A New Ulster 108

Issue 108 Issue 108 November 2021

A New Ulster FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF Alessio Zanelli, Eugene O'Hare, Lorraine Caputo, JG Sherry, Gavin Bourke, Zachary D Dover, Sean O'Neill, Aaron Danaher and Kate Millar, AND EDITED

BY AMOS GREIG.

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 108 NOVEMBER 2021

UPATREE PRESS

Copyright © 2020 A New Ulster – All Rights Reserved.

The artists featured in this publication have reserved their right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work.

ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online) Edited by Amos Greig Cover Design by Upatree Press Prepared for Publication by Upatree Press

CONTRIBUTORS

This edition features work by Alessio Zanelli, Eugene O'Hare, Lorraine Caputo, JG Sherry, Gavin Bourke, Zachary D Dover, Sean O'Neill, Aaron Danaher and Kate Millar

CONTENTS Poetry Alessio Zanelli

Page 1

Poetry Eugene O’Hare

Page 8

Poetry Lorraine Caputo

Page 10

Poetry JG Sherry

Page 24

Poetry Gavin Bourke

Page 26

Prose Zachary D Dover Page 32 Prose Sean O’Neill Poetry Aaron Danaher Prose Kate Millar Editor’s Note

Page 39 Page 45 Page 49 Page 59

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Alessio Zanelli Alessio Zanelli is an Italian poet who writes in English and whose work has appeared in over 180 literary journals from 16 countries. His fifth original collection, titled The Secret Of Archery, was published in 2019 by Greenwich Exchange (London). For more information please visit www.alessiozanelli.it.

1

The Treasure One’s true self is not easy to come by.

I’ve been looking for mine through the scanty days of purity, before acquiring consciousness.

About to call the chasing off, under the clear impression that it’s infeasible, just an effortless step away from another idle pinnacle of achievement, it’s finally dawned on me that it’s always been under my nose.

Right in front of my silly gaze.

I will hence leave the summits to the gales, cross the forsaken bridge one last time and descend into the treasure dale.

I will forget all that’s been obsessing me, abstruse estimations and calculations, and let my simulacrum disappear into thin air.

No longer sick with quests and findings, I will sit facing the mountain and wonder how the whole distance covered computes.

(Alessio Zanelli)

2

Who am I? She still has strength in her hands, that of a life’s work, domestic and more.

An infinite strength. Everything else is gone.

She stares me in the eye, as if asking Who am I? She squeezes my hand into a fist, clutches it, then pushes it away, time and again, slaps the back of it, in a frenzy, knitting her brow and curling her lip, presses her foot against my thigh, to ward me off like an intruder, to then reach for my hand once again, and pull me close to her, as if asking Who am I? She plays with my knee, moves it in and out, at regular intervals, delivers rapid-fire buffets to it.

Her brawn is her scream, as loud as thunder.

Her gaze is her anger, her fierce defiance.

She puts her head back, as if asking Who am I? Rage, sweet and silent but tameless, an unbounded, pitch-dark desert, the ocean storming in a glass.

On the moon. Nowhere. As if asking Who am I? Primitive force, pristine nature, prime transition.

Life, yet. As if asking Who are you? Who am I? Squeeze, squeeze my hand all you want, as hard as you can. Don’t be afraid.

You have earned it for sure.

I love you the same, if you wonder Why? Why? (Alessio Zanelli)

3

After Challenge under tricky skies, a run, chasing what is left of older selves, minding neither rainstorms nor the sun, just the past in which my belfry delves.

Pangs distract me from my destined path, as if courses could be still retraced, yet regrets and losses boost my wrath, leading me astray across the waste.

Mountain profiles line my narrow track, I can straggle only in between, slowly, on and never turning back, lest my slippy future should be seen.

Feelings mend the texture thoughts disrupt, I behold the clouds to stand the day, quite exhausted, listless, time-corrupt, waiting for the skies to shade away.

(Alessio Zanelli)

4

Mice On A Ball In times past enormous rodents stumped around luxuriant plates, no smaller breathers could defy their rule.

Then the furnace was imperceptibly younger.

When the inanimate intruder dropped by, nothing so big could go on ambulating.

They all ended up fertilizing the baked soil, sinking in the crust.

The tiny mice, that had come into existence shortly before and survived the fireworks, little by little came out of their dens and rose to power.

Yet no reign lasts forever, and theirs indeed was the most sudden and short-lived of all.

As well as the last.

When the furnace, after a snappy blast, began to cool down, the ball was gulped.

The sky went crimson, even at night, and this time nothing could escape the blaze.

Not even the canny mice, helpless in front of the blushing giant.

Their life-span proved to be as brief as the flame from a straw compared to an ex-millennia-dormant volcano’s eruption.

(Alessio Zanelli)

5

B's Bombs. Blast. Blood.

Blast. Blood. Bombs.

Blood. Bombs. Blast.

Bombs. Blood. Blast.

Blood. Blast. Bombs.

Blast. Bombs. Blood.

Bombs. Bombs. Blast.

Bombs. Bombs. Blood.

Bombs. Blast. Bombs.

Bombs. Blood. Bombs.

Blast. Bombs. Bombs.

Blood. Bombs. Bombs.

Blast. Blast. Bombs.

Blast. Blast. Blood.

Blast. Bombs. Blast.

Blast. Blood. Blast.

Bombs. Blast. Blast.

Blood. Blast. Blast.

Blood. Blood. Bombs.

Blood. Blood. Blast.

Blood. Bombs. Blood.

Blood. Blast. Blood.

Bombs. Blood. Blood.

Blast. Blood. Blood.

Bombs. Bombs. Bombs.

Blast. Blast. Blast.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

(Alessio Zanelli)

6

The Risen When he slid out of darkness, an entity of silence and paleness that would scare the shit out of Frankenstein's dire wretch, the world had fallen foul of truth and lies.

All that could be encountered was a miry, nauseating, irreversible blend of the two.

It had become so rife that almost no one remembered what its single constituents looked, smelled or sounded like. No one bothered or wondered, no more. He did.

It took him quite a few days to readjust to sunlight, albeit the sky was often dull, as if he had never possibly left the vault.

Weirdly enough, thirst and hunger were not twisting his stomach, while he soon realized how so many things didn't seem quite right. His mind was really at a loss.

He had bit the big one in the line of duty, but now, watching people and behaviors, such a noble deed would make no sense.

To his baffled eyes, receptacles of lifelike memories, nothing of what he ran across was understandable, even conceivable or admissible. He never broke his silence or lit up his face again, just kept wandering streets and squares, sneaking as close to the walls as he could, in the shade, better if at night, a shifty silhouette all of them avoided. As if out of the line, or out of it.

However headstrong, he couldn't take it.

7

He sensed the odds of him becoming part of that world were a million to one against.

Ditto the odds of abiding by its regulations.

Heigh-ho, once again his time was past due.

Over a few more days he basked in the sun, whenever it shone, aloof; soothed his heart by searching for the moon through the thick of the wood; at last got to grips with its fate.

