A New Ulster 104 by Amos Greig

FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF NOEL KING, LAUREN O’DONOVAN,GERALDINE FLEMING, PAUL MURGATROYD, LUCY REID, FIONBHARR RODGERS, KATE ENNALS, MALLIKA JOHN, ALAN LAVERTY, FIONA SINCLAIR, TERRY BRINKMAN , SC FLYNN AND FIONA MURPHY MCCORMACK EDITED BY AMOS GREIG

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 104 June 2021

UPATREE PRESS

The artists featured in this publication have reserved their right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work. ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online) Edited by Amos Greig Cover Design by Upatree Press Prepared for Publication by Upatree Press

CONTRIBUTORS

This edition features work by NOEL KING, LAUREN O’DONOVAN, GERALDINE FLEMING, PAUL MURGATROYD, LUCY REID, FIONBHARR RODGERS, KATE ENNALS, MALLIKA JOHN, ALAN LAVERTY, FIONA SINCLAIR, TERRY BRINKMAN, SC FLYNN AND FIONA MURPHY MCCORMACK

CONTENTS Poetry Noel King

Page 1

Poetry Lauren O’Donovan

Page 9

Poetry Geraldine Fleming

Page 14

Thyestes Paul Murgatroyd Prose Lucy Reid

Page 26 Page 39

Poetry Fionnbhar Rodgers

Page 50

Poetry Kate Ennals

Page 60

Poetry Mallika John

Page 62

Poetry Alan Laverty

Page 64

Poetry Fiona Sinclair

Page 68

Poetry Terry Brinkman

Page 76

Poetry SC Flynn

Page 82

Prose Fiona Murphy McCormack Editor’s Note

Page 85 Page 91

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: NOEL KING Noel King was born and lives in Tralee, Co Kerry. His poetry collections are published by Salmon: Prophesying the Past, (2010), The Stern Wave (2013) and Sons (2015). He has edited more than fifty books of work by others (Doghouse Books, 2003 – 2013) and was poetry editor of Revival Literary Journal (Limerick Writers’ Centre) in 2012/13. A short story collection, The Key Signature & Other Stories was published by Liberties Press in 2017. www.noelking.ie

Wishing An Irish Times Saturday poem needs to be this big to fit the 4” by 4” column at the end of The Weekend, that which we all crave, but I find nothing to say.

The Woman With the White Hair

It’s whiteness dazzled a Sunday midday visit – early morning to you. We watched you knot your day into place, hands making a bun from nothing, a bun that held wide-wise knowledge that you shook out again at night. Sometimes you left us brush.

In the summer heat-wave of ’76 you let it hang down all day, but if company clicked the gate the bun went back in a flash; we watching the movements closely, trying to follow the fingers that knit to make this thing as tight as ropes. Sometimes your left us brush.

Our Grandfather must have held that hair – he died before our births. Did he run his fingers through it at night-time? What colour was it then and what colour does he remember you by?

And maybe, in your romantic years did you sometimes let him brush? © Noel King

Hurt Her. Hurt Her. Hurt Her. He presses his beard into the pillow above her shoulder, closes his eyes,

careful not to let skin-hair touch skin, thinks of nothing but the function,

knows what she wants, a memory of kissing her is distant. There are no groans,

just creaks in the bed. It can creak all it likes now the last child has left home.

His heartbeat barely rises, pounding without care, elbows not caring to support his weight like they used to.

To think of other women would be a sin, a big sin. He wants to hurt her. Hurt her. Hurt her.

Then he showers, she purrs like a cat sits up naked and pollutes

the bedroom with Silk Cut cigarettes. The sight of her warped tits disgusts him.

He makes for his single bed in the same room; sleeps quickly.

Home Help

In a field at dusk with her beau the house-girl snuggles close, his lips reach hers and his red-cold hands press themselves inside the pockets of her duffel coat; she swallows a curse from his lips as he jerks out his hands covered now in yellow-white sticky stuff. Wiping his fingers on the grass, he swears again thinking it her joke. She remains pale, wants to cry, blushes and flushes knowing the woman of the house has found her out and smashed the eggs she took one to each pocket of her duffel coat hanging innocently in the hall.

Gone now the trust, gone the hopes of saving up to marry her fella all because her mother couldn’t afford eggs and hens that laid ‘em didn’t own ‘em and neither did the hens’ owner

own them, not really! Life isn’t fair, she cries, and spits down the hill at the big house.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: LAUREN O’DONOVAN Lauren O’Donovan is an Irish writer completing her creative writing thesis at University College Cork. She writes poetry, short stories, and her work has been adapted into song. She frequently reads at national literary events. She was recently featured at the O Bheal Winter Warmer Festival, Bookends Conference 2020, and NTTTBS.

Lauren O’Donovan A Letter to the Underworld

Another rejection letter. So many submissions, Each one rejected by response or silence. If I can’t get published in a local magazine, How will I convince Hades and Persephone to listen to me. I need a chapbook, At least, maybe an award, Or at absolute minimum a shortlist on my C.V.

I’m learning guitar: D, E, A, C, But without F and B I haven’t even mastered the key of G. 10

I tried to buy a lyre, But amazon is restricted because of Brexit. Perhaps I’d get by with a four string ukulele — Much more manageable, But the tone might be too jovial.

I’ve been practicing not looking back. Wearing horse blinkers and a belt of ropes hitched with steak I run by stray dogs. Race for your life, Always forward, No matter how close the teeth and growls. I drop the belt and vault the fence.

The dogs are getting fat.

I know it’s not easy, You never liked shadows. The Asphodel Meadows sound pleasant but boring. I suggest you keep busy: Network with fury, Tease of the famous poet come to visit, any day now pending invitation. It’s all about the marketing. Do some research on Persephone's favourites, But don’t mention pomegranates.

Lauren O’Donovan

Lauren O’Donovan The Steadfast Heart

the open mouth of the cavern / the darkness of earth / the lonely night and the gloom / the phantom halls / the unreal kingdom / the grudging light of the wavering moon / the woods / the sky / the creation of colour / the outermost entry of Orcus / the mind / the threshold / the iron cells / the gateway / the hundred hands / the Hydra / the monster of Lenna / the cloak / the sails / the dead / the banks / the bodies of high-souled heroes / the first chill of autumn / the deep sea / the cold of the season / the stream / the shore / the surly boatman / the sandy brink / the uproar / the souls / the dark water / the long-lived priestess / the gods / the Stygian mere / the buried / the grave / the longed-for stream / the honours of death / the captain of the Lycian fleet / the wind of the South / the helmsman / the stars / the stern / the midst of the waves / the thick darkness / the midst of the ocean / the shores of Italy / the helm / the helm / the tumbling seas / the terror / the sea / the blustering wind of the South / the boundless plains of the sea / the crest of a wave / the shore / the rough top of the cliff / the waves / the winds on the shore / the light of day / the heaven’s sweet breath / the goddess / the priestess / the fearful stream / the Furies / the name Palinurus / the grief / the earth / the journey / the boatman / the waters / the silent woods / the land of sleep and of drowsy night / the Stygian ferry / the watch-dog of hell / the throne of our king / the chamber of Dis / the Amphrysian seer / the bloodless ghosts / the lowest darkness of Erebus / the anger / the worshipful gift / the branch / the bank / the boat’s long thwarts / the gangways / the mighty Aeneas / the ferry-boat woven from rushes / the stream / the grey sedge / the shapeless mud /

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: GERALDINE FLEMING

Geraldine Fleming retired early from an all-consuming career due to ill health. Bereft of purpose in her new life she found myself drawn back into past interests. This newfound freedom allows Geraldine to renew her interest in creative writing. She is a member of the Causeway U3A Portstewart Writing Group in Northern Ireland and enjoys writing both prose and poetry. In 2019 she was highly commended in the Bangor Literary Journal and more recently published in Pendemic.

life's yellow diggers

the sky was an exquisite blue the road stretched taut a crease-less black ribbon curbing a confusion of greenery

the dashing car at streaking speed was simply intoxicating

the custard yellow digger trundled steadfast & impartial a wrecking ball in droll disguise visible to all but me

you waited expectant coughed & pointed shifted stiffly in your seat & just in time you pulled hard on the handbrake

I didn't see that, completely blanked it

I wailed repentant shaken & stunned 16

shunted to the verge & in that moment circumspection was realised

that's not the last time you had to pull the handbrake when I misjudged those perilous yellow diggers of life

you are not here now & life's yellow diggers keep appearing it's eyes on the road & no daydreaming the small things were never the problem

I avoid yellow jeopardy collisions most of the time

Geraldine Fleming

never again

it was never an entirely bloodless affair eggshell-mines expected wilful wrongs

never a lightly loosened word cloud-seeding fathomless tsunamis

nor electrified naked honesty forging craven new universes

never those imagined sins tattooing dark spots on the soul

nor an elemental longing holding high the need for love

it was never you behind the shadow syphoning off the fearless light

never obvious to outsiders the demon was always me

Elements of Life

caterwauling into this world contorted by force by nature and urgency sheer shocking brightness bombing in air vibrations shattering silence overwhelmed by weirdness lungs grapple with first air skin squirms with first touch nerves firing vitalising this life aligning the wind of intellect water of imagination fire of passion earth of caring all swirling slick thick and tricky old souls settle in the space of new times new trials new tribes 19

energised to make it different this time wisdom waits with lessons learnt

and then its living

again

and then its over the soul is readied for life the elements align and try

again again again

Geraldine Fleming

figment of time you hear blups and sloups jugs of rinsing water de-sud dark rush straight hair ears tilt-dried eyes blink- tight the conveyor belt moves your cosy brood take turns displacing Camay soap water buff drying just like real swimmers newfangled Saturday Night soundtrack airing candyfloss quiz shows captures the comfort of predictability in analogue exposed around a blaze of earthy turf night clothes warm wingspaning the skeletal remains of your metal dinosaur 21

secured by wooden sprung vertebrae the shining cluster kneels feasting on grades of golden toast each crunch showering buttery particles imprinting the universe with delight a signature of milky tea slurps high pitched chuckles ebb clearing the way for your regular request ' ten more minutes pleaseee' Mnemosyne-in-ink releases the folded pages of space and time revisiting your holy grail moments and memories enduring in your cosmic web

