Why? She didn’t answer. Full throttle they roared along again, but the ride stayed like silk. Instead, she shouted. By Ares! By Mangala! What a pure pure ride! What a strong ride! Jimmy gaped at her glowing eyes. Gurty’s hand writhed on the throttle. My God, Jimmy—my God. What? I am thinking about how unlucky brides are to lose their men in war. It is the saddest, saddest thing. Don’t you think so? Sure—but why are you thinking about that? Look out the window, she said with a toss of her head. Outside a tiny object floated by, small as a large clod of earth. What was that? he said. That’s like this locomotive—full of power, strength, might, energy, and capacity. Like Demeter—earth mother. That tiny thing? Its already lost behind us. It looked like you could just crumble it in your hands. Don’t underestimate things. Just because something is small, does not make it less than mighty. Have you heard of Brihaspati, Jimmy? No. What’s this now— Brihaspati. Oh God, that word is so silly! It makes me want to laugh! He helps Gods in war against demons! Think of it! Teacher! Priest! Sky Father! Wars against demons, my ass! Laughing maniacally, she shoved the controls back to full throttle. He cringed beside her. Take it easy, he said. The Gods will protect us. They are all around. Well—that’s good. I’m just glad I can’t see them. I bet they’re scary.

Oh Lord God no, she giggled—they’re cuddly little squishy things—but the Gods do say a person should be tested every twenty two and a half years. Each test should last seven and a half years. Tests? What kind of tests— Tests! Just tests. Whatever they want to throw at you! It might be anything—but after only three tests, you’d be an old geezer. Move slowly. Very slowly. Talk slowly. V-e-ry slowly. What kind of tests though. Tests like in school? No. Tests like—maybe to see how good of a garden you can grow, for example. Did you know that in every garden, there is a snake king? Garden? Snake king? Yes. And it spends its time gazing at the sky. I’ve had gardens with no snakes—as a matter of fact, every garden I’ve had has had no snakes—I used to garden you know—I grew cucumbers and—I remember the night that Nixon resigned, I was out picking big cucumbers— Never mind that. Do you know any magic tricks, you old geezer? Sure. I know how to cut a rope in half and make it whole again. How do you do that? It’s too complicated to explain. I’d have to show you. But what do you mean by old geezer? Famous quote: We’re all old geezers. What the hell are you talking about? Who said that? That’s not for you to know. It’s a private thing with me. You know what, she said, tossing off his question as they crossed a jolt in the tracks. What? I am a true mystic. I can see the future. I can make it rain. I could make it rain so much the whole world would be a sea. A grade crossing glowed ringing past. Oh that would be no good. Oh, but yes. Water. Water is where it’s at—but you know, in the land of the underground, even though there is no water, there is great wealth. Deformed riches. Monstrous riches. But you can’t see it because it’s underground. There’s a whole world in the solidity of the underground. All locked in motionless, hard, mystical—Like those people standing over there in that big pressing crowd watching over us locked in place— I don’t see any people— She laughed until the tears came—and just then the night turned to day and the stars melted into the sudden blue sky. Hey. It’s getting light out. Miles. Miles. How far will we go, Jimmy asked. It was dark outside, but for the stars. She leaned forward on the dead man’s throttle. Fun, said Gurty. They rode and rode and the dawn rose and melted away, and they rode and rode some more. Men were running after them, but they left them far behind. As though she’d been doing it all her life, Gurty drove the locomotive out of the yard. They went up into the locomotive. The engine rumbled inside idling and there was no driver. Jimmy followed, scrambling over the trap rock, and when they were on the other side there was a great filthy blue locomotive. Gurty smiled to Jimmy and went under the stopped train. Great and round and big and dirty. Round were the wheels. Day.

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THE SHAPE OF NEW WORDS J. MURPHY HANNAH SCULLY

Something new rises as the first rains enrich the soil: Words, believed lost, well up past freshly shaped leaves; missing verse ascends through the flowering brush. What was unfinished is ended; secrets curl from the sky’s cuff, forming words spoken by weed and stone. Lost languages burst from a crisscross of roots; rising through the rain’s nib, to be written on breeze and bark. Words that leap from a sea cliff ’s clay rise into our mouths, and we begin to track the orbits of their sounds. Forgotten pages appear in our hands. We begin to whisper lyrics written by the dew; by salt spray billowing from bees’ wings; by a gleam reflected on a polished cup. Our mouths can now shape the newest of words. We need no longer pry them from the fray of regretted lives; heal their scorched hands; shelter them in the well of our mingled blood.

HOW TO BECOME A SHADOW HOWIE GOOD

1 I had just turned six. The universal symbol for handicapped hadn’t even been invented yet. New York was full of snow and poets. If Goodwill wouldn’t accept a donation of books, someone would. I spent that Hanukkah watching Christmas lights blink on and off on the house across the street. 2 The door fell open as of its own free will to our flag missing from its accustomed corner, the classroom clock’s audible heartbeat, rows of empty desks under squalid yellow lights, a gnome-like teacher pausing in mid-sentence while he waited with a look of severe disapproval for me to find my seat, and behind him, still vaguely legible on the board, simple three-letter words, CAT RAT MAT HAT, that seemed only to me to make a song. 3 I wished I was a wolf in the mountains. Wolves don’t wish to be found. After receiving another politely worded rejection, I washed an apple at the sink. All the windows facing the other side of the world were open. Veiled women beckoned me into the Kasbah. The X on the sidewalk marks the spot where I landed.

BITTER

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TASTE

EMMA WHITEHALL PAIGE SINKLER

I was about halfway home before I noticed the woman on the bus. I’d been lolling in my seat for most of the ride, iPod blaring in my ears, in the half-dazed trance that only a long day at work and an even longer bus ride home can bring on. Gazing out of the window, my mind had slipped into a blank state that was reflected by the mid-winter gloom outside. Only darker strands of shadow in the shape of trees and hedges indicated there was anything beyond my thin, grimy pane of glass than a void. I was finally shaken out of it by a text, felt rather than heard. It was from David: WHAT YOU WANT FOR TEA? I’LL (TRY TO) COOK. Xx I had a tiny smile to myself. David and I had only lived together for a few months, and after a life of bachelorhood and ready meals he was still getting to grips with my complicated tastes – that is, more complicated than shoving a pizza in the oven and trying to take it out before it burnt. I considered my options as I stared into space – Pasta? Stuffed peppers? I’ll get that man to like halloumi yet… As my gaze wandered around the bus, it strayed over the only other passenger on the top floor – a woman a few seats in front of me. Nothing particularly eye-catching about her: bottled blonde, long dark coat, Chanel earrings, she sat chewing her nails. Nothing out of the ordinary. I continued weighing up my options for dinner awhile, one of the many heavy metal bands I like thrashing and sobbing in the background of my thoughts. Yet my eyes kept returning to the fellow female on board. She was still biting her nails. Yet it seemed like she was putting a lot more…effort…into it than she should have been. I couldn’t see her face from my seat, only the side of her forehead, her cheek, and her jaw. Her finger wasn’t idling around her lips, like mine sometimes does when I’m concentrating, neither was she worrying at a hangnail. It almost looked like she was chewing, and her jaws were working with quite some force. Every so often, she would turn her head for better purchase, reminding me of a dog with a particularly juicy bone. Or a wolf with a carcass. A few stops before my own, my iPod let out its plaintive “no battery” noise, and one song later, gave up entirely. As I was putting it away, I could hear something, unhindered for the first time by Metallica or Iron Maiden. Although very quiet, I could hear crunching, and gulping. And, underneath that, a pathetic mewling. As the bus neared my stop, I gathered my things, and pressed the “Stop” button. I headed up the gangway. No doubt now, as I shuffled closer – the crunching was coming from— I couldn’t resist. I hate myself for it, even though I tell myself I would have noticed anyway, that who knows what would have happened if I had averted my eyes like a good little commuter and not looked at the woman I’d shared this journey with. I still wish I hadn’t looked. But I did. Curiosity got the better of me and I glanced into her eyes as I made to climb down the bus’s stairs. The middle finger on her right hand was jammed into her mouth, up to the knuckle. The