He knew his return was not a second birth, quivered off and levitated back to his berth.

(Alessio Zanelli)

8

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Eugene O’Hare Born in County Down, Eugene O'Hare is an author and actor. He is working towards his first collection. He was recently shortlisted for the poetry prize at Belfast Book Festival. In 2021 new poems have featured in The Galway Review, Crossways, Atrium, Honest Ulsterman, Fortnight, and as a news piece in The Irish News.

9

THE QUEENS OF COUNTRY

I have never asked my mother what she thinks of the moon. or if she looked to it to console her in ’85 when i was too young to know the origin of her tearswhich came sometimes without warning & sometimes without enough.

but there were always women on the radio when things got tough: Bobby Gentry, Dolly, Tammy Wynette.

I think if Dolly Parton and my mother had met, Dolly would have commissioned a spoken essay from her on the cruelty of marital breakdown in a small Irish town where everyone talked.

Dolly would have paid her in makeovers and outtake demos of that duet with Kenny Rogers.

Dolly would have told her to grow her hair again.

Dolly would have flown her to Memphis.

10

the Women of Country were the poets my mother loved best. all of them loved her back.

there is a loft somewhere in 1985 full of abandoned song titles, reworked chorus lines, & letters between my mother and the Queens of Country. innumerable correspondence on the temperature of tears, moon vigils and the effects of hard luck on the skin.

it is always summer back there. it is always winter too. everything is felt deeply. everything at once.

(Eugene O’Hare)

11

LEAVING HOME AT EIGHTEEN the real promise arrived in the warring oranges of that late-August sky. we came to the windows to watch the light that flamed like burning pumpkins, mandarins, ochre & squash. behind the glass our skins ran the colour of erupting orchards. soon we would leave here, this unmerciful here; the border town with its walled courthouse, its Sunday football team, its outskirts of marsh, its rain. soon we would leave the flat row upon row of family home- those little studied boxes of pain and history where people float in and out of rooms, saving up for wooden floors, spitting in sinks.

soon we would leave for the blaze of citylife & sex, & Red Stripe beer. soon we would leave here for the night club, the sleepless people, the hard-won kinks and the first heartbreak- the first beautiful bone-crushing haemorrhaging heartbreak- which groomed us tearfully into militants obsequiously devoted to the terrorism of love.

(Eugene O’Hare)

12

NIGHT RADIO

how often has the human voicelow & soft on the talking channel saved my life? or is it always saving my life- whispering through night the secrets of bees, political scandals, Proust’s advice to friends, & examinations of things like Chopin’s young life full of sickness & aching genius?

in twenty seventeen, on a benzo cold turkey i got on my knees and wept at the Shipping Forecast. when the announcer was done, she brought me out on her boat around the lighthouse, then back again, saying nothing. i fell in love with her without knowing her name.

unshaven, unslept, i have sat by the radio while the night under my porch- charmless, 13

mouthing dark taunts at the indifferent moon, opened its throat at my window to distract me from the human voice of a stranger; saving my life on the talking channel.

last night i listened to a Frenchman speak an ode to the game of chess. i turned my head to hear the quieter bits like a willing child taking his ear drops.

tonight, they will discuss the saints of Naples, a Russian poet, modern gardens in the digital age, Akutagawa’s chopsticks, the appendix, a frog.

then the Shipping Forecast; lifeboat of waves.

(Eugene O’Hare)

14

AT THE LAUNDRETTE

it is evening at the laundrette & i am alone on a plastic bench looking into a wall of 900 kilo coin-op washers & dryers.

cooling off with open doors, their dark prodigious mouths which all day long abraded the unclean with drownings or barbarous heat.

one dryer remains at work; embarrassing my wet shirts into a mock disco of twisted arms gesturing obscenely to the drum with no heart.

i look out of the smeared windows 15

to sundown’s torn sponges of coral floating over the main street. along the roof of Dean’s Lighting and Fixtures Shop a conspiracy of blackbirds stand beautifully composed.

here on the laundrette floordusted with fallen detergent salta trodden tabloid news page of a politician gambolling in an Aberdeen nightclublike a lonesome prize pig gone stray from the house at Animal Farm.

(Eugene O’Hare)

16

AUDITION

they wanted me to take my top off & do a little light shadow boxing.

i was out of shape. besides, my agent said nothing about stripping to the waist, punching the air, waiting for the lady with the camera to say cut.

i did some press ups too. i was young & drunk most of the time. i spent all my money between Wardour & Dean Street.

that boxing film never got made. i don’t even think a script got written. but someone wound up with two dozen hours of young men, topless, solo-boxing in a Hilton classic room where the curtains wouldn’t shut.

sometimes when i’m dreaming back 17

over my twenties, i become obsessed with wanting to get my hands on that boxing tape. what was i wearing beneath the waist? what book could be found sticking out of my back pocket? i hope it was Baudelaire or Neruda.

i told a Hollywood actor about my boxing audition and a week later he suggested i beat him up in his South London apartment. i asked him how lonely it was with nobody to call him a piece of crap and he didn’t talk to me for a month.

i couldn’t care less. my head was full of Carmen McRae songs and I knew a thousand folk in Soho.

(Eugene O’Hare)

18

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: PATRICIA KAMRADT

Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator, and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 18 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done over 200 literary readings, from Alaska to the Patagonia. She travels through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer and http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.

19

RELEASING THE NIGHT Along this mid-evening street between two church plazas, all the shops are already closed except for the sausage cart outside a bar three funeral parlors, caskets gleaming in the street lamps the two prostitutes waiting outside a no-name hotel & the transvestites on the corner of the further square

(Lorraine Caputo)

20

CROWNING A DISTANT PEAK Startled goats scurry into small-leaf brush, through cardoon cactus & prickly pear. This rough land slides to the rushing river below.

Mountains hover o’er this valley sliv’ring through the steep scape, the clouding sky so far above painted by a wide rainbow sweep crowning a distant peak.

(Lorraine Caputo)

21

A MOMENT The silver moon hazed by nebulous remnants of the afternoon’s rain, thunder that crumpled ‘round the Sierra Nevada long ago silenced Sad vallenatos dance past these tropic-worn buildings, down these streets where folks sit outside in the evening now cooled by a Caribbean breeze its caress upon bare shoulders, legs of young short-skirted women on the promenade softer than the touch of drinking men beseeching a moment of their love (:Lorraine Caputo)

22

COURTING The past-midnight wind has quieted. Quick lightning dances across hazed stars. & the full moon nears its setting horizon.

Two twittering owls swoop over tejas roofs, through palm trees, their large wings casting dim shadows below, upon this courtyard.

(Lorraine Caputo)

23

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: JG Sherry

.

