Poetry
prose
Issue 1 2013
stories
art
Editorial Dear Readers, Welcome to Antic, a magazine giving voices and a chance of expression to young writers of all talent. It has been a real experience creating this magazine and I have thoroughly enjoyed all aspects of it. I wanted to create a magazine that would hopefully spark an interest of literature in young people, and hopefully make reading poetry and stories seem less tedious and more enjoyable. I hope this idea has worked and some of you are more interested in literature. If not, I suggest you explore literature on your own and find an aspect of it you love because I promise, it would be a worthwhile thing to find. A large thank you has to be made to everybody that contributed a piece of writing or piece of art to Antic; it was a real pleasure receiving the work and getting to see it all. It’s taken a total of 6 months to complete this project; a lot of work and time has been put in by myself; as well as others. A thank you has to go towards Mr Milledge as my project supervisor, as well as anyone that contributed to the research I carried out to create Antic Magazine. I am extremely pleased and proud of what I have managed to create. This issue contains poetry, short stories, prose and artwork from fellow students as well as local writers like Jacob Polley and Malcolm Carson. Thank you.
Š 2013 by Antic Magazine. All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Antic Magazine and it’s authors.
Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Past Days Anonymous Giving Up Jess Longrigg Martyrs and Scholars Calvin Hodgson Humans Raw Jessica Walker Colour of Trees Georgia De-Groot A Bard Calvin Hodgson Window Anonymous Ramblings of a 6th Former Anonymous Hoping Jess Longrigg Chibi Love Ellen Angus LOCAL WRITERS
15 16 17
The Dung Hill Malcolm Carson April Mike Harrington Magpie Christopher Nelson But Then We Were From Different Times Malcolm Carson Three Tweets From Talking Birds Jacob Polley 0.3 Christopher Nelson About The Writers
18
Alaska Lines Jessica Walker
11 12 13 14
19-21 Look Into My Eyes Sophie Parker Beginnings Georgia De-Groot 22 Confronting Inner Demons Anonymous 23 24-26 A Love Affliction Amy Wilks
Anonymous
Past Days
You can keep going and You can fly forever But where are you flying to? And who will be there?
Look back and GOÂ back Go back and live the Best of your life 'Coz you only live once.
Don't you realise? You're flying away from The hardships in your life But you've flown too far.
So make this one count And always remember That they are the best You'll ever have.
You flew straight past what Could have, would have been The best time of your life So, sweetheart, turn back.
Remember you love them and You'll always be loved as well Those Dark Days are behind you Hun, these days are light.
Turn back and see What you could have had Turn back and see What you still can.
So make this one Shine so damn bright Because you have one chance So smile away, girl, just smile.
Darling, your life ain't over.
1.
Giving Up
Easy. Huh? To walk away. avoid it for another day. That’s right, turn your back, gather excuses, go and pack them all away from me, think I can’t see You’re used to me. You stopped you know? the smile, the glow. bye to blue skies, and hi to goodbyes. happy days gone, what went wrong? You got used to me. Dead are soft lullabies, only whispers and alibis live on now, wow, I thought you promised, but you lied and, You got used to me. Filled with shame, now are my lame words of heartbreak, feelings one can’t shake, always thought I’d write, of my courageous knight. but You got used to me.
jess Longrigg 2.
Martyrs & Scholars There are two kinds of people that fill the streets, That fill the world, and take their seats, And those they meet, And those they greet, Have in their hearts, their own path to keep . There are the bloody martyrs, Who keep the world in check, Who Never back down from a fight, When the blade is at their neck. Although they fight for honour, Or justice, family, truth; The martyr’s blood will still run red, When their child is at their youth. There is the studious scholar, The wise man of the world, Can a great man avoid the fight, And keep the world secured? But the scholar cannot raise a sword, In the way he raises the pen, So if they faced the glare of death, Who would be the better men? Whichever person you are, Whether you wield the weapon or the words, Know that the world will need you both, To stand for the rights of the world.
Calvin hodgson
3.
Humans Raw
Young hearts beating together pounding into one another’s flesh carving blinding words out of coldest weather Spitting out acid from mouths and dripping down with burning new eyes. Standing together holding hands out of a feeling of trepidation Warnings of exploding minds casting to one everlasting soul Finally standing tall with no more temptation. Ripping from the seams with a tear allowing the suture of wounds together bruising begins to form black and blue marks animalistic forms start to wear uncovering human At last and at once we find the salvation
Jessica Walker
4.
colour of trees Georgia Degroot
5.
