ISSUE 15

To our kind readers,

Some years, the issues are easier to cobble together than others. Sometimes the launch timing is just right, artwork and literature slip beautifully into place, the code runs smoothly and nothing goes wrong as long as the tea is hot and the notebooks dry. This was not one of those years.

Between a cabinet shuffle of editors new and old stretched over two continents, and the panic of three students trying to finish their final dissertations, it’s a wonder we put any new issues out at all.

But all is now right with the Alliterati-world: we have a team of freshfaced new editors hot off the press and raring to go; we have some sensational art and literature pieces to share with you, and which we hope you can enjoy over a cup of hot tea (or another delicious beverage of your choice).

This is going to be my last issue as part of the A-Team and I’ll be sad to see it go, but glad that it rests now in the capable hands of our spiffing new editors. And of course, I’m grateful to our dedicated readers who have stuck with us through thick and thin, and without whose patience and enthusiasm we couldn’t have done it.

So keep a look out, world. Alliterati is not through with you yet.

Felicity Powell, Literature Editor.

2

PHILIP FRANKLAND

4

“For me, an intimate relationship between the works I produce is very important. I work both with ‘live’ paintings, as well as digital reproductions of these paintings.

Once digitally rendered, these print-outs are re-introduced to the process of painting through collage. The simple, almost naïve action of cutting and tearing paper nags at the historically steeped brush mark. The tactility of both mediums is brought into question, as paint and collage layer upon each other. Due consideration is applied to both elements – in turn, careful and concise compositions emerge which hold an air PF of underlying discontent.”

ART 3-5 9 11-12 19-21 26-27 30 37 43

6

Series of Paintings, Phil Frankland Warrior Bearing Teeth, Rebekah Grace Crawshaw ‘Untitled’, Poppy Jackson & Marco Berardi Series of Photographs, Sufia Begum Feather Curtain, Holly Wheeler A Piece of Earth, Holger Kueper Inside Out Pheasant, Juliet Fleming Improvision, Jayne Dent

LITERATURE 8 10 13 14 15-18 22-27 28-29 31 32-35 36 38-39 40 41-42 44 45 46 47 48-49 50-52 53

The Bone Woman, Carmen Thompson Looking For Long Acre Woods, Cathy Boyd Drunk, I Vomit Poetry, Jack Nuttgens Insight, Elliot Christopher Keall Mr X, Alexandra McCaw Strings, Matt Rushton Refresh, Lauren Vevers The Imbalance of Dreams, Marie Mittman A Bench and a Ladder, Sue Wilsea It Calls You Back, Jane Burn Trophies, Jessica Barnes Kairos, Kirsten Luckins The Very Naughty Mantis, Lucas Forthergill Cosmo’s Three Steps to Get Over a Guy, Kenan Ince Love, Science, Kenan Ince No Moon, No Place, Katy Li Outside, David O’Hanlon The Begining of the End of the World, P.J Sambeaux The Dust Lanes, Carmen Thompson Waiting, April Salzano

THE BONE WOMAN

He took the boat out in the creaking light of the first lie in September sun. Alone.

No nets today. Just the long lines.

Baited hooks ready for a lip to nip and suck and not struggle or rip the flesh like net would.

No,the lines are thirty foot deep and kill kind.

They’d only just dropped When something big bit.

It was not a fish.

It was a mess, a bone jangle of lace and pearl in a fish bitten dress.

She twirled by her teeth on the end of his hook like a whirligig. He tried to cut her loose but she hooked her foot upon his foot and on him she did jig.

Pull for shore sailor and he did.

He pulled until his hull hit sand and thanked the fates he was home.

He lit his lamp and cursed the waste of his bait on a bonny lass.

He took what was left of his lines and threw them down on the bait house floor.

Then he heard the clitter clatter Of teeth on the bait house door.

The bones of the sea come just for him.

To rum tum tum on his heart drum With baited hooks of her own.

She looked young. Moon on bone.

Something in him opened the door and she blew in.

Now the rule is, bad luck to touch what the sea chucks out.

But this bone thrown cage of a woman said he could Said she wanted him to.

So he touches her buckled knee where it sits in the place where her jaw should be, he sets her rib cracked creel.

He untangles her tibia from her clavicle, he picks her smooth ulna out from the axe-head of her hip.

He holds and rolls her ticking bones, Forward and back, pulling out razor-shells, weaving in petrel feathers. Quick fingered.

Like his hands were made for the fixing of things.

When he finally found the bow of her jaw She whispered, “No man has ever touched me like that before”.

8

CARMEN THOMPSON

WARRIOR BEARING TEETH

REBEKAH GRACE CRAWSHAW

LOOKING FOR LONG ACRE WOODS I drove for a long time, Looping the Angel, on and off the A1, crawling over a concrete flyover, Finally parking up, two wheels on the kerb.

Rushed and bad-tempered; Time is slipping away.

Now I let the frantic dog out and she pulls towards a muddy track.

Clumps of grass shelter crisp packets, plastic bottles and black bags of dog shit.

Tattered shreds of plastic, bleached to grey, flutter like heraldic pennants on the trees behind And unseen trucks stampede North.

Now she pulls me to the right, Down a gentle slope, into a cocoon of mossy green.

Chilly green air, crushed grass, cool mud fills my head.

I stumble further into the tunnel of trunks and branches, rough bark dusted with yellow lichen, Fresh leaves filtering the sunlight with an infinity of green.

I let her off the lead and she races ahead.

This huge sponge of woodland has soaked up the sounds of the traffic And I find that I am alone in the hush, The earthy smell of life exploding noiselessly around me.

I lift my gaze from the tangled roots that breach the dark soil Trodden down to hard earth, Veins on the back of an ancient hand; my mother’s hand, my hand.

And it takes my breath away.

Green, impossible green, and a thick indigo blush of bluebells Stretches ahead under the twisted, silent trees.

The pungent white of wild garlic in the underwater light Cloaks a sweeter, softer scent.

And long forgotten, familiar words bubble on my tongue: Campion, cowslip and clover, vetch, mayflower, sorrel and celandine.

I taste the sweet juice of pale grass stems, the milky bite of unripe hazelnuts, The sour crunch of raspberry pips, The rank, cloying smell of elder tickles my nose And the laughter of summer days from forty years ago rushes towards me, Spins me round And lifts me up.

10 s ago rushes towards me,

CATHY BOYD

POPPY JACKSON + MARCO BERARDI

“The photos were a collaboration between myself and the photographer Marco Berardi. All are ‘Untitled’, dated 2014, and materials used were a found comode” PJ

12

DRUNK, I VOMIT POETRY

Drunk, I vomit poetry at your feet: measuring ou t shot upon shot of that Rhyme and Metre, disti famous vintage, lled by names for which I nod reverentially, but Kästner, Keats, De Castro barely remember: ; und kennst du das Land , wo der Tequila fließt?

Du wirst es kennenlernen Du kennst es nicht? ! Stop there, you remind me: you mustn’t mix co ble half-formed, unbidd des. Stanzas stumen, from my lips and i begin to soliloquise un your til someone else calls attention: a toast, a toas t! an

d our conversation

is enjambed. So I search for the words and spin the bottle, tending the nestle in my mind, and bar where memories now I pour the syllables into a Pandora’s cauldron so that they sizzle and sp and flambé them it, ready to tumble into the night air.

JACK NUTTGENS

INSIGHT

Happiness can’t be defined. That’s what Jack thought as he lay motionless on the damp grass in the park. Someone could tell someone else what happiness means, but it couldn’t be truthfully expressed in words, and that’s what matters. He made a mental note to compare a dictionary definition of the word ‘happiness’ to how he was feeling right now. He had a hunch that the dictionary definition wouldn’t be satisfactory.

He turned his head to where he thought Rachel was sitting, and asked her how she would define happiness.

“It depends,” she said. “Do you know what happiness is?”

“I have a fairly accurate understanding of the emotion.”

“Hmm...”

“...”

“Well if you know what happiness means, and I know what happiness means, and when we talk to each other about happiness, we both understand what the other person means, then-”

“-the definition becomes irrelevant,” Jack finished. It made sense; words only exist so that people can understand one another, and that wasn’t a problem in their situation. He persisted anyway. “But what if I’m speaking with someone who doesn’t know what happiness is?”

She had an answer to that question too. “I think that if you’re talking to someone who doesn’t know what happiness is, then defining happiness isn’t the problem that needs fixing.”

Once again, the question had been proven wrong. The break in conversation between them revealed that there was an owl hooting in a tree somewhere far off.

“How close do you think that owl is?” asked Rachel.

Jack listened into the night. The murmur of running water that punctuated the park was louder than the soft hoots, making it difficult to tell how far away the owl was.

“I think it’s on the other side of the stream,” Jack said. He waited for a response, but the only voice Jack heard was the owl’s. “What does it look like now?” he asked her. He wanted to hear her speaking again.

“It’s gotten clearer. The sky’s colder now because there aren’t as many clouds to hold the warmth coming from the moon...” she started.

He never got tired of how fascinating her voice was. Other people might describe it as being gravelly, but her voice wasn’t harsh like gravel was. He thought it sounded sandy - like the fine sand on a beach that gently shapes jagged boulders until they become smooth pebbles. That was her voice, sculpting rough words into elegant phrases.

“The stars are much sharper too. Their colours are more pure now; I can see which ones are warmer and which ones are cooler.” He heard her lie down on the grass next to him. “The moon’s also started to hide behind a block of city buildings.” She turned her head and fell silent for a few moments, then whispered “I hate that you can’t see how charming your eyes are.”