24

25

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: GAVIN BOURKE Gavin grew up in the suburb of Tallaght in West Dublin. Now married, living in County Meath, he holds a B.A. Degree in Humanities from DCU and an M.A. Degree in Modern Drama Studies from UCD. His work covers a broad range of subject matter including nature, time, memory, addiction, mental health, human relationships, politics, contemporary and historical social issues, injustice as well as urban and rural life. He was shortlisted for The Redline Book Festival Poetry Award in 2016 for A Rural Funeral. His poem Unanswered Call is published in the September 2019 issue of Crossways Literary Magazine. His poem Sword Damocles, Falling is published in the October issue of A New Ulster. He was invited to read at the Siarsceál Literary Festival in October 2019. He has worked in library services for over twenty years. His poem Louisburgh, County Memory was highly commended in the Johnathon Swift Creative Writing Awards 2019. His poems ‘Our Tree’ and ‘Getting On’ are published in the current issue of Qutub Minar Review International Literary Magazine. His first book of poetry (sixty pages) was shortlisted for the International Hedgehog Poetry Press (UK) Full Fat Collection Poetry Competition for 2019. His poems ‘The Power in Abuse’, ‘Beyond Bone, While the Jackdaws Watch On’ and ‘Fair Trade’ are published in the current issue of A New Ulster. His poem Ag Iarraidh a Churam Mo Intinn Bhun Os Cionn was shortlisted for The Manchester Irish Language Group International Poetry Competition 2019. His work is being considered by competitions and publications worldwide. His work has been published in the next issue of A New Ulster .

26

Today

Cleared away the dream-dust, to reveal the edges, of the portal to reality, to begin again today, anew.

Do we always know, what to do, with our todays?

When they are presented, to us, in cold, clinical, static, all-consuming, grey light.

Treading water, awaiting the return of the sunshine, to re-engage with energised existence, far beyond, the world of dreams.

(Gavin Bourke) 27

Happenings

Woke to a midday chorus, of church-bells and birdsongs, on a Sunday afternoon, full of Autumn Sunshine, discerning the dream-world, from reality, a blink at a time.

Things can happen in a second, that can be life-changing.

The great beauty in a night-sky full of stars, overseen by a crescent moon, beaming bright white streams of silken light, onto the trees, plant-life, and grasses, nothing like witnessing this, as a first-hand experience.

28

Jealousy has reasons, slept on a glass pillow, stoked a fire with a glass-poker, for a change, looking back through glass eyes, on a world of glass.

Saw the dead walk by the windows a few times, leaving shadows on the window-panes.

(Gavin Bourke)

29

Waiting For Words

The heavy rain turned the concrete another shade of grey, wet, dark, cold, sharp, and slippery.

The damp air ripe with the cackle of the evening birds.

Poor visibility with misting water, pollinating the mid-September breeze.

Shadows fell on the bridge over the river, as the night-lights lit up my pen, in the passenger seat of a car facing the river, to gather any inspiration eight o’clock in the evening, might have to offer.

Well into the autumn cycles of light and darkness, at the will of the sun or lack there-of and the compensating lights we use, to continue to live in the dark after sundown.

A Cracked shadow formed on the lined page, like a sundial guiding the writing of the poem.

All light seemed more important, than in the daytime, until the park disappeared into the dark.

Shadows fell on wooden posts, raindrops on the windows acted like prisms, for the passing lights as I sat under the tall nightlights, waiting for words with greater silences between the cars.

30

The oncoming darkness heightened the senses, rivers of words created themselves from the sounds, of the rain, cars, birds, and voices from other vehicles, the world seemed less safe than it did before, in sound and vision, the blackness with non-linear frequencies.

(Gavin Bourke)

31

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Zachary Dover

Zachary is a 21 year old aspiring writer, currently studying English Literature at Pasadena City College. He lives at home with his brother, sister, mother, and father in a small suburb about 30 mins away from Los Angeles called Glendora.

32

The Library

The once pure white columns which guarded the immense nucleus of knowledge that was my public library, was the first form of purity that had been defaced. Now, the marble was cracked, a schism that enabled a ruin. The only thing alive about the barren, desolate structure, was the bell in its tower that rang signaling a new hour. I hadn’t visited since I was a child, since I had gone on a half-day walking-field-trip- which was supposed to expose me to the wonders of knowledge just by looking at it. Clearly the tired gag had no effect upon me. And if it didn’t affect me, it surely had no effect on my classmates. After work I would drive past the old building and would feel a sort of pity in my stomach. I did understand, to a degree, how the old thing might feel: it was losing out to a device that wasn’t, particularly, cemented in reality; evident in the sagging disappointed columns that looked like a tired middle-aged man, neither innovative nor archaic but made entirely of mediocrity.

Regardless of the pity, I felt a slight annoyance at the pitiful building. A dichotomy of sorts, of respect and pragmatism. If you own a horse and it breaks its leg you shoot it. It's only sensible.

Killing in some cases is a Catholic’s kindness. And as the city grew around it, it only looked increasingly desperate. Just raze her, I’d say on my drive-by; put her out of misery. With the steady growth of the city, the homeless population grew too, to boot, they gathered like maggots to a corpse on the library's plaza. But still, the old hag held on. A few months later, in an attempt to curb the homeless infestation, the abandoned church- next door to the library- was torn down in favor of a computer arcade. The parents raised bloody hell and shortly, the homeless were bussed away to some other library. And once again I was stuck with the pulchritudinous view. Every time I laid my eyes upon it I was met with an anxious impatience, unable to understand why the city couldn’t simply move on as it did with the church. The impatience then quickly festered into slight resentment and I began to take an alternate route home, simply to ration myself from sheer anguish when acknowledging the mere existence of that tired building.

My girlfriend sat in our dining room, she scrolled on her phone, paying no mind to my arrival until I set my bag down and said hello. She said hello; she continued scrolling.

-

-

How was your day? I asked.

It was fine, yours?

Fine. That Thompson kid acted up again. Gave him his third referral in three weeks. It's only August, I mused, at this pace he’ll be in the hall with Sandy.

Cool. I watched the Kardashians and then facetimed Jenna; then we facetimed Emma- who was like. Totally preggers- and it showed! O’ em gee, you should have seen her- she's so fat!

She used to be the prettiest girl too.

Does this make you happy? I asked. I smirked.

33

- Of course. She rolled her eyes and kept scrolling.

She was beautiful… and dumb. She my was my dumb and beautiful girl. I gazed at her. She was in her usual pink tracksuit that had juicy on the booty and wore her same plastic jewelry that, when glinted in the sun just right, looked real. That's all that really matters. I broke my gaze and turned away.

-

Bt dubs, I put cookies in, so shower and eat up.

We had just moved in three months before and our quaint abode certainly looked the part.

The walls were naked, void of memory, the only thing that hung was our plasma TV as if it were Jesus on the cross. The office boxes had books which accumulated dust, we just hadn’t had time to construct the bookshelves- which lay in another box somewhere in the garage- so we compromised and in a pragmatic fervor, assembled our two desks and computers which enabled us to work from home. The only other thing we assembled was the second plasma that came in tandem with my game system. I quickly showered and then returned to the office where I picked out Dubliners, went to my bed, and began to read The Sisters. About four or five pages in, I began to smell the faint odour of burn.

-

I haven’t even the most miniscule inclination of worry, I thought. Eveline surely knows what she is doing.