A BARD I, a bard, am like a dream, Often will I tell a tale, And never charge a fee, I’ll amuse you an entire day, But alas, you shan’t remember me. It’s the heroes you should remember, The ones both brave and true, The ones of courage – valour – strength, Those ones will see you though. But remember villains too, The ones of cunning and guile, The ones that would stab you in the back, But look you in the eyes. So next time on your journeys, You see a fellow traveller, Tell me the tale, of how you fought, Or still stood as friends thereafter. You ask my name? It does not matter, I am but a lowly bard, But the stories that I share with you, Will help me be your guard
Calvin Hodgson
6.
window You may feel like everyone is different You may feel like everyone is the same But in the moment when everything is Silent And the clouds start to cry Every single person turns their head And looks towards the window pane. - Anonymous -
7.
Ramblings of a 6th Former Anonymous
Not long now The clock ticks on and the days go by Approaching deadlines make tensions rise Burdens of school and the stress of work flood our minds Drowning the feeble cries of the social lives we once had. Battling against wave after wave of unfinished work and half written note. All the while, heavy weights of vital coursework drag us under. The weeks fly by, But then the wait drags in, That tense line outside those guard-like doors; Beyond which those dreaded sheets await... Not long now, seconds to go, Around the room pens frantically rush to get in those last few words. As uniform sigh of relief is heard all around, as that familiar phrase rings out 'Time's up, pens down'.
8.
Hoping I saw a man with a cardboard sign, Hoping. Emphasised with underline, coping. A battered old rug, and a chipped mucky mug, with a lazy-eyed dog, eyes clouded with fog. A ripped and patched hat, with tassels and frills, kicked where he’s sat, a small hidden box of pills. Charred sleeves from cigarette ends, a patch-work blanket with ripped up seams, I remember the sign, it read: I have hopes and dreams.
Jess Longrigg
9.
Ellen angus
C h i b i s 10.
Local Writers contribute to
Antic
The Dung HilL Each year it would be delivered from Fletcher’s farm at the end of the cinder lane where I’d ride my trike for days on end, go newting in their pond. Each year it would come in a trailer backed up to the garden gates where I’d lost my mother’s fork by leaving it out, was never forgiven as I’ve never forgiven her for giving my football programmes to the Girls’ Brigade Jumble Sale. Each year we’d watch it being teemed into a hill beside the air-raid shelter where John Spink, Peter McRae and I would burn night-lights, swear allegiance and death and later Peter would die on the airfield doing a ton. Each year we’d tread it down high on heady steam up to our oxters in happy mire spawning tales like mycelium. And my father would say, ‘It’s for the roses,’ but I know now he was with us in the dung hill’s glory, dancing still despite himself on his Cullybackey farm.
Malcolm carson
11.
April
Mike Harrington
Fronts on the TV weather map whirl like Catherine Wheels. Simulated clouds froth and swirl in from the west like soap suds thrown across a pavement. Outside in the real world it’s no better. Earlier today an east wind thrashed the daffodils; now it assaults them from the south as the eye of the depression makes its way to the east. The heating comes on early. I have curry for tea and seek solace in the Internet. And yet, three days ago, I was tempted to cavort about in shorts, when the sun shone, the grass was cut, edges were trimmed, buds were bursting, young lambs cried in the fields around and the soil of the new-dug earth demanded the sacrifice of sweat and the attentions of a mattock. On a crystal evening that same day the New Moon rose holding the Old Moon in her arms, the Maiden softly cradling her Grandmother, while Venus shone with radiant desire, and Mars responded with a lover’s fire, just as Homer tells it, and the dark bowl of night was filled with sparks of light scattered from jealous Vulcan’s anvil. This is the growing season, a time of new life fighting to survive but it is a time of violence, when youth and tenderness must face the icy fury of Winter’s last stand.
12.
Christopher nelson
13.
