A New Ulster issue 74

ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of. Gary Beck, Simon Leyland, Mark Young, Susie Gharib, TS & Keela Scanlon, Gordon Ferris, Marie Bashford Synnott, Charlotte Hutchinson, Emily McConnell, Joyce Walker, Linda Imbler, Chris Lee, Aidan Furey and Scott Thomas Outlar. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue 74 November 2018

A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website

Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents

Editorial Gary Beck;

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

Furious Assault Wishing Well Decomposition Flickering Ardor Mental State

Simon Leyland; 1. Sui Fiducia Mark Young; 1. A Line from Dwight D Eisenhower (2) 2. In Mir Klingt Ein Lied 3. Amber – a Cento 4. ½ - assed 5. The Usual Customs Do Not Apply Susie Gharib; 1. Evergreens 2. Serene 3. Aurora 4. Strawberries TS & Keela Scanlon; 1. I Wish for a Double Bed 2. I Am 3. I Thought Gordon Ferris; 1. Blood Tear 2. Watching 3. Journey 4. Alone Marie Bashford Synnott; 1. A Lunar Memento Charlotte Hutchinson; 1. The Warrior’s Walkway

Emily McConnell; 1. Do You Stay Awake Joyce Walker; 1. Armed Response Linda Imbler; 1. The Size of Your Ride 2. Buried Treasure Chris Lee; 1. The Monuments Aidan Furey; 1.

Nana Parker Scott Thomas Outlar; 1.

Coloring Outside the Lines 2.

Here And Now (And After) 3.

Empty Pages 4.

Eye To Eye 5.

Oxford Comma On The Wall Message from the Alleycats Round the Back

Poetry, prose, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Or via PEECHO Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://anuanewulster.wixsite.com/anewulster Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland.

All rights reserved The artists 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) Cover Image “Ilyrria� by Amos Greig

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis.

Editorial Putting together an editorial is one of the most challenging aspects of any magazine working out what to say and putting some cultural relevance on your words can be daunting.

This month was the anniversary of the Armistice for WW1 which influenced our cover image just a little. I’ve been reflecting on the benefit of hindsight on the horrors that those who fought faced and the uncertainty of the future for them.

They had hoped at that time that that would be the last such war that the lives lost would mean something but as we now know that wasn’t the case the fear of the other, dehumanising of citizens the narrowing of the definition of what a citizen was led to the largest slaughter of lives. Those of us who studied history can see reflections of that horror being used again by certain politicians as a bargaining chip to hold on to tenuous political minorities.

The same thing happened in Sparta as well until towards the end the Romans found themselves facing a smattering of boys and frightened old men, their power spent. Other concerns include climate change which is observable I’ve watched crop failures and changes in growth seasons and if this continues we could face a food shortage.

Then there’s Brexit and a slew of other political issues which could drive a rational mind to despair. Thankfully we have art which we can share and appreciate for me that is something worth celebrating and sharing. I’m particularly impressed with the work in this issue.

Onward to creativity!!

Amos Greig Editor.

Biographical Note: Gary Beck

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 13 published chapbooks and 1 accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press).

Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations and Rude Awakenings (Winter Goose Publishing) The Remission of Order will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response (Nazar Look). Resonance (Dreaming Big Publications). Virtual Living (Thurston Howl Publications).

Blossoms of Decay and Expectations (Wordcatcher Publishing). Blunt Force will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press), Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing), Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pigs Productions). As part of the continuing series, ‘Stand to Arms Marines’, Gnome on Pigs Productions will publish the third book in the series, Raise High the Walls. Sudden Conflicts (Lillicat Publishers). State of Rage will be published by Rainy Day Reads Publishing and Acts of Defiance by Wordcatcher Publishing. His short story collections include, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications) and.

Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing). Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

Furious Assault (Gary Beck) Another infant is killed by a demented adult, father, mother, boyfriend, ending the fear and torment that made every day unrelenting agony for a helpless child, not exposed on Mount Athos for unfavorable omens, but murdered untimely in a spate of violence by purported caregivers.

Wishing Well (Gary Beck) Renunciation of evil consequently transforms negative perceptions into lofty aspirations that may or may not be grounded in reality, but always reminds higher intentions of constant virtue.

Decomposition (Gary Beck) A nation’s fortunes are often decided by the skills, abilities, will of its people.

And when competence dwindles confidence erodes, decay sets in and the ties that bind rapidly fray, bringing suffering to the vulnerable, as the social fabric is torn asunder.

Flickering Ardor (Gary Beck) If we no longer care for what once drove us to passionate achievements, we diminish ourselves and become indifferent, corrupt, nostalgic, abandoning concern with the state of the world.

Mental State (Gary Beck) Forgiveness generally is a conscious act, deciding an offense no longer rankles.

Forgetting often is neglect to remember an affront, not serious enough to require retribution.

Appreciation sometimes is a demanding chore that should remind us to better express our good feelings.

Biographical Note: Simon Leyland Simon Leyland is an author and poet and lives on the west coast of Connemara. he has had three volumes of poetry published Ramblings of an Unkempt Man (2010), The Language of Exile (2011) and The Language of Exile (2012) Liverpool Poets/ Erbacce Press and has appeared in The Salzburg Poetry Review, Moth Magazine, Irish Independent and others.

He has also written A Curious Guide to London (Bantam 2014) and has A Splendidly Smutty Dictionary of Sex (Deep Desires) being published in January.

Sui Fiducia (Simon Leyland) If we had only known what we know now Things might have turned out differently, But then again who knew that the message Was Sicilian in origin.

That they would sell the bear`s skin Before he was comfortable in it.

Or that the priest would come back From holiday determined to recover His lost credibility In one last ditch effort To breathe new life Into the ancient canard In that moment, In which nothing seemed to change, As fortune had it The cows were lying down in the field.

To visit the old chateau, kindly remain zen Grass makes the heart grow fonder.

Here at the institute we burn the candles at both ends Because for some men nothing is written; Because prevailing wisdom tends to falter over water; And sometimes the mind wanders, And sometimes simply just because.

Misguided perhaps, I stayed in that damp cottage Many months believing as I did that I would Never amount to much. Not knowing me then

As you do now, you never would have Booked us package on that packet boat Had it not been for the blessed missing variable.

A shadow of my former self You took me for one sound man The penny dropped, but turned up roses.

I owe you one for that, maybe everything

Obituary (Simon Leyland) The birth of Leyland….

Leyland`s distant past…

Leyland from its humblest beginnings…

Leyland under the aboriginals…

Leyland in the time of the native coastal tribes…

Leyland: a natural harbour…

Captain Cook and the first settlers…

Leyland and the first penal colonies…

The spread of smallpox in early colonial Leyland…

Abandon hope: the leper colony at Spinalonga .. O cursed town A study of early Leyland.

Leyland`s mythical Roman past…

Leyland reborn.

Leyland`s witchfinders…

Leyland`s Huguenots...

Leyland and the rise of the whaling trade…

Trade winds bless Leyland…

Leyland, my Leyland: a history in verse…

The golden age of Leyland…

Leyland in the machine age...

Leyland and the age of empire…

Leyland in the wars of independence…

Leyland: a new Cromm Cruac?..

Leyland and the arts and craft movement...

Leyland and the gothic revival..

Leyland and the Universal Exposition of 1901...

Boys to men: The Leyland fusiliers in the Great War. Bohemiam Leyland: origins and landmarks…

Joyce`s Dublin and Macduff`s Leyland..

Leyland before the shark nets…

West Ham Leyland and the gymnosophists movement…

Leyland`s Cinderella story…

Leyland: all things to all men…

Leyland: an essay in antiphon…

Leyland, hooliganism in latter day…

Leyland, what went wrong?

Too much to dream (Simon Leyland) The streaming lake and the low hills Lent the chessmen a noble oaken calm in their conical hats And with it a sense of sensibility of division wherein The winding river and the light paths disappeared into the trees seemingly Breathing in the generous darkness

Sea to land Night to sky Eye to hand Dog to cat

A calm of self-sufficiency blunting their contrasts, Conspiring against those outward forms, Rendering the horses hooves into straight grooves

Utterly lacking in charm His mien was remarkably casual foe someone with his stain.

Evening comes far more quickly in the tropics Than in Prague In heated debate much of the great equation of facts may be lost or forgotten One or two fingers extend as if the whole hand is about to enter the argument Such is the life of one hand; the other daydreams alone in a maze lined with fine Corinthian leather, bleached and cracked by the sun

At the sound of the bell, the bulls moved south

In lieu of coin, the usurer offers a small phial to the two young newlyweds

The mounteback clad in red is blurred in the double mirror In which from a distance he appears as A school of apples plying the waters

In the phial, the dark ages lie sleeping As the mirage fades and the music begins Our two newlyweds glean that this is no normal hunt

As the saying goes, one man’s mickle is another man’s muckle. And so it goes. The tranquil hamlet of Purview, whose neighbour is Hindsight, sleeps through the night even as the time of the doves nears. But who can or will say, as car drives by in the night rain, what might occur or may go unnoticed?

Perhaps I was more able then than I am now, if I understand your question correctly.

Biographical Note: Mark Young Mark Young's most recent book is les échiquiers effrontés, a collection of surrealist visual poems laid out on chessboard grids, recently published by Luna Bisonte Prods. Due out later this year is The Word Factory: a miscellany, from gradient books of Finland, & an ebook, A Vicarious Life — the backing tracks, from otata.

A line from Dwight D. Eisenhower (2) (Mark Young)

Persons who use balloons, plastic cups, or sticky tape are unlikely to become refugees. This slideshow is a meditation on face-painting & music.

Plans to win every single prize in Ellen's twelve day flurry of giveaways are useless until we understand why we learn to love one animal, yet eat another.

In mir klingt ein Lied (Mark Young)

As an excellent exercise to tone up your brain, add some content to the vexing question of sex tourism. I have been disgusted by

the poor quality of the instructions associated with it. Is it just some poorly folded origami model or else some random beads

on a piece of string? Highlight unexplained lines, create groups within the listing. Be the first to add the lyrics & earn points.