Just as the sherry was poured, the smoke alarm screamed and smoke began to seep into my room. Eveline screamed and I leaped to her aid, a mad, short, dash to the kitchen.

-

I burnt the cookies! She screamed.

Indeed she did. A small flame rose, its fingers dancing behind the oven door. I rushed to the garage and found a miniature fire extinguisher, I let the cream loose like an okinawan flame thrower. The fire went out and all that was left were frosted, charred, chocolate chip cookies. I took a chair and took out the batteries from the wailing alarm then went to Eveline who had begun to cry.

-

It’s okay, my dear, it's fine, said I. . . . .

.

.

The next day, my friend and I went on a bike ride. My hometown was quite beautiful, I realized. There were many oak trees with many squirrels and many o’korns. They stood tall and proud, lush with the many gifts of a wet summer; their trunks sturdy, tempered finely, their arms stretched wide, welcoming; their faces kind, comely. It was a sunny day and cloudless so the sky was extra blue like a golden ocean. The foothills stood mighty; their purple skin regal. The Seabreeze came inland and with it the seagulls; a flock of parrots squawked and flew high- so high they looked like a murder of tiny green dots.

We rode up the hill into the foothills and parted ways at a fork in the trail. Peddling for a while, I came to a clearing, not a moment too soon as the sun had begun to flog my back and my breath became timid. I found shade on an old trunk cut so as to minimize the likelihood of a forest 34

fire. I took a swig of water and went for a quick think. When I paused, I lifted my head from my lap to see a buck and his family gazing upon my sweatiness with those big and round mahogany eyes.

His antlers were healthy, he turned away unconcerned and they trotted away. I decided I had ought to turn tail as well and made my way back down to the tip of the hill. Judah and I met at the tip of the hill and we began our descent. Back to the brick and mortar and asphalt.

- My bathroom mirror cracked somehow, said Judah.

- Whaddya mean somehow?, I replied.

I panted as sweattle became, you could have sailen a damn boat down the River Nose.

-

I dunno, he said. I woke up and took a shower, got out and went to shave, there it was, cracked like a frozen lake.

- You know, said I. You can tell me if you punched it. I am not here to cast judgement, my friend.

- Snifolem! I did no such thing, he said.

His head bobbed up and down, in tune with his peddling.

- It is truly the oddest thing, surely!- really!, he swore.

I had let my eyes roll in a bout of unforced skepticism.

-

Don’t be so pessimistic. I think there is a ghost in my house, in my house- I’ve had my fair share of flickering lights!

- Flickering lights and broken mirrors, are you sure you’vnt gone insane? Have you relocated to a mavis haven?

- No, no I hadn't! You know, aside from the flickering lights and broken mirrors, my home is quite homely!

- So how in the hell did your mirror just crack- are you pulling my ear?

- No sir, there are no pulls here. I swear, it just cracked; I have not to fear, I approached a handyman for a quote; it took him what felt like a year to reply; but, nonetheless, it will cost me a mere buck-twenty!

- It’s funny, Judah went on. I looked like a damned demon with it cracked so. My face was contorted, sideways, and oblong, and acute and obtuse. Like some sort of eerie funhousethe mirror, not my home!

- Well, my friend, it's a good thing your face is hittin’ slightly below .250.

The sun had begun to set and the twilight colors then riddled the sky. It was a quiet time in Leadora. A park had little girls moshed around a ball in pink and purple jerseys, in a hazy chaos of youthful form as the parents sat watching in lawn chairs and worked on cases or graded papers or took phone calls in the brief lull, allowing them a commodity before dinner. Retired joggers with white hair jogged by. Old ladies with pound weights power walked. Young couples with freedom walked their dogs. Leadora was but a sleepy hollow.

Judah's breath became ragged. Mine had worsened as well. That single conversation just 35

about knocked the wind out of us- as if Tyson had thrown us each a right hook that hit our kidneys.

Luckily, for now, it was all stop signs on our route, being twilight, the smaller streets that intercepted our route were quiet, allowing us to coast through to our agreed break corner at the intersection before my block. Shortly, we reached it as the eastbound and westbound traffic blurred on. I lowered my head. Then, I looked up to see a young man walking towards us with his nose to the ground.

- Hey, what the hell!?

He had stepped off into the crosswalk, his body flew; brain oblivious to his fate. .

.

.

.

.

.

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One sunday morning, on a warm day, a day when the promise of a hot Californian summer rang true, my mother-in-law to-be had come to visit Eveline and me. Our home, still after six months, was the same as it was three months prior. The only thing that contributed to a positive quality of life, that wasn’t preposterous nor adequate, was the new a/c that I had installed; after we had cut out innen out and chickfilay from our weekly diet for a few weeks, we splurged at Lowes.

Kippa came in with a few bags of gifts and her patented bravado; her blonde hair had just been straightened, it fell softly on the small of her back, her lips heavily drawn red, the earrings dangling golden, her cheeks bulged with botox complete with the unprovoked scowl of a senior divorcee. She always came with gifts and that day was no different; gifts that only seemed to engorge our garage. She brought a bag full of old books and a bag full of pots and pans- she had just bought a new set. This was her third set since we moved in. As she set her things down she took off her glasses and looked around, her face frowned in mock disappointment at the rat hole we called home, another thing worthy of her gripe. She brushed off a place on our couch and sat down.

- Snifolem, my dear; I’ve a few errands for you to run, do you mind.

She had this really long drawl… as if she was cheeky- but she wasn’t trying to be.

-Not at all Kip. What can I do forya?

- I've these books. These heavy, dreadful, books. I believe they were your father’s. She motioned to Eveline.

- I won't mention his whore of a name in such a… peaceful place; I wish for you to take them to the library.

- Okay- And these pots and pans to the Goodwill... on Bennet; I hope the Africans will find these suitable for their poverty issues.

- Right, I replied. I’m sure they will.

36

- And Eveline, m’dear, she said. How’s about we get ourselves a manicure. A pedicure too.

-Oh, but, will you pay. … I forgot my card at home.

- That's like… totally fine, said Eveline. Happy to be in her presence. It was seldom. .

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.

.

The Goodwill was just east and below from downtown. I took the long way through mainstreet. Driving through downtown always billied my bosom. Especially since I had grown as the city had grown. When I was born it was still Smalltown, USA. And to an extent it still was. Now it was a curious hybrid of a budding mini metropolis where everyone still knew anyone worth knowing. Everyone worth knowing lived north of Leadora blvd., in some capacity, everyone worth knowing lived off of Main Street. Downtown still had the giants of old: the old Donahue theater and the music hall where my grandfolks and everyone’s grandfolks still danced to some swing. But, instead of the old citrus markets that made up the infrastructure when I was a child, there were sleek phone stores and modern TV centers and glass electronic depots where you could get any computer part you’d ever be able to fathom- even the ones you’d never knew existed, the ones that came from the african uranium mines- like an NVIDIA Ampere A100, PCLe, 250W, 40 GB Passive, Double Wide, Full Height GPU Customer Install, that goes for just over 15 ½ grand. And the small town magic, despite the dystopian products, still existed too. On any given day, if you were to walk down Main Street, you could find some film crew filmin’ some mid-tier Hollywood film. The town with its confused nature, was something of a robotic creature, a Frankentstein of the 21st century. I arrived at the Goodwill and was met by a pinheaded, tall, slender, man who was happy to see me. He appreciated Kip’s generosity.