But Then We Were From Different Times
At our last parting I turned to your car, grim with angry purpose for my train and saw you hunched and obdurate as me, if not more so. And in your look, our looks, there was a will that would not soften to our blows before time was called. Our wounds were open, raw, beyond a suture from your surgeon’s past, blows to the heart, perhaps too hard to bear. From that moment when I recall our rows I fill with grief, flush with shame. But then we were from different times. As I pass the photos of your wedding in my home you’re upright, proud, morning dress, patent leather shoes, your bride, ready for life’s dance.
Malcolm carson
14..
Three Tweets from Talking Birds
Jacob polley
after the riddles in the Anglo-Saxon
1 I am a poet, a night-bird, working close to the stars. My songbook is leafless. From the dark leaf-hall I sing for banker, beggar and king.
2 In my bespoke ghost-suit, I tread the earth or rive the river silently. But lofted, I swank, tricked out in the dazzling song of myself.
3 An orphan before I was born, my folk delivered me in a coffin. A mother mothered me, odd among her own, who paid for my life with their own.
15.
Christopher nelson
0.3
16.
About the writers Malcolm Carson Malcolm Carson was born in Cleethorpes, Lincolnshire. He studied English at Nottingham University, and then taught in Further Education and at the University of Northumbria in Carlisle where he now lives with his wife and three sons. He is co-editor of Other Poetry. His first collection, Breccia was published by Shoestring Press in June 2007. This was followed by Rangi Changi and other poems in December 2010, also from Shoestring Press.
Jacob Polley Jacob Polley was born in Carlisle, Cumbria, in 1975. His first three books of poems, all published by Picador are The Brink (2003), Little Gods (2006) and The Havocs (2012). He is regarded as one of the leading talents of the Next Generation of British poets. His first novel, Talk of the Town, was published in 2009 and won the 2010 Somerset Maugham. He currently lives in Fife and is a Lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of St. Andrews
Christopher Nelson Christopher Nelson was born in Penrith, Cumbria in 1992. He studied at Keswick Secondary School, and continued on to open up a music store in Penrith. He is currently a freelance music producer, animator and musician; with hopes of becoming a professional chef one day.
Mike Harrington Mike Harrington currently lives in Ravenglass, Cumbria and has been creatively writing since retirement in 1993. He has been editor of the University of Liverpool’s prospectuses has done a range of copy writing. He currently attends Whitehaven Writers, a writing group and has done since 1998. He has wrote poetry, short stories interviews and news articles; and is currently working on a fantasy novel.
17.
Alaska Lines As the fires raged blind my head got so lost beneath the sea of you The flames rose higher and I floated as I watched the world burn from under me. The flowers grew in ashy remains I washed up on blackened shores I climbed this highway line on top I could see the beauty Miles and miles of your heart. The smoke blew wild, we felt young childish screams we dived hands entangled and entwined he turned and said to me “tear the veins from your broken hands” we took still all our claims and we died …
Jessica Walker
18.
Look into my Eyes Sophie Parker
T
hey say that a person’s eyes are the windows to their soul. However for most, the eyes are just a means to an end: a bit of colour that allows you to see beautiful objects. Mundane objects. Any object. When someone looks into someone’s eyes, they see the iris. The pupil. The whites with the intricate patternwork of blood vessels. For me, I see them in their eyes. I see who they truly are. *** Sometimes I come across people that don’t know who they are. I can see it in their faces. At a glance I know their darkest secrets. Their ultimate fantasies. I see their opinions. Their attitudes. Their occupation. Even what they had for breakfast this morning. I read them like an open book. Currently, there is one person I know of in this world that I cannot read. Him. I see Him everywhere. His eyes a colour of gold so pure, that if solid, would be worth more than the Crown jewels. Stood in a busy square in central London, I was drawn to them. I wheeled round to read them. Those beautiful eyes. I stared into a dark never-ending abyss. Nothing. I couldn’t get anywhere. Trapped in His honey-pot eyes. I wrenched my eyes away. Head pounding. Crying out in pain. Confused. I frantically searched for eyes. Any eyes. Mediocre eyes. Her eyes were blue. In turmoil. Seas in a storm. Darker flecks of colour surrounded her pupils. Boats drawn to a beacon. Lawyer. Stressed. Centre of attention. Married but having an affair. It’s all there. In their eyes.