Amber — a cento (Mark Young)

A figure was passing slowly along the path. Faint click of cutlery against plate. This terrain is foreign to me. He

said he possessed information, information that someone did not want circulated. Brown & green, with a small geometric

pattern. It was a design game, graphs & notes all over, new pieces in an old puzzle. Let’s start out with physical sensations.

Put the two in peculiar order, he said. One of the place’s passing figures has failed to pass. Possibly Roger Zelazny.

½-assed (Mark Young)

Half-started poems clutter my briefcase.

Building up but never built upon. The reverse of taking your lunch to work & leaving it untouched. In there also

other things. Meeting notes. Presentations. Got up today to talk about open repositories. Took out the wrong bundle.

Half a poem. Tuna & salad. No mayonnaise.

the usual customs & conventions do not apply (Mark Young)

Even for a christian SWF, violence inverts social experience. A large number of finite automata used to be simply visualized by representing the automata array as a liminal state. As counterpoint, Carl Sagan talks about the impact of the computer on the universe. Now Congress has approved

about $250 billion in supplemental spending for a mission to convert his home in Roswell into the finest set of shells ever commercially available, proof that anthropologists start having sex sooner than those who prefer other songs.

Biographical Note: Susie Gharib

Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde (Scotland) with a Ph.D. on D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal , The Blotter, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, Down in the Dirt, Westward Quarterly, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and Crossways.

More poems are forthcoming in other magazines.

Evergreens (Susie Gharib) You remonstrate against any propensity to deciduity asserting your partiality to evergreens I half-glean your Autumn theme taken aback by the image you detonated on my spluttered plate so I commence piecing together the shattered metaphor with a half-bitten nail then I seal my meal with the acrid taste of a literary explosive.

At night I dream I am a bare tree chasing my fugitive leaves with zeal my roots, swirling in the coppery air like the locks of my greying hair erratically.

In the morning I find next to my cup of tea a newspaper article on the virtues of plastic surgery so I contemplate in the opaque mirror of my teaspoon an exit from your life with dignity.

Serene (Susie Gharib She flew to Glasgow in June, the nineteenth into the heart of a Caledonian theme with a Celtic mien.

The Clyde glided into the ravines of a mind so blistered with wars and grief to anchor with ease.

At St. Mungo she sought an ancient seat a haven imbued with a candle-gleam a respite from discord and political disease.

At Strathclyde University the thistle was Gifford's motif she marveled at the symbols which mellifluously streamed at Burns, MacDiarmid, and Norman MacCaig.

Along the Kelvin each thought glided serene amongst sagacious, migrant leaves to slumber in a yellow's niche in peace.

And despite the snows, the slush and sleet which no deserts had dreamt but numbed her feet she curled within the warmth of a Scottish beam.

At Knightswood the swans were pearling the lake a fleet to grace the regal seat the snow-white canopy of emerald green.

The air was rent by plaintive screams the seagull's soprano amongst ducks and geese the discordant pleas the beaks pecking at fingers and wheat the Elysian relief.

Aurora (Susie Gharib) I think of a suitable name for my unborn female an auspicious combination of numbers that will bring equanimity in its wake.

I place my hand below my waist and tap a mother's Morse with my fingertips a language only embryos comprehend.

My feet bask in their slippers, sedate response must be underway: With blue and green my eyes dilate my lips quiver and pulsate a thrill ripples in my veins a crackling in my ears resonates Aurora is going to be her name.

Strawberries (Susie Gharib) When Nancy Sinatra explicated the components of her Summer Wine strawberries and cherries were the adornment of a child’s verdant playground in a very distant Summer house.

Strawberries sealed every Thursday evening after a thrill at the Theatre House the genteel owner of the Red Mill doted on me who frequented his Inn serving his red treat with requested ice-cream.

But then these berries forebode trouble with Alec holding them by the stem to feed his coz Tess of the D'Urbervilles whose mouth reluctantly received them kindling in me a tragic sense.

Biographical Note: TS & Keela Scanlon

Keela Scanlon (15) lives in Sligo and is a vibrant active young lady with sporting and poetic prowess. These are her first poems to be published and she would like the readers to know that she now is the proud owner of a new double bed!!

TS is a professional working girl with previous published academic works. Single, attractive, sport, outgoing and has not yet given up on love‌. offline!!!

I am

I am a book that still has to be read, I am a key to a lock, I am a pair of glasses that help people to see the world, I am a handle to a door.

I am a shoulder for people to cry on, I am a pillow for people to rest their heads on.

I am leaves blowing in the wind, I am a football waiting to be kicked.

I am a rubber, rubbing out mistakes, I am a warm jumper for long winter days.

I am a firework with different colours, I am a rocket ready to launch.

I am me………

by Keela Scanlon, 14 yrs Sligo

I wish for a double bed

Oh my oh my a double bed would be great, I would really like one before it’s too late, “You’ll get one when you’re older” my Mother said, I walk away sadly shaking my head!

I beg and I beg and I will never stop trying, If I don’t get one soon I think I’ll start crying!!!

I’m sick of my single, I need more space, When I finally get one, I’ll have the biggest grin on my face ; )

by Keela Scanlon, 14 yrs Sligo

I thought i.

I thought that you were more worth than you are, tears shed, upset, felt it in my heart.

Believe me, we are allowed to have feelings online, a virtual world with its frailties and no apparent explanations, no commitment necessary, no strings attached, emptiness, loneliness and questions left unanswered. ii.

The attraction was strong; there is no denying a connection of kinds, super handsome and charming, keep pics coming.

I know this online myriad of craziness, been living it too long and understand its shallowness.

Saw the warning signs chose to ignore them, “this is fun, I’m excited infact exhilarated”.

Minds full of virtual fantasies, what to do and how to do it, wondering, hoping it wouldn’t be disappointing, Knowing deep in my soul it would come crashing down. iii.

Commonalities clothing music tastes alike doesn’t get much better, “Let’s meet and have sex”, no need for formalities.

Happy with this, tired of continual dates, “come to mine” we will light up this place. iv.

One and a half hours of intimate liaison, pretty gratifying and amazing, no questions, no further expectations, hooked and in trouble,

kind of dismayed but can’t stay away and not in control, starting to love this guy and know it’s forlorn.

v.

“Must meet again”, yes let’s just do it, can’t stop thinking about short time spend together.

“Yeh of course” knowing I am one, of a cluster of girls in a queue, waiting for this guy to submit and surrender.

Not easy when you know you’re in a list and unwanted, needing, hoping, waiting for a text message, that will show you that your time is not wasted. vi.

Meet again briefly it’s better than ever, shower turned on for me, that’s a nice touch, not used to being minded and looked after this much. vii.

Texts mess’s later, virtual reality, nothing sacred nothing impending.

Leave it, will it, hope it will get better, knowing deep down bound for disaster. viii.

This virtual world we live in makes it impersonal, put it to rest, one final text message knowing no answer.

Loneliness, emptiness feeling unloved and rejected, time to move on and relinquish the memories.

What makes us want more what we know we can’t have?

Is it the thrill of the chase or thoughts of happy ever after?

I thought, I thought and I thought in vain, Then I thought time to start again, Offline……

by Tara Shortt

Biographical Note: Gordon Ferris .

Gordon Ferris is a sixty year Dublin writer living in Donegal for the past thirty six years. He as had poetry and short stories published in A New Ulster, Hidden Channel and The Galway Review. Most in A New Ulster.

Blood tear.

(Gordon Ferris)

Sorrowful Eyes hiding under the Fuchsia bush Gazing out, drained from the searing sun.

Not meant for this climate A working mountain breed from the snow filled Swiss alps.

The bush with its drooping red flower, Blood red droplets falling.

Out from under the bush, eyes emerge, sadness gone a smile shining.

Humans not the only creatures that smile, loneliness not just a human condition.

Your abandoned to the elements, You feel so alone.

Watching.

(Gordon Ferris)

Watching in the light through the small square window on the door I could hear the faint din of disembodied voices tormenting me in the half dream space I inhabited before coming down from Hennessy mountain.

The vague recall of the evening before, the chill recollection of my drunken raving.

Who needs sleep when seated by loves shrine when you watch the moon and stars move across the night sky when you listen to beauty's breath.

JOURNEY (Gordon Ferris)

Part.1 Night rush.

From the rear of a ambulance, white lines rush by

left and right Illuminated crucifixes flash by and show themselves

she rises from her slumber looks at me and asks , are you ok? lowers her head, smiles closing her eyes again.

Part 2. Morning.

Curtains float on billowing air sun rises to start this day gulls signal there begging way.

I watch you sleep and touch your hair.

You won't show fear to spare others being hurt

you ask after the dog you disguise your pain

your eyes follow the voice you must plan every step.

You accept the damage is done.

Alone.

(Gordon Ferris)

Through the window an empty silhouette with shadows hidden in the mist.

Eyes squinting to witness your return.

Playing mental tricks like, keeping eyes open or tightly shut then counting to ten, waiting for the where and when.

Out from the darkness A woman’s outline, hard to make out.

Spirits are lifted, but I'm not sure yet.

She will have to get closer and into street light I’m sure its not her but I'm hard to convince.

I ignore her being small then she goes into34, and that's it.

Now its back to corner watching to figures in the fog anything to distract from the hush of the house the silence of its secrets

the screaming in the darkness the withholding of your tears.

The staying out of his way.

Suddenly she appears in silence noticing my fear, sincere apologies, “I'm so sorry, wont ever let this happen again, come on, Ill get you something to eat.�

She leads with hand on shoulder.

As if, a hunger being settled is an easier forgiveness.

Biographical Note: Marie Bashford Synnott Born in Limerick, Marie now lives in Skerries. Married with four grown-up children, she has won prizes for plays and short stories, and her poetry has been published in literary magazines such as Voicefree and Salmon Magazine, and in recent editions of A New Ulster. She has broadcast on RTE's Sunday Miscellany, a trilogy of her historical novels has been serialized in print, and she has published “Skerries Mills” a poetry collection and “ Sharing our Rhymes” a book of translations of nursery rhymes from all over the world.

A LUNAR MEMENTO

by

Marie Bashford-Synnott

Second Segment of Poem

FIRST QUARTER.