other fingers, from her thumb onwards, were mangled, shredded messes of muscle and bone. Her other hand lay across her lap; limp, and covered in half-circles of red bite marks. Her face was smeared with blood that dripped down onto her black jacket. But her eyes are what I remember most, what wakes me up in the middle of the night, what stops me with a shudder every time my fingers stray near my mouth in a moment of boredom or concentration. Her eyes were blue, round, and filled with a crazed, depthless fear that I can’t even begin to describe. For a moment, our eyes met; she managed to pull her fingers away from her mouth with a slight sucking noise, and whisper: “I can’t stop.” I admit; I gaped at her for a second. Then, with the determination of someone who knows they are about to vomit and knows the place they are in is not the place to do so, I stumbled down the stairs, threw myself out of the bus’s doors and against a nearby wall. I stood there for a moment, my hands braced, gasping in the cold air. As my senses returned, I turned to tell the driver there was a woman on the top floor who really wasn’t well, she needed– In the callous manner that all bus riders see sometimes in their drivers, mine had pulled the doors shut and was pulling out of the bus stop before I could even fully turn around. A flash of blonde hair from a window, then, nothing. I was alone on the street. Being the option that required the least thought, I turned and wandered home, with only the light of my phone to guide me. Sent by Emma: NOT HUNGRY. NEVER BEEN LESS HUNGRY IN MY LIFE.

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ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD KATE HAMMERICH ALEX ROBINSON

She lets go of the edges of her bed, gently, so gently, her body presses her ribs against the raised circle of springs, breathes out, a ripple of the air that is not quite a sigh. If her bed is a ship at sea it will carry her safely, to another shore, perhaps unlike the one that docks her. If there are storms, a bolt rips the sky, she will allow it to step lightly down her spine. The surface of the world wavers like hot pavement, her eyes lazily grant images through synapse and grey matter, settling one by one into memory.

WORD FIRE

RODNEY NELSON

ranting on barstool and chanting in pew were not the fire or half a match to the need of the ice country alien text in either distorted what wanted out and shortened the way to prairie death a song of joy or rage or dejection would have had long lines in mountain desert with ever-attending sun one of hate or fear would have met a glint in air to carry on the way to its own burnt end the mania in country bar and church got out to the right margin of the page but it was not the fire ice-prairie text did not need to have an acreâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s width only that of a wooden grave marker

CONSIDER THE BIRDS

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CARL GRINDLEY MIRIAM HANCILL

Everything, Jesus claims, was due to A temporary but primo OCD case of ornithology. Apparently, His Father obsessed over the birds, Kept them all cataloged, numbered, pinned to the Earth with little invisible markers, checked their Latin names off in a guidebook, made notes In a special type of blue pen that is invisible To photocopiers, and fretted over sparrow number Two billion, three hundred and forty-five million, Two hundred and twelve thousand, nine Hundred and thirteen just as much as He did the ones above and below it on His list. Christ says the old man let it get way out of Control, spent every waking hour—which Was every hour—doing everything he could— Which was everything—to make an ideal Place for bird; the place He made, Jesus adds, Was this place, the earth. Jesus shrugs. God had to make sure that there were Enough leafy green trees for adequate Nests and shelter from the rain He had to Make to water the trees. He had to find Literally trillions of high perches to Protect His birds from all those cats He had made by mistake after fooling Around creating fructose, ethanol, Grapes, yeast and Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Then there was the grain, says Jesus. God could easily make ample money To pay for that, no, it was the necessity of Ensuring that there were little shops in which To buy the grain, little farm cooperatives to sell Grain to the little shops, little farms to organize The cooperatives, and little farmers to drive the wee Toy tractors around, furrowing and harrowing The earth all for the sake of the birds. By the time Dad was ready to make the farmers, Christ says, He had run out of gas, and birds bored the shit out Him, so He formed the first man out of mud And left it at that. He’s into Civil War now, Says Jesus, but luckily, that’s always on TV.

A GRAND UNDERTAKING OR, THE MODERN INFERNO, DANIEL’S INFERNO AN ABSURD AND UNUSUAL TALE A NOVEL, IN A CHORUS AND THREE ACTS SERIALISED FOR ALLITERATI READ PART ONE IN ISSUE FIVE

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DANIEL HINDS DAISY BILLOWES

Circle Three: Politics ‘For, while awaiting the ruler below the huge temple, he took in All its details, marvelling at how the city had prospered, Noting the artists’ skills, the individual success of their labours.’i

“Defence?” “Well, I voted for Trident, and I would do so again. The first duty of the state is defence, that’s what saved us back then, and if worst comes to the worst, and diplomacy fails, it’ll do so again.” “The environment?” “Now see here, I was never one of those fools who outright denied global warming; I just never saw it as the state’s business to do anything about it. I’m certainly against all these Green taxes. A man should decide what to do with his money depending upon his moral compass. I for one seem to be quite lax with morals on this particular issue, and I’m aware of that, but, the important thing is, it’s up to me to choose to be so.” “Then again, Mr. Hinds, you do seem to be against most taxes, don’t you?” “You’ve clearly done your research, and I applaud you for that. Yes, that is quite right. I’m very much in favour of a small, low-tax state.” I was sat upon a comfy red chair, my interviewer in another, a tiger skin rug between us. The room was rather old fashioned, just the way I liked it. A roaring fireplace at my side, brass lamps mounted on the oak panelled walls, the shelves of a library of the same material filling the rest of the room. An aria from some starlet playing on a gramophone. “Religion?” “I don’t do religion.” “Why do you think your career stalled?” “I perhaps wouldn’t go so far as to say stalled... More, I didn’t quite ascend as far and fast as I’d hoped. I was always too much the romantic, too full of grand ideas, too much a classical liberal.” “Devolution?” i Virgil, Trans. Frederick Ahl Aeneid, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2007. Book One, page 18, line 453-455