Geraldine Fleming

Beltane Revival

mystical cosmic change aligns in stars awash with scattered blue my hibernation layer condenses shedding old drudge-laden skin step-by-step the dead winterness falls mingling with excited earth

my knot against the cold unravels neck craning sunflower-esque a renewed ravishing sun liquid pressured into pi's most pleasing form particles gathering jiggle wobble and bounce creating potency across the realms

the dark still river sparkles joyous nymphs scatter sprinkles of silver and gold confection tall flaxen reeds stretch their arms aquiver excited by renewal sway hypnotised by some sensual unearthly tune this lightest of blue skies I claim as my shelter undulating reeds my osmotic walls warm air my nourishment sun-fortified colours my pleasure through the revival of all things

keepers keeping up appearances keeping up the act keeping camouflaged the eeriness keeping from the mirror crack'd

keeping you in tender sight keeping that last note you wrote keeping lit the guide-home light keeping close the profound quote

keeping a precious curl of hair keeping secrets safe from sorrows keeping an ear for the creaking stair keeping faith for all tomorrows

keeping only what I need keeping eyes wide for a sign keeping staunched the endless bleed keeping balanced along the line

keeping warm a busted heart keeping the apples on the cart

Geraldine Fleming

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: PAUL MURGATROYD After a long career as a professor of Classics Paul retired 5 years ago and started writing novels and short stories. 29 of the latter have been published, along with 3 poems in English, over 50 of his Latin poems and performance versions of 2 Roman tragedies.

THYESTES

2b So in the first two generations of this house infanticide, impiety and cannibalism were succeeded by bribery, perjury and murder; but there is still more cruelty and horror in this grim saga. That sinister family curse started to operate in the next generation in connection with two of the sons – Atreus and Thyestes. They disputed the kingship of Mycenae. Initially Thyestes secured it by seducing Atreus’ wife (Aerope), so that with her help he could steal a marvellous lamb with a golden fleece which was the city’s ancient symbol of power. But Atreus recovered the throne by responding with an even greater marvel – making the sun reverse its course. He then banished Thyestes. Years later Atreus found out about his wife’s adultery with Thyestes. Enraged, he expelled her and recalled his brother, pretending to be reconciled to him and ready to share the royal power with him. When Thyestes arrived, accompanied by his sons (usually three in number, but in some accounts two, or even twelve), Atreus secretly murdered the children, cooked the bodies and served them up to Thyestes as a meal, producing their heads (and in some versions also their hands) at the end to show his brother what he had just eaten. Atreus then exiled him again. Thyestes heard later from an oracle that he would get vengeance if he had a son by his own daughter. Either not knowing who she was, or (according to a late Latin source) in full knowledge of her identity, he raped the young woman (Pelopia). She gave birth to a boy, named Aegisthus, and when he reached manhood, he went to Mycenae, assassinated Atreus and re-established Thyestes on the throne.

2c This segment of the mythical cycle was handled variously by Greek and Roman writers. The fullest treatment that has survived is a Latin tragedy by Seneca. His Thyestes is a bleak revenge-drama which portrays the dire consequences of anger and shows, in the figure of Atreus, the pleasure that some people derive from cruelty. It presents a dark vision of a universe without comfort, in which the gods do not care for humans, and reason and order are frail. It also raises issues which are still relevant today, such as the misuse of power by people in high places, the savagery and madness at the heart of ‘civilization’ and the triumph of evil in the world.

ATREUS’ ROLLERCOASTER RIDE in his own personal Game of Thrones

King Atreus, 23, the off-again on-again monarch of Mycenae has finally secured the throne for good and all the fame and fortune that goes with it estimated to be huge and in the gazillions.

Amid huge controversy over which of them should have the throne one of the battling brothers Thyestes, 22, suggested they give it to who ever had a lamb with a golden fleece!

Like a lamb to theslaughter Atreus agreed because he was sure he had the creature in question.

Imagine his surprize when hey presto sly Thy produced the creepy sheep, claimed the throne and told Atreus to go p*ss up a rope.

Atreus freeked out and fumed: “My life has been torn apart, this is a sickening crime, this is utter bullsh*t, the guy must have literally stolen it from me.’

An insider, claimed stunningly: Thyestes had a hot affair with atreus’ super glamorous wife Aerope, 24, and got his fling to hand over the bizarre baa-lamb, but don’t quote me on that.’

Atreus was not going to take that lying down (even if his wife was).

He dared his little brother: “hey how about handing over the throne if I can do the impossible and make the sun go backwards’

Thy fell for it. He’s like: What the hell bro? Bring it on.’

Atreus obviously has friends in high places becuase after a quick prayer by him the sun went into reverse and it was All Change! 28

One stunned subject gushed, “Omigod it was like awesome. I couldn’t believe it until I visually saw it. It was awesome, just awesome.”

Punny man Atrues said jokingly: ‘I’ve won my place in the sun. But the black sheep of the family is finished, caput, the loser, and he can get the f**k out of my kingdom he’s fired, banished.

Heartbroken ex-king ex-celeb Thyestes declined to comment as he headed off into exile, saying “Ugh, this has been a tough year for me, winning the crown entirely fairly and then having it stolen from me through a trick by that a**hole.”

RELATED ITEMS The blind sightseer Phineus. Two-headed parrot speaks Swahili and Serbo-Croat at the same time. Homer’s Iliad not written by Homer but by another poet of that name.

Illustrious Hieron, some words for the wise: Smith your tongue on the anvil of truth, And pilot your subjects with a righteous rudder. King Croesus’ smiling goodness does not die. But hostile, hate-filled censure entombs Atreus, the slave of rage, the father of falsehood, Who with child-slaying, child-slicing hands Served up horror to his brother – a banquet of boyflesh That made the air go mad, the high heavens howl And the Sun turn his chariot back, weeping tears of molten gold. 29

Such were the closing words of the poet’s victory-ode to celebrate Hieron’s triumph in the Pythian Games. A deeply suspicious man by nature, Hieron saw there a reference to his envy and hatred of Gelon, his much more famous brother. When the poem was performed at the victory celebrations in Syracuse, the tyrant pretended to be pleased with it. Publicly he praised the poet and presented him with a silver laurel wreath as a reward for his composition; but privately he ordered him to be ambushed and killed when he left Syracuse to return home. And this was done.

This is an authenticated translation of the above fragment of ancient Greek. The fragment, from the History of Diodorus Siculus, was stored for centuries in a French monastery and overlooked until the Nazis looted it in 1943. At the end of World War II it was seized by Major Andrei Cheogodaev in a trophy brigade set up by the Committee of Arts of the Council of the People’s Commissars of the USSR. Subsequently it was formally awarded to him in recognition of his sterling services to the state, and was eventually put on the market by his grandson in 2016. It was purchased by Zofffos International at a price of $10.3 million and thus rescued from obscurity. It has been put on display in this reception loggia for the edification of our valued clients as part of our ongoing campaign promoting the various cultures of the world and facilitating access to outstanding instances of our common artistic heritage.

THYESTSHES REVIEW: Feminae, the all-female dance troupe, present liberating

subversion of phallocentric myth. By way of an aptly dark prelude the audience pass through an unlit warehouse to get to the stage, where macho antipathy rules, as two ‘heroes’ in breastplates and velvet briefs posture and prance. Atreus (all in pink) and Thyestes (all in lilac) screech insults at each other, one in Greek, the other in Latin, until Aerope (Atreus’ first wife) enters and points a single finger at the two males to silence them. She is then joined by Naias (Thyestes’ wife) and Pelopia (Thyestes’ daughter, raped by him, and later married by Atreus). Encircling and ensorcelling their prey in a sensuous scarlet luminance, they dance silk-stepping seduction before a back-projection of some lines of Sappho (Daedal-throned, deathless Aphrodite, wile-weaving child of Zeus). Unmanned, the men are chained to a back wall and left there unlit and marginalized in their turn. The three heroines fly free, jumping in explosions of sculptured energy to the soaring sound of the Ode to Joy. Soon they are joined by local women, and their acrobatic effervescence morphs into the mystical mountain-dancing of the Bacchantes (Bacchus’ fiercely independent female devotees), complete with Bacchic miracles, as they handle snakes and strike the ground to create 30

fountains of wine. Amid kaleidoscopic light-bursts they run riot in leaps of power and barrel turns, transported by Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, chaotic guitars and synth-based electronica. The marvels culminate in parthenogenesis, when the heroines lovingly couple and give birth to three identical daughters. In the arresting finale the two ‘heroes’ are unchained for ritual sparagmos and omophagia, as the women and girls tear them apart and eat them raw – a digitally enhanced gorefest in which female audience members enthusiastically participated. With its lyrical lighting, intensely expressive choreography and the indelible spirited performance by consummate danseurs, this is a powerful and provocative inversion of masculine dominance and virile violence.

SCENE SIX: THYESTES IN EXILE. FADE IN: 1 EXT. DESOLATE WASTE WITH HUT – DAY. 2 EXT. THE HUT – ENTRANCE – DAY. THYESTES stands frowning and staring at the stony grey waste, as a lone oboe plays the melancholy Thyestes Theme. Close-up on his face – we see tears on his cheeks. Extreme close-up on one tear – we see in it an image of the glittering palace at Mycenae, with Lion Gate, battlements, turrets and purple pennants rippling in the breeze. We hear distant sounds of chatter, female laughter, clinking bottles and glasses, and flutes, pipes and lyres playing a lively tune. The tear falls, the image disappears with it and the sounds are cut off, leaving silence. FADE OUT.