“That’s why I like words,” said Jack. “They make the invisible visible.” He could hear her smiling. “What is it?” he asked.

“You know, for a blind boy, you see so much.”

14

ELLIOT CHRISTOPHER KEALL

MR X I call him Mr X. Every day I wait for him in the far corner of the room where I sit and watch people milling quietly in circles. With my skin tone matching the brown paint on the walls, you’d hardly notice me. Sometimes I doze off, letting my neck swing slowly to one side, and I wake up startled if someone in the room raises their voice. There is no sign saying No Talking, but visitors are generally quiet. Maybe they are afraid to be heard by the centuries-old statues standing there? Here in the British Museum. It could be, of course, that they just want peace amidst the work of ancient Rome. So, they walk around and I get paid for watching them.

I’m wondering whether Mr X might turn up today and do his usual drawing. Since discovering him a few weeks ago I can’t stop thinking about him. I give in to the temptation of the daydream: us holding hands and feeding each other with fresh strawberries; or a romantic retreat where we embrace under a waterfall; or champagne on the Eiffel Tower. We have so much in common. I love art, he loves art. He draws, I watch what he draws. He’s bound to be an artist or a sculptor. The day I told my parents my intention of becoming a sculptor, my mother wailed.

‘We’re doomed. We’ll never have money. What’s wrong with being a doctor or an academic?

Way…Wayey…She wants to be a sculptor. It’s a man’s job, anyway. It’s all your fault, Gurban,’ she’d say to my father. ‘It’s your wicked genes she’s inherited.’

After that I decided, if I couldn’t pursue a career as a sculptor at least I’d get a job where I was surrounded by sculptures.

11am. Maybe he’ll come after lunch? I take a breath. I have always had a thing for Westerners, these carriers of fair skin and fine facial features, their stark contrast to my dark complexion, button nose and slanted eyes. The first white man I fell in love with was Mr Loveday. I was twelve years old with a long black ponytail pulled back so tightly it made me look as if I’d had a facelift. I loved him. I loved his straight teeth and the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled.

Deep in my heart I knew we could never be together. Not only was he married, he was much older than me and he taught me Science, but − the biggest obstacle of all − he was English.

Even if I persuaded him to divorce his wife, dragged him to a tanning salon and dyed his hair black, my parents would never have given their blessing for our marriage. Nevertheless, my admiration for him grew each passing day and reached the point when I could no longer hide my affection.

So, I wrote: Mr Loveday, I love you very, very much. I know you’re much older than me, but I don’t mind and am totally happy to run away with you. Signed: Your Valentine (despite it being March). I followed this by kisses and a drawing of a heart with an arrow pierced through it. I slipped my note into my Chemistry notebook and placed it on top of the neat pile stacked on my tutor’s desk. A week passed, then two, then three. Nothing. I was heartbroken. Our love - cursed from the beginning.

‘Excuse me? Can yo take picture fo us?’ A group of Chinese girls, possibly students ask me.

They look straight at me. I am visible again.

‘Yes, of course,’ I reply, straightening my shoulders. I get up and immediately feel a prickly sensation in my legs. ‘Where would you like me to take it?’

‘Here, here,’ they respond in unison and pose in front of Zeus’s bust, which is completely hidden behind their shoulders. All four look identical, like cartoon characters with unnaturally big eyes. They wear coloured ‘big eye’ contact lenses, a Chinese trend to a European image.

And most certainly they are using strips of sticky tape to create double eye-lids.

I never wore wigs or elaborate hair-pieces like the ones on these girls’ heads. Nor did I have skimpy outfits like theirs - just enough to cover their bum cheeks. But I used to wear those lenses. Until one evening when my Dad enquired whether I was ill. My permanently dilated pupils had just managed to make me look permanently shocked. So I was soon back to my Asian, sedate look.

The group now changes their position and are showing the fingers in that ubiquitous ‘V’ sign.

‘One more, one more.’

So, I click the camera again while they are trying their best to look pretty with forced smiles.

After scanning the photos, they thank me and move to the neighbouring section, stumbling on their impossibly high heels.

12.30pm. I return to my seat and take my position. The ticking of my watch and the occasional whisper are sounds I’m accustomed to. But lately, I’m more and more attuned to the sound of footsteps. Rhythmic. Considerate. The steps of Mr X approaching my ‘living quarters’. I don’t even know his name. I’d like to replace Mr X with something elegant, like William or Charles.

I sigh and look at my watch.

3pm swiftly turns into 4. Then 5. No, he is not coming. My Mr X is indeed a big cross on the unlikely future I could have had with him. But what if I don’t want to succumb to an arranged marriage to a man I hardly know? What if I don’t want to be a typical Muslim wife, trapped within four walls and dominated by a Sunni husband? What if I want to be loved by a white man and be treated as equal? These questions would have driven my mother mad. On Dad, on the other hand, they’d have no impact. He’d let his wife take charge of him and everyone else in the household. I always suspected my father must be carrying a white man’s genes, buried deep in him, and occasionally resurfaced only later to be buried again.

‘To fall in love,’ Mum would say, ‘is a big shame. It’s unheard of to fall in love with a man you’re about to marry. What would people say? Your time is running out. I will find it hard to marry you off after the age of twenty-three. Look, Maisa’s daughter is already left on the shelf. Nobody wants to take her for a wife now and she’s only twenty-four. Think about it.’

16

5.30pm. The museum is almost empty. The rapid footsteps of the remaining visitors heading towards the exit echo through the rooms. This is the end of my working week. I get my bag out of the locker and scurry down the staircase when a face appears at the main entrance and asks: ‘I hope you’re not closing, are you?’ My heart speeds up. I can only nod in response.

‘Damn!’ He carries on, scratching the back of his head, ‘I was hoping to finish my project today. Just one statue left. Can I spend at least fifteen minutes to complete Venus’s picture?’

He gives me a pleading look. I carry that look to my supervisor who in return responds with a stern frown and a definite ‘No.’ As my Mr X is turning round to leave, my inner voice is urging me to halt him, assuring me how gutted I’d feel if I didn’t. It keeps shouting, ‘Who cares that he is not Muslim? Here’s your chance now. Stop him. Stop him.’

‘I’ve got Venus’s statue in my workshop,’ I blurt out. Mr X looks at me with his piercing blue eyes. It is like the heaven itself looking at you.

‘My workshop is not too far,’ I continue, feeling my cheeks burning. ‘In fact it’s only twenty minutes away by bus.’

‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘Do you mind if I take you up on your offer?’

‘No, not at all,’ I reply and my fingers brush through my hair.

‘By the way, I’m Marcus,’ he says, stretching out his hand with his joyous manner.

‘Selby,’ I shyly accept his greeting and observe his left hand.

He is single. The thought adds a spring to my steps as I get on the bus with Marcus. I can sense he is watching me. It makes me blush.

‘So, you’re an art student?’ he asks me at last, trying to balance his athletic frame on the unsteady platform of the transport.

‘I finished my course last year. I’m into sculpture.’ I grip one of the hanging loops of the bus to stop me from falling into the arms of Marcus. Not that I would have minded.

‘I’ve seen you a few times in the Museum and thought, what a pretty girl. Must be bored out of her wits.’

‘Yes, it can be boring at times.’ I laugh and blush again. ‘But I don’t mind working as an attendant. It’s such an amazing place just to be in. Besides, my workshop keeps me busy in the evenings and weekends.’

‘What do you do with the statues you’ve made? Do you sell them?’ He enquires standing so close to me that I can smell him.

‘Oh, no. It is just a hobby of mine.’ I wave my hand and press the stop button on one of the rails of the bus with Marcus almost touching my back as we descend onto the ground.

My basement workshop is slightly damp. It does not seem to deter Marcus from drawing the exact copy of the original Venus. I watch him behind my half-finished busts and pray to God that no one will come into my getaway uninvited, and expose my secret affair with a white man. Who would have thought that the Mr X I first saw a few weeks ago would be sitting in it and drawing my work of art? An army of goose bumps marches across my skin. He sweeps his fringe off his face to clear his vision as he carefully sketches the outlines of the statue. Now and again he briefly glances at me and smiles. I smile back.

‘Would you like some tea?’ I offer, breaking the silence.

‘Yes, please. Milk, no sugar,’ he replies as if he anticipated that question. I quickly put a kettle on in my tiny kitchenette and brew his tea in a mug shaped as the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I take it to him. And, as I stretch the mug out to him, I accidentally spill the hot liquid on my fingers.

I screech. He shoots up, takes my hand into his and asks what happened. His curly blonde hair stroke my cheeks as he blows on my burnt fingers. His scent of charcoal is better than any drug. I want him to kiss me. Just one kiss from Marcus before my mother forces me to marry one of my cousins or a distant Muslim relative whom I’ve never met, before I bury my freedom behind the veil of a sacred marriage. Just one kiss, that’s all I want from my Englishman to treasure for the rest of my life. Who knows, maybe I will finally manage to run away with a white man and escape my premeditated fate?

I lean forward and whisper, ‘Marcus’. He looks up. My breathing speeds up. I try to utter those two words, but instead I say, ‘Can I have a tissue to wrap around my finger?’

‘Of course,’ says Marcus and fumbles in his trouser pockets. And as he gets a white handkerchief out, a circle of gold, a metal band hits the cement floor and runs full circle before coming to a stop right there, there in the middle of the room.