“Possibly the greatest mistake ever made in English politics – and I say English quite forcibly, as, really there shouldn’t be any distinction. England is Britain.” “European Union?” “Far too much interference. Free trade, yes. Taking away sovereignty, no. If only we could go back to the European Economic Community.” “Electoral reform?” “Conflicted.” “Health care?” “Again, conflicted. Is it a core human right? Yes, I think so. But obese people, smokers? Have they squandered it? Should we pay for their recklessness? Once I thought the old American system seemed to work quite well, now I am not so certain...” “Foreign affairs?” “I do think the U.S. relation is important, and I adore the capitalist ideology, albeit not the sickening culture of religion and patriotism, with its incessant sharing of sentiment. But, I always felt the Commonwealth to be a missed opportunity. I would have liked to see the evolution of a body of the kind of the EEC, which I described before, free trade and the like. And I’ve always supported the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. It is no matter if Sadam didn’t have any nukes, despots need to be deposed – sorry about that dreadful sound bite there – democracy is a vital thing. The wars were just...” “Just what?” “You misunderstand me. The wars were just, even if their execution was poor.” “Expenses?” “Never claimed any. Never needed to. Probably should have.” Minos, my interviewer, responded with a sly grin. He was in the garb of a judge, the seriousness of his grey wig and black gown rather unfortunately offset by the long tail poking out of his cloak. As I talked it twitched and coiled. To this remark it writhed particularly. “Death penalty?” “Staunchly against.” “Education?” “As you know I’ve always wanted state schools to be of the same quality as private schools, so that everyone gets the same chance at the very start. I think that if the reduction of the state to the size I’ve long argued for was to occur, then more money could go to the few – and they are few – really necessary areas, defence, education, law and healthcare. Particularly education. We have to curb the domination of the private schools. If everyone is equal at the start, you see, the state doesn’t have to provide benefits – except for the injured and disabled of course – or any of that nonsense , because, you see, then it is their own fault. They’ve got the education, they’ve got the motivation, so to speak, and they’re no longer imprisoned by class. And then we have one great capitalist utopia, free enterprise, free movement-” “Ah, immigration, the contentious issue.” “Yes, and perhaps the true reason my career faltered, and here is what really sets me out and alienates me from my peers. I take the quite eccentric view of free movement in the name of global capitalism. Open our borders. Quite different from Enoch, ay? A man should be able to go wherever he pleases, to hell with those that try to stop him. I know this isn’t a view usually taken by the right, but I am a libertarian, as well as a Conservative, and I don’t think you can take any other view on the right, without being a hypocrite. It’s all about freedom. Freedom from high taxes, freedom from state meddling, and the like. And, a core part of that freedom is movement. Social movement, spatial movement, intellectual movement. On freedom, however, I do think there needs to be certain moral boundaries - don’t try to slander me as an anarchist - and punishment for those who stray, and

impinge upon the freedom of others, and here’s where law and order comes in. Quite the Thatcherite sentiment, wouldn’t you say, small state, supreme in its circles.” “Free movement...” Minos chuckled and recited: ‘Fearing precisely this, the Almighty Father confined them Deep within caves, then superimposed high mountain masses, Gave them a ruler who’d understand, from a well-defined contract, How to restrain and, upon his command, give rein to their movements.’ ii “Back to immigration, you’ve been moving about quite a bit yourself here. Causing quite a ruckus.” “I wasn’t aware that was unusual, until recently. Circle Three of Nine, I’ve been told. I wonder what’s at the bottom?” Minos responded with a sly grin. He stood up to leave. His tail no longer moved as he departed. “Oh, and, Mr. Hinds? You’ll fit in well here.” I was left pale and shaken, clutching the padded arms of the chair, to ponder that grim thought. *** ‘And now already there descends the slope – passing these circles, and without a guide – Someone through whom the city will lie open.’iii *** This informative encounter occurred quite some time after I had left that bunker, and I had wandered, sick in mind, and revolted at heart in Hell’s arid landscape awhile, which I shall now regale you of. It was moving forwards and heading down a slope that I had found myself, wading across waves of foaming mire, in the distance, Dis, Hell’s First City: ‘that lofty tower, my eyes had travelled upwards to its summit, drawn by a pair of tiny flames, set there – as now I saw – to signal to a third, so far away the eye could hardly grasp it. I turned towards the ocean of all wisdom:’iv My perceptions, of course, and surmised there to be inhabitants there, perhaps more civilised than those I had prior encountered, due to their more urbane surroundings. To have founded a city in Hell, such enterprise was to my liking. Maybe, I would find sanity there. However, first I had to contend with the marshes of the Styx. As such a thought arose unbidden, a hovercraft appeared, a modern little vessel, ‘within it – as pilot plying these waters – a single galley man who strained the oar’v

ii Virgil, Trans. Frederick Ahl Aeneid, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2007. Book One, page 5, line 60-63 iii Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 71, line 128-130 iv Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 65, line 1-7 Altered to fit context ‘our’ to ‘my.’ v Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 65, line 16-17

uselessly, as the boat was motorised, but, he still clung to it, in what may have been a comfort. He looked mean spirited, but cowed, as if some great punishment had been afforded to him, and I saw upon his quivering flesh much scarring. He gestured, offering me passage, but not discourse. ‘At once – I boarded – the ancient prow put out. It sawed the waves.’vi ‘So rushing forwards on that lifeless slick, there jerked up, fronting me, one brimming slime who spoke: ‘So who – you come on time! – are you?’ And my riposte: ‘I come, perhaps; I’ll not remain.’’vii The brutish befouled was knocked over into the filth upon contact with the vessel. I did not care to ask him his name. The boat sped on, and seeing as I could engage with no equal, I thought to myself: ‘‘We now approach the city known as Dis, its teeming crowds and weighty citizens.’ ‘Already, sir,’ I said, ‘I clearly can make out the minarets beyond this moat, as bright and red, it seems, as if they sprang from fire.’ ‘Eternal fire,’’viii I am glad I found company within those walls; introspection had undone me once before. ‘We now arrived within the deep-dug ditch – the channel round that place disconsolate, whose walls, it seemed to me, were formed of iron.’ix True to my hazy sightings through the marsh’s fog, the walls were full, sentries on all sides, the roar of a city within. Not quite London, but certainly a relief to one accustomed to bustle. Somewhat impolitely the ferryman spoke his first: ‘‘Out you all get!’ he yelled. ‘The entry’s here.’ I saw there, on that threshold – framed – more than a thousand who had rained from Heaven.’x ‘‘Who’s that,’ they hissed, ‘who, yet damned, has will to travel the kingdom of the truly dead?’’xi I answered my name and after some discussion and relaying back to some authority within that city, they looked worriedly about, then asked: ‘You come, but on your own?’xii vi Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 67, line 28-29. Altered to fit context ‘my leader boarded, me as well’ to ‘I boarded.’ vii Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 67, line 28-29. Altered to fit context ‘you come too soon’ to ‘you come in time.’ viii Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 69, line 68-73 ix Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 69, line 76-78 x Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 69, line 81-83 xi Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 69, line 84-85.Altered to fit context ‘ undead, travels’ to ‘damned has will to travel.’ xii Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 8, page 69, line 89. Altered to fit context ‘!’ to ‘?’