Mare Cognitum

(Knowledge)

M-a-am!

mantra

concentrates the

the fire suddenly came to life

to light

startling but welcome

a new surge of energy

living

a new flame

lively

in a hurry

the work so important now

tea

oranges

mince

Worcestershire

(Wooster. )

Bertie !

sauce

haven't read him for years

jam

eggs

*

what form does the female Muse no! the 'muse of the female' take?

(if you thought about it too much you'd go.......)

*

Top of roof parallel to base of island, echoing line of horizon - two goal posts ditto with light pole, vertical. Edge of peaked roof through horizon diagonally, joins with opposite parallel line to create a leaning rectangle, one side of which is one side of a triangular gable and resting on a building, the square side of which faces directly across a field, parallel to my rectangular window....

Phew!

...through circular eyes......

Gotcha!

Images

words

Shepher's Pie

making a jacket

interested also in silence

a joy....sometimes... loathe to put the pen... begin to tidy up. Cut vegetables, make burghers ( brown breadcrumbs, onion, a little dried herbs. )

.......in a minute. not to remember.

just to get it down easy that.

necessity....... of equal

*

but .....

I

you

he

me

he

me

she

she

me

Me!

*

quota

self- imposed

virtue it's own

breath easy.

If I want!

until tomorrow........

THE FIRST PRIORITIES OF THE APOLLO ASTRONAUTS WAS TO COLLECT SPECIMENS OF ROCK AND SOIL AND BORE INTO THE SURFACE TO TAKE CORE SAMPLES.

a voice

see what

happens anyway!

James Aloysius Joyce on the documentary -

I worked six eight? hours today

wrote two good sentences.

the grandeur of it ! (and ...the freedom ?)

*

I don't know......

*

golden yellow

or canary yellow

take your pick

pick!

outer row of petals

double

outer row

inner row

soft round cushion at centre

one or two no – two definitely petals - erratics sticking from the centre

the other petals radiating

a row

a second row the same size

but

perfectly

each petal growing from the space between

each petal in the first row-

tips of petals in both rows

combining in a kind of zig-zag pattern

and that order continued in the other two

rows

Chrysantemum...mum..mom.. m-a-a-m!

quick check-up on the others in the vase

some bigger

smaller

*

but

Yes!

Mare Fecunditatis

(Fertility)

*

in the dark

really excites me

talking our language

MANY ASTRONOMERS THINK THAT THE EARTH-MOON SHOULD BE CONSIDERED A DOUBLE PLANERY SYSTEM.

the music working it's magic

association and memory gathering

a background for the sensation of ' now '

richer for the meshing

* it's sitting on the chair

trying to do something

making an effort

a couple with a little girl sitting on a trolly, brown hair in a fringe

a woman holding a baby up with both hands a baby dressed in a white furry suit, looking up into it's face..... wonder..... love

a couple sitting on a low ledge inside the Shopping Centre, a little......

*

I think about it sometimes.. and giggle!

*

When the Moon lies in the direction of the Sun, it presents a dark face towards us. ( New Moon ).

Gradually a slim crescent appears, which grows to a half moon in about a week ( First Quarter )... a week later the whole face is lit up ( Full Moon ).

Then the lit portion gradually recedes to a half-moon ( Last Quarter ) until it finally disappears at the next new moon.

*

missed you but tired tonight

shapes huge, looming on a cave wall

( not painted magic symbols of the hunt in this instance.... )

although maybe in another........

a couple giving a baby a bottle, the man chatting with a little toddler.

A couple with a baby in a pink outfit

in the supermarket, the father smiling and talking to the baby, the little arms and legs and head moving exultantly, the movements of the fathers face perfectly synchronised.

could do and should do

the stranglehold

not the

*

to catch all that

and what I think about it

and what it means to me.....

*

I need a language that moves with the sound of the sea

and the swish of each wave

the cry of the curlew

and the red flash of a lighthouse

the curlew again

and the crackle of rain on a plastic hood

I need.........

Biographical Note: Charlotte Hutchinson . Charlotte Hutchinson is a 17 years old writer. She started getting into writing when she was around 10 or 11 years old. Charlotte started because her friends had told her about this writing app called watt pad. Where you could write your own stories and they would be available for anyone in the public to read. So She went to this app and began to write. This is her first publication outside of the Watt Pad app.

the warrior’s walkway (Charlotte Hutchinson) The warrior’s walkway (a poem about the first world war and the generations that followed after the fallen soldiers and how the new males where accepted to fight as well because that is what their fathers and grandfathers did before them. Then final lines of the poem suggests the idea that they shouldn’t feel forced into joining the war) Straight roads, twisted roads, the way is never right.

So how does a man who’s mad see the light?

He can’t they can’t the roads are covered now with the echoes of wars.

But do we listen to them, or do we blame the warrior’s walkway.

The men will run, the men will hide, but none can lie to a brother or foe so the walkway is free of all below, bar the lonely doe, who will stand there still, unchanged in time still remembering the old songs of rhyme.

But to view this sight, a man must fight The way to choose the narrowed door.

For those who do shall see the bright day Of the warriors ended walkway

Biographical Note: Emily McConnell

Emily McConnell is eighteen years old. She started writing when she was ten, after reading multiple books that gave her the inspiration to write her own stories. Only recently has Emily begun to write poetry and it is now one of her favourite formats to write in. Emily has never had anything publish apart from a few works on the app Wattpad.

Do You Stay Awake At Night (Emily McConnell) ‘Do You Stay Awake At Night’ is a poem about wondering if those who have hurt you in the past still think about you and what they have done. If they think about how it affected you at all and even if they don’t, you still do.

Do you stay awake At night?

Thinking about What you did?

Do you stay awake At night?

Thinking about How you affected me?

Do you stay awake At night, Making sure that You don't do What you did to me.

Do you stay awake At night, Thinking about What you took from me?

Because I do.

Biographical Note: Joyce Walker

Joyce has previously had work accepted by the now defunct Affairs of the Heart, New Fiction, Writers Cauldron and Voyage and has had some success in competitions, including taking 1st prize in the Writers Brew Short Story Competition in 2002, 2nd prize in the storyfeedback.com competition in October 2009 and more recently taking 2nd Prize in an EWG competition.

ARMED RESPONSE (Joyce Walker)

Heather reached up with her slim hands to pull the cord on the blind, her piano playing fingers equally at home on a computer keyboard, hooking the loop with ease.

Her dark eyes scanned the hospital courtyard, watching and waiting, for he’d promised he would come.

She brushed away a tear from her pale cheek, tucked a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear and wondered how her hands would cope with the new and unfamiliar task that lay ahead.

She was not cut out for motherhood and she was certainly not cut out to cope with this child, his child that would need so much attention, so much help if she was to survive and thrive.

She looked away from the window and down at her thin frame, getting her figure back had been surprisingly easy. She was once more the sylph-like creature he’d fallen in love with, that perhaps he would love again if she could persuade him to.

If only.

The baby in the crib behind her started to whimper and she walked slowly across the room, gazing down at its contorted shape for some moments before taking it in her arms and cradling it close to her small breast for comfort.

Her tears flowed more freely now, falling onto the shawl the child was wrapped in and forming a stain on the white yarn. When she turned once more towards the gate, her vision was so blurred that she could not clearly make out the visitors passing through it, but she knew that she would recognise him if he came.

She supported the baby’s lolling head and brought it close to her cheek.

“It’s all right, Suzie, Daddy will come soon,” she whispered, “he promised.”

She almost believed it, but there was a part of her that wondered if he’d found something more important to do. If work had got in the way of even this most important time in their lives.

Then she repeated softly, “he promised me he’d come.”

Luke folded his arms across the steering wheel and put his head down, obscuring the love boat tattoo and the two names he’d had inscribed on it when he and Heather first met. He should have been watching the house, but he’d been there for four hours and no one had gone in or out.

This was the worst part of the job, waiting.

He was always happiest on the move. Driving was what he liked most, that and the adrenaline rush he got in those brief spells of danger between the long periods of boredom that went with police work. Perhaps that was why he’d never sought promotion and had seen younger men and women climb the ladder in his place.

He turned his head to one side so he could continue with his surveillance. He wished now he’d been the one to go for refreshments instead of volunteering to stay in the car, for he was getting restless.

He sat up and glanced briefly at his wristwatch. There were two hours to go before the end of his shift and he’d already accepted the offer of overtime. Even this was better than going back to the hospital, than facing Heather’s anguished face and the imperfect child he’d created.

A disembodied voice crackled into life from the radio and he responded quickly even though there was nothing to report. Then he leaned back in the seat and fingered his newly grown moustache. Heather said it made him look older than thirty- five, but he’d already decided to keep

it. He had, after all, never been handsome. His pale blue eyes protruded a little too much and his hair had thinned prematurely, making them even more noticeable.

Now he used those eyes to take in the whole of the street, adjusting to the fading light, instinct telling him that if something was going to happen, it would be soon and his instincts, as always, were right. He didn’t hear the rustle in the hedge, but he did see the hint of a shadow behind it, someone was moving towards the house.

With one hand on the door handle, he passed the information to his colleagues. Then he opened the door and in spite of his tall, bulky frame and booted feet, moved almost silently in pursuit of his prey.

Luke seldom went for a drink after work but that night he felt he had something to celebrate. After three refusals he’d at last been accepted for firearms training.

Telling Heather wouldn’t be easy. Perhaps that was why he’d gone, to delay another difficult conversation, another row.

When he ‘d called to tell her he’d be late home her reply had been frosty. Wasn’t it enough, she’d remarked, that he spent all his time working. Shouldn’t he be home with his family? Or had he forgotten that he had one?

One drink, that was all he was going to stay for, half an hour away from the extra domesticity he’d promised her after the last quarrel. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask. He’d have been home before Suzie went to bed. It was when Heather slammed the phone down in the middle of his explanation, he’d decided to make a night of it.

He hadn’t, in fact, had much to drink, he’d spent most of the night talking football, but still he left the car in the pub car park and walked home. He wasn’t about to risk his licence or his career by testing positive on a breathalyser.