ALEXANDRA McCAW

18

STREETS OF HEBRON

SUFIA BEGUM

BAHJAT SALAMIC

FATHER A

“I recently came back from travelling Palestine, I and the ancient city of Jerusalem. With the curr was to humanise the Palestinians through my ph them as a people who have hopes, dreams and

20

AND SON

JIJ (GRANDFATHER)

I visited Hebron, West Bank, Bethlehem, Jericho rent political situation in Palestine my intention hotography so we look beyond statistics and see aspirations just like us.�

SB

STRINGS Ian Maine raised himself onto the edge of the bed. He was having a day off and he was not alone. Through the open bathroom door, Sara, his naked, long-limbed companion was spitting into the sink. I wonder if she used the right toothbrush, Ian thought briefly, wiping a hand across his head and then returning it to the edge of the bed. He clung to the mattress as if it was a set of railings and stared through the window opposite blankly, his lips pursing together into a stern, almost bored expression. Through the window it was grey and wet…

Sara came out in a white cotton gown with her hair tied up into a bun. She looked younger now some of her makeup had rubbed off, almost like a schoolgirl. She sat down behind Ian in the middle of the mattress and placed her arms around his shoulders. Her hands began to play with the curled hair on his chest.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘Still early,’ he almost whispered.

‘Nothing’s due?’

‘No, no…’

Trees in front of the house nodded in the rain, their dark branches swaying gently as if underwater.

Ian came to.

‘Right,’ his voice rang clearer. ‘Shall I get you another cup of tea?’

‘Please,’ she lay down into the pillows that were strung across the bedding. ‘Don’t forget sugar.’

‘I won’t,’ he frowned, wrapping a loose, red gown around himself. ‘Sweet tooth.’

There was a knock at the front door.

Sara pulled the sheet up to her neck. ‘Who’s that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ian edged over to the window, but couldn’t see anything. ‘The postman?’

The knocking came again.

‘You go and get it while I go in the shower,’ Sara said, already heading for the bathroom.

The knocking came one more time, several sharp rasps against the front door. Ian tied his gown tightly around himself and went downstairs.

‘I’m here about the piano,’ the man said. He was a tall, sloping, pale man in his early thirties, wearing a dark suit and shirt, with black, square glasses and carrying a white stick.

‘The piano?’

‘Yes, I’m here to tune it.’

‘Well it’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘May I come in?’ he smiled.

‘Okay,’ Ian moved aside. ‘Come on in.’

He closed the door and they stood close together in the hall.

‘Err, just follow my voice.’ Ian walked backwards down the hall and towards the lounge.

The piano was pushed into one corner by a set of large patio doors. The other half of the room was taken up by two sofas, a small table in-between them and a large flat television. Ian headed for the patio doors.

22

The piano was only small: a stout, pale wooden box, bought many years ago more for something befitting a family home than any practical use. The man came up to it, felt for the seat and opened the fallboard.

Ian shrugged, held his hands out in the air and offered an inquisitive sound. ‘Can I get you a drink or any-’ ‘Tea, please,’ the man said. ‘Strong, no sugar.’ He was already shaping his slender white hands across the keys, delicately playing notes.

The crisp sounds followed Ian through to the kitchen. It recalled many days of hearing other hands on the piano and the many times he had asked them to be quiet. He leant against the kitchen side and watched the rain through the window. The lower half of the panel began to steam up as the kettle clicked. The spoon clattered weakly against the ceramic as he stirred.

‘Thank you,’ the man said as Ian put his mug onto the wooden arm of the piano, the contents still in motion, swirling around in a brown cyclone.

In the light from the patio Ian took a closer look at the man. From the side he could see behind his glasses. The man’s eyes were half closed and the pupils looked to one side as if he was deep in thought, or trying to conjure old memories. His skin was pale, and made even paler by his black hair and glasses.

‘So, did my wife call you then?’ Ian asked.

‘I don’t know, I just go where I’m needed.’

‘I’d heard of blind piano tuners,’ Ian said, sipping his tea. ‘Never actually seen one though.’

‘Me neither.’

‘You’ve perfect pitch, isn’t that right?’

‘The loss of one sense enhances the others,’ he tilted his head towards the patio. ‘Close your eyes, what do you hear?’

Ian smiled, tensed his jaw and then drew his eyelids together. From above him the shower beat louder than the rain.

‘Nothing much,’ he said, opening his eyes.

‘Hmm,’ the man shrugged. ‘I can hear when something’s not right. This, for example,’ he struck a key. The faint noise carried weakly across the room.

‘Sounds fine to me.’

The man laughed loudly and raised his head into the air. ‘It’s all wrong.’ He spread his hand wildly over the keys. ‘You hear that though?’

‘Yes, I hear that,’ Ian folded his arms, not enjoying being laughed at.

‘Little keys, little problems, little keys unlock big problems,’ the man muttered to himself as he stood up. He began to remove the lid from the top of the piano. ‘This isn’t for your use, is it?’

‘How did you guess,’ Ian said dryly, spreading his legs apart.

‘Who plays it?’

‘My wife and two daughters.’

‘They’re good?’ he stopped what he was doing and turned to face Ian. ‘They can play,’ he coughed and then swallowed. ‘I don’t know their grades, but erm- ’ The man turned back to the exposed piano lid. He had one hand down the back of it whilst the other continued to make chords along the keys.

‘It’s just a box of wood to me,’ Ian added, and then started to swing the belt of his dressing gown childishly.

A silence fell. Ian stepped forward and said with a frown: ‘What exactly are you doing back there?’

With the roof off Ian could see into the piano. The thick copper strings were lined up in a row and the man plucked them.

‘More than just box a wood,’ he grinned at Ian, and then quietly began to laugh as if at some private joke Ian was not a part of.

‘I’ve seen that before, at school’ Ian stepped away from the piano and leant against the patio door. ‘We had a teacher, Mr Loughery, and one day at assembly he spent an hour showing us how it worked. He took the lid off like that, except this one was at the front so we could see into the heart of it. Well we were all fascinated, it was like looking into a machine. I’d forgotten about that until just now.’

From upstairs came the sound of the bathroom door closing and then a trail of footsteps along the landing.

‘Someone home?’

‘It’s an old house.’

‘A shame,’ the man sighed. ‘I’d like to meet your wife.’

‘Oh?’ ‘Your daughters too.’

‘That’s them on the side,’ Ian pointed to a photograph on the mantle piece across the room.

‘I’d show it to you...’

‘Alas,’ the man grinned and lifted his head from the piano to look at Ian. ‘Describe them to me.’

‘What?’ he replied, slightly shocked. ‘I don’t know if I can.’

‘Start with the picture.’

‘I don’t want to disturb your work or-’ ‘I can do two things at once.’

‘Right, well then,’ Ian crossed the room and picked up the photograph. The frame was a large rectangular mirror chosen by his wife. The photograph had been silently selected, developed, carefully inserted into the frame and then placed onto the mantelpiece without any of his input. The weight of it surprised him. Looking down at the picture his tanned skin poked itself into a corner of the bright surface, a trail of his hair too. His features were dimly reflected in the photograph itself.

‘Well,’ he began, clearing his throat. ‘This was taken earlier this year, it’s the four of us, we’re standing together in a park and there’s a cathedral in the background- do you want me to describe that as well?’

‘I know what a cathedral looks like.’

‘Okay,’ Ian raised his brows and looked again at the photograph. He ran a hand bashfully across his head. ‘Yes I remember this day now. We had gone to York…this is the park there, by the Minster. I have two daughters, Emily and Amy, born a year apart, they’re like twins.

They’re stood in the middle, with me and my wife either side of them. This was winter, so we’re all dressed for the weather. Big coats, gloves, the girls have woolly hats on.’

‘Do they look like you?’

‘No, no, thankfully they took after their mother,’ he laughed. ‘Her dark hair, black really, and then beautifully fair skin, like porcelain. They’re both smiling at the camera. Two China dolls.’

Ian paused, staring at the picture. When he started to speak again his voice was softer. ‘Emily is going to university next year, then it’ll be Amy. They’re both smart, smarter than I am. Emily wants to do law like her mother.

24

‘It’s old fashioned, but the first time I saw my wife it was across a room. She was sat on someone’s knee…then after that I just kept her seeing her around. She’s a great mother. She looks happy here, she’s smiling so much you can see her gums. I always say that if someone is really smiling you can see their gums.

‘We were married eight years before Emily came around. There was a bit of trouble with it…’

Ian paused and turned to the patio door. The soft clutches of a piano chord filled the brief silence.

‘What are you doing in the picture?’ the man asked.

‘Me? Well I’m just stood there smiling like an idiot. It’s a good picture, yes, it was a good day,’ he scratched his head all the way down to under his chin. ‘There was a bloody commotion on the way home though, something over nothing, I can’t even remember now.’

The rain had stopped while Ian had been talking and a low ray of sunlight glistened through the grass. Each blade bearded with water and the whole garden glimmering with rain and light.

‘I’m done here,’ the man said closing the lid of the piano.

Ian turned to face him, widening and then blinking his eyes as if he had just woken up.

‘Won’t you play something now it’s tuned?’

‘What would you like me to play?’

‘Oh anything, something good.’

Back upstairs Sara sat at the dressing table, a towel wrapped around her and another twirled around her head. She shook this one free and began to rub it against her hair.

‘You were gone a while,’ she said looking into the mirror on the wall. ‘Who was it?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Ian, who was it?’