Now I knew that something was wrong with Him and not me, I searched for him hastily. But He was gone. The only person that I couldn’t read was gone. The game was on. *** In a past life I might have been a wolf. Wolves are extremely perceptive in reading the body language of both friend and foe. They use a sixth sense to pick up the small alterations in stance, gesture, eye contact. Their only weakness is their inability to percept colour. The subtleties of communication are often underestimated. Especially in human spheres. Humans are so self-absorbed that they don’t bother picking up on these intricate subtleties. They are supposed to be the most intelligent life form upon this planet. But sometimes, they can be so stupid. This street is full of stupid houses full of stupid people, in a stupid city. The only person I know that I can trust to be responsible is myself. I wander the stupid streets and feel frustrated, angry. An insipid, poisonous rage that refuses to stop. I feel green. Red. A venomous purple anger that crashes through my life and anyone that comes near it. There’s no climax. Just a plateau of emotion; no rise nor fall. I’m getting tired of it. Tired of the constant frustration, the constant need for pain and anger and violence. People shrink away from me. Make themselves small so I don’t see them. Whisper behind hands so I can’t hear them. But it doesn’t work. I hear them alright. I hear them and their sneers and their ‘look at
19.
him’s” and their inability to accept that what is, is. But, unfortunately, I’m right. What is, is, and I accept that. If they don’t accept that, then soon what is will isn’t. And no, that does not confuse me in the slightest.
never taking her eyes off me, only sliding them away when she stepped over the threshold. I was compelled to follow her; it was as if I was a dog wearing a collar, and she had the end of the lead. I stepped out into the fresh midnight air, and immediately sobered. It was a trap. *** Surrounded by large men dressed in black suits and boots and sunglasses, Sometimes I notice nothing but a perand the mystery woman in the middle, I son’s eyes. Skip all the niceties. Get groaned at my stupidity. By allowing down to business. Why talk to someone myself to get drunk I’d made myself when you can just look into them and vulnerable. see if they’ve had a nice day, or if She paced around me. Examining me as they’re alright? I suppose that’s why I a trainer might examine his racehorse. don’t really have any friends. I don’t She stopped pacing, and stood in front need friends. No-one intrigues me. Only of me, about two centimetres from my Him. From time to time I wonder what it nose, breath swirling away into the starwould be like to be normal. I wonder lit night. what it would be like to have friends. Lovers. To feel vulnerable. I wonder what it would feel like to feel scared. To feel human. The closest I came to human? When I was drunk. The first time I got drunk, I realised the effect it had on my…ability… was liberating. I felt what it was like to be normal: my eyes saw I swallowed. I never thought it would everybody at the dingy, back-street bar end like this. My eyes flicked from one in Soho as friends. I looked across the man to the next. He was everywhere. room, and suddenly felt what it was like Each pair of eyes exactly the same as to be a lover. Eyes. Smoother and darker the last: golden. Each pair of eyes that I than chocolate. Staring at me with an in- encountered caused me to scream. I realtensity that made my heart flutter invol- ised the enormity of my situation. Capuntarily. The unwavering gaze sent ture meant years of mind reading. I’ll be shots of electricity to my very core. a tool to ascertain innocence. I’ll be a Never before had I looked into somepawn in the government’s never-ending one’s eyes for the sheer beauty of them. game of chess against crime. And now They were the most beautiful eyes I’d He doesn’t exist. They exist. ever seen. Apart from His. As the Mystery Woman talked at me, The mystery of her eyes intrigued me: they slowly closed in. Their eyes blastfor once I was in the dark. Stuck. And I ing through me. Rendering me useless. I liked it. She walked towards the door, collapsed. Writhing in agony.
20.