When he approached the front door the sitting room was in darkness, though there was a light on in the bedroom which he used to locate the lock. Before he closed the front door, however, the street was in darkness.

He knew that by the time he’d showered, Heather would be lying with her face to the wall feigning sleep. So unless he chose to speak to her, his news and the inevitable slanging match that would follow it could be delayed until tomorrow. Maybe longer, if he left things until he’d got his ticket. There was, after all, still a long way to go and a number of reasons why he might be found unsuitable for the new job.

He flicked the hall light switch and looked about him. There was a trail of toys from the sitting room door to the top of the stairs. He’d forgotten how many times he’d told her how dangerous it was to leave them there, how someone would fall and get hurt. In the end, he’d given up and now, as with every other time recently, he set about moving them himself, dropping them into the toy box by the front door.

The last of them, a pull-along dog, was Suzie’s current favourite and he spent some time stroking it before he put it away with the others.

Two years and as many operations on, her limbs had straightened and although it had taken eight months of patience she had, at last, begun to toddle. Her speech would never be perfect, but she lacked nothing in intelligence. With a pang of paternal feeling he realised he was starting to be proud of her ability to overcome her problems. There were still more operations to come, but at least now he couldn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t grow to adulthood.

Having thought about making coffee and rejecting the idea he went straight upstairs. Habit taking him to Suzie’s room so he could check she was sleeping and that her breathing was normal.

She had kicked off her covers and he pulled them back up over her scarred legs. Now he wished he’d come home earlier, for he felt a sudden urge to take her in his arms. Not at all like the first time he’d seen her and shied away from touching her. His refusal to hold her had been mistaken for revulsion, or fear of her deformity. It was, in fact, fear of quite a different kind. He was afraid that he might care too much. That if they should lose her, as they had Tim five years ago, after only two hours, the pain would be more than he could bear.

He shrugged the thoughts aside, washing away the depression in the nightly ritual of the shower. Then he climbed naked into bed. Just as he had felt a sudden urge to hold his daughter, now he felt the need to be close to his wife. He brushed his lips lightly against her neck. When he met with no resistance, he ran his hand along the smooth silk of her night dress till he found the hem and began to slide it up over her thighs, only to be rebuffed as she pushed him away and moved to the very edge of the bed.

Since the phone call that morning they’d spent the day in barbed silence.

Terry, the only one of Luke’s friends at the station they socialised with, had rung to invite them both out to dinner and Heather had answered the phone.

“Where’s dead-eyed Dick?” he asked, conversationally.

“Sorry?” she replied, “Oh, you mean Luke, he’s getting his tools out of the garage.” Then she said, “Why the new nick name?”

“Didn’t he tell you? He came top of the class on the firearms course. Turned out to be a real sharp-shooter.”

She hoped she hadn’t sounded as shocked as she felt.

“No, I had no idea. I’ll get him for you.”

She’d wanted to confront him as soon as he’d put the receiver down, but Suzie, for once able to enjoy having her father at home had been following him from room to room while he put up shelves and oiled rusty door hinges.

The one rule they’d made that they never broke was not to quarrel in front of her.

Now, Suzie was in bed and in a fit of pent up rage it was Heather, not Luke, who was tidying away the toys, throwing them noisily on top of each other in the toy box she’d brought into the sitting room earlier that day.

Luke, knowing he was in trouble, but not what he’d done to upset her, sat watching television and waited for the dam to burst.

Heather moved the toy box back into the hall and, returning to the sitting room switched off the TV. Then she turned on him.

“How could you,” she said. “It’s bad enough you doing firearms training when you know how much I hate the thought of you playing with guns, but to let me find out from someone else.

Well, you’re not going to join the armed response team. If you do I’ll…”

“What? What can you do?”

“I can leave. Mum’s always asking me to go and stay, and the sea air’s better for Suzie than the foul stuff we breathe here.”

“Do you really feel so little for me that you’d run home to your mother just because I’m taking on a different set of responsibilities at work.”

“And do you think so little of me, that all you want to do is go out and get shot at?”

“I’m already going out to get shot at,” he said, “only now I’ll be in a position to help stop somebody else from getting hurt.”

“While I sit at home waiting for your face to appear on the news because they’ve put you in a body bag. Have you got a death wish or something?”

“Of course not. It’s no less safe than any other job in the force.”

“Oh no? What about sitting behind a desk in a little office sending fresh-faced youngsters out on the street? That’s what you could be doing, you’ve had your chances.”

“Oh come on, I’m hardly going to make chief inspector, even supposing I wanted to. Can’t you just for once in your life congratulate me on my success and be pleased?”

“Pleased? Why should I be pleased? I gave up everything for you. I even had another baby because you wanted one. Even though I swore that after what happened to Tim I’d never put myself through it. Then, when we found out how ill Suzie was; how much attention she would need I gave up all thought of going back to work. God knows I love her, but it’s not been easy. There are times when I’d give anything to have a life that didn’t revolve round doctors, hospitals and toddler’s toys.”

“You could have gone back to work. I’m sure we could have found a good child-minder.”

“Oh and what employer would be caring enough to give me all that time off for her operations. Or would you have sat with her for days at a time?”

“I did my share. Still do.”

“More to the point, what use are you going to be to her with a bullet in your back?”

“I’m not going to get a bullet in my back.”

“You can guarantee that, can you?”

He shook his head.

“Life doesn’t come with guarantees, if it did Tim would still be alive and Suzie would have been born healthy.”

“Then give yourself a chance, give the three of us a chance. Please Luke, I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. I’m not asking you to give up police work, but I really don’t want you to go into firearms. The thought of it scares me silly.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been wanting to do it for too long. Now I’ve made it, I can’t turn it down.”

“Not even to save our marriage?”

“You’re being unfair.”

“No, you’re being unfair. It’s Suzie and me or the new job, take it or leave it.” She put a hand to her hairline, indicating the top of her forehead. “I’ve had the worry up to here, I can’t and won’t have anymore.”

“Fine,” he said, coldly, “go, if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want,” she replied, “but marriages are built on compromise and you obviously don’t know the meaning of the word. I’ll pack tonight and leave first thing in the morning.

That gives you about eight hours to change your mind.”

“I won’t change my mind” “Then neither will I.”

It seemed there was nothing else to be said. I went upstairs with the intention of packing, wondering how I could begin to explain to a two-year-old that we were going away and that Daddy wasn’t coming with us.

Instead I sat on the bed and stared down at the cream fleur-de-lis in the wine- coloured carpet. I wasn’t angry anymore; I’d gone past that. I wasn’t tearful either, though I expected to be.

I was sad in a resigned sort of way, but I suppose it was inevitable that it would happen.

What hurt, what really hurt, was that he could be so secretive. Was I really so difficult to talk to that he couldn’t tell me what his course was for?

I turned the thought over in my mind and realised that I probably was.

The irrational thing being, the qualities that had originally attracted me to him were the ones that were now driving us apart.

Every course he’d done that involved physical danger made me more and more resentful.

Ever since the motorbike accident that put him in hospital for a month while I was pregnant with Tim, I’d had nightmares about losing him and irrational though it was, the feelings of foreboding were so strong they filled me with dread.

If only the dreams weren’t so real perhaps I could have become the understanding wife, admired him for his courage and been pleased that he’d achieved one of his main ambitions.

Now I was losing him anyway, There was no going back.

I lifted the receiver on the bedside phone and dialled my mother’s number.

“Hello Mum, I’m coming to stay for a while… Luke? No, he won’t be coming. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow when I get there.”

I could have killed Terry, but maybe he’d done me a favour. At least now it was all out in the open and I didn’t have to find a good time on one of my next three days off to tell her what I’d done.

As to leaving, well, she’d done that a couple of times before. Once for a weekend and once for as long as a week, then she’d come back. I’d find her there after my shift about to put the coqau-vin on a candlelit table and wearing something sexy.

Admittedly, that was before we had Suzie, since we’d had her, in spite of the rows, we’d worked hard to hold things together, for no matter how much we tried to hurt each other, we did our best to protect our little girl. God knows she’d gone through enough, she didn’t need us hurting her too.

I put the TV on and found something half-watchable. A police drama I could pull to pieces for its inaccuracies. Not as much fun as doing it when Heather was in the same room and I could ruin an otherwise good story, but better than dwelling on what might happen if she was serious.

One thing was certain, there was no way I was going to let her stop me from seeing Suzie. If that happened I’d fight her all the way, but it wasn’t going to, she’d change her mind again. Maybe even by morning if I left her to cool off.

It wasn’t the first time I’d slept on the couch. After all the rows we’d had, I was used to it. I was going to have to disturb her though, to get the bedding.

Better now, than later, I decided and went upstairs.

I knocked on the door. Would you believe that? My own bedroom and I actually knocked.

She was just putting the receiver down on the phone. There were no suitcases and surprisingly, no tears.

I looked at her apologetically and caught a glimmer of hope in her eyes that quickly died when I said, “Sleeping bag,” and after I’d indicated the cupboard I was going to get it from, “I’ll need a pillow as well.”

She took one of the two I usually used and threw it at my feet, then she said, “As you’re so busy getting organised you can fetch the two big bags out of the attic for me.”

The next morning I carried them to her car while she strapped Suzie into the car seat.

It was the last thing I would do for her for quite some time.

Five years on and Heather couldn’t believe what a change that night had made to her relationship with Luke.

At the time she’d thought it would be the end of everything, that they would both have to learn to start afresh. In a sense they had, but in a strange kind of way the separation had brought them closer together.

It had taken time of course. When he first came to see Suzie she had kept out of the way, but gradually they’d started doing things together again. Walks along the beach became commonplace. Then, when she moved out of her mother’s house into one of her own, he took some leave and helped her to decorate.

While she watched him take a paintbrush to her front door, she remembered that one of the things she’d liked about him was that he had strong capable hands. That night, for the first time since she’d left she confessed that she missed him.

“Couldn’t you get a transfer?” she asked, “We could make a fresh start, be a family again.”