Are you fucking kidding?? People won’t pay good money to see this arty farty SHIT!! Show them the orgy back in Mycenae – thighs, tits, fucking, with lots of close-ups and panting and moaning. Give me a hard on, son, a great big fucking boner!!! 31

Her robe slashed, her pale back speckled and streaked with blood, Queen Aerope was driven at spear-point away from her home, away from the daughter and sons who she loved so much, into a desolate wilderness. There the three burly soldiers beat her and left her, growling a warning never to return to Mycenae. Felled, crushed, she couldn’t stop crying for her baby girl and her lovely boys. Finally, when she was empty, she struggled up and wandered away, her body clenched with grief, and wailed: ‘Never see them again.’ The further she wandered, away from her darlings, the greater her agony became. She started to scream, and her screams went on and on, echoed by the boulders, echoed by the crags. The gold of her hair has dimmed, the rose of her lips has fled, but the beautiful queen is beautiful even in grief. She screams out agony, stumbling over mountain-ridges, staggering through valleys. She doesn’t feel the stones beneath her bare feet, she doesn’t feel the thorns and brambles that tear her tender flesh. All she feels is ferocious longing for the baby girl and the lovely boys she has lost. Pained by her grief, all nature mourns. In the pastures plaintive laments are piped by shepherds; and nymphs’ silvery tears spatter on streams. Fawns stare at her with woeful eyes, wolves howl dolefully, and there are even sighs by lions. All the flowers hang their heads; all the grass goes pale with sorrow. Still screaming, Aerope comes to a towering cliff by the sea. She tries to end her agony by hurling herself on to the rocks far below. But as she plunges down, a sea god transforms her. In mid-air her clothes flutter away, her snowy skin becomes white feathers and her arms turn into wings. She is a bird of the ocean, a beautiful gull, that swoops down to the waves and soars up into the sky, screaming. To this day the seagull screams, in grief for the baby girl and the lovely boys she has lost for ever.

[Enter the CHORUS in black robes and white masks. They occupy centre-stage, forming a crescent in front of the palace and raising their right arms to heaven.] 32

CHORUS: Who could believe what’s beyond all belief? Atreus forgave his beloved brother And summoned him here to share his throne. Some god has smothered the threat of invasion, The fear of war, which was worse than war. Martial weapons were clanging just now, Weeping mothers were clinging to children, And white-faced girls were afraid for their lovers On guard on our walls and trembling with terror. But a god has created calm from that chaos. Pain and pleasure pass in turn, And God finds a way for – THE PALACE [voiceover]: Are you kidding. There are no gods. Or, if there are, they’re cruel bastards, with a pitch-black sense of humour. If these walls could speak, they say. Well, these walls can. Not that any of you stupid sods will listen. Look, Atreus doesn’t love his brother – he hates his bloody brother. The herald was just a trick. A servant told him about Thyestes joining giblets with Aerope, so he’s summoned him back for revenge – boil-in-the-bag babies, Kentucky-fried children…Oi, I’m talking to you lot. Oi…Oh I give up. Uh-oh, here comes Thyestes himself, returning to the scene of the crime. [Enter THYESTES and the children, stage left.] What have you come back here for, Thyestes? Did you forget your arse or something? What would you do without that? Wouldn’t be able to think at all, now would you? Look, he sends you a herald to say he wants to make it up, you are brothers after all, he’ll share the throne with you and so on – silver-tongued, honey-voiced horseshit. And you fell for it, you gullible, greedy dickhead! It’s a trap. He knows you were slipping his missus a length, and now he wants to get even. Go back, Thyestes. Never darken my door again. For your own sake…No, on he comes, the stupid bloody pillock. [Enter Atreus, stage right.] And now out comes Atreus to greet him. It’ll all end in tears, believe me. Blood on the walls, literally. Piss off, Thyestes, sling your hook, and take your brats with you…No, in he goes, arm in 33

arm with his brother, the murderer, the master-chef…What a frigging family! It’s so demeaning. Palaces have feelings too, you know. It’s terrible, this – being a royal residence and having toe-jam like this for residents. Oh the shame, the shame.

One day Chinky rushed up to the children and said: ‘The wishing-chair is sprouting wings again. Come on, quick, before it flies off without us!’ Peter and Mollie shouted: ‘Hurrah, we’re off on another thrilling adventure,’ and hurried off with the pixie. They all got on the chair, just in time, and it whisked them away. This time the wishing-chair flew backwards, and a harp played and everything around them went wavy. It flew for ages and ages. At last they could make out a big castle ahead of them. ‘I hope that’s not a giant’s castle,’ murmured Chinky nervously. Mollie said: ‘I hope there aren’t any nasty Grabbit Gnomes there.’ But the chair landed in a big hall where two men were just sitting down to a meal. One of them was talking to the other one in a language the children didn’t know. ‘Oh dear,’ said Peter, ‘I wish I could follow what he’s saying.’ ‘You can,’ said a voice behind him. ‘And you can hear what he’s thinking too. I am the wizard Ho-ho, and I have a spell for that.’ He chanted his spell, and suddenly they could understand what the man was saying, and what he was thinking to himself. This is what they heard. ‘Now then, King Thyestes, make yourself comfortable. This is a special meal, in celebration of our joint kingship. [Steal my kingdom, would you, you bastard, steal my wife?] I’ve sacrificed some kids to thank the gods for our reconciliation, and I’ve personally supervised the cooking of the meat, to make sure it’s just right…Here it comes. Smell that aroma! Is your mouth watering? Mine too…Pile his plate high, Chloe…Now, little brother, get that down you. Eat, eat as much as you can, please…[Ha ha, what a fool, falling for the friendly act, and greedy too – cramming great chunks of meat into his mouth, his tomb of a mouth.] Enjoying that? [Enjoying bolting down your boys? God, this is funny.] Good, good. Don’t bother talking, just eat. And don’t worry about me. I’m just enjoying watching you eat. I’ll eat something later. [But not that. I don’t eat roast relative.] Beautifully tender flesh, isn’t it? Soft as a baby’s bottom…Here, have some wine to wash it down, a noble red. [It’s got your sons’ blood in it, to 34

give it some body.] It’s an amusing little wine, if a bit immature and boyish. [Look at him chewing his children, licking his lads’ fat from his lips – mustn’t laugh.] You should slow down a bit now, masticate each mouthful carefully, really enjoy your food. [Savour the flavour of your brats.]…Had enough? Oh go on, force down a bit more, just to please me…Good…You’re probably wondering about your boys…No, they’re not outside, they’re inside, definitely inside. Actually they’re here, in this room with us. Do you want to see them? [I’ll splinter that satisfied smile of yours, you bastard.] Yes? Chloe, bring that basket over…Open it…Have a good look inside, little brother…In our rather different ways now we’ve both got our own back, tee hee.’ Suddenly Chinky broke in and shouted: ‘Look at the chair. It’s rocking forwards and backwards and making whooping noises. Let’s get on it quick. I think it’s going to fly off.’ They all got on the chair, and Mollie said: ‘Go on, wishing-chair, take us home.’ As the chair flew off at speed, she asked Peter: ‘What was that man on about?’ ‘Beats me,’ said Peter, ‘How would I know? I’m only 5. Or am I 7? Too young anyway. Did you understand, Chinky?’ ‘Of course I fu-…er, NO,’ said Chinky, white-faced. When they got back home, Peter said: ‘I must say that was a boring adventure, perfectly vapid. Anyway I’m really hungry after seeing and smelling all that yummy food. I wish he’d offered us some. Anyway let’s have some sweeties now. I’m going to gobble down lots and lots of jelly babies.’ Mollie said: ‘I don’t know which I’d rather eat – chocolate fingers or Fry’s Five Boys.’ ‘Oh shit,’ muttered Chinky, who had got some colour back by now – his face had turned quite green.

‘One of the most arresting examples of the revenge drama in antiquity is Seneca’s Thyestes. Some critics feel that the violence goes too far and accuse Seneca of crude sensationalism. But that is to misinterpret the author’s highly moral intentions, which thoroughly justify the extremes of cruelty. By way of illustration the following extract is taken from the messenger speech in that play, specially adapted for radio. Listener discretion is advised.’ ‘Wet-lipped with bloodlust, the king acted as priest himself, intoned the death-prayer, the murder-chant, and prepared his shivering victims for slaughter, their tiny hands tied behind their 35

backs. The altar heaved, the holy wine turned into frothing blood, and a star streaked darkly through the sky. These portents terrified everybody but Atreus. He plunged the knife into one of the lads, drove it right in until his hand slammed against the soft throat. When he pulled it out, with a sucking sound, the dead boy stayed upright for several seconds, then swayed, and toppled on to his uncle. The savage seized another child, hacked off his head and hurled it away, still sobbing and pleading. Unsated, he thudded the blade into the third body, punched it out the other side. The little lad crumpled on to the altar, with fatal wounds in his chest and back. Spurting blood splashed and doused the sacred flames. What came next was even worse. While their hearts are still throbbing, he chops his nephews into chunks, cleaves shoulders, arms, severs sinews, joints, bones. He sets aside the oozing heads; the rest…he cooks. Some of the flesh is stuck on spits, and sits dripping over a slow fire; livers sputter and squeal on skewers; other bits bubble in a boiling cauldron. The flames recoil, and burn grudgingly, emit a stinking, bitter-tasting smoke, that hangs heavy, and smothers.’

three small figures dim down a frowning path taste morbid cold

and black

sheep’s blood in the vestibule towering jaws Fear

scaly with decay

Grief Diseases

blurred faces

clouds in their mouths

gibbers of silence dreams cluster beneath leaves

dreaming deceit

sudden hiss of Hydra tortured branches clutch

and titter 36

at the River of Hate rot of reeds

and

a pleading seethe of souls beyond

Charon’s glaring eyes of fire.