‘Oh,’ he turned to look at Sara. Beyond her, in the mirror that framed the delicate angle of her shoulders, he saw himself clearly: saw his tired, drooped face and below this his stomach, ballooned out between the folds of his dressing gown. ‘It was the gas man, he came to check the meter.’

‘Okay,’ she began to pull at the belt of his gown with her free hand. Ian moved away and stood by the window. He could see nothing except the trees that stood there; calm, elegant in their poise, shaking the rain from their branches and waiting for the sunlight.

‘Listen, get dressed and I’ll take you home,’ he said firmly.

‘What?’ her face was sullen and confused in the mirror. She put down the hairbrush and turned around in her seat.

‘Just put some clothes on,’ he picked up her skirt up from the floor and flung it towards her. ‘For God’s sake put some clothes on.’

MATT RUSHTON

26

FEATHER CURTAIN HOLLY WHEELER

REFRESH.

“DOES ANY1 HAVE SPEAKERS?11!!”

“Hey, you coming out?” The boy hadn’t bothered to knock.

“Maybe.”

“Fuck. What happened?” He was surveying the soiled clothes, her room and then his gaze fixed on her. Wisps of pubic hair were showing above the cream lace elastic of her knickers.

“An accident.”

“Well it’s fucking grim. You need to clean up. Do you want a beer?”

“Sure.”

“It’s nice and cold,” he said.

She took a sip. “It’s lovely.”

In the living room looped footage of kittens were being projected onto the wall. Someone had made a Spotify playlist – mostly dark electronic stuff. Someone else had set up a Sony HD camera on a tripod like you would for a child’s first birthday. She thought that was meant to be ironic, or something.

The next day she had to go online again so she could un-tag herself from the videos. An extended clip had been uploaded onto Vimeo and put through a filter called “Hil’s Eyes”. She was dancing with others though the focus was on her as she moved languorously in the same spot.

“BEAUT” “Bloody hell. I would” “Oh stop it! You soooo purdy. Love ya xox” She needed to scroll to the end.She didn’t look tired thanks to MAC, Maybelline, Dior. She Instagrammed a photo from the back of the taxi. 2.59pm. #Flawless. #Yolo. #Selfie. #Layydie.

“Hey MW, I fancy the shit out of you. I guess that’s no secret ;)” “Good tits” “You fine gurrrl!”

Thirty-seven likes in 9 minutes.

“Can you drop me here,” she told the driver. She knew he’d keep staring in the rear-view mirror until she reached the automatic door.

28

Afterwards she bought a Happy Meal in McDonalds which she vomited onto her shoes in a bathroom cubicle. Her cheek was squashed against the sanitary bin and the gynecological odour made her wretch some more – blood, Bodyform, floral-scented party-liners, discharge, Tampax, vulva, clit, Vagisil, muscosal tissue, muscosal, nightmare of muscosal, muscosal the loveless, muscosal the unloved. It was the first time she’d been alone all day.

The shop assistant was staring. He said nothing when she walked in, barefoot, leaving imprints of sweat on vinyl. The shoes she picked were identical to the ones she’d ruined. They even fit the same, cradling the fleshy part of her sole in synthetic carmine folds. She took out her iPhone. It took a long time to choose a filter because her hands were shaking; it felt like an important upload. She was thinking about it more than usual and this consideration unnerved her. The frame cut her off at the waist; her hips, legs, feet disembodied, sawn through the womb. No one liked the post right away so she pressed refresh and waited.

“Ugh. Disgustingly cute” “Naughty” She caught the X67 and sat next to a girl called Jane. They’d met once and followed each other on Twitter. She saw Jane was in town to buy a dress for her sister’s wedding. There seemed no point in acknowledging each other and going through the formality of conversation.

At home she took off her jeans. If the stain wouldn’t come out in the wash then she knew she could purchase them online – they were this season’s collection. She threw out her underwear and put on a clean pair. Logging into Facebook and refreshing the page was something to do; it gave her time to think. Besides, her MacBook Pro was resting on her bare thighs and the burning heat and the hum of the internal mechanism was soothing. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was somewhere else. Outdoors in spring and she could feel the sun between the gaps in her eyelashes. Relentless notifications probed her back to consciousness.

Internet wanted feeding.

“Let’s hang out tonight? I miss you” “So excited for this! Gonnnna be lols” “Baby, I think I want you :P”

LAUREN VEVERS

A PIECE OF EARTH HOLGER KUEPER

30

THE IMBALANCE OF DREAMS She had always loved lemons; sour, bitter things that made her shudder and cringe. She had always loved nights when the wind was so cold it bit her skin, and the warmth on the other side of a window seemed light years away.

It was a night like that when they first met: ice crystals forming on window panes, the smell of Christmas so strong it even took over the air in the tram. He was in the seat behind her and she knew that there was darkness in his eyes. She didn’t need to look, she felt it – felt him scanning his surroundings and her with them.

A week later, she saw him in a small cafe. They were on different sides of the window, but for a split second, their gazes met. He raised his hand in greeting – color-stained glove with the tips cut off, fingers covered with countless thin scars. And she walked inside and sat with him.

He told her that he could have gone to art school, but he did not believe in it. His sketch pad was between them on the table, and she flipped through the drawings page by page. Some were made up of hard black lines, and in places the pen’s tip had torn through the paper. Others though, were of the lightest colors, elegant and floating.

Still, all of them were sad.

“Three years from now,” she said during a walk in the park, her backpack with uni stuff slung over her shoulder, “I’ll be an architect. There is safety in buildings, you know, in clear structures and solid walls. That’s what I want for myself and for others.”

He looked at her for a long moment, walking without watching his step.

“Safety?” he repeated. “Safety so you can let dreams grow but never live them?”

And she shook her head as if he simply didn’t understand, for she didn’t know what else to say. She couldn’t bring herself to ask about his dreams; she was afraid of the answer.

Then, he took her to the deserted buildings where his sketches came to life. He slept there most nights, amidst crumbling concrete and nesting pigeons. Painting patrons in cafés was what he did to pay for food and clothes – little as he needed – yet this was what he did for living: He climbed the stairs to the tenth floor and then out of broken windows, with the glass shards still stuck in the frame cutting his fingers again and again. He sprayed his graffiti on the wall and moved on a night later, always looking for the next abyss to best.

“Aren’t you scared?” she asked him. “Isn’t there anything else you –“ Yet he quickly sealed her lips with a kiss. He sat on the guardrail of a decaying balcony, smiling at her ever so slightly.

“No, I don’t want anything else than this. I don’t dream, I live.”

Down below, distant traffic rushed like a river, while up in the ruins he left colorful traces on her skin.

MARIE MITTMAN

A BENCH AND A LADDER ‘Move the Cancer Bench for Christsake,’ I yelled through the kitchen window at Sam’s back.

‘Mum...’ Flora said reproachfully, a frown pleating her pale forehead as she pushed chunks of pepper, courgette and mushroom onto skewers. She had cut them into equally sized pieces and lined them up in military rows on the worktop.

‘Just shove it up against the wall, then we can get the other chairs round the table!’

‘I’m busy, just in case you hadn’t noticed!’ Sam shouted over his shoulder. ‘These chicken portions are taking bloody ages. Lads, get off your lazy arses and shift the bench will you!’

I watched as Robbie and his mate Danny remained on the loungers, twitching to music pounding through their ear buds. Then I bellowed, ‘And remember not to let Flora’s veggie burger touch the real ones!’

‘Do you two have to shout all of the time? And you shouldn’t call it that,’ Flora said.

‘Call what what?’

‘You know, the bench. The C word.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Flora!’

‘Swearbox. One pound for the f word. That’s what we agreed.’

‘You agreed – I don’t remember doing so. Anyway, why shouldn’t I call it the Cancer Bench if I want to?’ I asked irritably as I dunked dirty plates in the sink and rinsed them under the tap. Flora was such a prissy little madam. God knows how Sam and I managed to produce her.

‘Because it’s something I’d rather forget.’

‘It wasn’t a barrel of laughs for me. How long are you going to be faffing about with those kebabs?’

I’d spotted the bench at a local craft fair, somewhere that, as I said to Sam, under normal circumstances he wouldn’t be seen dead at. He flinched at my choice of words. I also told him I was only killing time and he didn’t appreciate that either. It was odd because neither of us has ever been coy about discussing and joking about the biggies: sex, religion, death.

We’ve always made it a policy to talk openly in front of the kids even though it embarrassed them. But then again they’re going to get embarrassed whatever we say. We’ve got Larkin’s quote about your parents fucking you up in the downstairs loo and I’ve noticed that the kids always direct visitors to the upstairs one.

32

The seat of the bench was made out of solid wood – probably oak – a beautiful rich conker brown buffed up until it gleamed. I couldn’t resist reaching out and placing my palm flat on its warm surface and although we already had plenty of garden chairs, not to mention a swing seat and the aptly named loungers, I had to have it. From that moment the word ‘malignant’ had entered our everyday vocabulary, almost three months previously, Sam could refuse me nothing and he eagerly handed over a wad of twenties, as if by doing so he could buy my health. While we waited for the biopsy results, a matter of days, we were both aware of every minute of every hour. It wasn’t that time stood still – more that every moment was imbued with a sense of significance. While cleaving together, we each dealt with the situation in our own way. Sam needed to make big gestures whereas with me it was mundane activities about which I agonised:

whether to book the City Break that we took each Autumn or whether to get my winter coat dry cleaned. In three months time I had an appointment for a full head of highlights: would there be any hair left to highlight?