I nodded my ascent, and they muttered a little, but seemed in awe. The gates flung open.xiii I entered that house of grief. I had not need to crawl. How can one describe the metropolis of the damned? Men and women long dead filled the streets, there was even, to my delight, commerce. Commerce, dear reader! It warmed my dead heart. Upon my entry a sizeable crowd had gathered, to see this restless soul where the dead rested. I had escaped wastelands and wars to find... well, what had I found? A will to press on, but that comes later. For now I found... politics. I am sure some will delight that many, and most, politicians languish here in Satan’s empire. I too was pleased, though for rather different reasons. A chance to start a career anew in the grand parliament of Dis, standing at the heart of the city, the blazing summit, a mockery of my own parliament. A river of lava by its side, the architecture gothic in the extreme, gargoyles, – what little terror they hold here! – crenulations, and pointed arches. My entry was certain, for, even upon arrival a man met me at the gate to assure me a place would be found for me there. It appeared there were no direct elections, or at least if there was, I heard nothing of it, there was instead merely a series of formalities to go through. As I gallivanted around the city, I found my old arrogance returning, and had tea with many of the already established politicians. It would appear I had caused quite the stir. I soon procured my own quarters - I was actually offered two lodgings, however I saw this to be in bad taste and a tad, extravagant – and was quite content with the current arrangements. It would appear I was that season’s ‘must have,’ and everyone was eager to be seen with me. It was under such circumstances that Minos visited. The interview was published and circled the city like wild fire. I must admit, Minos’s closing remarks left me with some misgivings, but my induction to Parliament was that very day, and so I pushed such thoughts away from the forefront of my mind. The ceremony was grand, full of quaint traditions, dress and custom, and so I became Daniel Glennuel Hinds, Member of Hell’s Parliament. I assumed at this point my obligations to my former constituents to have passed with death. So sorry. Among my peers were many I had known in my London life, and I shall perhaps mention a few herein. My very first session in this strange Commons was in the gallery, watching the debate of the day, wanting to get the feel of the place and the order of debates. My opening address would come tomorrow morning, and as the rising star I would no doubt have to best numerous politicians trying to upstage me. Strange, that most of my contemporaries were modern; there were none of my idols here, who mostly originated from earlier, grander times. So it was that I sat in the gallery with a fellow I had taken a liking to - a blond chap with a rather bumbling manner and a quick wit, who also possessed admirable political sentiment. We had taken to lunching together and discussing the classics, as well as the political machinations going on. I had never had the good fortune to meet him in life, but I had approved of his work. What’s more, I saw an opportunity here, as he was quite well regarded here and was popular with the people, being the only directly elected one of us. The post he occupied was that of the Mayor, and I saw that by aligning myself with him my own favour could only grow. It was here I discovered a rather beastly thing. I was inquiring about someone of note from the past who I was most eager to meet, a Mr Leo Amery. A remarkable man, a First Lord of the Admiralty, and a politician of excellent precognition, and he shared an assortment of my views, particularly on the colonies. I was met with the enigmatic response: “You’ll see soon enough, old fellow.” And so, I waited.

xiii Virgil, Trans. Frederick Ahl Aeneid, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2007. Book Two, page 28, line 27

Two men stepped out from the opposing benches. One a grey man with large glasses and a drab suit, the other a man in a sharp suit with a leopard skin cloak over it. In comparison he seemed youthful, a look only accentuated by a wide grin and large ears. He seemed to spring to his feet; the other staggered and shuffled. Their exchange was brief and horrifying. The grey man talked of consensus, Next Steps Agencies and Europe, however little of what he said was audible over the pomp, style and downright pizzazz of his youthful opponent. For the life of me I can’t remember what he said. Some nonsense about communities, joined up government, coordination, and other such buzzwords, but it was very witty. Upon the slick chap’s closing statement, a discord of screaming began, as the older gentleman burst into flames, and was no more. A politician’s death was quick here. No one seemed to care, let alone remember him, once he disappeared, except for my companion who had an intricate memory of such happenings. “Thatcher... Sir Anthony Eden... Leo Amery, yes we mentioned him already... William Hague...David Laws... John Smith...” Quite shaken, I sat there long after everyone else had departed. Upon exiting to the lobby I chanced upon Minos wandering the corridors of power, a briefcase in hand. ‘‘Into the hollow deep of this grim bowl do any make their way from the Third Circle where nothing, save for thwarted hope, brings pain?’ I put this question to him. ‘Seldom,’ he said.’xiv “I must depart. These people have no ambition left in them. I never dreamed I would say that of politicians. I am resolved to leave. These people have not paused in their ascent, they have stopped, and are sliding slowly downwards, destroying each other as they do so. It is nought but party politics.” Here it was that I began my grand undertaking, a thirst for knowledge and starlight forgotten by too many. There was nought left for me here, or any realm I had since travelled in. ‘The one whom you so keenly wish to see is over there a good way further on, constrained.’ “Where?” “At the bottom, where only Satan is want to go. The Ninth Circle.” “Then I shall set out to reach my glorious goal. Follow in the footsteps of Dante, Aeneas, St Paul.” “I think Vergil is more apt.” I would leave tomorrow evening, after I had my say. Reputation is important. I am a politician. I was greeted to a full chamber. Clearly, I had sparked some interest. The opposing benches jeered at each other, and I found my own seat on the front row. The monarch’s seat was the only one that remained empty, Satan not deigning us with his loathsome presence. As I approached the podium to speak, so too did my opposite number. A large man attired in a kilt with an ugly disposition. Now, the Scottish accent is an ugly thing, coarse and unintelligent, xiv Alighieri, Dante, Trans. Robin Kirkpatrick Inferno, Penguin Classics, London, 2006. Canto 9, page 73, line 16-19. Altered to ‘that first rung’ to ‘the Third Circle.’

and hence has been edited out of the text to preserve cohesion. Here’s what he said, or at least what I think he said: “I’ve heard the Right Honourable Gentleman’s views, and (unintelligible, I assume he disagreed), so there. Forbye Scotland would thrive on its own, and would have a greater say in the European Union.” After which he screamed “Independence!” to a few muted polite claps. “Sirs, I do believe the Right Honourable Gentleman is quite mistaken. As it stands we have little influence in the world, what is the point of division other than boorish nationalistic pride and patriotism. The politics and trade of today are global, and you have little to trade. Nationalism leads to nought but wars and resentment, never was there a more contemptible ideology. You have but to look at your contemporaries, the IRA, Hitler, Nick Griffin. All you really have is a pride of place. There is an easy answer to the West Lotharian question. Scrap the Scottish Parliament, hang devolution, and embrace your part in the world, and Britain as an equal. You would move from leeching off England to leeching off Europe, a core hypocrisy if sovereignty is your professed ambition, villain.” At which the oaf burst into black flames, consumed from the insides. He flailed about the dispatch box, then was gone. I was ill disposed to violence, however that was the way of things here, and I had little choice but to adapt to it or perish. What’s more, I found something romantic about this notion of fencing, words as a weapon; nought but a quick tongue and intellect to save oneself. However, my principal opponent was yet to stand. The leopard coated man had watched all this calmly, a thin shadowy man of pure malevolence whispering in his ear all this time, one row behind. A dour crumpled Scot lurked in turn behind them, eyeing their conversation suspiciously. My opponent stood. ‘His face was that of any honest man, the outer skin all generosity. Its timbre, though, was serpent through and through.’ His coat displayed a dappled marking. He was light and lucid, svelte and quick. It was hard to remember he was one of the damned. “All this talk of remaining as a unanimous whole, from one who never preserved party unity.” “Sir, I am a relic of times past, when an individual was loyal to the state and crown, not to his party, when an individual held his own views. I am a testament to my ideology. What could you know of ideologies, sir?” I am not sure what his reply was, a confusing entanglement of buzzwords and repetition, but his supporters, and they were many, cheered all the same. His words danced before my face. His leopard speed and wit struck out. It would seem I would have to try a different tact; spin and sound bites were the order of the day here. “The Right Honourable Gentleman, or perhaps the ‘right’ is just there to win votes for you, sir, as you lie to left and right, to appease all parts of the spectrum, so you see...” I didn’t even have to get to the real substance of the point, the poor much used wordplay was enough, and the buffoons behind me guffawed loyally. He said, somewhat triumphantly, “You haven’t got any policies.” The juvenile taunt of the political playground, this is something oft used by the witless party in power, and always sure to infuriate me. Parties always have policies, even if they are bad ones.