‘Don’t think that this is the end,’ the Woman whispered in my ear, ‘because it has only just begun.’ Darkness. *** They call it Whitewalls. Simply for no other reason but every wall is white. Lifeless. Sterile. All day I look at eyes. I don’t even look deep anymore. The only thing I look for is ‘guilty’. I would bet I don’t even have the capacity to read what they had for breakfast anymore. One day, when I rounded a corner in Whitewalls, I saw someone. A man. His orb-like eyes portrayed his madness. Rings of confusion surrounding his pupils. They darted. This way. That way. Every way. They had to dart in every direction possible. They were a sickly shade of gold, and twitched nervously. As he approached, I reached out to touch him. His face. My face. My fingers bumped against the mirror. A cold rush sprinted up my arm. Me. My eyes, once a healthy shade of green, had turned gold. I was one of Them. I am one of Them. I am Him. *** Wolves run together. Such loyalty can rarely be seen elsewhere in the animal kingdom. Even humans; selfish, egotistic humans; don’t have bonds of loyalty as strong as those formed between a pack of wolves. But they also recognise when it’s time to give up. When it’s time to lie down in some quiet part of the forest, and die. They know when to sacrifice themselves for the good of the pack. And the pack agrees. After all, if you’re hampering Us, why should you be part
of Us? Why should We wait for stragglers? We run through the streets in our black suits with our black sunglasses, looking like something out of The Matrix. But We’re in no computer programme. We’re in the real world. We search for those who possess the same ability as Us. The same ability We had. Now, our ability is honed and reprogrammed. Reprogrammed to capture. And if not to capture, to destroy. The pain that We cause is our nutrition; the screams our pleasure. What made Us people before, sustains Us as what We are now. And what are We exactly? We are human.
21.
***
Look Into My Eyes Sophie Parker
Beginnings . . . Georgia de-groot
22..
Confronting Inner Demons 23.
anonymous
A Love Affliction
‘W
here are you?’ He says dreamily as he follows Her retreating form. ‘Not yet, don’t leave yet.’ He stumbles through the snow in search of that light azure gown which sways in the frosty wind. In only his nightwear he feels the bitter cold easily, but through sheer determination he continues through the snow. Gradually, he climbs the mountain; trampling amidst the snow and forest life. When finally he breaks through the shelter of the trees he finds Her. She stands with Her back to him, facing the steep edge of the mountain cliff. He halts; astounded. He steps forward but She doesn’t vanish. He savours Her every detail. He notes Her frame; small like a ballerina, and Her draping red hair; light as an orange. As he is about to meet Her, She moves forward; escaping him. Within another moment She continues forward until She falls forward off the cliff. He does not once stroke Her soft hair, nor smile upon the face of an angel. He cannot meet Her, not now, not ever again. She is lost to him forever. With a scream directed to Her falling frame, he awakes from his nightmare. *** He emerges with a start and the reality of his life is evident all around him. No brightening plant life or entrancing paintings decorate the vast house. To observe its full breadth would remind him of his isolation, so he remains confined in this living room.
Amy Wilks
His life has become unlivable. He exists purely because he cannot escape his torture. His torturer exists purely to see its subject suffer for their crime. He lies motionless on the floor. ‘No more, please,’ he begs. ‘I can’t stand this anymore.’ As always no answer is received. It’s part of the torture; not viewing Her or hearing Her melodic voice. She would brighten this dull room with no more than a smile. Bit by bit he drags himself into a sitting position. Unexpectedly the door opens and a shadowed figure proceeds into the room. ‘Lily?’ His voice aches saying Her name. With full conviction of Her presence his heart slows into a steady rhythm at the sight of a man without the sun bursting in like a ray, as it would, had it been Her. Jonas steps cautiously into the room. He assesses the lightless space and the image of a broken man before him. He stumbles to stand to fend any further advancement. ‘No visitors!’ ‘Good lord Charles, what have you been doing with yourself?’ Charles looks up at the lifeless man. It is Her brother; a man who is caring and considerate; the exact traits of a man he despises. He vehemently believes one should be strong and domineering. This man is not blessed with beauty; She had bright, beaming hair, while he has mousy brown. She was graceful while he is fragile. ‘Let me help you.’ He reaches for Charles, who pushes him away.
24.
‘You are not welcome in these premises.’ With determinate effort he rises, without help, to his feet. ‘I come with good intentions to help you now She has gone, and you’d refuse it? What will is this to refuse a steadying hand? Does hatred spur you, or is it your disgust for hideous things?’ Charles shouts, ‘I’ll not lay a hand on such a vile loathsome creature as you!’ Jonas, ever a kind-hearted human being, says, ‘If I’m not welcome I’ll leave, at your request.’ He approaches the front door. ‘My sister, God bless Her soul, loved you, but you, sir, don’t deserve the happiness She gave you. You were a brute to Her, and so She took Her life. I pray you are never met warmly at heaven’s gate.’ The door closes firmly behind him. Later at night, Charles heads for the graveyard.