It looked gothic. The old thing towered before me. Its columns cracked. Gargoyles stood as sentries on pillars above, they met my eyes with a slight ire as if they dreaded their forgotten. Above them, the flag and the city flag flew tattered like two veteran jolly rogers. The arches swung wide, gaping with a sleepy extravagance. The buildings’ shillings were cracked. The computer arcade next door provided an odd air, it was teeming with little worker bees screaming for high scores; the building was a spaceship, postmodern, that looked so miniscule next to the giant of old. And up close, the old thing, oddly, didn’t look as haggled as I remembered- it had been a few months since I last passed by- but the old building and its scars had a stoic, grim, assuredness on its face as if it were a grizzled old king, with a tattered cloak, scars on his face, that would not be taken down by a mere, measly, lowly, rocket- not when armed with his steel.

To my chagrin, the book bin was inside. I descended to the dungeon. My pity had been misplaced. Before me stood the old librarian. She wore a pleasant smile and a pink, buttoned, cardigan, her glasses rested on her nose looking to fall, and her grey hair had a pencil in its tail.

-

Good afternoon, she said.

Hullo. I’ve a few books for you.

37

-

Oh how wonderful. We are always in need of good books, she said as she scanned them. We must keep up with the times, of course.

- Of course… , I replied. My eyes couldn’t help but to peel behind her. Taking in the scene, I found my pity to be misplaced.

- For donation or for sale?

- Huh- oh, yes, donation.

- Are you feeling well?

I snapped out of my hypnosis, Yes sorry. For donation.

- Wonderful. Thank you much.

I couldn’t help but to move to the common room as she inserted the books into the computer system.

My pity had been misplaced. The bookshelves were metallic, polished, new. The carpet was clean and smelled like a rose bush. And the common room. How fit with youth! Young scholars were sprawled across couches with books and the tables full with young writers! Students typed papers on a stretch of new computers! Oh how my pity had been misplaced; the old thing hadn’t aged a day!

(Zachary Dover)

38

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: SEAN O’NEILL Sean O'Neill is a Philadelphia born writer based in Ireland. He is a recipient of a Creative Writing MA from UCD and his work investigates how inherited forms of trauma and silence in the North of Ireland continue to permeate into and poison the present.

39

Slippery as an Eel Of course, I was late. I found him on the pier, fastidiously combing through his coddled net with Reynaud-riddled fingers.

‘Alright, Pop? You should be wearing gloves on a night like that,’ I said. ‘It’s Baltic.’

‘Aye,’ he said.

‘Suppose you can’t get a proper feel for the weaknesses with them on,’ I asked.

‘Aye,’ was all I got.

No doubt he was ripping we weren’t already hauling in a few eels or the odd pollan, but he didn’t mention it in case I take the hump and decide I’d rather sit in front of the fire than freeze my bollocks off with him while he hardly broke breath to me. Emotional outpourings were never his thing, but even basic conversation with my father was like pulling hen’s teeth lately.

Our first effort was fruitless. I thought it best to wait until we caught a few before I started in on him. The lulls between casting the ninety metres of draft net and trawling it back to the boat would provide enough air for me to lay it on the line. When we came up empty again, the muttering and effing and blinding rose in waves. He knocked the old diesel down to low revs as we pulled the net aboard.

‘Can you not winch that goddamn net any quicker,’ he growled. ‘It’s bad enough you made me wait an hour with my dick in my hand.’

Our next half-moon yielded a good fifteen or twenty eels. No pollans. I hustled to free the catch from the net and get them into the barrels, pre-empting the dog’s abuse that would come my way if I didn’t move with what he considered to be the appropriate amount of haste.

Another pass and the same result. Now, he was no longer squeezing the life out of the wooden wheel of his clinker boat. Still, a smile would have cracked his face. We motored to the far side of the lough where he wanted to make a last-minute inspection of the net before sending it into the darkness where his prey hid, unwilling to let a single one escape. He killed the engine and we bobbed in the perpetual lap. The calm almost got the better of me.

‘Da, we need to talk,’ I said.

‘The key is to make sure the wings are equal,’ he said.

‘We need to talk, Da. About Ma.’ His tongue crept from the corner of his mouth, an added means of increasing concentration.

‘If the tail’s imbalanced you might as well leave it out.’

40

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Every time, the same shite about the wings.’

‘Whatever’s caught could swim out the slack side,’ he went on. ‘A couple of inches one way or the other is all it takes.’

‘She’s leaving you.’

He didn’t bother to lift his head. He merely rolled his faraway eyes up from the task momentarily before shrugging and returned to scrutinising more sections of the net with his whitened thumbs and forefingers, occasionally applying tension in opposite directions.

‘Did you hear me? Ma’s leaving you. She’s her mind made up and all you can do is fucking shrug?’

‘Pass me those pliers, will ya?’

‘That’s typical. You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?’

‘Pliers.’

I reached in the tool bucket and hurled the pliers as far as I could into the drink.

‘What a waste of breath. She said you wouldn’t listen. Don’t know how to listen, but I thought I’d do the decent thing and try to save you from dying alone, a miserable old man.’

‘Those cost me twenty quid,’ he said, looking towards the ripple burgeoning in the blackness.

‘Like I said, miserable.’

‘What do you want me to do? Your mother is free to make her own decisions. She deserves to be happy.’

‘That’s a laugh,’ I gibed. ‘The poor woman has been caught in your undertow for far too long.’

‘I should just grin and bear it, is that it?’

‘No, stop moping. Stop flying off the handle. Maybe talk to her here and there. Talk to me.

I’m about to cut my stick, Da.’ He kept checking his net. Knot after knot, searching for the right words, any words, amongst the tangled mess in front of him which was his mind. For a moment, I thought he was about to emerge from it to offer me a glimpse into everything he kept locked away, out of reach from himself or anyone else for that matter, and at last give voice to all that festered within him. But there was no such luck. I sunk back onto the stern then, having grown accustomed to his silence.

‘It’s like pissing in the wind with you,’ I said.

41

‘You’re some pup.’ He landed the full sway of his pale blue eyes on me. ‘My head’s wrecked and you know it.’

‘What about the rest of us? Would you ever face it head on and stop acting like you’re the only man in the North haunted?’

‘Easy for you to say,’ he said into his net. ‘It’s not like you’ve been hard done by.’

‘Easy? You’re some craic, Da. Get off the cross and hammer a nail already!’

He shot straight up from the bucket he was sitting on and bungled as much of the net in his arms as he could, heaving it over the side of the boat. He lifted more and more, dumping it down onto the hush of the silt. The net wrapped itself around his waders and the panic mounted as it pinned him to the rail. He managed to cut himself from the twisted nylon before it could drag him into the murk, but he came down hard on the deck after he was liberated from the weight of it. I reached out to give him a hand.