The eldest brother whispers: ‘We’re dead, aren’t we? This is Hades.’ They huddle together and sob.

Hi Hilka, you never saw my best painting, my very best painting, and now you never will, I’m very sad to say. I cant even send you a picture of it, as it was destroyed. Christ. So I’m going to describe it for you so you can at least visualize it. I still can’t quite believe its gone, a bloody fucking tragedy, a devastating loss, but if you can picture it then it will live on. Sort of. In a way.

It was a 16 by 20 feet depiction of the greek hero Thyestes unwittingly feasting on his sons, killed, cooked and sreved up to him by his evil brother Atrues. I entitled it STUFFED, it was a pungent comment on rampant consumerism and its disastrous effect on the environment and posterity. A crowded canvas and a garish palette, a truly apocalyptic vision, I worked onit for 3 years put me heart and soul into it all for bloody nothing. Anyway Atreus dominated hovering over Thyestes and pulling his strings with taloned fingers. In place of a crown I gave the king a pink baseball cap , with CEO ATREUS INTERNATIONAL on it, and a clashing purple halo. I also gave him a manically grinning deaths head for a face with a black eye-patch, a clown’s red nose and smoldering banknotes coming out of his plutocratic earholes. To show complicity Thyestes also had only one eye and a red nose But he had on top of a massively bloated human body a donkey’s head. An oilwell fork in his hand, he was staring at a basket that had been opened too reveal the heads of his sons he’d just eaten, and he was starting to vomit from between tombstone teeth a polychromatic cascade of fingers feet, entrails, credit cards, krugerrands, designer accessories etc. The floor was littered with dead animals and fish and insects and though a skewed window you could see the half submerged houses of parliament and beyond them a great forest on fire. Then I had a brainwave. To accentuate death and destruction I spattered great gouts of blood all over it and tore a jagged rent in the canvas from top to bottom. Effectively violent and violently effective. Loved it, Christ I bloody loved that painting. 37

I wish you could have seen it. I could say a lot more about t but words can’t really do justice to its power, but at least you have some idea of it now. Bold grotesque, disgusting, food for thought. I painted it in 2015 as a warning not that anybody payed any attention. Anyway I lost it yesterday. A gang broke in and cleaned out the house and then got into my studio. They pissed on some of my paintings and made a bonfire of the rest and my books. Bloody animals. When I called them barbarians they broke my right arm in two places with a crowbar. Having established first that I am right handed. Bastards bloody fucking bastards. I’m typing this letter with my left with difficulty. No doctors around here so no more painting for me. Ever again. Shit shit shit. And the pain. Really bad pain. Then they superglued my forehead to my desk and shoved bits of plastic bags in my ears and were going to light them but saw a rival gang passing and ran off to attack them. I hope they wiped each other out the bloody bastards. I had to rip off skin to get free, and that really hurts too. I can understand them taking the food and drink but not the paintings and my arm. Why in christs name do that. O I know for the most part it was only ever a patina of civilisation but now with the climate catastrophe even thats gone. Just barbarism now animals forces of darkness. Lost all my family and friends apart from you, and now this. On top of cripppling heat, famin, anarchy the government wholed up in the isle of man, corpses everywhere in the streets, with bits hacked of them, poison air and permanent brown smudge on the horizon they say the north sea garbage patch is on fire. Its all so ugly and pepressing I just cant go on I don’t see the point to dragging out a misrable existence dying by inches starve to death in agony. Glad now my poor janet died and spared all this. I’m going to join hre now.

Hilka I’m afraid this will be my last email to you. Please please don’t feel sad for me. I’m going to put on tchaikovskys sixth knock back my my last bottle of Beaujolai, well hidden that was, and slash my wrists. Thanks you for your friendship, hilka, our emails have meant so much to me – intellectual stimulation in a cultural wasteland. Hope things are beter up there in finland wont be so bloody hot all the time. You didn’t answer my last two emails hope your just bust writing an other short story or may be a novel best of luck with that. Try to visualize my painting evry day so it can live on a bit longer until the world ends. All my love, max

Paul Murgatroyd

‘

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: LUCY REID

Lucy Reid is currently studying a Masters in Creative Writing at Queens University Belfast. She has always had a passion for writing prose, poetry and has been writing short stories from a young age.

I Know Places

23rd of February, 2017 (two weeks after) Eoin

The Marina. The name of such an establishment had confused Eoin since his arrival in Westhead. Everyone had pointed him in the direction of ‘The Marina’, everything he needed to know was at ‘The Marina’. At first, he had assumed that they were referring to the pitiful stretch of beach that was dashed with pastel coloured houses overlooking the coast as these tiny houses appeared to be the only thing the town had to offer. They were the only thing Eoin had found any information on when previously researching Westhead online. The town boasted that they were repainted by locals every year to keep them ‘perfectly bright and happy’ - or so the AirB&B listing would have him believe. To Eoin, it seemed they were the town’s only attempt to attract some tourism or any knowledge that the town even existed. Unfortunately, there would be no more business in those houses for a long time as Westhead’s online presence was now haunted by photos

of a young woman.

‘Girl Murdered in Idyllic Coastal Town.’

‘The Last of Colour Drained from Westhead as Young Woman Falls to Death from Cliff.’

‘Woman’s Body Found at Coast in Westhead in Suspicious Circumstances.’

Not one paper had mentioned the yearly paint jobs. Eoin was surprised that the story had made such big news, especially in England. The English tended not to care very much about the

Irish and even he himself had never previously heard of Westhead and he was born all but a fiftyminute drive from the town. The woman whose fate the town had sealed, hadn’t even resided there 40

herself which piqued the media’s attention. However, after exploring the little that the town had to offer, the journalists that now plagued Westhead seemed to be in an unspoken agreement that Westhead was definitely a place you come to die. The clouds remained grey and the people remained grey. Eoin did admit to once thinking that the little fairy-like houses would in fact look rather lovely if the sun was shining; but the sun had not graced Westhead since his arrival and he did not expect its presence anytime soon. Had

Ireland always been so grey? He remembered life, soul and beauty on the West Coast. It had been a long time, he knew that (he had all but lost the accent) but he had always believed that he had a rather good memory. Reality persisted in proving him wrong as he found himself back in Ireland, standing outside a pub that was so meekly advertised that if the small red Guinness sign had not

been flickering so fiercely and tirelessly against the grey as though it were an old heart beating desperately just to stay alive for a little longer, you could have easily mistaken it for an old Granny’s cottage. The Marina. The town’s local. Its beating heart. It did not seem like such upon his first arrival.

As he first entered The Marina on the afternoon of the 23rd of February that year, he felt as though he were entering a morgue. His noisy arrival through the heavy, creaking door rudely interrupted the quiet whisperings from inside; all evidence of any life ceased to exist as he entered. The five men who were present that day (and almost every other day he revisited for that matter) had all turned to face him in unison with a joint expression of complete despair. After a moment of unwelcoming and suspicious stares, the three old men with even older guitars returned to their sombre songs whilst the man sat at the bar, restored his head to his pint and the barman walked away and pretended to dust glasses. Mourning had never made itself so clearly present to Eoin before. He felt like an intruder to their grief. He felt like an intruder to Ireland. That uncomfortable thought almost made him turn for the door and run, run far away across the water once more to leave these strangers to mourn in peace. But he didn’t. Instead, he forced himself to remember the reason that he had come back. He was not coerced into taking the case, he had volunteered. He planned on leaving his homeland once more when the time was right with all of the answers that he needed. He perched himself at the bar three seats down from where the man sat alone. Late thirties,

early forties Eoin guessed; pale, dressed casually in a navy t-shirt and worn out jeans. He looked typical of the town. Same grey as everyone else. That was a good start, he needed to get to know the 41

locals; he needed to spend time with them, to let himself stew in their environment and surrender himself completely to their terms. The man did not raise his head from his pint to greet him, just lifted his drink and stared forward towards the barman who was still pretending to be too busy to talk. In one swig he finished his beer and asked for another in a mellow Scottish accent. ‘You not from here?’ Eoin asked the man. This was his way in. At least that’s what he had told himself when initially reflecting upon the conversation later that night. But he knew that if he

were to be completely honest with himself, he would admit that it was an involuntary reaction to the shock of hearing a different accent for the first time in a week. The realisation that he wasn’t the only outsider in Westhead filled him momentarily with great comfort and reassurance. He felt a strange connection with this stranger and the feeling was reciprocated. When Jordan finally lifted

his eyes to meet the Detective’s, he no longer felt agitation for him but instead recognition. Jordan stared for a moment, before deciding that he couldn't possibly know this man and that he definitely did not want to get to know this man, just half-laughed and replied: ‘Matty, get Sherlock over here a drink.’

The barman turned back to face Eoin, staring at him expectantly with a hopeless expression. As if he was waiting for a question, as if he was waiting for answer. Or both. Eoin had no answers yet, so he asked the first of the many questions that he planned to ask the people of Westhead that year. ‘Can I have a Guinness please, mate?’ Before Eoin was done speaking, the man nodded and it was as he went to pour the pint the Eoin first noticed the photo behind the bar. There she was. Captured for all of eternity in a dusty bronze frame, looking right at him, smiling at him, dealing colour to The Marina. Bright blue eyes, ebony hair, red coat. Fenella Marie Galway. It was clear that she didn’t belong in the town, and yet she went there often. Having grown up and lived all her life in Clonagh, an hours drive away, she would come to Westhead often, to The Marina, more than three times a week. To the media, it begged the question of why? Why would she travel an hour there and an hour back every few days to visit Westhead of all places? The town offered no life for a twenty year old woman, no lively cafes or restaurants or anything. Nothing that Clonagh didn't have to offer. The journalists all wanted to know why. Why did she come here? Why did she come here to die?