He stands momentarily, regaining control over his emotions. It is a whisper and then a wail of a woman’s voice. He stills until the voice becomes repulsive to hear. He turns, and, at the sight of a hideous creature staggering towards him he jumps back. The creature bears female characteristics. She wears a tattered dress, her bones clicks when she moves and the smell resonating from her is overpowering. He is immediately infuriated. He can see resemblances of Her in the beast. Instantly he knows this is another trick, like the nightmares that tease him. ‘Your state offends me, beast!’ He strides forward. ‘How dare you face me? Do you have no dignity to cower away to someplace no light may reveal you? Be gone vile fiend!’ It seems some unearthly powers give him strength over the evil before him. As he *** moves closer it falls back. Feebly it tries to reach out to him; to touch his skin would With a shovel thrown over his shoulder, he be a curse. It tries to speak; a shriek erupts. strides through the rows of centuries-old ‘I banish you, unclean spirit! Haunt here graves, advancing toward a fresh one. no more, you are unwelcome.’ When he reaches the headstone he touches the cool marble before he digs. He barely notices the strain and effort the digging Lily May Charles puts upon his body. When he hits some1907 - 1945 thing solid he halts, and throws aside the shovel. With his bare hands he brushes away the dirt and other natural matter. With another tool he pries open the casket. When he looks upon Her face, he turns away. This is not the face of beauty. This is a decomposing corpse; bearing no reAt last it reaches Her grave, and falls backsemblance to his love. wards into the space. Dirt mats its filthy He pulls himself up and, leaving the casket hair; insects crawl over it. Without acopen and his tools behind, walks away. He knowledgement; it rises up and again is absorbed in thoughts; how could it be reaches its hand; a plea for his. Her if She wasn’t recognisable?
25
He looks down scornfully into the creature’s soulless eyes; a pitiful sight. He steps back, raises his hand, and gazes afresh into those empty eyes. It makes him halt, and dig deeper. Green sparkles in its depths; the very embodiment of life and beauty. He steps forward… At last, when the being speaks, it is more a lullaby than a shriek. ‘Charles, it’s truly me, Lily.’ He feels his heart shudder and beat painfully against his rib cage. He reaches his hand to Her. She takes it eagerly and pulls him to Her, smiling unreservedly, though lice crawl over Her teeth. He falls forward.
She smiles; the light catching Her eyes shine, ‘We could not be reunited until you found love in a person and not their irrelevant beauty. I feared we wouldn’t meet at heaven’s gate. Nevertheless, I’ve been waiting for you, and you discovered the truth because you truly looked at me, not with an eye of possession or a thought of avarice. You could only have seen the truth if you were at first open to seeing it.’ Reaching inside his shirt, She places Her hand over his still heart, which comes alive at Her touch. ‘When I lived, your heart was closed to me, but in death your heart is open.’ He wipes a tear from Her cheek, as his own falls. ‘Angels shouldn’t be cursed with sadness.’ *** She wipes away his fallen tear. ‘No, but they should be blessed with happiness.’ The light breaks out over his face, and He lowers his face to Hers and blissfully when at last his sight clears, he takes feels the warm touch and the pleasure possession of the vision before him. pressing his lips against Hers makes him Grabbing Lily, he pulls Her to him with- feel. The complete happiness of this moout delicate handling as his passion for ment cannot be forgotten. This is the moHer will not be caged, nor will She break ment they unite. This is the moment he in his arms. He fears momentarily She thought he’d never have, and in retromay dissipate; another trick, but already spect the suffering he endured was all he trusts in this reality. irrelevant, just, he realised, like beauty The wind blows through their hair in the is. field they stand in, swaying like their Their human bodies were unimportant; it natural surroundings. He takes hold of is their souls that matter. Their empty the fabric at Her waist; white lace identi- bodies were left in disarray; She in a cal to his clothing, and he fills his other grave, where Her soul is not and never hand with Her hair; as bright as he has will be trapped; him collapsed, lying ever seen. No longer is She disguised as draped over Her grave; hand outa hag, She is once again the beautiful stretched. being he knows. When he sees Her now, he sees the com- Charles and Lily break apart and, plete beauty of Her being. together united, enter heaven. Stroking the hair from Her face, he says, ‘Darling, you were testing me?’ ***
26.
Antic Magazine 2013 Editor - in- chief:
Š 2013 all rights reserved
Jessica Walker
Antic Magazine 2013 Issue 1 FREE