Even a Liberal Democrat has policies. Now, I am not a man of vicious temperament, but there is nothing I so much loathe as a man who pins his own ignorance upon others. To sully creativity, that spark of distinctly human quality. I made my feelings plain. He struck in turn: “Elocution. Elocution. Elocution.” A wince. A boiling in my stomach, and a heat within me. ‘Around my waist I wear a braided cord.’ “You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!” The substance and archaic gravity of my words sent him reeling, and the very cheers of his own fickle supporters, now in the thrall of this young upstart, cheered me to victory. The leopard burnt before us. But I was not done. “I say this with great reluctance, as I speak to friends and associates, but these words are applicable, dare I say it, to the present situation. There is nought to be achieved here, you debate affairs of a world you have no say in, and have since departed. I leave at nightfall to find some worth in my existence. Gentlemen, adieu!” I left those ancestral halls to a great commotion; it would seem I may have offended a few people.

END OF ACT ONE Act Two Circle Four: Religion I walked from Dis, down through the scorched earth of hell to a chapel, raised on a wobbly foundation of wooden struts. The Gothic grandeur was clearly ancient, and centuries of decay had caused it to crumble on one side. I decided to approach from the proper entrance of a quite awe inspiring archway, itself slightly crumbling. It seemed like the polite thing to do. Outside was a Bishop, large white hat and all, conversing kindly with a man in a turban, with a small ceremonial dagger at his belt. “And I say the true nature of love is forgiveness,” intoned the Bishop gently. “No, no, no, my friend, you are wrong, the true nature is...” Upon my interruption, they both turned to face me, beaming merrily. “Inside you will find love and forgiveness, little one.” The Bishop smiled, somewhat patronisingly. Seeing this as a direction to enter, I walked through the impressive archway, and left the two to their discussion. Inside was a rather less peaceful scene. The Church was packed full of priests, vicars, gurus, holy men of all description, of all faiths. The wobbling Church seemed close to collapsing under the strain and I was quite taken aback by the level of noise. I looked to the souls closest to me, and was dismayed to find two Christian priests, one Catholic, one Protestant, locked in a bitter battle. The Protestant seemed to currently have the upper hand, as he sat atop the other, strangling him. “The Pope... is the... Vicar of... Christ.” The Catholic gasped. “No, he’s just a very... Holy man.” Argued the Protestant, now flailing his pudgy fists at the other.

Looking around in dismay, I saw likewise conflicts were repeated everywhere, rival factions locked in vicious scuffles. Every once in a while they would all fall in a heap, as the Church shook upon its feeble foundations. A monk like fellow tugged upon my sleeve. I looked down on his bald head. “And whose side are you on?” He wheezed, politely. “Surely you are all on the same side.” He gave me a blank look. “Well, I suppose, I’m just sort of on my own side, I find my own path. I always found religion, well, a tad too focused on the little things, I mean I’ve hardly been sent to Hell because I didn’t eat enough communion wafers.” I joked feebly, but I hardly was to expect the strength of his reaction. The monk gasped, then shuffled off to the closest group of fighters, presumably to tell them what I had said. They ceased their engagement, and one poor cardinal had to collect himself from the floor, his hat mournfully all askew, and turned to stare fixatedly at me. The quiet spread across the Church, and all glared at me. I was something of a new enemy. I thought to explain myself better, and so, I took to the pulpit, and addressed my waiting congregation. They all took to their pews expectantly. “Gentlemen,” I started, but found myself competing with several catcalls. “I will only be addressed as your Holiness!” “Gentlemen? Gentlemen! I was a sacred cow once. How dare he!” “Please quiet yourself, gentlemen, your Holiness. You do realise you are in Hell? So clearly you have made some mistake.” I clung to the pulpit, as the Church rocked and was tilted to one side, piling up several holy men. Once everyone had resumed their proper places, the shrieking began. “Blasphemy!” “Heathen!” “Heretic!” “Infidel!” Conforming to the last. “Denounce the denouncer!” Preaching in practice. Where was the “love and forgiveness” I had been promised? The holy men began to stand, one by one, each crying out a solution or contradiction. “He cannot be allowed to live!” “He will not be allowed to live!” “He shall not be allowed to live!” “He must not be allowed to live!” “You do not denounce him properly!” One wailed hysterically, jumping to his feet. “Crucify him.” Said one old, sombre priest, raising himself slowly upright. “That will only glorify him!” “You dare compare him to the Lord!” “One third of our Lord actually!” “Actually, he was just a prophet!” “Cut off his hands!” “Sacrifice him!” And so forth. The squabbling erupted again, all flailing fists and upturned pews. Leaving these men to their petty fight, I crept out, unnoticed through the gaping hole in the building’s side. And so I left Hell’s only Church. The path I took was long and winding from here, and the rocky crags of mountains and hills were soon replaced by stunted shrubbery, that soon progressed to a forest of trees. Soon even the road itself disappeared, and I felt myself grow drowsy, and I fell asleep nestled between the trunk and roots of a tree.

LEGACY OF THE VISUAL POET

2 N

CLAIRE ASKEW JAMES HINDLE

I watch you fiddle a picnic-blanket-spread of newsprint down to a poem. Cross-legged like a kid with dusty ink unstuck at every finger-end you draw the marker’s snub black nib across the page in stifled blots. I remember my grandmother knotting the sheets of the Cumberland News into whorls that she packed under twigs and a smattering glitter of coal. She’d never seen a city but the fires she’d build were fierce and quick to catch. I think of the pages my father would pull out and plaster like wrapping paper over the windscreen of whatever motor he owned at the time. Next morning it came off so stiffened with frost you could snap it. I remember I’d palm it back warm again, smudgy with muck. You snippet yours into vexatious confetti, taking only the best of these shreds for your final, neat, Pritt-sticked-down barcode of verse. Last night you died in a nightmare. I was balled up, the very last page of a woman with thin veins of hair and bones as old as the stones of this house. In the dream there were grandchildren, each one an unsettling image of you. I took down your old card-backed notebook to show them the poems their dazzling grandfather made.

You stand up and hand me a new page of strange, cut-up Morse. I’d had to explain to them first what a newspaper was.

PARIS

2 N

JOHN STOCKS KIT GRIFFITHS

In this city of boulevard cafes, Of trysts and casual intimacies. It is enough to sit and observe The faces, the smooth deliquesce With slowly evolving twilight. To observe how the substance of life uncoils In tiny subtle nuances, half glances The formulae of public exposition. The Parisian who glowers bleakly, Self conscious, awkward with his desire. His eyes black with smouldering misogyny As he stares at the girl, holding her cigarette With a sneer fixed between cheeks and lipstick, Her smoke rising in Pyrrhic victory. In Shakespeare and co. I think of him, Staring over his shoulder with cold eyed fury, Then pretending to select some random book. Whatever he is, is what he must be. Leaving a small part of himself behind Forever in this moment, in this city Reflecting in his world of might have beens On the melancholy final fuck.