They couldn’t understand it. They couldn't understand Ireland. They couldn't understand the people. 42

Eoin understood. That was why he left in the first place.

8th of February, 2017 (the funeral and before) Jordan

Fucking amazing. He had met Fennella Marie Galway for the very first time on a cold night in March and he thought she was fucking amazing. By the time had stumbled home intoxicated on the moonlit pavements, he had already convinced himself that his existence before her had been meaningless; that he had only been biding his time, waiting patiently for this moment. The calm before the storm. And that storm had brilliant blue eyes and dusky black hair. “You’re taking the absolute piss! You’s aren't from Clonagh!” He had joked with her that first night. She had loved his Scottish accent. Months later, she teased him claiming that it was the sole reason that she was attracted to him. “Which is a good thing for you, I guess,” she had said, “you never shut the fuck up.” According to Fenn and her friend Amy, they had walked into The Marina that night by

complete chance. But knowing the little that there was to know about Westhead and knowing how he had felt when he had first locked eyes with Fenn, Jordan knew that there was nothing coincidental about it at all. It was fate.

Two young women walking through the doors of The Marina was close to a miracle to which all the men, from the old and the dying to the middle-aged and bored thanked a God that they previously had shown no signs of believing in. Jordan Boal fit indefinitely into the second category. “You's can't be! Why the fuck would you come here then?!” Jordan’s middle-aged and bored friends had all asked. 43

The answer had something to do with a cheating boyfriend, a girls night out, an adventure and being unfortunate enough to need the bathroom during a long car journey in the middle of nowhere when you're a female - or something along those lines. The girls spoke so quickly that Jordan found it difficult to keep up with what they were saying. Yet, he found himself laughing along anyway; the Marina was usually host to talk of country music, whiskey, cars, cliffs, the wars and the weather. Not the infidelity of a 20-something-year-old boy.

It was often that Jordan thought about that first night in The Marina as he desperately attempted to breathe some life back into the impossibly perfect image he had created of this girl. She had come back to Westhead a few days later, just as he prayed she would. When he had found her sitting alone in The Marina, he knew the empty seat to her right was waiting for him. It was like

they were now speaking in their own wordless, private language, that they could both decipher but did not fully understand yet. “Well,” he had greeted her, lifting his hand to attract the barman’s attention, “what are you having?”

“No,” She said, slowly raising her own hand to meet his and pushing it back down to rest on the bar. She let her skin linger over his for a moment. “We’re going for a drive.’ “Are we now?” Jordan eyes flitted around the room. Of course everyone was watching. He had a wife. He had two kids. They were all judging him. None of that had seemed overly important to him at the time. When he remembered this moment, he became filled with a shame almost too great to bear. “Where to, may I ask?” She shrugged and offered a sly smile, “I know places.” She had driven twenty minutes out of Westhead to a beach that Jordan had never heard of when she stopped the car, undid her seatbelt, leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. Every inch of her body had seemed to speak to him in that moment, sing to him as he melted into her; kissing her felt like writing a poem. And Jordan had never written a poem in his life. When she slowly pulled away abashed, her eyes pleaded for the reassurance that he wanted this too, that he was willing to take the leap with her. Those eyes. Pools of blue, reminding him of rocky seas that had survived a hundred stormy nights. Yet, they held the promise of a light warm wind over a gentle sea somewhere on a distant shore. He knew she was watching him, reading him too. They

were both puzzling silently, attempting to figure one another out; communicating without words, becoming fluent in their own secret language. And then he kissed her again. 44

His baby was born in the last two weeks of Fenn’s life. His third child. His first baby girl. Whilst Angela was giving birth, he became so queasy, he thought he might faint and soon found himself throwing up in the bin in the corner of the delivery room. He was ashamed of himself. A baby girl. His first baby girl. He cried as he held her and his wife patted his back and ran her fingers through his hair. A great big proud smile on her red, puffy face. The realisation that his wife knew of his affair sunk in slowly the days after Fenn’s death. She

had attended the funeral with him despite his requests to go alone. It had taken months for her to leave their two older boys at her parents for the night, it was downright outrageous that she would leave their two week old infant daughter with them so that she could attend the funeral of some random young girl in Clonagh. He prepared himself for her accusations at the church where his

friends patted his shoulder and whispered their condolences but none ever came. His wife never uttered a word. The funeral was sad and tiring. He felt sick. When they arrived home that evening, Jordan crawled into bed and slept for fourteen hours. He dreamt of the beach where he had first kissed Fenn. Days after her death, he had searched

endlessly for that beach to no avail. Now, it ceased to exist outside of his memory and the more that time passed, the less he believed that Fenn had ever even truly existed herself. When he finally awoke in the early hours of the morning after the funeral, he found his wife sitting rigidly at the end of the bed still in her black dress, staring out at the sombre, shadows of the dawn sky. Angela had felt it in her chest when Jordan had awoken. Asleep, her husband brought her a great sense of calm. Knowing that he was was at home with her, still and dreaming brought her a blissful peace that was disturbed from the moment he opened his eyes. So she knew her husband was awake without moving her gaze from the window. “How well did you know that girl, Jordan?” She asked him, unmoving. Ah, there it is. The inevitable question Jordan thought. He followed her line of sight through the window to the dark coastal sky where the waves broke somewhere close by. “Not very well.” He lied. “Jordan… If you know anything about what happened to that girl… you need to tell me now. You need-“ “I don’t.”

They waited in a heavy silence for what felt like hours and for the first time since that fateful cold night in March when he had first met Fenn, the sky outside of the bedroom window cleared 45

and filled their room with a soft, golden light. The storm was finally over. The waves crashed nearby in a soothing melody that lulled Jordan back into his deep, sleep filled with warm sandy beaches somewhere on a distant shore. So by the time his wife had decided that she would force herself to deny the doubt that she felt growing towards her husband and whispered to him “i love you”, only the waves replied.

5th of February, 2017 (the night of) Fenn

The fog lay steadily across the sea; it looked almost black in the dawn light. Fenn had never really understood why people thought it was pretty, she found that it rather petrified her. To her it appeared menacing, ominous; it was its own entity, completely unpredictable. Yet from a distance, she found it strangely fascinating. She was enamoured with the coast; she loved climbing the rocks that lined the ocean, feeling the presence of the sombre tides but being free from their waves. It made her feel oddly powerful, as though she faced a huge, irate beast that loomed over her but could never reach her. She hadn’t been in possession of this strange sense of power for some time now; Westhead

was the closest point on the coast to her hometown and this was the first time she had visited in over a month. She had attempted on many occasions to convince herself that she need not return, there was nothing there for her anymore, nothing that she couldn't have easily found anywhere else. But she knew that Jordan still lingered here, waiting. She found that exhilarating. A married man

wanting her? Abandoning his wife and children for her? She fancied herself as a sorceress and he drank from her potions willingly knowing that there was no antidote. 46

So is that why I’m here then? Fenn had asked herself many times and she still wasn’t sure. In the early hours of the morning she had awoken in her bed covered in a cold sweat as the bleak morning light bled into her room. She found herself in her car driving out on familiar, old roads within half an hour; a hoody pulled over her head, jeans yanked on. She had been dreaming about the ocean. She longed for the fresh coastal air on her face but more importantly, she longed to feel in control again. Powerful. Yes, that’s the only reason why I’m going, she had promised herself, gripping the steering

wheel tightly, trying to hold on to her feelings, to organise them. Pretending that if she squeezed tight enough, soon the dreadful thoughts in the back of her mind would evaporate and float away from her body leaving her free of conscience once more. Nevertheless, the thoughts creeped in, demanding Fenn to listen. She knew deep down that

she had only been avoiding Westhead for the last few weeks because Eoin was home from England. Of course, he had found out about her and Jordan. It was naive of her to believe for a second that he wouldn't have been following her. Investigating as usual. She liked to picture him as a protective older brother looking out for her but sometimes, if she didn't squeeze tight enough, she felt a slight

trickle of doubt entering her mind. That Eoin wasn't watching over her to act as her guardian angel but instead to have something to hold against her. She cringed every time she remembered the acidity of his tone when he accused her: ‘A married man with a pregnant wife?’ He hadn’t needed to raise his voice, the hissed whisper was almost worse. Deadlier. Then and only then, had Fenn felt any shame for what she had done. Eoin had presented to her all of her wrongdoings that she had been trying to squeeze from her mind and laid them all on the table right in front of her face where she could no longer deny them. She understood why he was so angry and often thought of ways to portray her sympathy and her regret to her half-brother. Eoin was only back in Ireland for a few days to attend his Father’s funeral and Fenn wanted to support him, prove to him that she wasn’t as horrible as he clearly believed her to be. She didn't care that she ‘was the product of his Mother having fucked off with another man’, she never had. In her mind, she was his little sister and they were a family. Yet, even though she squeezed against the thought with every fibre of her being, she could not shake the inkling that Eoin resented her for this very reason. After much disagreement between Fenn and her Mother, they attended the funeral together.