‘I’m good,’ he protested. ‘I said, I have it.’

After reeling for the bench, he gave me his back. As he plopped down, the air that escaped his lungs was like the wet slap of a balloon as it’s slowly deflated. The guilt soaked me to the bone.

Had I said too much, pushed too far? But there was no one left to do it. My sisters were shoved off long ago by the ten-tonne heft of his absence. They knew a nonstarter when they saw one. I had the sinking feeling that he was about to cry, and I would have to comfort him.

I looked towards land and wondered if I could swim it. Two hundred yards in the frigid water was a mighty ask, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t seriously consider making a break for it. On the horizon, the lights of Maghery town wavered; lit fuses set in motion by the undulation of the boat. I clung to the winch as swells came on our port side and rolled under the hull. If his torrent poured from him now, the howling would be swept ashore. Someone taking air by the lough might hear his wailing and think they were within earshot of the lingering soul of a long-lost fisherman, fated to float for eternity in those shadowy waters.

I tried to think of something to say. It was me who asked him to abandon his silence, but I couldn’t bear the thought of having to console him if a lifetime’s worth of anguish was finally let loose. He was the one meant to do the consoling, not me. I knew the walls of the Kesh towered over him yet, but all my efforts to breach them were met with fierce resistance. Worse again, if he strangled it further and leaned into his only other register, anger. I imagined him charging me and shifted into the corner to gain a better foothold; taking a stance that would allow me to resist being thrown overboard, just like his net.

It wasn’t always that way. Casting off out onto the lough with him were the times I cherished most, especially when we weren’t fishing. Entire days were spent exploring. There wasn’t a stretch of the shore he claimed to be unfamiliar with. The length of it seemed endless when I was a boy, 42

and he was always keen to share the knowledge he inherited from his father with me. Traditional knowledge, he told me, needs to be passed down. It reminds us of who we are and where we come from.

We manoeuvred through channels I was convinced were too narrow for our boat that opened into coves that were as close to mangroves as I’ll ever be. He knew of secret beaches where we would anchor and swim to shore. The opportunity to nip my legs as we swam was never missed, touting the eels as the culprits. The tears were always right behind. That foghorn laugh of his stung as I scurried to dry land and wiped the salt that mingled with fresh water from my face. I was terrified of them, and he knew it. He spun yarns of eels growing so large that they could take lumps from a man. All a load of tripe, but they always summoned those childhood fears of the unknown in me.

Camping out on Coney Island was the ultimate prize. It was illegal, but Da didn’t pay any heed to such things. McCallan Island we called it. It was the height of our maritime adventures, many miles from the sea. We were pirates, resting weary sea-legs on a desert island, far from the unwanted incursions of those scurvy land lovers. Da struggled with his old canvas tent as I tried to anticipate where he needed me to shine the torch next. It was always a challenge, but we managed it together.

We sat by the fire, him drinking bottles of Guinness, and me eating the ham and cheese and crisps that Ma had packed for us. I asked if the fire was a good idea, seeing as we weren’t really allowed to be there.

‘Fuck them,’ he said. ‘Let them come for us. We’ll fight them off, won’t we son? This is our island. They’ve taken enough.’

My first bottle of beer was bitter and warm, but it was on McCallan Island. Just the two of us, in the nightfall and the quiet. Two men bonded by more than blood. Moored to each other through culture, and tradition, and the lough. If only he knew how the failing fire threw a giant’s silhouette across our shabby tent while he stared peacefully into the middle-distance of Lough Neagh. I was so proud that he was my Da, astonished by my good fortune.

I wondered then, as we floated aimlessly in those well-known waters, cut adrift from each other, if we couldn’t go back to McCallan Island. We could find our old campsite and dig up that buried treasure left behind. Surely, it would still be there, waiting for us, right where we left it. But some things stay buried.

It was a long row from then to now. How could we have been blown so far off course? The venom of his past was flowing through his veins when we played out our little version of Robinson Crusoe, but the intervening years saw it take hold like gangrene.

He turned the engine over. She didn’t fire up at first and I took it as a sign.

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‘Da, please. I’m sorry. Can we talk this out?’

‘What’s there left to say, son? You’ve said it all.’

With that, the cylinders spluttered to life. He steered her towards home at full tilt, throwing spray into my face with every wake he cut in two. I shimmied closer to him and gripped the starboard mooring cleat.

‘Da, I’m sorry,’ I offered above the roar of the distressed engine. ‘It had to be said, Pop. It had to be said.’

He hasn’t heard me yet. Instead, he concentrated on the void between us in the shape of the lough that my tackling him was meant to lessen. I fixed my eyes in the same direction, hoping to catch sight of a beacon that might close the distance between us, but there was no trace of it in the muted water.

When we approached the dock both of us were saturated. He came in too hot, nearly colliding with the rusty old dredger that was floundering in the same berth for as long as I could remember. Putting the dock bumper to the test, he abandoned all the protocols endlessly droned into my skull every time we brought her in. He hopped onto the dock without as much as a word.

After tying a hasty cleat hitch knot, he revved up his van and scattered gravel with the front tyres.

I hadn’t a notion for where our catch was headed. All taste for the slimy bastards left me years ago. After I rinsed down the boat with the nearby hose, I started to dry it with the shammy mop he kept tucked away in the bilge, taking my time to make sure I didn’t miss any spots, especially on the stainless. When I finished cleaning the sliver of battered Perspex that Superman himself would struggle to see out of, I was still left with the eels. There was nothing else for it. I fished them out of the barrels with my bare hands and set them free.

One by one.

(Sean O’Neill)

44

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: AARON DANAHER Aaron Danaher is a young man living in the Kilkenny area. He has recently been writing poetry after a turbulent and transformative period in his life. His passion for poetry lies in the appreciation of the depth found in the handwritten expression of personal matters.

45

Here We Are 2

I’m going to admit to you I am lonely.

My heart is sad and misses.

But when I write to you, And I really mean you, I know you are here with me.

I know that I am writing These words alone, And you are reading them And together we saw them Appear For the very first time.

(Aaron Danaher)

46

Pepe

Your whiskers tickle You scope and poke You cry for just Another stroke

Affectionate girl Just wants a caress Even when I couldn’t care less.

To me you are nature Overlooked.

Withered, torn, Carrying on.

Gazing out At the same old sky, I wish for you A better life.

(Aaron Danaher)

47

Plans

If I am walking the streets In exploration. No destination.

I am uneasy.

Sometimes I can sit For no reason.

But in the public eye A shyness comes over me.

I am naked without My blessed plans.

“Where are you going?,” You ask.

On the very first day of school I didn’t even know what school was.

And you are asking for my plans.