45 45

THE ONLY CHILD

2 N

HELEN VICTORIA ANDERSON ELEANOR BENNETT

26th September Jenna is gone. The sooner I come to terms with it, the better. So Danny reckons. Danny and I have nothing to say to each other. Nothing we dare say, anyway. Ever since we first met, we planned Jenna, tried for Jenna, made Jenna and raised Jenna. And now all mention of her is banned. Like the ‘d’ word. “Let’s not talk about it”, he says. “Least said, soonest mended”. Perhaps it’s that easy for a man. Well, Danny can’t stop me turning her name over in my head. He may dictate which thoughts make it out of my mouth, but my head is uncensored territory and this page is all mine. Jenna. Except if he sees it. If you are reading my diary, dear husband, you can hardly have come across it by accident. I have never once known you to turn the mattress, so it’s fair to say you are prying. Spying on me. You have brought this on yourself, so it’s tough if you don’t like it. I can write it as many times as I like. It’s not breaking the rules. Jenna JENNA Jenna JENNA. My beautiful, clever, funny, sensitive, spirited, worryingly thin, one and only child. Jenna was the centre of our universe. Yes, I admit it, Danny - you loved her too. Everyone did. Her personality bounced off the walls, but no-one dived for cover. They hoped that they’d be hit by her magic. You’re supposed to think your own child’s special, but this was different. Strangers would come up to us, saying she should be on the telly, while Jenna just sat in her buggy, accidentally engaging the whole world. My baby was too precious - too talented - to keep. She sailed through primary school, popular but kind. She starred in school productions and aced auditions. Then, she fell in with the wrong crowd and the nightmare began. It wasn’t her fault. They hooked their claws into her, luring her to that gold-lined Gomorrah with their lies about opportunities and glamour – into a hell-hole wherein we couldn’t protect her. Even if she’d let us. Now what are we going to do, Danny? I would never try to replace Jenna. We couldn’t be that lucky again. It’s academic, anyway: my ovaries are giving up the ghost. They say we have half our lives ahead of us, like that will make me feel better. They say I should try to be positive; look to the future. We can throw ourselves into golf and ballroom dancing lessons. We can go on city-breaks outside of school holidays. But we’ll wander round cathedrals with nothing to say. Unmoved. We’ll be one of those couples nursing a single drink all night in the hotel bar. Silent. Silenced. They don’t seem so funny, now. What’s left for us? What’s left of us? I can’t think of anything I want to do if I’m not Jenna’s Mum. Except: Divorce.

There. I said the ‘d’ word. After filing it in my head, well away from my tongue, for so many years, it felt disappointing. No relief. Just more effort gone to waste. I know I promised, but I’m going to call her. She won’t pick up, but I need to key in her number. Hear her voice-mail message, for old times’ sake. Miracles do happen. Maybe it’s not too late. I’ll keep things brief; casual. She might change her mind. Those flatmates of hers seemed so old, so hard, so worldly-wise –so unlike her- I can’t imagine she is really happy down there. She might need her mother. She might need me to offer her a way back. I promise not to say “I told you so”. I can work on giving her space. I’ll be cool – hands-off, but supportive. It’s worth a try, I think. And I was only joking about the ‘d’ word, Danny. We are meant to be together. Jenna won’t want to come home to an abandoned pile of twigs.

BATTLEFIELD PARK

MELANIE WEBB

A sun inside, no spots shelter at its surface -- in flares flustering raised eyes, clarity rearranges sky. Ether’s ocean refracts spine’s beams, fluid with fire light -- on the wind, kite dances smooth, arhythmic.

BOY

MATTHEW DUBE

When his father first went missing, the boy looked for him everywhere. He stood sentinel outside the bathroom for an hour before he finally burst through the door. The cat looked up at him from the tub in surprise. His father was not there. Next he looked for him under the sink, then out in the yard. He peered through fly-specked windows into the front and back seats of both cars in the driveway. He dug through his mother’s purse in the kitchen for her keys to open the driver’s side door of the car, and then the boy pulled the lever that opened the hatchback. But an emptiness took up all the space, leaving no room for his father. Returning the keys to his mother’s purse, he realized he’d missed a spot, and dragged a chair from the kitchen table over in front of the refrigerator. He climbed on top of it, and then, moving swiftly, he pulled the door to the freezer open so quickly he could have caught the light before it turned on if he wasn’t after more important stuff. But no father. He went to the garage, where his father kept a bench with tools, a rotary saw made shimmering and unreal by the dust that accumulated on it. His father’s tools, hammers and awls, hung from hooks threaded through eyes in the pressboard hung from the wall. The boy climbed on top of the work bench and pressed his eye to the holes that weren’t filled with hooks, but didn’t find his father there either. Finally, he sat in the living room and turned on the television. He had seen his father on the television in the past; not often, but sometimes. He flicked between each channel looking for his father but still could not find him. The boy did not know what else to do, so he sat and waited, watching the flickering and insubstantial images on the warped screen of the television set, waiting for one of them to materialize as his father. He was still watching when his mother came out of her bedroom, a bathrobe tied tightly but unevenly around her waist, and dragging a ribbon of cigarette smoke that connected her hand and the carved glass ashtray that rested beside her bed. “This has gone on long enough,” she said. “It’s time we pulled ourselves together.” Within minutes, they were both sitting at the kitchen table (the mother had raised an eyebrow, inciting the boy to silently pull the chair back from where it stood in front of the refrigerator to where it belonged), the boy with parts of a balanced breakfast in a bowl in front of him, and his mother drinking from a can of V-8. “After breakfast,” she said, “we’re going to pack a bag and hit the road.” The boy wasn’t sure how to accommodate this new plan, but he decided that there was no way he was going to let his mother out of his sight. He’d done that once, and look what happened: wherever he might have expected to find his father was where the man could not be found. So, the boy followed his mother from the kitchen to the bedroom, where she pulled out a large striped cloth bag, and watched quietly as she rooted through a dresser drawer till she found the one-piece bathing suit she’d worn on their trip to the beach the summer before, the three of them that is. He followed