‘I’d get you the moon if I could find a long enough ladder,’ Sam announced the evening before Judgement Day, ‘I would you know. I bloody would.’

He had tears in his eyes and his hand shook as he raised a glass to his lips. To be fair, we had both consumed the best part of two bottles of Rioja and I told him not to be such a silly bugger. The next morning was a scorcher, the kind of day when, before our world had shifted on its axis, I would have rushed home from work to lie out on the back grass, feeling the heat flush my bare skin. Now the sun streaming through the thin bedroom curtains seemed to taunt us. We stumbled out of bed heavy-headed, dressed, showered, and went downstairs.

Sam had insisted we didn’t tell the kids about the significance of the day but they probably guessed, what with their dad stopping off work and both of us being so nice to one another.

Robbie even offered to stack the dishwasher, which was unheard of, but reassuringly Flora was her usual schoolmarmy self, pointing out how many units of alcohol we’d consumed the night before.

When it came to it, the verdict was swift. In fact, Dr Randall didn’t need to say anything.

From the moment I stepped inside the air-conditioned consulting room and felt the soft coolness of the air on my bare arms, and saw the relaxation of the muscles around his mouth, I knew I was in the clear. Apart from minor scarring under my arms where lymph glands had been removed and not being able to sunbathe, there would be nothing in my day-to-day existence to serve as a reminder.

I’d like to say that because of my scare I valued life more, that Sam was more attentive, the kids more unselfish. But none of those things happened. It’s like driving very carefully immediately after you’ve been done for speeding: you soon forget and drive as fast as you did before, perhaps even faster assuming that the odds on getting caught again have been reduced.

As for the Cancer Bench, at first it seemed important that it was looked after. I put an old motorbike cover of Sam’s over it at night and gave it a rub down every day to get rid of splashes of bird shit and fallen leaves. Standing at the kitchen window, I could see its rich, nutty solidity: confirmation that nothing had changed after all.But over the summer I forgot to put the cover on every night. After all, I told myself, the bench was hardy. A bit of rain wouldn’t hurt and a quick wipe every few days should be enough to keep it looking alright.

Routine reasserted itself: work, evening meetings, Friday pub quiz, Saturday a take away in front of the telly. The care I’d lavished on the bench seemed a bit OTT when none of our other furniture, garden or otherwise, got that amount of attention.

In my few rare moments of reflection I mourned the passing of my cancer and I know how weird that sounds. More than weird. Perverse. I struggled to explain it to myself but it was something to do with the fact that for those limbo days, when Sam and I knew something that nobody else did, we lived in our own private bubble. It reminded me of the start of our relationship when his every touch, gesture and look meant something and I held my breath in case he didn’t feel the same, or that we wouldn’t last. Both times we spent hours lying face to face, tasting each other’s breath, the sensual bordering on sexual, delaying the moment when our bodies would fuse, when the extraordinary became mundane.

That BBQ, in early September just before the kids went back to school, was the last one of the year. The whole country was enjoying an Indian summer, with temperatures still high but the leaves starting to turn. I was clearing up later that evening when I noticed a blemish on the bench. It was only a small pockmark, but initially it did give me a shock because it looked very much like the first indication of my melanoma. Obviously a bird had pecked it or the mark had been made by a chip of gravel: only to be expected when something was left exposed to the elements. But within three weeks the seat had become scarred, its rich brownness patched with mottled grey, and by November it had acquired some kind of fungus growing inside it. Horrible alien type tubers were forcing themselves up between the cracks in the wood. I couldn’t bear to look at it and nagged Sam to get rid of what had become an eyesore.

‘Just dump it? What a waste of money! I’ll do it up when I’ve got the time.’

Of course he never did find the time. Neither of us did. We were back to chasing our tails, bickering about who was going to take which kid where. My cancer was consigned to family history. With kids you co-exist with crisis on a daily basis: Sam and I both worried about Flora’s reluctance to engage socially. I’d spotted scratches on her arms which she claimed were from brambles on a cross-country run. Did the school even do cross country? When I had a minute it was something I needed to investigate. Robbie, by contrast, seemed to be out all the time and I had my doubts about the company he was keeping. Already that term Danny had been excluded twice.

Not long after that I found another spot under my ribcage. This one was bigger, angrier and less forgiving.

‘You’ll need a longer ladder,’ I said to Sam after a visit to the hospital confirmed what I

had already guessed. His face leached of colour and he suddenly looked old, like his Dad. He took my hands in his and stroked my cheek softly with the back of his finger.

‘We need to talk about this,’ he said.

‘No.’ I replied, ‘I don’t want to.’

That night I went out, as planned, to see a film with a couple of girlfriends. I didn’t want to be cocooned in their sympathy so I didn’t tell them anything, instead spending the time thinking about my funeral. Hopefully I had long enough to brief Sam on exactly what I wanted on the Big Day. Despite being an atheist, I felt only a church ceremony could convey the appropriate gravitas and poignancy. Definitely no flowers but which charity did I want to nominate? Naturally it would be packed out and I pictured Sam at the front, upright and acting strong. I wondered whether Robbie would agree to play a guitar solo. But for some reason I couldn’t envisage Flora there. My baby.

Someone gave me a friendly nudge. The film was a comedy, a chick flick, crude and in your face and I laughed as loudly as the others as the protagonist, a bride to be, fell into a pile of shit as she got out of her horse drawn carriage and then, walking down the aisle, tripped and tore her dress. We all knew it would turn out well in the end.

When I got back home most of the house was in darkness, just a yellow glow seeping from behind the curtains in Flora’s room. Robbie must still have been out. I stood on the doorstep, a huge basin of inky sky tipping over me, and from the garage heard the sound of something being attacked.

34

Splintering wood; the voice I knew and loved so dearly uttering a little gasp or cry each time he wielded what must have been an axe. As the blows increased in frequency, I pictured sweat beading on his upper lip, the flush around his neck, heard his breath issuing in short pants just as it did when he came and each time the blade fell and our bench was gouged and mutilated I wondered what would be inside when it finally cracked open.

SUE WILSEA

IT CALLS YOU BACK We can be birds for a while, take our pleasure in the skies.

The air fits under our wings, snug as flight.

We seem built for its currents silver heron wingspan, albatross oceans; nectar on a hummingbird’s tongue.

We touch the clouds and find them fragile as knitted nothing.

Become heavier, there come moments that line us with lead; shape us, chop us, weight us into shapes incapable of lift.

Tell us we are ground hogs platypus, clumsy, beak faced wrongness; our bellies are too near the mud.

Ah – but what about the swans?

Sure, they can fly, but they find their grace on the water, diluted reflections folding under milky breasts. Build nests, find mates, lay chicks – grieve over barren eggs.

Not fettered, we have learned the strength of roots, have learned to bend against buffet.

Be nocturnal or be a thing of the day; but live; the earth is under all.

The blue is still above us, we can see it whenever we choose to raise our heads.

Based on the Chinese proverb Falling leaves return to their roots.

Jane Burn

36

INSIDE OUT PHEASANT (WAX CAST) JULIET FLEMING

TROPHIES Derek lies there in the silent grey of morning light, all but shut out by heavy curtains drawn tight against intrusion. He sits up the second before the alarm goes off, like he does every morning. Sighing, he swings his legs over and stands, needing the bed now as a support as he heaves himself upwards, joints creaking as his weight shifts. Jesus. Not even sixty and he already feels like an old man. He makes his way to the bathroom, mechanically splashing his face, gropes blindly for a towel as droplets gather about his chin. He avoids his reflection, can’t bare the greying, the softening, the weakness. Impatiently he moves aside Carol’s various cosmetics and creams from the shelf, making room for his shaving kit.

Walking through the empty house, he resists glancing at the array of closed doors, the sealed rooms. He doesn’t go in them anymore. Enclosed capsules of old lives. He can’t help but stop outside the last one, carefully traces the brightly coloured lettering arching across the door, the ‘M’ starting to slip as if from a bid to escape, leaving behind the puckered remains of hardened blu tack. He turns away.

He sits silently at the head of the table, his plate of beans on toast sits steaming between his cutlery. It’s the same every morning, and he’s sick of the stuff. Sick of the row upon row of cans stacked up in his cupboards, ready for tomorrow’s breakfast, and the tomorrow after that, and all the other tomorrows following on in an endless parade of depressing certainty and sameness. It’s her fault! Her fault for leaving! For damning him to this bloody repetition. With deep breaths he quells the surge of rage. He can’t afford to indulge these outbursts, not anymore. He has to stay in control. His glance flicks subconsciously towards the cabinet just visible through the lounge door, but with an effort he focuses on the plate before him and picks up his fork.

The solitary plate stands on the rack, bubbles sliding down its wet surface. A knife and a fork stand to attention in the cutlery cup. Everything else is put away, returning the kitchen to its untouched state, indifferent.

He sits in the lounge. This month’s book: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Beside him, a pile of tapes are stacked expectantly against the arm of his chair, and on top a list of all their names written in a childish hand, titled ‘Adam’s GCSE reading list,’ slightly crumpled now. It’s one of the things they’d left behind, discarded on the kitchen table. He’d kept the list of course, a reminder that they’d been there. Then afterwards, as a set of goals. If he could read them all, then maybe it might make him feel like he was still a part of their lives. Besides, he hadn’t had much time for learning when he’d been in school, hadn’t been much good at it either. So when he’d bought the first book, it had taken a long time to get through the chapters, even getting so frustrated that he’d pitched it through the window. In the end, He’d dug out his old tape player and bought the audiobooks. Now every morning he’d sit in his armchair and listen, focusing hard on the softly spoken words, trying to follow the thread of the stories in his head.