(Aaron Danaher)

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: JACK STEWART Kate Millar is a final year student at the University of St Andrews in Scotland, pursuing an MA (Hons) in English. She has also attended courses in creative writing at Harvard University. Her writing has received commendations and awards, including the Dan Hemingway Prize and the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award. When not writing (or feeling guilty for not writing), Kate loves to paint, journal, and have existential chats with her friends. You can find her on Instagram @katepmillar.

49

What About Ye? The chatter faltered immediately as the door swung open, chime ringing, announcing her entrance.

Side-glances flitted across the bakery – concerned, curious. But Rhoda took no notice. She was used to attention; in fact, relished in it. And didn’t look close enough to see the cause of it today.

‘Auch, hi, Rhoda! Good te see ye,’ Margaret called from the till, smiling forcefully, willing the communal hum back into existence. Rhoda seems as happy as Larry. Does she not realise what date it is?

The slide and clang of metal trays quickly resumed as rows of wheaten, soda, and potato bread were laid out on display. A sign saying, ‘Made from Local Spuds and Dairy’ hung proudly on the wall behind.

‘You know me, Margie, gotta get my favourite wee buns,’ Rhoda winked. A smirk tugged at her Revlon lips as she surveyed the queue. Each face confirmed to her that this was her town.

There’s Lily and Gemma squeezed together in the line but avoiding each other’s gaze – they’ve been neighbours for twenty years, and best friends nearly as long, but after an argument about the bins, they’re not speaking anymore; Eileen, as deaf and thran as ever, shouts orders to the poor girl at the counter who quakes in her pinstriped apron, repeating for the third time, ‘Say that again please?’; and Hillary – buying buns – she was supposed to be doing Slimming World.

Rhoda let out a half-laugh as she took her place in line. The smell had met her long before she had even reached the shopfront; baking bread, near-burnt crusts, and slabs of icing. It had intensified as she entered the shop, competing now with a sickly blend of flowery perfumes. Orr’s Home Bakery was as close to homemade as you could get, and a Newtownards institution. Rhoda loved it. She knew that if she asked for apple pie her tastebuds would be greeted by the same cinnamon and brown sugar warmth, never any cloves, the recipe unchanged in sixty years. She 50

knew that the biscuit-shaped clock would always be stuck at quarter-to twelve. And she knew that there would always be familiar faces. Always the chance for a good natter.

A good natter – that was something she could find anywhere in this aul town. A good reliable aul town, this. The constancy of Orr’s bakery, Maud’s Greengrocer’s, Waldon Street Presbyterian Church, sustaining generations of Ards folk. The grey pebbledash buildings leaning against a white sky. She bought her daughter’s first birthday cake in Orr’s. And last year they even catered for her–– ‘Auch Hillary! What about ye?’ Rhoda exclaimed. Hillary gave a sympathetic smile while fumbling with the pack of German biscuits poorly disguised by her handbag.

‘It’s good to see ye, Rhoda. I know today must be hard––’ Rhoda nudged Hillary with her elbow, looking down at the biscuits, ‘Auch, don’t worry about me seein’ you with those – we all have those moments, don’t we?’

Hillary stammered out a laugh, tried to continue, ‘I’m sure you miss––’ Rhoda leaned in, her manicured nails clutching Hillary’s arm, ‘Waitil I tell ye. D’ye know soand-so who lives down along the Portaferry Road? Y’know, in that there house just lookin’ right over to the water? She’s always goin’ on about her sea view ‘n all, as if she’s in some beach house or somethin’. Well, I’ll tell ye, I wouldn’t want that house for nothin’, so I wouldn’t. Ye can’t kid yerself that yer in Califarnia, it’s flippin’ Portaferry like, wise up. I’ve been lashed with seaweed and rain down there more than I’ve ever seen a peep o’ sun.’

The queue was steadily shortening. Hillary had to inch backwards as the line moved, Rhoda’s hand still clasped round her arm.

51

‘Anyway,’ Rhoda continued. ‘Ye know how her husband died about eight months ago?

People were already shocked that she decided to cremate him – I just don’t understand that there choice. I wouldn’t want even a family member I didn’t like goin’ in flames, let alone my own husband. An’ then there’s that whole thing of do ye invite people to see the cremation? I wouldn’t go see one a those if it were the Queen herself. Seems just wrong to see a person burn.’

There was a smattering of glances towards Hillary and Rhoda, but her lips seemed to be only gaining momentum.

‘Anyway, the other day I bumped into Amy, and she tells me she saw yer woman out for a wee dander round Mount Stewart. She says the first thing she noticed was a huge diamond flashin’ on her hand. And on her ring finger too. Amy was right scandalised, so she was.’

At this point, only the chirping oven timers could be heard over Rhoda’s voice as people began to lower their own. Margaret’s hands moved slower, taking extra care not to rustle the bag of shortbread that she handed to Lily; gossip trailed off mid-sentence. Rhoda’s lips kept moving, upturning slightly, aware of her growing audience.

‘So, she goes to her and gets talkin’, makes a comment about the ring, somethin’ like “that’s a quare beauty, that is. Is it new?” And yer woman replies – ye won’t believe it – she goes, “Auch thanks, I just got it made. It’s Barry, ye know.” And turns out she sent away to some jewellers over in England – ‘cause you know no Ulster man in his right mind is gonna start a business like that over here – to get her husband’s ashes turned into a diamond. D’ye ever hear the like of it?

Cremation’s dodgy enough – ye’ve no way of telling whose remains they really give you in that wee Ziplock bag. She could be wearing wee Jimmy’s pet Jack Russell on her finger, for all we know. I say that’s why she’s––’ 52

‘S-sorry to interrupt,’ a woman said behind Rhoda. ‘But––’ she pointed to the counter.

Margaret was smiling at Rhoda, her head tilted slightly to one side.

‘Auch sorry, love,’ Rhoda said to the woman, wafting her hand through the air. ‘Yer dead on.

Got a wee bit carried away there. Could talk the hind leg off a donkey, so I could.’

Hillary quickly said, ‘You go on ahead,’ letting Rhoda order first.

‘Just the usual, Margie.’

Margaret collected two iced fingers, the pink icing pale in comparison to her flushed cheeks.

The rosy softness of her face gave her a certain youthfulness, betrayed only by the crinkles around her eyes and greying ringlets poking out of her hat. She spoke as she bent below the countertop reaching for the wheaten bread, ‘I walked past her bench this mornin’ on the way to work. Was so nice to see a few bouquets there already. Can’t believe it’s been a year.’

The colour drained from Rhoda’s face. Her blusher poorly disguised it; it was red on grey now. Margie’s words grew muffled, as if she was talking through a cloud of flour.

‘Some beautiful chrysanthemums, a really lovely yellow colour,’ Margaret continued as she searched for the paper bags. ‘Looks so bright on this grey aul day. Typical June weather. Am sure she would’ve…’ her voice trailed off as she straightened up to bag the wheaten, looking at Rhoda whose nails were cutting deep into her handbag, her lips a thin purple line. She was staring out the window at the pedestrians milling about on the street.

‘Auch…It’s on us today, darlin’.’