her, too, to the hall closet where she took two towels and folded them over to fit them into the bag. “Go ahead and get changed,” she said. “Put on your swimsuit and flip-flops.” But he didn’t want to let her out of his sight, so he stood there with his hand out till she took it. Then he led her with him to his bedroom, and she sat on the edge of his carriage bed while he pulled pants and shorts out of his dresser drawer till he found his swimming trunks. He changed into them while his mother waited on the edge of the bed, and then opened his closet to find his flipflops. “I’m ready,” he said, and shut the closet door. He feared that when he turned around again his mother would be gone, too, but she remained just where he’d left her. He thought that they were going to the beach, so once his mother buckled him into his child seat he didn’t even think about it anymore. But he knew when they stopped after being in the car less than ten minutes, that they hadn’t gone far enough. When he looked up and out of the window to see, he saw that they’d only driven to the city fitness center adjacent to the grocery store. The parking lot wasn’t full at the grocery store, so he didn’t know why they’d parked here, but he took his mother’s hand when she offered and followed her into the gym. They stopped at the front desk and his mother asked for an application. “It’s about time I got off my ass,” she said, and then clucked to herself when the young woman behind the counter looked offended. “Do you accept checks?” his mother asked after she’d filled out the application and passed it back on the clipboard. “With proper ID,” the woman behind the counter said, still fuming, and then it was done. There was a cartoon fountain that sprayed arcs of rainbow tinted light over one corner of the giant pool. There was a bright yellow waterslide and a circular wading pool whose walls were inlaid with decorative tiles, and a lap pool connected to the rest by thin avenues of water, all of it on the other side of a two story glass wall. Entry was through a door at one end of the wall, and the boy was ready to open it and walk inside the aquatic wonderland, but his mom held off. “I still need to change into my swimsuit,” she said, and the boy was ready to follow her into the woman’s locker room when she stopped him at the heavy blonde wood door. “You can’t come in here,” his mother said, and he squinted his eyes at her, trying to determine if it was some sort of trick. “I’ll only be a minute,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere, and then we can swim as long as you want.” It wasn’t enough; too big of a risk and he wouldn’t allow it. He got ready to start crying with a loud bawling wail, something he hadn’t done in public for at least three years. Then his mother broke eye contact and looked past him. “See,” his mother said, and pointed behind his back and down the hallway that led to the front desk. “You can talk to her and I’ll talk to her mother, and then I’ll be right out.” There was a pair walking toward them, a woman about his mom’s age and a little girl about the same age as him, holding hands. In the hand that wasn’t held in her mother’s, the girl carried a heavy black plastic box. It was ridged, with dust in the ridges. There were boxes just like it beside his father’s tool box in the garage, and each held a special tool: a drill, a nail gun, a jigger. “Do you mind,” his mother was already saying to the other adult woman, “if my son sits out here with your daughter? He’s not used to being alone.” The boy thought that sounded close enough to the actual reason, that he worried constantly his mother would leave him next. His mother adopted a wheedling, bargaining tone he couldn’t help but recognize. “It’ll just be a minute.” “What do you say, Rosalie? How would you like to sit with this little boy for a minute while your mom changes her clothes?” The other mother put the question directly to her daughter, using that outside voice that brooked no dissent. Even the boy recognized that. The girl sighed, but not for long and not too loudly, and when she walked off to one side of the hall to wait, the boy followed. He kept his eye on the locker room door until it swung shut, and then he turned to Rosalie.

“Aren’t you going to swim?” he asked the little girl, who seemed like she had no intention in changing out of her sundress. “I don’t swim,” she said, and planted herself on the floor of the hallway, the box flat out on the floor before her. “I’ve got tubes in my ears. To keep them open.” The boy nodded knowingly. He looked at the box and wondered what was inside it. He knew it couldn’t be his father. There was no way or reason for him to be there. But his heart was pounding so hard that he could feel its pulse in his hands. “I like your box, Rosalie,” he said, ready to tell her almost anything if she’d let him touch it. “My name is Rose,” she said. “Only my mother calls me Rosalie.” She set the rugged black box on its side. “It’s a carrying case,” she said, and the boy almost said “I know,” but she was already pulling back the clip that shut it fast in preparation to open it. When she had it open, the boy saw that it was lined with black foam like the boxes that carried his father’s tools, and there were cut out spaces where a drill was meant to rest, snug as a bug in a rug. But in its place, there was a Barbie doll, squashed in so that she made the foam bend and gap around her. She was completely naked, all pink flesh and a cascade of shiny blonde hair. “She’s so pretty,” he ventured, trying to think of the right thing to say to gain the little girl’s favor. “I know,” she said, watching and letting him put his hand on the doll. She leaned over the box and the tips of her hair touched his neck. “It’s hard to believe she’s only plastic.” The boy touched the doll and the empty space in his heart filled. “My father disappeared,” the boy said, uncertain if this girl with tubes in her ears would understand him. “I never had any father,” she said, and pulled the doll free from the foam walls that restrained it. “My mother carried me in her belly and it was just me and her for nine months, and then it was me and her and the world.” “Do you like it?” the boy asked, looking over his shoulder at the door to the locker room, wanting to ask a million questions before that door opened again, but this was the main one. “Can you live a life like that, just the two of you?” “There are places you can go when there are just two of you, when three’s a crowd.” She bent the Barbie forward so that the doll nodded her head at the boy in confirmation of what the girl was saying. This was something the boy knew, but till that moment didn’t know he knew. “There are places where only one can go,” he said, and stood up from the floor. His father might be in the pool, under all that water. He walked off to find out.

BRUNTSFIELD, 6 AM

2 N

CLAIRE ASKEW ELLIE HEGARTY

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dawn and the rain is already unpicking the light with dextrous fingers. The world is grey inlaid with gold. Last night the sycamores daubed their gooey orange handprints on the park, blustery with longing. Double-yellows hem the skirts of the shivering street, and the streetlights mutter their fickle, ugly song. The nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s last cab blinks off its solitary eye, and the city rolls over, takes its first long, ragged drag on the smoke of the day.

DREAM

2 N

CHRISTOPHER BRYN VINER ALICE JONES

Warping round the lens and rose clock calendar, that nightmare gleam – shimmered & clung – brushed stubborn silver bed posts The awry dark dusted timbre sending children’s purple petal eyes to close, and the concealed goose, chucks drunkards in the bath These are the troubled waters; the smouldering wombs of sleep, of apple pink moons and succulent orange peels Dining on vast impressions: sickly, fast, bloodshot light. Scorched African incense or mermaid blue spires To take you captive on steadfast, harmonic verse; that voided breath of skyless birds, blowing seas and bees; aboard the sunken-snooze-nostril-ship. An elevated cryptic stream; the scripture and the languages only understood in dream.