38

He walks towards the fireplace, the soothing voice whirring in his brain, using words he doesn’t always understand, but still a comforting distraction. He smiles at the array of trophies on the mantelpiece, pride swelling his chest and rising in his throat. He picks up one, brushes the dust off with the edge of his shirt. 1st place, of course. ‘Derek Chandler – U16 Middleweight Champion 1973, Beetle’s Gym.’ And the next one, ‘East Midlands U18 Champion,’and another, ‘Army Major Units Boxing Championship, Kings Regiment 1986.’Christ, that last one had been a good match, trounced those boys from 3 Paras like they’d never forget! Derek chuckles. He looks along the long line of validation, a testament to his talent. The last trophy on the end, the smallest, catches his eye.

A modest sized wooden plaque, its surface proudly proclaiming ‘Second Place – Adam Chandler U16 2008, South West Middleweight Championships. ‘He holds the small token in his hand, dwarfed by his bulk, its square edges resting neatly in the cracks and grooves of his lined palm. Carefully he traces the lettering, just like he did on the door, tracking the bumps and curves with his fingertips. He remembers the day clearly, unlike many of them; it’s crisp and clean, like new laundry, so different to the fume-filled fuzz of the rest. Adam’s determination, his focus, Derek’s own relentless instruction and improvements, pushing and pushing him to do better. In the end, Adam only achieved second place, but he’d come to Derek, his eyes shining, holding the trophy out to him. An offering.

‘Second place!?’ he’d said. Just like that. ‘Second place!?’

He’d put it on the mantelpiece anyway, to be dwarfed by his own larger tributes, as a reminder that second place was as good as losing, that there was always room for improvement, always something better to strive for. It had stayed up there, not even to be replaced

by Adam’s subsequent barrage of championship wins, to remind him always that nothing mattered except winning. Not one thing. Derek looks down at the trophy in his hand, shame crawling up inside him, its thin, scratching fingers clutching his heart. With a sudden yell he knocks off his trophies with a sweep of his arm, the collection of plastic, wood and metal crashing to the ground around his feet, the fallen debris of a fallen hero. Panting now, sweat beading on his brow from the exertion, he reverently places the small plaque in the center of the cool stone, wiping the smudge of his fingerprint from the corner.

‘I’m sorry Adam,’ he sobs, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. ‘I’m so sorry son.’

He stumbles across the room, wrenches open the cabinet and reaches inside until his hand closes over the reassuringly familiar shape of the bottle. Drowns his self-loathing as he thirstily empties it down his throat, salty tears mix with the fiery liquid as it dribbles out the corners of his mouth and stains his shirt. He staggers, falls to the floor, lies down amongst the wreckage of his boxing career and cradles the bottle to his chest.

JESSICA BARNES

KAIROS [noun - a propitious moment for decision or action]

it’s a matter of focus, and timing – out of thin friendship, a man of air, unremarkable stuff of breath, now wakes in your arms – and, duckling you’re broke through to a new view, too late to tighten the drawstring of your iris, he’s among you, now, no discernible white charger – but he is the Knight and the Cups are mugs touching on a silver drainer – glad, now, to have stayed silent when it was on the tip of your heart to say the three words, now this is the truth of it, his hands like haar bringing the offing to safe harbour, dissolving both lighthouse and star

KIRSTEN LUCKINS

40

THE VERY NAUGHTY MANTIS There’s nothing Michael the Mantis loves more than a crunchy Mantis for lunch. Girl or boy.

Friend or Foe. Brother or sister. Mummy or Daddy. It doesn’t matter. Michael loves to eat other Mantes. * One day, deep down in the dark damp forest, Michael was feeling rather hungry. Starving in fact. Michael just had to eat something.

But then he saw him. Michael’s brother, Martin, was walking by on a pathway not too far away from Michael. “I’m going to eat my brother!” Michael thought. “I’m going to wait in that bush over there, and when he comes close, I’m going to gobble him right up!”

So Michael went and hid in the bush, and he waited. He rubbed his stick-arms together and he licked his slender lips. Michael couldn’t wait to eat Martin for lunch. Michael waited and he waited. He had all the time in the world.

Martin was getting closer to where Michael was hiding now. Michael couldn’t wait to gobble him up. Tap tap tap went his feet and closer and closer Martin came. Michael tied a bib around his neck - nobody wants mantis stains on them after lunch.

Martin was only a couple of feet away from the bush now. Getting ready to pounce, Michael raised up his arms, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Martin came level with the bush - BAM! - Michael threw his arms out, clamping around his brother’s body as he thrusted him into the bush.

“I’m going to enjoy eating you, my brother,” Michael said, and with that, he began lunchtime. Michael’s teeth were crunching and gnawing into his brother. SNAP! Like a cracker, a nice snappy cracker Martin went. Martin was crisp, crunchy and he tasted absolutely delicious. “Oh yummy!” Michael said, dabbing his lips with his handkerchief. * Off Michael went through the forest, not giving a single care in the world that he had just devoured his one and only brother. After all, he was still hungry.

Further and further Michael went into the Jungle - searching, hunting for his second lunch.

He saw monkeys high, high up in the trees, but they were too large and too crafty to try eating. He saw an enormous crocodile in a lake clearing, but it was too big, and too cruel, to try eating.

Michael was starting to get very tired, and was finding it really difficult to find anything to eat for a second lunch.

But then he bumped into it. He bumped into a foot. A horrible, nasty, enormous grotty foot. Its webbed feet were caked in mud, with speckles of moss lavished on top.

Normally, Michael wouldn’t eat dirty feet, but he was feeling particularly hungry this afternoon, and decided to do things a little differently this time. ‘After all,’ he thought to him-self, ‘it’s not every day that I eat my brother, so why not eat a dirty foot too?’

So Michael clamped his teeth down into the foot, but then a loud voice howled out “OOF!

BY JOVE! WHAT IS THAT NIBBLING ON MY PRETTY FOOT?” Michael looked up, and he realised that the enormous foot wasn’t just an enormous foot - it belonged to some-thing. It belonged to someone. And that someone, was a frog. A ruddy great big frog. “Get off of my foot you horrible little critter, all that nibbling hurts you know,” said the frog.

“Oh I am sorry,” said Michael “I didn’t realise that this foot belonged to anyone. Please forgive me, sir.”

“I’ve half a mind to crush you for trying to eat me you horrible little rotter.” said the frog.

“Oh, oh. Please don’t, sir! I’m a good mantis, I promise. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Bah! That’s a lie and you know it. You just bit my foot.”

“Oh no, you are mistaken my friend. I was merely tickling it. And I must apologise, I’ve been ever so rude, I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is Michael, and I am the very best tickler in the jungle.”

The frog frowned, looking Michael up and down, not quite sure what to make of him.

“Michael eh? That’s not very fun to say. My name is Francisco. And I don’t want to sound like an idiot…but…what is…tickling?”

“My dear Francisco, tickling is the most wonderful sensation known in all the animal kingdom. If I find the right spot on you, I simply place my spindly arms and wiggle them around on the spot, and you will feel fantastic.”

“So… you weren’t trying to eat me?” said Francisco “Of course not, we are friends.”

Francisco paused. His face started to scrunch up into a frown. “You’re making me really, really angry, Michael.”

“Wh-What? What ever is the matter Fran?” said Michael.

“DON’T call me Fran. Only my parents call me that. Do you take me for an idiot? YOU sir, are a liar. Yes. A dirty, horrible little liar. You told me that you wouldn’t hurt a fly. I know for a FACT that flies are a central part of a Praying Mantis’ diet.”

“C-C-Calm down Fran, oh, sorry, I meant Francisco…”

“I’m done with your apologies! I’m going to teach you a lesson, you rotter.”

With that, Francisco picked up Michael with both of his hands and lifted him high up into the air. Michael was screaming “AHH let me go let me go! I’ll never hurt anyone again.” But Francisco was having none of it. He started scrunching Michael up, crunching and snapping Michael’s body until Michael was left as nothing but a green Mantis ball. Francisco threw out his enormous frog tongue, wrapping it around the ball, and started spinning the ball around in a circle above his head over and over again until he had got enough speed behind him so that he could hurl Michael up and out of the jungle. Michael flew and he flew until he crashed into the ocean, plunging down into its depths. Never to be seen again.

LUCAS FOTHERGILL

42

IMPROVISION JAYNE DENT

Cosmo’s Three Steps to Get Over a Guy

1. Flatten him with a rolling pin.

2. Use a heavy coat of starch to iron out annoying wrinkles.

3. Douse the walls of your mind in acetone and, using a shaving razor, scrape him out of backseats and dive bars; scrub his fingerprints off of Pablo Neruda collections and your early Beatles albums.

For a quicker (but less accurate) method, walk backward through time sprinkling kerosene on all sides.

Stop at Day 1.

Light a match.

KENAN INCE

44

LOVE, SCIENCE

I am the gridlines thrown onto your lover’s back by streetlight diffraction through window blind slits.

I am the machine coils of nucleic acid locked into your hands as you pause, mid-caress, to write equations on your partner’s upper thigh. I am the best-fit approximation to your father’s dead eyes and hard belt, the cost-benefit analysis before Hiroshima. I am the drone strikes you would order if you were President, the pop tune you can’t get out of your head while you’re having sex with your wife’s best friend. I’m also the filtered sunlight through trees lighting the heads of ducks as you and your children sit on a park bench. You and everyone you love are tethered to a respirator I made, cared for by doctors I trained in a hospital I own. Let me know when you want to pull the plug.