Eoin didn't appear to be angry that they had shown up. He didn't seem too sad either though, Fenn remembered thinking. He had turned to face them with an expression that she couldn't quite 47

understand. It reminded her of a time from years past when her friend Amy had painted a portrait of her in school. ‘No,’ Amy had said. ‘It's not you, I didn't capture you.’ Fenn had puzzled over the painting for days after, trying to understand what Amy had meant. The drawing was phenomenal, very life like. It was certainly a brunette with blue eyes who stared back at Fenn when she gushed over it, but alas, Amy was right. It wasn't her. The girl in the

portrait had the same earrings, the same hair falling over her shoulders, the same eyes. But there was something, perhaps in the space between her eyes; the delicate pencil line of her nose or in the concave of her dimples that was missing. She hadn’t captured Fenn. And standing in that church hall, Fenn’s eyes couldn’t quite capture Eoin. As he stared at Fenn and her Mother for slightly

longer than was comfortable, his features eerily contorted as though he had been repainted, reanimated into someone she could no longer recognise. That night she had dreamt of Jordan’s wife and children with the same distorted, sinister faces haunting her. It was then that she decided she would abandon Westhead.

Fenn had driven for miles like this; lost in her thoughts with red hands gripping tightly on the steering wheel but finally, she arrived at her destination. Signpost for Tra. She loved this beach, it was always empty meaning that her and the ocean could be alone together. She climbed the rocks along the coast drifting in and out through the clouds of fog that blanketed the ocean, watching but never touching. But it just wasn't enough for her this morning. No matter how hard she tried, she could not drown her thoughts. Her power would not return to her. The ocean breeze was useless. She wished for a hurricane. In her desperation she climbed the stoney path about a half-mile from the beach and ascended the rocky cliff. Jordan had first taken her here many months ago, it was his favourite spot. Here they would come again and again to be alone, where no one would ever disturb them. She could peer over the edge to where the sea met the cliffs with the wind rushing past her face while Jordan watched, fascinated. She thought it would feel different to be there without him. Desolate. Forlorn. But standing here in this same spot once again, she didn't feel that she particularly missed him for she didn't feel that she was without him. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, was it the presence of the ocean she felt pricking her goosebumps? No. She couldn't quite explain it but she

knew she was in the company of someone else. Was Jordan still lingering up here, brooding on his

cliffs in the hope that Fenn would return to him? She hoped so, she couldn’t be that easily forgotten. Impossible, surely. So she stayed and waited for whoever was going to join her. She sat down on the cliff edge, breathing in the sea air and losing herself in the fog. She closed her eyes and listened to the waves break far below her. She felt it again, finally after so many weeks, that power. She felt in control once more. As if she were manipulating time and space to match her innermost desires. Fenn

always got what she wanted. So she was aware of his arrival without seeing it. Her skin prickled and her mouth twitched. She turned her head back, leaning on the rock behind her and smiled.

And there he was.

Lucy Reid

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: FIONNBHARR RODGERS Fionnbharr is a freelance writer who has contributed to the Northern Slant, Backbench and is a graduate from Queen’s University Belfast.

Sunrise I can feel the ceiling cracking, And I can hear the water coming in, Though the door is safely bolted The frame is wearing thin.

I know the summer’s ending; The wind is howling fast. So I scramble like the dying, To keep a hold on the cherished past.

All you looking for the future Only have look around At the headlines in the paper And at the blood upon the ground

We know the summer’s ending And the day is wearing thin. For now the door is safely bolted, So for now the gypsies sing.

So keep this prayer for the dying, When the wind knocks off our hinges; 51

At the end of summer’s ending, When you can’t hear singing for the singes

Prayer for Survivors Now the doors is blown open The wind and Devil’s pilgrims march on in To lay to waste the little table Round which the gypsies sing

Blood will be drunk Wine will be spilt The dawn has demanded The night must be killed

The pilgrims with the mind of God From their bows let loose a deadly prayer The night has forsaken us We only stand beside the air

Though left standing is the good old house Stones their army couldn’t break Among the rafters flickers a surviving light: Hope, for sheer hope’s sake

Take up that little light, my darling Take it to your body’s hearth 53

As you march through the callous morning Keep warm a besieged little heart

Earth Wake

Life is ended Love goes on Time is more Than consecutive dawn When I write These words upon This page, they Are not written To this age They’re written to You wherever you May be, by the Hand of my soul From whomever I Can say is me Love has ended Life goes on Take your feet Take the dawn

All the Loves You’ll Live to Meet

Love is as long as living It’s as varied as the trains Raging fires happen in the movies Out here in the world, we step in from the rain

Some loves are only kisses Others outlive the brightest stars Some are made in seedy poetry Others can be found in dainty bars

As varied as men and women,

Not to mention all those in between Every man and every town Masks of love are varied as the trains There are only two Characteristics each can call the same

You’ll be born in the cosmos between respective eyes; Come of age through a mess of tangled thighs You’ll step for a lifetime in from the rain You’ll die in the gutter in a raging flame

Satan Walk Behind

All those who vote away The lives of those with less Shall feel a godly burning

From wrath they will know not rest Rest will be for the living skeletons of Ballina When they sit down to eat in the House of God

The rich man’s flesh will taste Far sweeter once he is cut down from His camel with a burning knife of saintly gold

All those who live today in gilded marble Commanding palaces of trees condemned to books They will know they have been told

All those who make the holy dove The albatross for tanks of war They will know they have been told 58

The ones on high who belt their prayers Before taking mortal blood for their purple wine They will know they have been told

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: KATE ENNALS Kate Ennals is a prize-winning poet and writer and has published poems and short stories in a range of literary and on-line journals (Crannog, Skylight 47, Honest Ulsterman, Anomaly, The International Lakeview Journal, Boyne Berries, North West Words, The Blue Nib, Dodging the Rain, The Ogham Stone, plus many more). In 2017, she won the Westport Arts Festival Poetry Competition. Her first collection of poetry At The Edge was published in 2015. Her second collection, Threads, was published in April 2018. Her third collection, Elsewhere, will be published by Salmon Poetry next year.

The Lamb The leg stands pink with pride, steams its juice tender, ribbed, threaded with strips of rosemary, garlic; an abstract of art, roasted snuggled amongst seasoned courgette, tomato. The kitchen swoons in aromatics, windows mist keeps the world at bay. The leg takes its place of rest centre stage, while She mashes potatoes lays the table: salt, pepper, napkins, flowers She carves the thinnest slices from the thigh scatters jellied mint across the flesh. calls him to eat. “I’ll be there in a second”. Ten minutes pass. She calls again. “Coming,” he says, impatient in his voice. The gravy grows a film of grease, congeals. She serves herself a limpid piece of stony lamb, forks cold vegetables into her mouth goes to bed. “Dinner is on the table,” she says He turns from his computer screen, lips stained red “I said, I’ll be there in a minute,” The lamb died. The lamb is dead.

Kate Ennals

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: MALLIKA JOHN

Mallika John is a poet

Mal union of skin and water You slowly dip your fingers Into the still, cold Yet comforting The blue is so dark Foggy eyes of a repentance Algae gives the water its viridescence The light shimmers and breaks and sparkles Unlike anything of its kind Your fingers feel alive Weaves through like jewels As you slowly move through The satiny, the smooth! How can something So simple Feel so wonderful? In a word Bewitched It’s wondrous To feel so strongly about something so simple The ecstasy is irrational So you try and bury But oh, The elegance the magic the irresistibility The music that plays but you don’t hear Why does it have to be so unreachable? Mallika John

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: ALAN LAVERTY

Alan Laverty is from Castleblayney in County Monaghan. He is 41 years old, married with a three-year-old son. Alan is a singer-songwriter, musician, business owner, and aspiring poet.

Purple is Form

Purple is form. A hue not unlike the bottom of the world. A shade I’ve seen Sometimes acquiesce to green. Form is transformation. Thought thoughts escape And become the very act of creation; Lightening the darkness of the heart, Remedying the maladies of the skin, and the mind, Sowing hope, and love. All reside in my formation.

Alan Laverty

In a Different Light

In the morning we live with starlings. By evening, bats. Each having a side of the house preferred. Each having gabled homes prepared. We used to inhabit their space – the bats. That delicate ethereal realm. When thoughts and mouths find escape from the harsh protrusions of the day. It was the darkscape that created us. I to we in the lamplights of the celestial. Now we wake with starlings. We watch them build their nests As we too build ours.

Alan Laverty

Dusk People

I Dusk people, husk people, frayed around the edges. Piped by the piper, being led over ledges. Flayed and dismayed. How much will I be paid? Suited and booted just to be uprooted.

II Dust people, lust people, what really exists? Virtually kissed? An electronic tryst? Splayed and relayed. A need to be displayed. Cropped and crimped and visually pimped.

Alan Laverty

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: FIONA SINCLAIR Fiona Sinclair lives in Kent . Her seventh collection Time Travellers picnic will be published by Dempsey and Windle press in March next year. She is the editor of the fledgling magazine from the edge .