DIVISION

2 N

BRIAN KAYSER FABIO SASSI

I. Gerald came by on a cloudless, 80 degree day. As he pulled into the driveway in his red Cadillac Escalade, he cut the turn too late and bumped the curb. In the passenger seat was an older man, gray hair, with a vintage Tom Selleck mustache. They both stepped out of the car at the same time. Gerald wore a teal blue and green Hawaiian print shirt, buttoned halfway. His friend wore a red tank top, white paint speckling the front. Carol watched from their ten-year-old’s window upstairs, peeking through the corner of the window where the blinds ended. She was careful not to rattle the blinds, although Gerald never glanced in her direction. She checked herself in the mirror again, reapplying strawberry-red lipstick. She pulled her purple tank top down, showing more cleavage while the extra material bunched around her stomach. Show him what he can’t have, Carol thought. She stood at the door of her son’s room. The doorbell sounded, it’s mechanical ding shattering the silence. Carol opened the door, brushing a strand of amber hair from her face. Her heart jumped when she saw him. The way he stood, slouched to the right, both hands in pockets, caused an avalanche of memories: waiting in line at the movies when it was so cold their eyes stung and their breath turned to vapor; ordering burgers after one of David’s tee-ball games; waiting in the hall outside her class with a shopping bag full of Chinese food for a birthday surprise. “Hey,” Carol said. “Come on in.” “Thanks,” Gerald said, avoiding eye contact. “This is my buddy Frank. Frank, Carol.” Frank extended a hand. Carol shook it, then immediately pulled away. The three stood in silence. No one moved. “You said everything was in the living room, right?” Gerald asked, looking beyond Carol to the living room. “Everything’s in there. At least everything so far. We haven’t cleaned the attic yet.” “Thanks,” Gerald said. He walked over to the stacks of brown boxes, taped shut. He recognized the boxes from various moves. The light brown ones from the New York move, the darker ones from the Connecticut move. The permanent marker directing movers to certain rooms had faded. On all boxes was a large “G,” the tops secured by criss-crossing the folds at the top. Carol walked through the living room into the kitchen and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. She thought of offering coffee to Gerald and Frank, then decided against it. She sat at the kitchen bar, newspaper covering the cool granite surface. She pretended to read while gazing at the shrinking stack of boxes. Frank struggled with a heavy box, probably his high school football trophies, the once-golden figurines sitting atop a faux-marble base, a symbol of his fleeting athletic prowess. Gerald’s yearbooks were in there too, Carol thought, having packed his belongings herself. Carol remembered the picture of Gerald running off the football field, grass-stained helmet held over his head in triumph, his thick brown hair matted down, his face beaming. In the foreground,

his father held a clipboard, arms outstretched. Carol heard the story many times and with each telling, the opposing team grew stronger and more invincible. Carol had turned the pages, reading notes from girls. One said: “Call me when you’re a professional.” The guys called him "Gerry," promising unforgettable times over the summer. "That's about it," Gerald said. "I'll have to come back for the chair." Gerald's recliner, moved from the family room, placed in front of the dark oak dining table, looked out of place. There were stains on the right arm that refused to come out, from when James ate spaghetti while watching Home Alone for the hundredth time. There was a small tear in the light blue fabric from where Bubbles, their cat, clawed the recliner. The dark brown finish on the handle was chipped towards the top, from being pushed forwards and back countless times over the years. "Love that chair," Gerald said, leaning against the wall. Sweat marks had formed under his arms and around his face. He wiped his brow with his sleeve of his faded maroon t-shirt printed with the words “Harborview Little League Coach.” “Kids around?" "No," Carol said. "They're at the beach." "The beach? Didn't they know I was coming?" "Yeah," Carol said. "They knew." "Oh," Gerald said, fixing his gaze back to the chair. “Can’t believe James is starting high school next year.” Carol felt an opportunity for a sharp retort about how James and David felt about him. Instead, she said, “They grow up fast.” "I hope they're here when I come back," Gerald said. "Probably tomorrow." "I do, too," Carol said, and she meant it. II. Gerald pulled into his assigned parking space at Harborview Apartments, his Escalade squeezed between two station wagons. He breathed in deeply as he stepped out, his door barely opening halfway. He pressed a button on his keychain and the trunk opened. The boxes had shifted during the drive, the contents spilled. “No offense, man, but your ex is kind of a bitch,” Frank said as he stepped out of the car, pulling his tank top over his head and wiping his face, his hairy stomach exposed. “Definitely the right call to get the hell out of there.” “I wasn’t asking,” Gerald said, putting his scattered yearbooks back in the box. “Just sayin’.” Gerald and Frank made their way to the elevator, where a “Not in Service” sign was taped to the door. Frank hit the button anyway. “It’s not running,” Gerald said. “Sometimes kids put shit like that up as a prank. Give it a minute.” They waited, staring at the illuminated arrow pointing upward. After a minute, Gerald headed for the stairs, hoisting the cardboard box on his shoulder, feeling the corner press into his neck. By the time he reached his door on the third floor, he could feel his shirt dampening, knowing it wouldn’t be long until it was soaked through. Fumbling through his pocket, he found his key and opened the door. He set the box down on the linoleum floor in the kitchen, next to the empty pizza boxes and takeout containers. Following Frank’s lead, Gerald took off his shirt and hung it over a chair to dry out. No one to tell me to keep my shirt on, he thought.

Gerald passed Frank carrying the Christmas ornaments box, probably lightest box he could find. They passed each other without speaking. Three more trips and Gerald was finished, a pyramid of boxes in the kitchen. Frank was already spread out on the couch, beer in hand, flipping through channels. Gerald looked around at his furnished apartment, the table, chairs, sofa, generic furniture for college kids and single men. Gerald liked the layout of his apartment, the small kitchen with the extra-large refrigerator that looked into the dining area and living room, the division of space marked by where the linoleum ended and the carpet began. The entire space was small, but cozy, and impersonal enough to remind him of the hotels he used to stay at, which made him feel important. A picture in a cracked plastic frame hung over the couch of a sailboat in front of a setting sun. He hadn’t noticed the crack when he bought it. Suzanne, the woman he’d met at the bar last week, told him he should get it while they were waiting in line with a box of condoms at CVS at one in the morning. She hung it for him, telling him it gave the room much needed personality. There was space on the mantle above his fake fireplace for a few pictures of James and David, but he didn’t have any with him. When he’d asked Carol for a few pictures of the kids, she told him she’d have to get doubles made when she had time. In the meantime, the pictures were one less thing to have to explain to guests. Gerald grabbed a beer and sat at his black plastic dining table, aiming the fan at his face, enjoying the cool air. “I’d never be able to drink at noon with Carol,” Gerald said, tossing his head back, tilting the bottle. “All those wasted years, man, all those wasted years,” Frank said, reaching into a bag of chips, the crumbs falling to the carpet. Gerald’s eyes fell on the TV Carol practically made him beg for, the one they’d bought before James was born. The Yankees were warming up for the afternoon game of a double-header. He remembered James’ first trip to Yankee Stadium, the too big Yankee hat falling over his eyes, the mitt on his hand the entire game in constant anticipation of a foul ball. It annoyed Gerald how Carol spent more time taking pictures of James watching the game than watching the game itself. “Suzanne just texted me,” Frank said. “She wants to know where we’re going tonight.” “Doesn’t matter to me,” Gerald said. “I didn’t know you had Suzanne’s number. I have it too. It’s around here somewhere.” Gerald turned his head, looking for the napkin with Suzanne’s number on it. “I’ve known Suzie for years. Good gal.” Gerald thought about that, wondered if Frank had been with Suzanne, then realized he didn’t care if he had. “I’m gonna hit the beach for a while before dinner,” Frank said, heading for his apartment across the hall. “Come join me.” “I will,” Frank said. During a commercial break, he walked to the kitchen and stared at the stack of cardboard boxes, his life after twenty-one years of marriage. One by one, Gerald carried the boxes into his coat closet, his yearbooks, old t-shirts, CDs and books, stacking one on top of the other until the closet was full. Gerald had to give the boxes an extra shove to get the door closed, but felt satisfied when the door clicked shut. The couch was damp with sweat from where Frank had been sitting. Gerald slid to the other side. He wasn’t used to watching TV in anything other than his blue chair. The room felt cramped. When Gerald tried to picture a place for his chair, he couldn’t. Carol could keep it. The kids could use it in the basement. James or David could take it to college and leave it on the curb after graduation with a “free” sign taped to it. Someone else would find a use for it.

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ART

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LITERATURE

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