KENAN INCE

NO MOON, NO PLACE

You won’t find god at the bottom of any bottle, no-these days he’s down in Mexico turning water into sour sangria; dancing over broken glass and bumping hips with ghosts. See how these skeletons he calls home have long forgotten their own bones. They have forgotten the name and the shape and the sound. There is only the swelling of bitter bark thick on their tongues when they wake alone in the night, silver icicles of moonlight hanging from the dark like pendants.

But they move like there is a heart still in their chests trying, trying to rattle loose; like there is something still left to lose. And the ribs, which are candlesticks, which are knives, which are fistfuls of broken teeth, which are a cage sitting at the feet of a hungry giant, waiting to be filled. Hallelujah hallelujah they sing, but the words are all lost with the wind. Bird bone, frog bone, snake bone, whale bone. We write their names in the dirt in our skin in the night. They say no moon, they say no place, they say never.

KATY LI

46

OUTSIDE

You were never beautiful, not on the outside.

You were a swastika doodled on the flyleaf of a schoolbook, a razorblade hidden in blu-tac behind a poster of Courtney Love, a word, like ignorance, railed over and over.

And what are you now?

Not the stone Pygmalion and the statue begot.

You’re the pane of glass I press my palm against, not the girl behind it.

DAVID O’HANLON

The Beginning of the End of the World in 24 Easy Steps 1. So my boss comes up to me and hands me this vial and he’s like, Jennifer, this is an extremely deadly virus. I want you to keep it in a safe place. And then he walks away.

2. I think of an awesomely great place and put the virus there.

3. I’m one of those people who are famous for thinking of awesomely great places to put things and then being absolutely unable to recall where the awesomely great places were. To keep myself from doing that – again – I start to write the awesomely great place on a Post-it as a reminder, but then I get interrupted by the phone ringing.

4. It’s Agnes from Supply Chain on the phone. She wants to confirm the change of phone number on our business cards for like the fifth time. So I’m like, yes that is correct. And she’s like, are you sure? And I’m like, that’s the number you just dialed me on. And she’s like, oh, I guess that means it’s right. And we hang up.

But I’m still aggravated by the ‘I guess that means it’s right’ comment. What does that even mean? I guess that means it’s right. Like it can’t just be right because I said so or because it’s actually right. I hate passive aggressive people. Because that’s what I think she is. Passive aggressive. I am completely paralyzed with irritation for a good three minutes. Argh. Agnes.

5. I am unable to remember what I was doing before the aggravating phone call, but it gnaws at me so much that I feel I shouldn’t move on to the next project and forget all about it. So, instead I check my Facebook because I’m sure the break will jog my memory.

6. And then on Facebook, somebody had posted that they made peanut butter baked oatmeal last night, and I’m like, OMG peanut butter baked oatmeal sounds sooooo good. But they didn’t post the recipe, so I go to Google it.

7. But then on Google, the word Google is written all funky and I click on it to see why, and it’s one of those special things to commemorate a special day in history, and today is Frida Kahlo’s birthday.

8. And I’m like, OMG I love Frida Kahlo. So then I start looking up Frida Kahlo paintings, starting with my favorites first. And then I start reading a critical essay of her work – even though I know it will annoy me to read just like it did when I took my minor in art history. And then the article does annoy me, and I’m like, art historians and critics can be so pompous. I mean, I’m sure they understand the technical aspects of a painting way better than I do, but I don’t think they really get the paintings. Like really get them, you know? And then I feel special because I do really get them.

9. Then my boss starts walking over to me and I close out the Frida Kahlo article and pretend like I’m working.

10. And he’s like, Jennifer, what did you do with that extremely deadly virus?

11. And I’m like, what extremely deadly virus?

12. And he’s like, the one I gave you. Ten minutes ago.

13. And I’m like, yeah I’m one hundred percent sure that didn’t happen.

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14. So then the awesomely great place I had actually put the virus that I later did remember him giving me (and I know this now because the CDC came a few days later and figured it all out – really fast too, which impressed me) turned out to be the trash can (LOL I have no idea why that was awesomely great). But I guess when the guy came to take out the trash, he saw liquid in a vial and decided he’d better pour the contents down the drain, and then that virus went into the sewer system and went CRAZY. And then the virus rode sewer water to the waste treatment facility and then to the water supply.

15. So yeah, I started the plague I guess. Whatever. And then people started dying.

Like a whole bunch. And then I got fired. Which seemed rather harsh?

16. But I wasn’t worried about finding a new job, because all those people who died from the plague created like a reverse employment crisis and people were totally hiring.

17. And then I went on a job interview, and the guy’s like why did you leave your last position?

18. And I’m like, I just didn’t feel it was the right environment for me. Also, almost everyone in the building died of the plague, including my former boss – so no reference there.

19. And he’s like, what are your weaknesses?

20. And I’m like, sometimes I care too much.

21. And he’s like, we think you’d be a great fit for this job.

22. And in my head, I’m like, who is we, because I’m just talking to you, but out loud I’m like, that’s great, what will I be doing?

23. And he’s like, you’ll be controlling a switch that keeps extraordinarily dangerous and violent prisoners locked inside the penitentiary.

24. And I’m like, great – does that come with benefits?

P.J. SAMBEAUX

THE DUST LANES The boy pushes my finger and the doors open. We pressed the red OPEN button at the same time and the concertina door of the train opened. But we didn’t touch at all. What really happened was that the outer shells of our atoms repelled one another. So he didn’t really touch my finger, my finger didn’t really touch the button. I’m not really on this train; I’m floating just above it like the space-dust that makes up the darkness in between the stars. They’re called the dust lanes - where nothing really happens. So what happens next doesn’t really happen because that would mean that a train really touched someone’s body and even at high speed that can’t happen because our atoms won’t let it.

I think I knew the boy who tried to touch me. I open my mouth to say hello but no sound comes out. Which is more mixed-up, when you see someone you know and say ‘Hello’ but they don’t see you and you feel weird because you just made a sound and every sound wants an answer? Or - if you see someone you think you know but they aren’t that person and they stare at you, thinking ‘Who are you?’ Why isn’t there a thing to say in this moment? When we learn a new language the first thing we learn is ‘Hello, how are you?’ and ‘Good thanks.’ In French I learned ‘Comment ça va?’ and ‘Ça va bien, merci’. My whole class learned it even though we didn’t know anyone in France, we learned like we could just walk into France knowing no one and shout the one sound we learned and it would be answered.

We should make up a phrase which maybe goes ‘Hello, how are you’ and ‘Hello I don’t know you but you still exist’, not that but something like that, because that moment happens so often we can’t just leave it blank. I can’t say that to this boy so I just stare past him and he doesn’t tell me I exist and we never touched.

The boy and his friend smell of salt-burned beach fires and sex. They are beautiful. The one I thought I knew has a beard, which is odd and so the most beautiful. He’s talking about the girl who didn’t talk to him last night. It’s hard to hear over the noise of the train and his voice is quiet because I think he really wants this girl. If they don’t talk soon she will become The Girl. She will stand with her back to him, barefoot in the sea and he will think about the possible tastes of her skin in the dark spaces in-between the life he is living. These thoughts will be red and open. His fingers are black and stained with beach tar, he rubs them together not trying to get clean. I want to tell him she is sorry that she didn’t speak to him.

But he wouldn’t listen anyway, so I curl my spine up into a question mark, my feet tucked under me. I try to stop my narrow skirt riding up and picture myself in a jar, like those preserved foetuses with gills. It’s the shape I’d make to dive-bomb a pool if I wasn’t so scared of water. I think about the startle of breaking the surface, but it’s the last sound you hear that frightens me. What if the last sound was ‘Hello, how are you?’ and I didn’t answer? But by then I wouldn’t care because I’d be under the water. I stroke the soft skin at my neck where I think my gills would be. We came from the water. I know it in the way my skin doesn’t mind the rain. And we cry and so do seals; we cry psychic tears, not just tears of irritation.

I wouldn’t need to worry about never really touching someone if I could always be held by water.

50

It’s been raining every night for weeks and the fields are flooded. They are lakes now and they think they’ve always been there. Outside the window I see a cormorant dive and come up with a rabbit still kicking. This gives me the panic, so I do the meditation thing. First you imagine the room as a room floating in space and the world outside dissolves away. So I imagine the train floating in space. Then you imagine just you and your chair and everything else dissolves away. So I imagine I am just me on the seat, floating in space which smells like sex and beach fires. I breathe in and make sure my in-breath lasts for five seconds and my out-breath lasts for seven seconds. I do this until I’m not thinking in numbers Tears of change look like burned paper. Tears of grief look like a bombed city from the air. I can’t see this woman’s tears close up enough to see their shape so I don’t know why she is crying. I am only close enough to hear her swallowing. Does she want me to touch her or do something? Would it be creepy if I put my hand on her shoulder? Why don’t we have a phrase which says ‘You don’t know me but you are crying. Do you want me to touch you in a noncreepy way?’ Something like that but not that. Maybe it would sound better in French.

Her phone goes beepety-beep. We are all late because this train is late and all of the phones beepety-beep to let the world know we are late and we are sorry. When the clock strikes nine we will be missed. And it feels like something. I hold my phone in my hand. I could call work and feel something. It is guilt. It is not enough to just feel guilt and fear. That is work.