He hadn’t exploded, but he’d explained in quiet, rational tones, why it wasn’t possible, then he said, “Don’t look so glum, we can still be a family in an unconventional sort of way. Suzie’s happy here, you’re happy here and I’m less than two hour’s drive away. We’ll just have to make our time together quality time.”

“No more rows?”

“No more trying to change me into something I can’t be.”

“I don’t know if I can promise that, I still don’t like you working with guns, but if you’re as good with one as you are with a paintbrush I suppose you’re in the right job.”

She hadn’t added that the thought of the danger he exposed himself to still frightened her, it would have spoiled the moment and after a while, she buried the fear so deeply that it was almost forgotten.

Today, for the first time in many months, she was making the drive to see him, a chance for Suzie to spend some time with Luke’s parents and for them to steal a few precious hours alone together on his birthday.

They’d booked a table at a restaurant for dinner and she’d waited until they’d reached the dessert before she gave him the present she’d bought for him.

“Not very original,” she said, “but your mother told me your old one was broken.”

He unwrapped the parcel slowly, as if he wanted to delay finding out what was inside; untying the thin gold ribbon she’d decorated it with and loosening the sellotape carefully, so as not to tear the paper. He opened the black velvet covered box to reveal a new watch.

He leaned across the table to kiss her, “Thanks,” he said, “I’ve got something for you too, a piece of information, something I hope you’ll like.”

“Oh?” “I’ve put the house here, up for sale. We won’t be needing two when I move.”

“Move?” she asked, “Why would you want to move?”

“Why do you think?”

“You’re quitting the force?”

“Come on be sensible, this is me you’re talking to, would I do something as drastic as that?”

“Probably not, but I can always hope, can’t I?” “I’ve managed to get a place with the Lincolnshire Constabulary. Please don’t moan about me never telling you anything, because it wasn’t confirmed until today, so you’re very nearly the first to know.”

“But I thought you said it was impossible.”

“Only while I was in firearms.”

“You’ve not lost your ticket?”

“I’ve not failed a training session and been thrown out. I’ve just been giving some serious thought to what’s important to me, that’s all and you and Suzie won. In another month I’ll be chasing villains in your neck of the woods.”

For a few moments she felt unable to reply, when she did find her voice the most she could manage was, “Oh, Luke, I’m so happy.”

It’s my last night as an ARV driver. My last one in firearms and I’m sitting in the car with Terry when the call comes through.

Some bastard has taken his seven year old daughter hostage, he’s armed, but no-one knows what with, it could be anything from a kitchen knife to a sawn off shotgun and armed backup is requested.

Terry turns to me and says, “Well, here it is, your last chance to die a hero.”

All I can think about is that little girl being the same age as Suzie and that someone should get her out and soon.

I drive like there’s no tomorrow while Terry liberates the guns. This going to be one hell of way to end my time here.

We arrive on the scene within three minutes and it’s worse than we feared. He’s already killed the mother and thrown her body from the third floor balcony so we know what he’s capable of. We’re briefed quickly and, because the girl’s the same age as mine I’m asked if I’m comfortable with the idea of having to go in.

“We need an experienced officer,” the boss says, “We’ve tried negotiating, but he’s talking to no-one.”

I look at Terry who’ll be going with me, then to the rest of the team who’ll follow. They all know I won’t refuse, and as soon as Terry nods in agreement we start to move in, taking the stairs two and three at a time, then moving as swiftly and as quietly as the concrete walkway will allow, keeping radio contact to a minimum.

We don’t want to do anything to spook him.

Terry and I are communicating with hand signals and we’re soon standing either side of the flat door.

He sneaks a look through the window and shakes his head. Heavy net curtains make it impossible to see clearly whether that’s the room he’s holed up in and there’s no glass panel in the door.

The flats are ones we frequently have to break into so we know the door will give if we apply enough body weight to it, but we know too, that we’re unlikely to be able to open it without making a noise.

I signal Terry to stay put and summon all the strength I can to ram it with my shoulder. At the fourth attempt it gives and I know the girl’s as well as anyone in her position can be because I can hear her crying.

I half expect him to be waiting for me, but maybe the girl’s sobs are working in my favour because as I follow the noise down the hall to the sitting room he seems totally oblivious to my presence.

I glance at Tony who’s positioned himself in the doorway blocking the main escape route, motion him to stay put. I’m taking a hell of a risk and I don’t want to be responsible for getting him killed. He’s less than a second away from cover if bullets start flying. Me, I’m putting myself right in the firing line, but I learnt a long time ago not to dwell on it. That little girl has to be our main priority, I need to distract him, give her time to get out.

I have a reputation for being able to think on my feet, but for a split second I hesitate about whether to play this by the book and call out the, “armed police,” warning, or whether to keep whatever element of surprise is still left to me. The luck we’ve had so far can’t last; sooner or later he’s going to know I’m here.

The silent approach seems by far the most sensible so I’m hoping he hasn’t locked the door of the room they’re in. I test it gingerly, open it just enough to take in the scene. He’s not a professional, that’s for sure and in some ways it’s more worrying because a gun in the hands of an amateur is more dangerous. Especially an amateur who’s just killed. The little girl is so close to the door that if I’d walked through without looking, she’d have got my size nine boot on her feet.

She’s crouching in the corner, and has either heard the creak of the hinges or felt the draught because she’s looking up at me with huge, brown frightened eyes. Her dress is spattered with blood, but I don’t think she’s hurt. It’s probably her mothers.

This is where I pray she’s been brought up to trust policemen, because the uniform is the only thing I have that might win her over. I put a finger to my lips to show her I want her to keep my presence secret. Careful to keep the gun within easy reach I bend down to her level and put it aside.

There are two very good reasons for this, one, pointing a weapon at a terrified child isn’t going to put her at ease and two, if I’m going to make her understand what I want her to do, I’m going to need both hands.

Just as I’m about to “tell” her that when I push the door fully open I want her to crawl through it then run to the outside door as fast as she can her father asks her what she’s looking at and she turns her head away. I know I’m half way to succeeding when she shakes her head to indicate there’s nothing there. Thank Christ for smart kids.

It suddenly occurs to me that from where Terry is standing what I’m doing must look really stupid, but I can’t explain in sign language or any other. When the girl turns round again I might only have seconds to convey what I want her to do, so I’m watching her very closely.

It seems like an age before she’s brave enough to look at me again, but it’s probably less than a minute. I put my hand on the door in a pretend push and use two fingers of my other hand in a walking motion along the floor. For one brief moment I imagine she thinks I’ve gone stupid too, so I do it all over again and even though I’m shitting myself, give her one hell of a confident smile. Then she does something really amazing, she reaches out and squeezes my hand, poignantly reminding me of Suzie.

When she withdraws it I get back onto my feet, retrieve the semi-automatic, motion Terry to get ready to receive a hostage and push open the door.

I feel her brush against my legs as she passes and then prepare to meet the fucker who killed her mother.

Heather had spent the whole day cleaning. She’d expected Luke to call, to let her know whether he wanted a meal, but the phone had stayed silent.

Now it was getting dark and she felt uneasy. There was a sickness in the pit of her stomach that wouldn’t go away, a sickness not helped by Suzie’s half-hourly questions about when he was going to arrive.

Perhaps he was just stuck in traffic, but he’d have his mobile with him and would probably call her. Maybe he’d overslept after his shift. She discounted that too, he’d have phoned before he left.

Then her mind began to turn to possibilities she’d rather not contemplate, like the thought that he’d changed his mind again and didn’t know how to tell her, or worse that he’d had another accident.

She kept herself busy in an effort to still her racing thoughts, but to no avail. Eventually she could stand it no more and dialled his number only to find the mobile was turned off and his home phone had been disconnected because of the move. In desperation she tried his parents home, but the call went unanswered.

Then she tried the station.

The comments from his ex-sergeant had been guarded. There was something she wasn’t being told but she couldn’t work out what it was.

She had just turned on the T.V. when the doorbell rang.

As she opened the door and looked from Terry’s ashen face to the solemn expression of the high-ranking officer beside him she realised that her worse nightmare had become a reality.

“Oh God,” she said, “Dear God, no! Terry tell me it’s not true.”

He’d volunteered to make the long drive to break the news to her as a last act of kindness for someone he’d known well, now he was almost speechless. He shook his head.

“What happened?” then hesitantly, “How…” the rest of the question hung in the air between them.

He’d been the bearer of bad tidings so many times in his career he should have been able to handle this, but he didn’t know where to begin.

Belatedly, Heather had asked them in and was holding on to her bewildered daughter for comfort.

“Suzie, why don’t you go upstairs and play for a few minutes while we talk to Mummy?” he asked.

He’d been reliving events in his mind all the way over and didn’t really want either of them to know the whole truth. Even the word hero sounded hollow, somehow.

That it had happened quickly was at least, true. One minute he was picking up a seven year old girl and running towards the steps he’d climbed earlier, the next, a shot rang out. Just one, so it wasn’t Luke’s weapon that had been fired. He’d passed the girl to somebody else and run back in the direction he’d come from. To hell with the training, the man in the firing line was his friend.

Was. By the time he got inside, there was blood and brains all over the carpet and the bastard who’d done it, about to turn the gun on himself.

Terry almost let him pull the trigger, but even through the nausea he knew Luke wouldn’t have wanted that to happen. He stepped over the body, knocked the gun from his hand and made the arrest.

“He saved a little girl’s life.”

“Why doesn’t that make me feel better?” she asked. “He should be here. He promised me.

Then he was never very good at keeping his promises.”

“He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been any of us.”

“No it couldn’t,” she replied. “It was preordained. He was always meant to die this way.

I’ve seen it a thousand times in my mind, over and over and over. I tried to stop it. Tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, till the Chief Inspector said, “It was very quick, he couldn’t have felt anything.” Then after the briefest of pauses, “ He’ll get an award for gallantry.”

“That’s right,” Heather said, “give him a medal. Give him a bloody big medal. Have it inscribed with the words I should have listened to the wife, why don’t you?” She glared at him and then turned to Terry. “For Christ sake get him out of here. Whether Luke felt much or not is neither here nor there, the result’s the same; he’s still dead. Still lying on a mortuary slab when he should be safe at home with me.”