Humour me – Once it was, Jo and me, giddy with giggles at some 7-year olds’ silliness, deaf to Your father’s waiting, until my own dad scooped her up and bore downstairs wriggling like a puppy. Even mum and me, black humour, bitter as dark chocolate. At times, our fear fermenting into hysteria, laughing in cancer’s face, because there’s daring in your last chip being death. But now, it’s the anecdote with the damp punchline, that nonetheless recalls my own high wire attempts at humour, so manage a token smile and Oh how funny. Or worse, the waste of a corker, when my laughter is frozen beneath wintry thoughts, and cannot enjoy with the lip- smacking savour it deserves, so false laughter must be forced out as if barbed. But sometimes the gift of a middle- aged meet up with best mate, combustion of coffee and cake, setting off blasts of laughter, that raises eyebrows from more proper tables. Or your grudge against our hoover, revealed in Billy Connolly skit, demonstrating its wilful clutching at furniture, whilst smirking at you with that bloody stupid face, that has me bellowingAnd Looking at nana and her work mates in fading sepia squares that cannot dim their fun, as cutting brussels with frost burnt fingers or stripped to bras in ‘strawberrying’ swelter, their weather- proof spirits still managed to steal some time for larking – and decide in my 60th year, that I would like to receive her post- dated gift, a ready supply of real laughter, that will see me out Fiona Sinclair

Bonus As the calendar shoved me into my 60th year, assuming like mum and dad, a short shelf life, I waited for ill heath to finally come and collect. Researching on Dr Google, I found one monstrous disease whose symptoms seemed to match like the winning numbers in a lottery with a dreadful prize. Overdosing on GP visits, shame cork screwed my stomach at the sighed Her again… humoured with tests and then a talking toCovid cancelled signs were pasted over Casablanca, Ascot, friends and family dinner: but on the day, biker chick chic in leathers and saucy Grayson Perry scarf flown like a pennant, we brushed verges in a wall of death dip, wove past champing Porches, BMWs, Mercs, in kiss my exhaust audacity to the front of a traffic queue log jamming into Margate. A virgin biker since March lockdown, I added this to my late harvest of : you, travel, middle aged mischief, and decided that everything is a bonus now -

Fiona Sinclair

Old enough to know better We thought the real dividends of those sisters’ struggles would pay out once we were un-yoked from childrearing. Admittedly a little pang at the odd chum whose youthful beauty like a rose in winter blooms on, but no time for menopausal angst when in scarecrow couture, we show more concern for havoc wreaked by weather on our plants, than on our faces. Become Fun Granny teaching grand kids to play poker and swear or dye our hair a raffish blue and do the rounds of summer festivals. Then it seems the secret of eternal youth is out, and we must sand skin to a shine, pump up lips like linos, tattoo eyebrows drag queen arch… And those of us adamant that, ‘’You won’t catch me-’ , still find our spirits sagging with our skin at the thought of finding ourselves déclassé. But sisters should be savvy enough to know, there is no fixing the clock on hands, neck, decollate, where gnarling, crumpling, creping contradicts their face’s new youthful façade, and always at odds will be their eyes, whose seasoned expression cannot be expunged.

Fiona Sinclair

Now Giving fashionable Whitstable the elbow, we opt for Seasalter, that crowds shun because no attractions, no amenities except shingle and sea. In this high summer heat, we intend to hitch-up our dresses shed shoes and paddle like our mums snapped on a jolly. Settled in flimsy picnic chairs, we look out at an Imax horizonSecond thoughts about paddling though, as lizard green algae fringes the shoreline, the sun cooking it to a pungent pong, but at least the tide is turning, bringing with it a sea breeze. Our conversation ambles at old friend’s pace. Wondering why we have always dismissed this rough and ready shoreline, waiting instead for the annual fortnight on pristine Greek sands. Concede that after weeks of four walls, we are grateful to stretch our eyes again. Little happenings entertain. A man flanked by 3 retrievers strikes straight into the sea , the four on equal terms in the water, swimming away in shared animal joy until at distance, they become indistinguishable, the sight moving us more than seals suddenly surfacing. Time is suspended on the horizon. We do not feel five hours pass. Days are no longer time- tabled but freewheelingOur tempo has been re-calibrated, we have learned to sip at the now. So, sitting here in the sun by the sea with a friend, is enough.

Fiona Sinclair

Lost For my 60th, a pretty pair of pink sapphire earrings. ‘bit of a bargain’ you say. Now old favourites are brushed aside, as I wear them every day, my hands like security guards on their rounds, constantly checking they are secure. Months later, the mental note, a fly missing, is erased as I traipse out into the garden to wave guests off, a winter wind playing roughly with my hair, I stoop to root out weeds. Back indoors, the chill at discovering the earring’s loss. Forensic retracing of steps, raking through the shaggy grass with fingers, scanning with unblinking eyes the paths, shaking down shrubs - nothing. That night you take a torch outside, its light morse code calling into the dark hoping for a glint of white gold in response -nothing it is as if the garden has stolen the jewel and hocked it. For weeks, each time I leave the house, my eyes cast about, occasionally conduct another sweep of the garden, and slow stepping on one such, I weigh my mourning for a lost frippery against the anaphylactic shock of a taken child; row of policemen, already moving at funeral pace as they sift the area, raw faced parents appealing in whispers on local telly, all leading to - nothingor families with worst case scenarios playing on a mind loop, planting posters of mothers or brothers who are genuinely wanted, in shop windows, around posts, at stations, all leading to -nothingA permanent sinkhole must open up in these families, who will go through the motions of their lives, trauma’s chronic pain a constant, as they autonomically scan crowds for one face forever-

Fiona Sinclair

Snow. In childhood, I couldn’t get enough of it, tutting at time wasted kitting up against the cold, before I was allowed out to play with this free toy that was ideal for an only child. Man Friday footprints across lawn, then a morning’s labour sculpting a snowman. Gave solo sledging a miss, suspecting snow’s trickster nature even then, but when dad knocked- up a mighty toboggan out of timber oddments, I sat on his lap as the sleigh made a stately descent down Boughton Hill. Scanning the weather forecast for further helpings of snow, watching it recede until one grubby mound was left in the corner of garden. But in my 30s, a rogue patch floored me, triggering the mystery illness that remains unsolved today. Now its arrival is pretty enough, a free show breaking up the monotony of a dank January. I watch all day as the wintery petals swirl, to a soundtrack of silence. But laid, it wraps my mad garden in a straitjacket, keeps me under house arrest, until forced out for groceries, I teeter like an old lady, cursing like an old man, glad to close my curtains on the Day-Glo white, study the weather forecast for low pressure to rout it ; but no hope of a thaw between myself and snow-

Fiona Sinclair

Future Conditional Newscasts start it with what seem at first Sci fi years, 2035, 2040, 2050, but on reckoning I find they are like deadlines, closer than I think, and totalling them to my current age these dates would find me at 80, 90, nothingI redo the maths, but the figures are adamant, making my future like a dwindling fortune, if lucky I have about 20 years’ worth left, and at 60 I know decades gather momentum nowNo fear of death as such since we have had an on off relationship since childhood. But like the metamorphosis from acne afflicted adolescent to a passable young woman with a knack for makeup, now in the near distance the final transmutation from well preserved middle- age to undeniable old lady. Sometimes, my mirror previews, with downturned Emoji mouth and bags under the eyes not designer, that can no longer be dismissed as tiredness. In my twenties, the prospect of 40 made me wince much like 80 does today, the difference then was coming into a trust fund of time, I could afford to blow, but now I cannot squander years, as life has me on notice Fiona Sinclair

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: TERRY BRINKMAN

Terry Has been painting for over forty five years. Has Five Amazon E- Books. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed, Jute Milieu Lit and Utah Life Magazine. Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, Tide and UN/Tethered Anthologies, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly and LKMNDS.

Sleepy Whale 432

First and foremost out stayed her welcome at work Last of the Copper Colored Ink Girl’s fashion wearing Pink Wise precaution molten Sutton jerk Muttered facial expressions with a lurk Ghost hiding in rich silk stockings waiting at the Rink

Terry Brinkman

Sleepy Whale 454

Dishonors of their life continues to fall Spiritual conditional man’s compromising Eager anticipation of the Budapest A slightly ironical nurse Star thrown shadows of night suggest Stone heaps of Butterflies in her purse Burr sticking in a horse’s mane fly infest Last glow of her fleeting day in a Hearse Struck Ilk two identical to blink Murmurs of a tenor voice quirk

Terry Brinkman

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Mercy on him he’s lost in the Zodiac Dying embers out from the ghost-woman’s Bra Admonition light flash Her eyes misty with unshed tears Old time Christmas, Outhouse bash Party worth its weight in beers Unmentionables full of a rash Looming shadows over her childhood’s grace

Terry Brinkman

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Resting on the tip-top of the straw Seated near her companions in his Cadillac Frog green wormwood car door closes with a clack Alabaster eyes glistening with hot tears awe Boys will be Girls on a See-Saw Kissed away the hurting, from the railway stack Susan mercy on him he’s lost in the Zodiac

Terry Brinkman

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Seated crossed legged smoking a coiled pipe My hat was left hanging on the kitchen floor Darkness shining in the brightness of Sunday morning Nudging the chapel door close with her knee Human eyes monk words screaming all night Smelling fresh printed rag paper in the back of the Hearse

Terry Brinkman

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: S C FLYNN SC Flynn writes poetry

Passengers on the Iceberg Australian Antarctic Territory, midsummer

Then in a patch of clearer ice I see him; a bearded man with an outstretched hand. I want to dig him out and ask him who he was, but then he's gone and the ice is milky. Still, we've got months to go until the night and by then the ice man will have melted free. We'll have no stars to steer by except the tireless sensors in the satellites that track our gobbled microwaves, out here where only the sky has eyes. Can you see me up there? I'm waving.

SC Flynn

SEVENTH VIEW OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS Machu Picchu, Peru, 1400 AD

The world of the gods is yours, Chakana, yours and the condor's. Even the mountains can't lift me out of the puma's paw; up here where the air is just the sigh of a dream I'm as far from you as if I crawled in the dust down in the earthy world of the snake.