I have a good job. I report every month to three short men. I do everything they ask me to do. Every month they change their minds about what it is they want me to do. I thank them for shouting at me and go into the toilets to cry. I cry Tears of what-the-fuck? I don’t know what shape they are. They think it is my time of the month. When I visit my Mum in the home, in my narrow suit and my name badge, I tell her lies and she tells me them back. ‘I’m so proud of you getting your education, you’re really going somewhere.’ The last time I went somewhere it was Scotland where I got my education. The trees were blue. I lived with a girl called Tea, she played Latin Jazz and laughed at our winter. She knew not to lick frozen metal. I don’t make a sorry call.

It’s still dark, and the moon is riding with us, a cat’s grin leaping from window to window. I open my mouth like the crying woman and make no sound. If I had to guess I’d say she was crying ‘Tears of endings and beginnings’. I can’t remember what shape they are. I close my eyes because they are hard to cry. The train conductor is telling everyone that they have to get off this train. The conductor squeezes my shoulder and says ‘Come on love’. When I open my eyes someone has left something on the seat next to mine. It is a note. It says ‘Hello, how are you,’ and there is a little drawing of a smiling stick man and he is floating in space surrounded by stars that look like dust. It is a good drawing because it is difficult to draw on the train. I look to see who left it but everyone is gone.

I really look at it, the card. The writing and drawing is in pencil. Not a recently sharpened pencil. It is dark, maybe a 7B. The lines are deep and grooved. My writing is light, you could erase it with a thumb. I rub my thumb over this writing and I feel it through my skin. I flip it over, on the back it says ‘Keep smiling’ and it is my face smiling; this makes me smile. I get off the empty train and push my way through with ‘Sorry’s’.

They will be easy to see, the person who made this, because their atoms must be different from everyone else’s because this thing they made - I felt it push through my atoms. They must be made wrong and beautiful, pulling people to them like a red magnet.

I thought I knew. I can smell the troll, like creosote. And that’s when it happens, the thing that can’t happen because we can never really touch anything.

He jumps off the bridge but he just floats there in space alone surrounded by dust, and the world dissolves away. But he must have forgotten to breathe right because he starts to fall and I come back just when the train rolls over him. The whole world comes back and we stand still on the platform together in the dark like we must have touched something at the same time, like we all made it happen.

What happens now is that everyone wants to know why and they want to know this by looking. The crowd surges to the edge of the platform. He pulls them to him. He is red and open. He is the boy I knew, who made the drawing, and I answer him ‘Good thanks’; ‘Ça va bien, merci’; ‘Gut Danke’; ‘Buona grazie’.

CARMEN THOMPSON

52

WAITING

The absence of a laugh-track; narrators’ voices telling me what to eat, where to shop, what to watch; is almost a sad kind of quiet when I enter the empty house.

Your potato chip breakfast crumbs decorate the couch, tempting the dog. Your flipped over bowl hides your uncapped marker. If I look closely, I can even see your toe prints in the shine of the hardwood floor. I pass your mouth print on the front window, your dings in the drywall on my way up the steps with your laundry, the same stained pajamas, the ink-dotted underwear. I even catch your scent in your bedroom, where you sweat onto Disney sheets. Your pillow is still crooked.

Water beads stillness in the humidifier beside your bed.

I should be happy, dancing in this silence, but all I can do is wait for you to come home.

APRIL SALZANO

ART Phil Frankland ‘For me, an intimate relationship between the works I produce is very important. I work both with ‘live’ paintings, as well as digital reproductions of these paintings. Once digitally rendered, these print-outs are re-introduced to the process of painting through collage. The simple, almost naïve action of cutting and tearing paper nags at the historically steeped brush mark. The tactility of both mediums is brought into question, as paint and collage layer upon each other. Due consideration is applied to both elements – in turn, careful and concise compositions emerge which hold an air of underlying discontent.’

A link to my website can be found at: http://www.philfrankland.co.uk/ Rebekah Grace Crawshaw [My figures are formed from scrap materials including disused bike chains, bike pedals, bottles, plastic etc, which I found at a derelict train station] “You have to do stuff that average people don’t understand because those are the only good things” - Andy Warhol Like Warhol, the creation of Art for me is an extremely important mode of self-expression and I often find myself willingly suspending my disbelief as a means to escape reality and exist in a world that I have wholly created through subconscious visions. Many of my pieces of literature, including poetry and short stories, express similar themes of fantasy and illusion, and indeed primitivism is a devoted interest of mine and has been from a very young age.

Poppy Jackson I make actionist work exploring the female body as an autonomous zone.

The live performances and paintings I make are essentially image-based. These works manifest through grunge aesthetic, intersected by the iconography of Catholicism, via a methodology of violence as a creative and transformational catalyst.

I received a BA (Hons) in Visual Performance from Dartington College of Arts and an MA in Performance Making from Goldsmiths University. My work has been presented internationally, including the Whitechapel Gallery (London), Project Arts Centre (Dublin), FEM Festival (Girona), and Grace Exhibition Space (New York). I am an Associate Artist of ]performance s p a c e [ in London. www.poppyjackson.co.uk www.a-g-ender.tumblr.com www.poppymiraclejackson.tumblr.com

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Marco Berardi In 2004 I graduated my BA Theatre and History of Arts in Italy and then relocated to London.

Emerging from a theatrical lighting design background, I began to gravitate towards the medium of photography. Within this evolution of practise, I began to specific research into the relationship between photography and performance/live art events.

Since then I have worked for various companies and collaborated with numerous reputable artists, institutions and creative projects.

Currently I work both as a freelance photographer and associate photographer at ]performance s p a c e [ London.

Sufia Begum Hi, I’m Sufia, 22 years old and from the UK. I study history. After my love for history comes photography and travel and I absolutely love to combine all three of them. I recently came back from travelling Palestine, I visited Hebron, West Bank, Bethlehem, Jericho and the ancient city of Jerusalem. With the current political situation in Palestine my intention was to humanise the Palestinians through my photography so we look beyond statistics and see them as a people who have hopes, dreams and aspirations just like us.

Website: soofislens.tumblr.com Instagram: Sooofi Holly Wheeler If the imagination could be extracted from our consciousness, what form would it take in reality? Holly’s practice deals with this question of physicality or lack thereof. Examining the flocking and migration of birds amongst other aspects of their collective temperament the imagination culminates in transient and fragile structures. Clusters of Vaseline, ice cream and polymer clay create delicate trails of birds that melt and crumble away. Her recent piece, Feather curtain, sees sculptural installation operating as a sound piece. Using a fan to generate motion the sound is reminiscent of wind chimes or ship rigging.

Holger KueperSince 2010 Kunstakademie Muenster at Prof. Suchan Kinoshita and Profs. Maik and Dirk Löbbert.

Solo Exhibitions, 2011, “Vorstadt Helden”, Galerie Balou, Dortmund, Group Exhibitions Juliet Fleming My work is very processed based, the act of making and looking at organic animalistic forms.

Jayne Dent Jayne is studying BA Fine Art at Newcastle University and is originally from the Sheffield area. She works across a range of media but is currently focusing on sound art, using the female voice as her main material. Her work explores power and what it means to be with or without it, taking inspiration from the industrial, the urban and her roots in the folk music and dance community. She has performed and exhibited in Chesterfield, Sheffield and Newcastle, and was recently awarded the Bartlett Travel Scholarship for a research trip to Berlin in the summer. http://jaynedent.wordpress.com/

LITERATURE Lucas Fothergill, ‘The Very Naughty Mantis’ (prose) Enquiries, hate mail or fan fiction (about me)? Try Tweeting @lucasfothergill or check out my blog here: http://lucasfothergill.wordpress.com. Thanks!

Elliot Keall, ‘Insight’ (prose) I am a year 12 secondary school student living in New Zealand. I have always enjoyed reading, but have only ever written stories for schoolwork. This piece is the result of my first attempt at writing for fun.

Jane Burn, ‘It calls you back’ (poetry) North East based writer and artist Jane Burn is an active member of the local spoken word scene and is a member of the Tees Women Poets. She has been published in a number of magazines including Butcher’s Dog and Ink, Sweat & Tears and was long-listed in the 2014 Cantebury Poet of the Year award.

Kirsten Luckins, ‘Kairos’ (poetry) Kirsten Luckins is a poet and spoken word artist based in Hartlepool. She was recently a BBC Slam finalist, despite not really writing slam poetry, and her first solo show ‘The Moon Cannot Be Stolen’ toured the north-east this year to sell-out shows. She blogs at www.kirstenluckins.wordpress.com and www.themooncannotbestolen.wordpress.com Sue Wilsea, ‘A Bench and a Ladder’ (prose) For the last 20 years I have lived on the banks of The Humber. In 2010 The Arvon Foundation selected me as one of nine New and Gifted Writers and in 2012 Valley Press published my short story collection, Staying Afloat; subsequently I won the Vogel short story competition and this year Looked After was long-listed for Mslexia’s first novel award. I teach part-time at Hull University and after completing an MA in Creative Writing (Distinction) at Newcastle last year I have now (rashly?) embarked on a PhD. I’m also a performer of sorts.

Format Editor James Ricketts Art James Ricketts Maria Abbott Anna Skulczuk Literature Felicity Powell Bethany Herbertson Charlotte Maxwell Owain Flanders Jenny Danes Samantha New Kat Zufelt Publicity Charlotte Maxwell

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