Terry wished she would cry, the mood swings from resignation to anger worried him, he didn’t know what she’d do after they left. “Are you going to be all right on your own?”

“I’m not on my own,” Heather replied, “I still have Suzie and Tim has a father again, perhaps that’s how it should be.

Biographical Note: Linda Imbler Linda Imbler is an internationally published poet. Her poetry collections include “Big Questions, Little Sleep,” “Lost and Found,” and “The Sea’s Secret Song.”

Her newest e-book “Pairings” is due out soon. She is a Kansas-based Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee. Linda’s poetry and a listing of publications can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.

The Size of Your Ride (Linda Imbler) As you travel atop this great spinning orb, Never be afraid to adjust the size of your ride: Life constricts or stretches according to the degree of your courage.

Friendships and families may alter their structures.

Remember, for every recoil the world is made more narrow And every brave deed grows the scope of your existence.

Friendships and families may alter their structures.

Choking back the extent you may wonder or dream will damage And every brave deed grows the scope of your existence.

Do not be the one to object to the noise of life.

Choking back the extent you may wonder or dream will damage.

Ride the ride for all it is worth and let go of the handrails.

Do not be the one to object to the noise of life.

Meekness should not be the constant tick of your time.

Ride the ride for all it is worth and let go of the handrails.

Remember, for every recoil the world is made more narrow.

Meekness should not be the constant tick of your time.

Life constricts or stretches according to the degree of your courage.

Buried Treasure (Linda Imbler) Donating those precious gems and capturing bodily mementos, otherwise brought to an end, will be treasure I will gladly share.

Why should my heart be still?

Why should my eyes no longer see?

Much of me will be absent, while sad murmuring music is played in requiem, for what is considered the due solemnity of the occasion.

Meanwhile, someone will be able to continue much of my physical history and the wonder of my design will not be wasted.

So, do not bury me with such great riches.

Just as ancestors bequeath that of most value, so will I pass on my fortunes and know I have improved another’s life.

Biographical Note: Chris Lee Chris Lee is an Irish writer living in London. He has had 20 productions of his plays in eight different countries. He has just started writing short stories.

He was writer in association with Abbey Theatre in Dublin. His play Small House at the Edge of the World will open at The Comedy Museum in London in February 2019.

THE MONUMENTS (Chris Lee) “The Eiffel Tower has disappeared,” said my husband over breakfast. “What do you mean disappeared?” I replied. I wasn’t really listening to him, as was so often the case. “It’s not there anymore,” he went on. “It was there last night, the last time anyone looked, but when they all woke up this morning it was gone.” He showed me a picture in his newspaper, of the Champs de Mars in Paris, the large open space where the Eiffel Tower usually stood. There was also a picture of the Eiffel Tower last week sometime, when the thought of its disappearance was far from anyone’s mind, and side by side a picture of its absence, there was not a sign of it. “Did terrorists blow it up then?” I asked. “No, no explosions or peculiar activities have been observed, just the fact that it’s not there anymore. Anyway, I must be going.”

I blew a nonchalant kiss in his direction and he went off to work, unperturbed by the strange headline. How odd, I thought and wondered if I should turn on the television. Our comfortable neglect of each other included a rule that while reading the newspaper or a book at mealtimes was perfectly acceptable, listening to the radio or watching television was impolite. It was something my father had instilled into me.

Something that I was about to set aside as a series of extraordinary events gripped the world and had me glued to the TV set at every opportunity, although my husband remained indifferent throughout; shredding, in the process, any vestiges of affection that I retained for the man.

Every channel was covering the news about the Eiffel Tower. The studios of the world had assembled panels of experts to expound upon what had happened. The theories were predictably crazy and ridiculous, but no more so than the event itself.

Terrorists were top of the charts when it came to identifying a perpetrator, but no method could be convincingly described. One French diplomat said she was sure that terrorists had now devised an antimatter bomb that could obliterate buildings and military hardware but leave people and the environment unscathed. Her theory was

swiftly dismissed by a panel of physicists who claimed that to manufacture enough antimatter for a bomb would take millions of years.

It was though, mesmerising television, and I decided to call in sick to my work because I was so gripped by what had happened and why it appeared so difficult to come to terms with. A second theory that started doing the rounds had two variants.

First, the tower had not disappeared at all but was being masked by an invisibility cloak. This was debunked when the French army, who had been mobilised on the Champs de Mars, marched up and down over the space where the Eiffel Tower had stood. It was hard to know what they were going to do other than march up and down, given that there was nothing left to steal or vaporise. Surely they’d be better off guarding the Louvre or the Arc de Triomphe to make sure they stayed put. Then there was the straightforward hoax theory. The French government was unpopular and needed a national crisis to reverse its slide down the polls. What better than a crisis of national pride but without human casualties? All the footage was fake and a carefully constructed fiction was being played out at the expense of credulous people around the world. But as more and more journalists and celebrities turned up to see for themselves and then gave interviews and tweeted and Facebooked their inane surprise and shock, the hoax theory began to collapse.

My favourite hypothesis was elaborated by a French philosopher. Essentially he claimed that the Eiffel Tower had gone off in a sulk in protest at the demise of French culture and in particular the waning importance of philosophy in the school curriculum. No one really had any idea what had happened or why or how it had happened. The papers and the television stations buzzed with the news and there were interviews with famous people describing the important role that the tower had played in their lives. Several documentaries were made and a full length feature film went into production. However, as with all news, it gradually faded in importance.

The French tourist industry did not suffer because as many people now came to see where the Eiffel Tower had once been, than had come to go up it when it was still there. Life, as we love saying, goes on. My marriage proceeded in the same way, ignoring the elephant that had left the room, and we continued to exchange little in the

way of meaningful conversation. But it was a status quo with which we were both content. Content that is until the morning paper announced that the Tower of London had disappeared. “Looks like the Tower of London has had enough too,” said my husband at breakfast. “The Tower of London?” I replied. “I didn’t think the Eiffel Tower would be the only great monument to vanish into thin air.” “That’s what everyone is now claiming,” said my husband far too smugly for my liking. “But are you sure the Tower of London is a great monument?” He brushed the crumbs of a croissant from his lap and stared at me over the tops of his glasses, a gesture which I had begun to find tooth grindingly irritating though without quite being able to describe why. “Of course it is, it’s far older than the Eiffel Tower,” I asserted. “Isn’t it just a wall to stop the crown jewels from escaping?” he retorted.

We began to bicker. I told him that I found it strange that he wasn’t affected by these buildings going AWOL. He told me that he’d start to worry once the Alps buggered off or the English Channel did a runner. Then he went to work as usual and I fumed, as once again I decided to call in sick and watch the news reports of this second extraordinary disappearance. The British immediately declared a state of emergency and people began to wave union flags at every opportunity. Instead of terrorists, the European Union was the chief suspect. Politicians fulminated, TV historians burned with stentorian apoplexy, brigadiers prattled pompously and spokesmen for the royal family spilled crocodile tears. The Daily Mail began a campaign fund for homeless beefeaters and the RSPB started a petition about ravens.

Once again conspiracy theories, hoax theories, and with increasing attention, alien abduction theories did the rounds. Both the Eiffel Tower and the Tower of London were spotted on Mars, only to disappear again the next day, claimed the Astronomer Royal. Serious columnists considered which planet or moon in the solar system would make the best depository for stolen human monuments and sociologists tried to track the unconscious effects on human behaviour of the disappearance of the structures in question.

I thought of my own relationship with the Eiffel Tower and with the Tower of London and came to the conclusion that I much preferred the former, and had only

been to see the crown jewels as a child, never having returned to the ancient Norman keep. Nevertheless, I felt a sense of loss, and I knew that something was happening which was making people say the most ridiculous things; probably through the insecurity that a total lack of control or influence must induce in the powerful. The disappearances were discussed at international summits, much to the irritation of Eastern and Southern countries, and a good deal of sabre rattling was stirred up by the British and French delegations. This was not a laughing matter, although the rest of the world was splitting its sides. Oh how they sniggered, up until the unexpected departure, on the same night, of the statue of Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro and the ruins of Machu Picchu in Peru.

By this time I had handed in my notice at work and spent my days watching the television and pouring over the newspaper reports. I had never liked my job anyway and as I had a deep sense of foreboding of an eschatological nature, it didn’t seem to matter very much to me. I had a small inheritance from my father and by remaining indoors and eating only cheese and chocolate while I watched the news, sipping the odd glass of fino sherry, I could eke out an existence without worrying what my inane, irascible and contemptuous husband thought about anything. He felt as useful to me as the pointless decision by UNESCO to declare a state of global heritage emergency. He would come home from work and sigh with disapproval, but he stayed for a minute or two looking at the television, wondering what was happening to our world and what the next development would be.

The next development was a fivefold erasure, a reminder, if any was needed that this was a worldwide phenomenon and we had no power to prevent it. All together during the course of one night, and caught on film, so we could pour over the footage time and again, Angkor Wat, the Sydney Opera House, the Pyramid of Cheops the Great, the Taj Mahal and the Colosseum evaporated. There was no slow fading away, no warning, no aftershock, just the instant removal from human history of some of its best and most beautiful endeavours. And what of the people who were inside these structures at the time? They were left, always on the ground level,

bemused, terrified, though always unharmed, as the edifice around them was whipped away into nothingness.

The soldiers, the policemen and women, the national guards and the private security personnel who had by now been hired to patrol and protect the best known and loved monuments in every country of the world, were absolutely and totally hopeless. They saved nothing, prevented nothing, arrested hundreds of suspects, then let them all go again. By now though, a sort of inverse manifestation of national pride had taken hold. Governments of countries where no monuments of national importance had disappeared became nervous that a judgement of their comparative insignificance was being made. One thing was noted though, no country had yet had more than one monument disappear. This led them to carry out public consultations on the buildings felt to be held most dear in the heart of the nation. Mini civil wars broke out, for instance, between the supporters of the Empire State Building and the Lincoln Memorial in the United States of America. Both were humiliated when it was Mount Rushmore that disappeared, although the American government had been trying to promote a view that it was evidence of the greatness, rather than the decline of their country, which had meant it had been spared the phenomenon up until that point.

St Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow went missing the following day, just before a new cold war could break out. When the Great Wall of China disappeared, no state was able to claim world dominance in terms of being immune from the global attack.

It felt like human history itself was being erased in front of our eyes, stone by stone.

My husband shouted at me that I should get on with my life, instead of lying in filth and mourning over the loss of lumps of brick and steel. But even he was taken aback when the Forth Bridge absented itself. Was this evidence of the break-up of the United Kingdom? As a passionate unionist, he felt sure that regional nationalists would claim this as evidence of the unsustainability of Great Britain. My husband had had the unfortunate combination of a Northern Irish unionist father and a Scottish Presbyterian mother. When we had married I had been impressed by the way that he avoided the bigotry towards which both heritages can occasionally lean. He held no

truck with the symbols of nationalism he claimed, as evidenced by his lack of concern for the Tower of London. However, the removal, or escape, of the Forth Bridge revealed that he was not as immune as he claimed. He announced that he had great sympathy for the Orange marchers who paraded up and down outside of Stormont, as everyone agreed that the Giant’s Causeway was not in fact man made and therefore unlikely to be stolen. The Orange order petitioned the Queen to accept their sacrifice of Stormont in order to save the union. Unfortunately no one wanted it and they became particularly incensed when the Rock of Cashel couldn’t be found one morning in the Republic.

But what were the bleatings of a few proto fascists compared to the erosion of human culture? I told my husband that the United Kingdom was a fragile and insignificant entity, floating away from the rest of the world in a coma of narcissistic self-indulgence. This was the last straw. He prised off his wedding ring, with a good deal of difficulty it must be said, and flung it at me. “You’re a disgrace,” he spat. “I’m moving in with Shirley”.

Shirley was a fellow accountant at Bosworth, Battle and Butterfield, the largest such firm in the country. She had been round to dinner a few times together with the rest of his workmates. She looked like a poodle who had suffered a stroke and was probably the ideal companion for my husband. No doubt she adored him and mewled and whimpered during coitus. I had remained resolutely silent during the years of sexual congress, which had, thankfully now ceased. There was no pang of jealousy, no anger or sadness, just the profound relief that I would no longer have to tolerate this snoring, sneering nitwit in my life anymore. “I’ll contact my lawyer in the morning”, I said. “Thank God we don’t have a joint bank account.”

And that was that, I didn’t see him again for many years.The day he left, the Atomium in Brussels, the Hadron Particle Accelerator at CERN in Switzerland, and the Aztec Pyramid of the Sun in Mexico all went walkabout. Soon every country in the world had suffered a loss. Yes, this included the Vatican, where the Sistine Chapel departed. Yes, this included Saudi Arabia, where the Kabba was no longer to be found, and yes it included Israel where the Temple Mount vanished leaving no trace.

Religion, the virus at the centre of human delusion, did not cope well with these developments.

It was not clear exactly who started the war. It was as if it had become inevitable in the minds of the powerful. History is full of reference to the drift to war, as if some outside force was acting upon unconscious human agents. Suddenly we realised that we were at war, although we didn’t really know what that meant. There were no declarations, and although it was most certainly a world war, there were no clear divisions, no mighty blocks lined up against each other. No, this was the war of all against all. The disintegration of our cultures was terrifyingly rapid. We had thought ourselves robust, that our institutions and traditions were a defence against the collapse of values. How wrong we were. Every country felt wounded and attacked and yet the disappearance of the monuments had not caused any loss of life. That was soon remedied by the blind rage of random blaming. Without evidence and without logic, the usual suspects found themselves accused of plotting and unleashing terror. No weapons and no documents were found but a shrill xenophobia and a reactionary social conservatism was soon able to appropriate the moral authority to condemn others. And this process unfolded, with little opposition in every nation on earth. So that by the time of the next round of disappearances, including the Louvre, Stonehenge, the Brandenburg Gate, the Sagrada Familia, the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, the Forbidden City and so on, a rabid hatred had taken hold of governments and peoples everywhere.

There were mass arrests, lynchings, vigilante shootings, border sorties, aerial strikes, drone attacks and finally of course, nuclear bombs. We were all engulfed in a conflagration of loathing and murder. Any remaining monuments to our glory and vision as a species were now assaulted, fair game for the tidal wave of destruction that swept across the globe. For ten years, the war scorched the skies of the earth, for ten years until utter exhaustion, and an unimaginable casualty rate, resulted in ceasefires, surrenders, and the gradual petering out of hostilities. With war of course came the other three horsemen; famine, disease and death. For months I looked out of my window at the slaughter, living on the tins in my larder and then, after the cat

disappeared, on the cat food. And then when my building was overrun and I was cast out on the street, I lived in the shadows and the corners. I imagined once that I saw my husband scuttling across the square with a Kalashnikov rifle in his hand. But then I thought that was unbelievably unlikely. Surely my husband had perished in the killing grounds of the city, as I myself must surely do, sooner or later.

There was no television by this point, no newspapers, just the occasional radio broadcast from the cracks of survival, in the least devastated zones of the world. We navigated our way through the mountains of rubble, only wrecked shells of buildings remained anywhere. There were now no monuments at all, and this was no doubt true everywhere, just rocks and dust, just guerrilla pathways through the abattoir.

I fell in with other filthy, desperate, ghosts, darting in and out of the daylight, skewering the odd rat to barbecue in the doorways of dereliction. We persevered without hope or expectation. It was a loose alliance of the desperate and starving.

There were frequent arguments, many of them fatal. We had only one rule and that was that we would not eat human flesh, unless there was absolutely no alternative.

There were many times when our scavenging forays yielded no sustenance, nothing that could be gnawed or ripped to keep our bodies staggering on. It was then that we looked wonderingly at the corpses that lay strewn in our path in every direction. We would pull each other away from salivating at the sight of those cadavers posing as edible meat. We blundered ahead, through the endless days, without values, without culture, without history or the future. Blind instinct dragged us forward, there was nothing to live for, nothing to believe in, nothing to dream of.

One day a withered skeleton appeared, crawling on its knees towards a fire we had built to roast a pigeon. It was unpredictable what would happen on these occasions. It was possible that we would throw the poor creature a few scraps to nibble on. On the other hand, it was just as likely that we’d kick him to death. When I realised, with almost complete indifference, that this was my husband, I made a signal to the others that we should let him approach. I had no authority in the group, but then neither really did anyone else. We were all exhausted, which meant that the arbitrary execution of a stranger was probably beyond our savagery for the moment.

He slithered up to us and tried to warm his bony hands beside the fire. I had to tell him who I was as there was no flicker of recognition in his nearly dead eyes. However once the information began to sink in he started to laugh. He couldn’t contain himself and guffawed in a most disconcerting manner. We were not used to laughter and it made us uncomfortable. I think one of us might well have bludgeoned him had he not taken hold of himself and quietened down. He was eager to speak and what he told us, whether it was true or not, at least afforded us one final glimpse of the wonder of the universe and the suggestion that there were forces at large in the world, that operated beyond the comprehension of mankind, that vicious, debased, futile and disgusting animal.

“I heard a radio broadcast from the South of Japan. They still have some scientists there apparently, with working equipment and access to ocean going vessels of some kind. It seems they’ve located the monuments, all of them, all of the missing buildings and statues and temples and towers and everything. Everything whose disappearance led us to this. To the decomposing state of you and me my dear.

They’ve found them all, neatly stacked, one on top of the other at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. The deepest part of the Pacific Ocean. They’ve been there for years now. Sitting in the sea. For safe keeping, while we annihilate each other. What do you think of that?”

I didn’t think much of it. I threw him the entrails of the pigeon. We all stared at the fire. The sun slouched off behind the hills of rubble. The dark crept up, menacing and blue. One or two stars peeped out. The wind chattered. Rubbish was blown across the blasted landscape. Our race was run.

Biographical Note: Aidan Furey Aidan Furey lives in Belfast. he has been writing for five years and Aidan’s work can be found in various places online and in print, most recently in The Honest Ulsterman. He just finished his first novel, Becoming Kane, for which he is currently looking for representation

Nana Parker (Aidan Furey) It was a waste of time. A two-hour round trip and all for nothing. When we got to the house the owner said that they’d changed their mind and wanted to keep the dog.

When I got back to the car, a brave face masked my real feelings, but the girls could not hide theirs. To make it up to them, I stopped for lunch at a nice little country pub.

It was in the middle of nowhere - there wasn’t as much as a house for a half mile in each direction. It was the sort of place that you wondered how they made any money, but when I saw the prices they were charging, I understood. The interior was that “olde world” nonsense – rough white-washed plaster, beams across the ceiling and a great big open fire that took up half of one wall. It was all horse shit, of course, I was probably older than the place. As I judged the room, a waitress approached and told us that we could sit anywhere. We settled on a long rectangular table towards the back. A little old lady at the table next to us was head-down and tucking into a thick wedge of Red Velvet cake.

As we settled into our seats, the girls began to look particularly miserable.

‘Com’on girls. Cheer up, we’ll get a wee dog for you both soon. And as a treat, I’ll let you have chips.’

The old lady looked up and we shared a smile. Her hair was cropped short, white as porcelain and she was wearing a white turtleneck jumper - cashmere maybe.

Around her neck was a string of single of pearls – they looked like the real thing, but it’s hard to tell with pearls. Overall, it was a classic old lady look and she wore it well.

Aoibhe looked at Caitlin and then hugged her. ‘Caik-in, if you get fish fingers and I get chicken nuggets then I could give you half of my chicken nuggets and you could give me half of your fish fingers and we could both have the exact same.

Couldn’t we?’

Caitlin turned her head upwards and forced a look of consideration. She made Aoibhe wait nervously for a few long seconds and then when a suitable time had passed, Caitlin gave her answer. ‘Yes, we can share.’

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Aiobhe and launched a hug at Catlin, missing her neck and locking instead on to her head.

The old one looked over again, a crescent smile, cutting across her face.

‘Wherever did you get such lovely girls?’

Her voice was clear and confident.

‘They aren’t always lovely,’ I joked.