Rhoda’s eyes snapped back to Margaret. ‘No, no. Don’t be silly,’ she protested, digging in her handbag for her purse. Rhoda tried to force a handful of cash on her, but Margaret stepped 53

back from the till, holding her hands in the air.

‘Am not takin’ anythin’ for nothin’,’ Rhoda said as she slapped a fiver on the countertop.

Grabbing her bags and walking towards the door, she called behind her, ‘All the best, Hillary,’ punctuated by the chime of the door’s bell.

Instinctively, she turned right towards Waldon Street. Distant calls of recognition from across the road were drowned out by the click of her heels on the pavement and the rustle of the paper bag that she tried to shove into her handbag. As she swerved pedestrians and parked cars, the town was reduced to a smear of colours. Stains of royal blue, brown, and pale slate. Taking the long way round to avoid the benches in Regent Square, she arrived at the churchyard breathless and shaking slightly.

It was the quiet part of town. An estate of brick bungalows next to a Presbyterian Church.

Only on Sundays would the streets come vaguely alive with suited old men and their wives in hats and heels. But today it was just Rhoda.

Her feet treaded the familiar route to the row of pinkish granite headstones near the back.

There was her granda’s name and her nana’s, her da’s and her mum’s. Caroline’s name should’ve been there too. But also shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be anywhere. How’s it been a year?

Rhoda tried to deepen her breathing, stretching her head back to the white sky. It was the way it should’ve been a year ago. She resented that day the sun did come in June. That day it wasn’t supposed to be sunny. It should’ve been raining – bucketing, in fact. Lashing it down.

But today, the sky was a thick grey over her head, the distant call of seagulls echoing against it.

54

‘Feels like a fucking ceiling is over yer head and ye can only breathe stuffy indoor air,’ Caroline once shouted across the living room, a crumpled letter trembling in her fist. ‘It’s like am just stuck slamming against the walls trying to break out, get some fresh air, but everyone round me is just watching me, waiting for me to tire myself out.’

‘What are ye on about?’ Rhoda remembered replying. ‘Ye can go outside for walks anytime ye want to. I don’t get what it is ye have against this place. It’s yer home.’

Caroline groaned and turned to face the living room window, that awful nose ring of hers catching the lamplight. The window looked out onto the street. The air had that grainy look that comes with night, and the pavement held dull orange puddles of light from the streetlamps. Rhoda remembered noticing Audrey Smith looking over from the footpath with her Yorkshire Terrier tugging on the leash beside her. Rhoda reached for the blinds, pulling them down.

Caroline snatched the chord and yanked them back up. ‘Let them all watch, mum. Let them all fucking––’ ‘Lower yer voice,’ Rhoda snapped. She reached for the blinds again, but Caroline stepped in her way. ‘Don’t get so worked up,’ Rhoda said. ‘Do ye really wanna do this? This big city with a million strangers who couldn’t give a toss about ye?’

‘Oh yeah, ‘cause the people here really give a fuck about me.’

Rhoda looked around the room, desperate, her arms held out. That lamp was flickering again. She let her arms fall beside her thighs with a slap. ‘What’d I do to make ye wanna go away like this? What’d I do wrong?’

55

There was silence apart from the tick of the clock. Caroline’s eyes were fixed on a tear in the cream-coloured lampshade. The street was empty now. Audrey Smith and her Yorkshire Terrier were gone, Rhoda hadn’t noticed them walk away.

‘Well, am sorry I’m somethin’ wrong to ye.’

Months later, Caroline walked towards the airport’s sliding doors, trailing two large black suitcases behind her.

‘Don’t forget to give us a ring when ye get there,’ Rhoda called from the car. ‘An’ don’t be comin’ back with one a them there English accents!’

Caroline didn’t even look over her shoulder.

Caroline’s voice from the phone: ‘I’ve found a job for summer. So, I’ll be stayin’––’ ‘Ye’ve barely been home all year,’ Rhoda cut in. ‘Am not payin’ fer you to stay over there when there’s perfectly good––’ ‘I’m payin’ for myself then.’ The line went dead.

Rhoda sat with her back to the living room window, phone pressed to her cheek. That lilac wallpaper was beginning to peel off in the corner.

‘Ye never come home anymore an’ it’s breakin’ ma heart.’

56

Rhoda looked down at the open card on the kitchen table. Pastel blue with Congratulations on Your New Home printed on the middle. Blank apart from a ‘Dear Caroline’ written at the top.

Caroline replied, ‘You could come here, ye know.’

She only went once. After the diagnosis. Caroline’s skin was the colour of old bedsheets, her eyes encircled by dusty purple rings. Not my wee girl who used to leap down the sand dunes in Portrush.

‘It’s gone too far now, it’s time fer ye to come on home,’ Rhoda said.

A long sigh from Caroline. ‘No, mum. I’m staying here. This has been my home for the past fifteen years.’ The tall buildings outside reflected the blue sky, even the clouds; they stretched higher than Rhoda was comfortable with.

A flight back to Belfast with an empty seat next to her. The navy material was discoloured.

Rhoda never stepped on a plane again.

The thought of it all rose like bile in the back of Rhoda’s throat as she looked at the names on the granite gravestones. She could faintly feel the heat from the fresh wheaten bread in her handbag. This day a year ago, she was sat on the flowery sittee, looking out to the street with the phone held up hovering next to her ear, hand shaking slightly, afraid of accidentally pressing one of its buttons and cutting the call. The sunlight reflecting off the cars scarred her eyesight as she heard the man’s distractingly English voice. She felt lightheaded as she endured his preamble, unaware

57

that she was holding her breath. Then came the words and a slight winded feeling. The room didn’t shatter around her. Neither did the street or the sky.

She remembered overhearing someone walking past her on Main Street around that time, ‘Can ye believe she’s not even goin’ over for the funeral?’ And the reply, ‘I heard she insisted on bein’ buried in England.’ She also remembered the casseroles, baking, and bunches of flowers that arrived at her door the following weeks. Margie and the girls at Orr’s had given a big spread for a memorial service that Reverend McClennan held.

But Rhoda couldn’t remember much of the rest of it. Just the front of Waldon’s hall, a photo of Caroline’s face framed by all these white wee flowers, all identical, round and bushy, they looked almost plastic. And a foggy dislocated kind of feeling.

Today that familiar fog had settled back onto her and a strange guilt curdled in her stomach.

She didn’t feel the way she thought she should. She wouldn’t even mind if her mascara ran. But her days were no different to before. It was the usual going about her business, getting her hair done, chatting to the Ards girls, doing messages, making dinner. There were no more phone calls – but there weren’t many of those to begin with anyway. Apart from Christmas and Caroline’s birthday, she could easily convince herself that Caroline was just living her life across the Irish sea, as usual.

(Kate Miller)

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EDITOR’S NOTE 2021 has been a rough year with a number of difficulties and changes which we are still getting used to some of these range from medication changes and new side effects attached to that. This issue features a range of poetry and prose and represents a great range of voices from around the world and we hope you enjoyed reading them as much as we did.

Happy reading, good health, and keep creating, Amos Greig (Editor)

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