SC Flynn

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: FIONA MURPHY MCCORMACK Fiona is a prose writer

In the hallway of the registration office there was a boy, and the boy was trying to think of his own name. Silently sounding it out the in his mind, rolling the syllables along his tongue. He slouched, his hands in the front pockets of his jeans as he glanced to the people around him. His imagination ran with reasons they were there. A young couple clasping their hands together. Maybe they were getting marriage registration or civil partnership? A solemn elderly man in smudged round rimmed glasses. Perhaps registering a loved ones death? A tired woman held a toddler on her hip, whilst her other child scribbled a colouring book in waxy crayons , leaning on the ground. Was she seeking a divorce? He stood nervous, nausea unsettling in his stomach. He scratched his newly fuzzy chin, the beginning of an almost beard starting to narrow into more angular cheekbones, though his cheeks were inflamed with bright red acne. He wondered how many of them knew why he was here. It seemed written on his face. As the line moved up by one, he opened his backpack to take out the forms. His finger tracing the signature, his mind roamed back. You’re broken. I know. Oh you know do you what are you going to do about it? I’m trying to fix myself. I need you to be there for me first. Where? The registration office. What for? Deed Poll. Changing your name? Yeah. Are you changing your surname too? I dunno. Hadn’t thought that far ahead. Haven’t thought about any of this. It’s ridiculous. It’s hard to pick a name. I know. We went through tons of baby books before we chose the perfect one for our daughter. How dare you throw that away? I liked my old name just fine. I was even thinking of keeping it as my middle name. I don’t think of it as dead.. It’s just. It’s not a very convincing male name is it? You’re not a man! And I don’t want to stir up problems every time I introduce myself. This way is easier. We miss our little girl. I know. We mourn her. So do I. You’re mocking us. I’m the same person. I am still here. How dare you ruin yourself. The state of you. God made your body. You were made in God’s image. He does not make mistakes. But I was an accident. You and Mum always said so. Yes. But you were meant to be. That was God’s plan. Okay. Don’t you think if there is a God – There is a God. Maybe God decided this is the path I need to take. Your gender was a gift given to you by God. He built your body to accommodate your gender. He created man and woman. Nothing in between. What if I bought you a gift. A cashmere jumper which was lovely. But really not your style. It was too formal and too 86

small, it was uncomfortable around the neck and you wanted to love it, you tried to wear it but you couldn’t. You’ve never bought me anything like that in your life. It doesn’t matter. For the sake of this story, say I did. You don’t have to keep wearing the jumper if you don’t want to. I would’ve left the receipt in the bag. Maybe you would go to the shop and browse around and you would try on this silk shirt and you’d try it on and instantly you feel better. You’d look in the mirror and you feel good when you see yourself wearing it. So you could exchange the cashmere jumper for the silk shirt. Would that be wrong? It’s still a present from me, but it’s better because its what you actually wanted, not just what I thought you’d like. I don’t wear silk shirts like that. Well it was a hypothetical. It’s not so simple. You don’t get to make decisions like that. You are the creation, not the creator. But then why would God create people who create laws on earth which means I can take back what they gave me for what I want? It doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to decide. You are not God. You’re not God either. You don’t get to decide that I’m damned. I’m trying to warn you. I have the chance to. You don’t want to wait until its too late. What if you wake up one morning and think you made a mistake and have to live with the consequences for the rest of your life? But what if it’s right? You can change before its too late. I won’t. You don’t want to wait. Getting diagnosed with gender dysphoria. Waiting lists for counselling and treatment. Years of it. Longer if I want to have surgery, which I do. Years before I could prove myself to a gender panel. Getting my Gender Recognition Certificate. That seems like a rash decision? It’s normal for kids your age to want to take risks, tattoo themselves. Dye their hair mad colours. Kiss all sorts of people. But this could be a permanent mistake you live with forever. This isn’t a costume I decided to try on. It’s the other way round. You used to be pretty. You can be pretty if you try to be. Therapy is a good idea there’s something wrong with your body image. But its not that you’re a man. You just don’t like yourself very much. Therapy is good. I do hate myself. If there’s a God they are taking the absolute piss because I could’ve been a beautiful girl. But I never was. I was just stuck. I was trapped inside a shell. Now I’m trying to become myself. You were already made. It took nine months. We painted your room pink. I’m going to go now. Are you going to sign this? I can’t. I won’t. Wouldn’t you rather still have me, a son. Than lose your daughter? Doesn’t God have something against abandoning your child? What about your prodigal son? The prodigal son was a child who returned to their father admitting the father was right. You can run back if you realise I’m right, that you’re my daughter, and I will embrace you with loving arms. Because you are and you always will be my little girl. I’m only protecting you and hoping you realise I’m right about this. Right. I’m not listening to this anymore. I’m going. Alright. I was going to ask if I could use your name. 87

He slammed the door of the living room shut, rushing through the hallway and out the door. He did not look behind him. He ran. It was only when he reached the end of the street that he let out the wailing howl of a heaving sob, trembling coursing over his whole body. He came home in a haze not entirely aware of how he got there. Laying on the couch was his lover, taking one long look at this sallow wallowing figure said, I think you need a drink. You know what I hate? What’s that, love? Men. Men are oppressors. They are the patriarchy. They are dictators. They are the enemy. It’s cringy. It’s embarressing to be a man these days. And yet. Here I am. I hate myself. Oh, you silly boy. You’re going to be okay. I’m sorry it was so bad. Its okay. I’m fine. Yeah right. I just need to punch a hole in a wall or something. That’s the T! That’s literally the T. Which reminds me I need to take it. Oh, I meant to tell you. There’s a lady from the Rainbow Project she’s a civil rights person. Anyway point is she can sign your deed poll. Did I say, I only found out the other day? No. I’m sorry. I thought you knew. So what you’re saying is I didn’t have to go to my parents house today? Hey you needed to talk to him and you’ve done that now. You wanted to take on his name right? I’m a nameless man. What’s in a name? it is not hand or foot or any other part belonging to a man! I still say you should’ve studied drama. I coulda been a big contender. I coulda been somebody. Coulda woulda shoulda. I still say your name should be Chad. Chett. Ched. Stop. Logan. Braydon. Brandon. Blade-on. Trayson. Layken. I’m not doing it. Clayson. Claydon. Casen. Mason. Dayson One of those. I wasn’t born yesterday. Yes you were, baby. You are slugs and snails and puppy dog tails. Why can’t I also be everything nice?Why am I made up of shite? You’re a man. You don’t get to be everything. You get to be you. And you are enough. That night they lay in bed, flung nakedly over one another. He was too warm, sweat stuck his hair 88

to his skin. He inched away from their sweltering embrace. His heart burning uncomfortably, he wondered if this was menopausal. He stared down to his partner, who lay asleep and in sleep could dream softly. They never had sleepless nights of aching, of thoughts burning. They had an open family, who welcomed him in. He became irately frustrated. They would never understand precisely what it was to live in fear, the way he had for all these years. He folded his arms and faced the cool wall, begging for rest to come to his weary mind. The counsellor had asked about his future. Are you working at the moment? No. I’m doing a teaching degree. What do you want to teach? English. I read a lot. I read a lot as a kid. I wasn’t allowed television growing up. Even what I read was fairly tailored. I was only allowed to read books my parents approved of your Narnias, your Enid Blytons that sort of thing. But I think that’s why I’m here now. What do you mean? Reading was a bit of an escape for me. I could be a rowdy boy off on adventures, with pirates and knights and adventuring through jungles. Back then, maybe it was the books I was reading or maybe it was my interests but there weren’t these female empowering figures to look up to. They were damsels. They were smart side-kicks to fall in love with at best. Or they were strong, but their goal was always wrapped up in the being a woman. Whereas men got to be anything they wanted. I wanted to be anything. He felt his voice shake, quivering, deepening into itself. The counsellor nodded. That’s what I’m doing. I want to rewrite my own story.

He stood, next in line. About to shape the narrative against the white page. He lost himself in himself. The muscles on his shoulders and upper arms tensed clenching in their altering shape. He thought about the person he would be with this legal document confirmed. Life would begin to play out before him. He would have chest surgery and then reassignment. Or maybe he would be on the list for so many years they forgot about him and he would be stuck with the parts of himself he wanted to cut off himself. Filling his house with friendship. Or all by himself. Or he wouldn’t be able to claim for social housing because transphobia was not recognised as a form of discrimination by the housing executive yet. His lover. If they stuck together. Maybe they would die. Maybe they would be together until the end. He would stack bookshelves full of the novels he didn’t even know about yet. Or maybe he wouldn’t need narratives anymore. He would pile classrooms of students with stories to make them dream. He would see them years later, gazing into their worn faces it would dawn upon him how much time had truly passed. Or he would never be hired because parents wouldn’t want their children to be confused. Only to find a place that would hire him, and be bullied by his own students. On his summer holidays he would travel all over the world. Or he would live on the streets. He could walk alone at night. Or he would be beaten. He would retire, relining from a comfortable life. Or he would not want to live in this body any longer and life would cease for him and nobody else. 89

Yet in all the scenarios he could think up, he could not visualize his parents. He wondered if and when he would see them again. He was free, and only good could come from freedom, he had to tell himself. ‘Next.’ He stumbled forward into the light. The name came to him. The name was him. That he would be as sweet.

Fiona Murphy McCormack

EDITOR’S NOTE What a treat we had in this issue poetry, prose and even a classic inspired Tragedy piece of writing. This issue came together fairly easily as June has started relatively quietly compared to previous months and it was quite a struggle at times. Touches wood things continue like this for all of us going forward. I’ve been keeping up with some of the latest archeological and genetic evidence coming out of Ireland lately and it looks likely that Ireland may have been the origin point for most of the tribes that became identified as Celts and that those who settled here in the Neolithic Period around 6000 years ago were descendants of these people essentially returning to their point of origin. As we unlock more of these genetic clues, we may well answer at long last who the mysterious Sea People’s were in Classical era literature and warnings. Amazing to think that the people who built the Giant’s Ring in Belfast, Stonehenge and a number of Pseudo Henges travelled so far and left so many markers many of which we find ourselves still admiring to this day. Sometimes it makes you sad that the only written markers of their presence appear as boundary markers or grave markers I wonder what their arts were like? These are thoughts for another day I hope you enjoy what you have read so far. Happy reading, good health, and keep creating, Amos Greig (Editor)

A New Ulster 104

Articles inside

Editor’s Note

Poetry Mallika John

Poetry Kate Ennals

Prose Lucy Reid

Thyestes Paul Murgatroyd