The lady put her spoon down on the black slate plate with a clank.

‘Now, I cannot believe that,’ she said, turning towards the girls.

They looked nervously back and then they both giggled.

‘Say hello to the lady,’ I said.

‘Hello,’ they both duly submitted.

‘Well, it is very nice to meet you,’ she said, nodding her head in acknowledgement.

The girls giggled again and then dropped their heads shyly.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,’ she said, turning her attention back to me.

‘No, we were just passing and thought we’d have some lunch,’ I replied. ‘We were having a bad day and needed to cheer ourselves up.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Not too bad I hope.’ Her face expressed a genuine concern.

‘No, no,’ I said waving my hands in the air. ‘We were hoping to get a little dog, but the owner changed their mind.’

She relaxed and smiled. ‘Oh, that’s a pity but I’m sure you’ll find another one.

I do love dogs, I have two – Buddy and Red. Great company. I’m afraid they don’t quite get the exercise they used to. I’m just not up to it anymore – but they are loved and fed and that is the main thing I think.’

I nodded in agreement and she continued to talk, describing her two babies – a little brown and black terrier and a red “hairy mutt”. She talked about their characters – chalk and cheese, where she got them, how old they were, what they ate and even the noises they made in their sleep. As she talked her eyes became alive and I began to feel a little sorry for her, not in a patronising way, just sad. She seemed too quick to engage with us, too eager to talk – but maybe that was just me judging someone by something I would not do.

The waitress came and when I recited our order she nodded and quickly headed towards the bar.

‘You’ll love it here,’ she said, finally pausing her narrative.

‘It’s a little expensive,’ I said coyly.

‘It’s worth it,’ she said, waving my comment off. ‘I come here every day. I have my porridge in the morning – with honey, and that is the only food I eat in the house.’

Then I did feel sorry for her. She was alone. I glanced at her left hand and saw the rings on her finger. I wondered how long he had been dead and how much she missed him.

‘You look like our Nana Parker,’ said Caitlin. When I looked over, a phoney smile was painted on her face, showing that she was unsure of what she had said, unsure of how it would be received.

‘I do?’ exclaimed the old woman.

‘Hmm, hmm,’ nodded Aoibhe. ‘But she’s dead and we don’t know what she looks like now – so not now, what she used to look like.’

‘Girls!’ I exclaimed and looked apologetically towards the old woman, who, I was relieved to see, was laughing.

‘Adorable,’ She said. ‘I would have been so happy to have two such lovely grandchildren.’

She smiled for a moment longer and then something in her eyes dulled. As the girls turned back to their childish chatter, she turned her attention back to me.

‘John and I were never blessed with children.’

I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, but instead looked at my two babies and smiled contently.

She got up and I watched her shapeless form head towards the bar to pay her bill. A grinning barman mouthed salutations towards her and then turned to the till. He quickly returned, bringing a saucer with a slither of paper on it. She did not lift the bill but instead dropped some notes onto the plate. As I watched I couldn’t help but admire her class. Then she turned and pointed towards us. The barman followed her

finger then turned back and bent his head to listen earnestly to whatever she was saying. Finished, she broke away and approached our table once again. When she reached us, she came in close and I felt her hand in my jacket pocket.

‘Something to remind you of your Nana Parker,’ she said. Then she ruffled the girl’s hair and headed for the exit without looking back. I smiled broadly, as did the girls. When the door closed behind her, their questions came quickly.

‘Did she do it mommy?’ asked Caitlin ‘Did she pay?’ asked Aoibhe.

‘Did she give us money?’ continued Caitlin. ‘Or maybe she did both!’

‘Show us mommy,’ demanded Aoibhe.

‘Yes, mommy, show us, show us,’ echoed Caitlin.

‘Ok, ok’ I said, submitting. ‘Give me a second.’

I placed my hand into the pocket of my jacket and felt a flat, cardboard-like square. It was curious and unexpected. I brought it out and opened my hand, revealing the object to myself and the girls. It was a beermat.

‘Why would she give us that?’ asked Caitlin.

Why indeed. Was it a joke? An old lady’s poor attempt at humour? If it was, it was stupid. It was not funny at all and it was hard to see how anyone would think of it as funny. Unless of course, I was missing something. I stood up suddenly, my hands moving quickly through the pockets of my jacket, turning them inside out and then repeating the fruitless checks. I checked the floor around the table and the table itself and the surrounding ones. But it was no use, my purse was gone.

The barman appeared beside me.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘My purse.’

‘Lost it, have you?’

‘Yes, the old lady…’

‘Yes, she told me that she saw you in the Ramblers last week. Said that you pretended to have had your purse stolen so that you could get out of paying for lunch.’

‘But…’ I began to protest.

‘But nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m calling the cops.’ He turned quickly, meaning to carry out his statement.

‘What’s happening mummy?’ asked Aiobhe nervously.

‘We’re getting out of here,’ I said. ‘Get yourselves out that door now. I mean it, run.’ They clambered over one another, realising that I was not joking. They knew the drill and they knew not to dawdle. I covered their exit, walking in quick, determined steps, glancing behind me as the barman lifted the phone to his ear.

As I put my foot down and accelerated out of the carpark, I smiled. The old lady had class.

End

Biographical Note: Scott Thomas Outlar Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Outlar was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. His words have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Dutch, Italian, French, Persian, and Serbian. He has been a weekly contributor for the cultural newsletter Dissident Voice since 2014. His most recent book, Abstract Visions of Light, was released in 2018 through Alien Buddha Press.

Coloring Outside the Lines (Scott Thomas Outlar)

Blue is the color of kaleidoscope dreams abstracted with neon mandalas that swirl and shift in spaces beyond those consciousness knows how to tame.

Energy crystalized at a pressurized point transcends the limitations of places we fear to tread while manifesting the miracles that only grace can erupt into existence.

White is the color of cumulus clouds singing hymns down from heaven as mantras of whispered breath hum from the lips of holy angels to swarm across the land below.

Prophecies and prayers of old align at the web’s woven center to reveal a matrix of truth that boils in the heart of peace and tears away the final veil of illusion.

Here and Now (and After) (Scott Thomas Outlar)

Bury my bones beneath the dirt where trees once towered before civilization took hold.

When the time comes, let my remains bathe naked in the soil; no casket, no box, no boundaries except the caress of earth itself.

Dance and sing atop the plot where I’m laid to rest, and make merry at a funeral filled with laughter.

But until that fateful day arrives, let our eyes flow with tears of joy, let our tongues

tease out prayers of peace, let our lips shout words of love, and let our lives be spent making the most of every moment with which we’re blessed.

Empty Pages (Scott Thomas Outlar)

Poetry followed by philosophy read on the back porch as the birds squawk and the hawks attack just as it has always been

Perceptions on the surface may seem temporary and tangible as they change and shift with the turning of the seasons but at the core all is still all is silent all is one which is to say all is nothing and everything and neither

I was twenty years old laying on the couch in the dark I took a breath and am thirty-eight the same book in my hands the same old story

under the sun under the clouds

Where did the time go?

Vanished in the space between there to here, then to now it was all one point which is to say there was no point except the points I don’t recall

I’ve forgotten more than I ever learned if that’s possible everything is possible nothing is possible every stone has been looked under every stone remains untouched or maybe I just never learned how to learn what needed to be learned to understand the point that there is no point

I was ten years old lying in bed in the dark staring at the void within terrified of the empty space I took a breath and am thirty-eight there was never a void there is only a void

The birds know what the bees know what the heart knows what I have never known what I have always known that I will never know that I will never learn the same book in my hands the same as it has always been

Eye to Eye (Scott Thomas Outlar)

I have searched for Truth and found it lacking in this wicked world full of falsehoods as liars lead their brethren toward the edge of despair.

I have searched for Peace amongst the many tribes across all lands where nature remains pure even as manufactured wars are brought to a crescendo of madness and chaotic turbulence.

I have searched for Empathy with empty palms while sand drains through the clenched fists of would-be conquerors who use faked compassion as a means to distort consciousness.

I have searched for Love and finally learned the lesson that such an emotion must first be discovered within one’s own soul before it can ever be realized in the eyes of another who values their self on the same level.

Oxford Coma (Scott Thomas Outlar)

Love and lust and loss and loneliness

Infatuation is a timid kiss Amore is the pulse that never wearies

Break out your dictionary and tell me how the words are spelled

What context they should be used in How often they find new meaning

Tell me about the emotions you feel Are they nouns or verbs?

Lost in the riddle of tongues is the urgent need for action

Write me a poem, sing me a song Live me a story, bury my roses

Plant me a seed, reap me a marriage Grow me a child, slaughter my dreams

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E-mail all submissions to: g.greig3@gmail.com and title your message as follows: (Type of work here) submitted to “A New Ulster” (name of writer/artist here); or for younger contributors: “Letters to the Alley Cats” (name of contributor/parent or guardian here). Letters, reviews and other communications such as Tweets will be published in “Round the Back”. Please note that submissions may be edited. All copyright remains with the original author/artist, and no infringement is intended.

These guidelines make sorting through all of our submissions a much simpler task, allowing us to spend more of our time working on getting each new edition out!

November 2018’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

We Alleycats cannot believe that it has been 6 years since we started this journey we’ve experienced some losses and health issues along the way but we’re still here. Several of us have crossed the Rainbow bridge since then. Thanks again to all of the artists who submitted their work to be presented “On the Wall”. As ever, if you didn’t make it into this edition, don’t despair! Chances are that your submission arrived just too late to be included this time. Check out future editions of “A New Ulster” to see your work showcased “On the Wall”.

We continue to provide a platform for poets and artists around the world we want to offer our thanks to the following for their financial support Richard Halperin, John Grady, P.W. Bridgman, Bridie Breen, John Byrne, Arthur Broomfield, Silva Merjanin, Orla McAlinden, Michael Whelan, Sharon Donnell, Damien Smyth, Arthur Harrier, Maire Morrissey Cummins, Alistair Graham, Strider Marcus Jones Our anthologies https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_present_voices_for_peace https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_poetry_anthology_-april https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_women_s_anthology_2017