Coventry Words - 2015 - Issue 6

Volume 6: September 2015

FREE

Prose

Poetry

Plays

Published by Coventry University Priory Street Coventry, CV1 5FB, UK Main telephone no: +44 (0) 24 77650000 Main website: www.coventry.ac.uk CovWords telephone no: +44 (0) 24 77658013 Web: blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords Facebook: /coventrywords Twitter: @CoventryWords Email: coventrywords.bes@coventry.ac.uk

Project Lead: Alyson Morris

Editors:

Matthew Barton, Raef Boylan

Identity Design and Photography:

Coventry University Design Team, with special thanks to Ryan Hayes

Production:

CovWords Magazine Society, with special thanks to Cali Whitley and Sophie Rowson

Web Manager:

Alyson Morris, with special thanks to ex-Manager, Lyle Weir.

CovWords Magazine Society: Matthew Barton: President Raef Boylan: Vice-President Sophie Rowson: Treasurer

Student Marketing and Distribution Team:

Tasnim Khanum, Mevish Munir, Katrina Deeley, Vicky Thomas, Emma Freelove, Ashleigh McKenna, Megan Hinge, Ciara Anderson

Student Submissions and Editing Team:

Isobel Hudson, Libby Impey, Bethany Smith, Elena Aldridge, Emily Thompson, Hannah Russell, Julia Viljanen, Phoebe Barker

Student Web and Social Media Team:

Toby Fermoy, Munira Ezzi, Madeline Ryder, Hanna Carter, Carlota Maura, Kelsey Vis, Morenike Ojo, John Earls, Rhema Onumonu, Allanah Hall Any opinions expressed by a contributor are their own ­personal opinions, and do not reflect the opinions of the University or any employee thereof. The fact that the ­University’s images are used in this magazine shall not be considered as an endorsement of the University. The University is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the contributors. Any story characters are fictional, and bear no resemblance to living people. Any similarities are coincidental. Copyright in each separate ­contribution to the collective work is distinct from copyright in the collective work as a whole, and is vested in the author of the contribution. Unauthorised reproduction of any part of this publication is prohibited. © Coventry University 2015

Letter from the student editing team: Welcome to the 2015 issue of CovWords magazine.

This has been a busy and productive year, and we can proudly say that it’s been a great pleasure creating this new issue. As always our aim has been to create a reading experience even greater than the last, and there is no better way to do this than to give you what you ask for. Whether aesthetics or contents, we’ve listened to your feedback and we’ve managed to publish a great magazine packed with high-quality work. With students working hard ­behind the scenes, we’ve striven to compile another issue that inspires and demonstrates the level of writing talent that exists here at Coventry University, across the whole range of degree subjects. Thank you to everyone involved for making this another successful year, and to our ­readers, we hope you enjoy this edition of CovWords magazine.

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Homecoming – a journey from childhood to adolescence

by Ankita Roy

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I still remember the potholes and broken trees I crossed In the months of June, while my mother was away I still remember the lingering fragrances of her cologne I still remember the last smile on her puckered face as she bid me good bye And here in the distant land, amidst the lush green meadows I, reminiscing about my golden old days, of love, warmth and ecstasy My days of secured childhood, peacefully in my mother’s arms The warmth of her bosom, my greatest treasure I have had it all – sacrifice, confusion, happiness and sorrow This journey of sacrifice to success has never been easy Unending treacheries, and evil lurked at every end My mother said – victory kisses those who have the patience to wait!

I waited! Patiently, quietly till one day she passed away I questioned Almighty the reason behind this pain?

Was it the gift of my patience?

And here in the distant land, amidst lush green meadows, I, reminiscing my golden old days, of love warmth and ecstasy, Am cherishing it all – The pain, the suffering, the treachery, the falsity overcome by the victory of my success I, reminiscing over my golden old days, preparing for my homecoming

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Dear Gamer: Video Games and Storytelling with Dan Pinchbeck

by Hanna Carter Dr. Dan Pinchbeck teaches Video Game Theory at Portsmouth University. He and his wife, composer Jessica Curry, head British videogame developing studio The Chinese Room. His writing is best known from the rather literary Dear Esther (2012) and Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs (2013). We’ve interviewed him to find out what he has to say about creative writing in videogames...

-We understand you studied Drama. Was this due to a preference for script-writing? Did video game writing present itself as a natural progression or was it your plan from the start?

It was a progression really – I was a stage manager

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and fight choreographer mainly, but always really ­interested in technology and performance, and given I’ve been playing games since the late 70s, it was a natural one as soon as the chance came up.

-From your experience, how does writing for video games differ from traditional scriptwriting?

Well, I’ve not written professionally for other media, but it’s definitely very different. It’s much more ­collaborative and iterative, you need to be really aware of all of the other factors, particularly what the player brings to the mix. We don’t work with traditional cut scenes, everything happens without a break of the player’s ability to act, so that’s quite challenging.

And you don’t usually have a lot of time for things to unfold, you have to get used to delivering information and emotional beats in a really short space of time.

But I love all of those things, I wouldn’t want to write for anything else at the moment.

-You have a high opinion of Dafydd ab Hugh and Brad Linaweaver’s Doom novels, even though in popular opinion they’re somewhat pulpy, with the fairly superficial ‘science’ and its lurid, gory focus.

Could you explain why they’re important?

-Do you feel that video gaming and storytelling are intrinsically linked? Are there upper or lower limits to how literary a game should be?

Ha, well, yep, they are more than a little pulpy, but there’s nothing wrong with a bit of pulp. I don’t know how important they are in terms of literature, but what’s important about them is as early examples of game stories crossing into another format. That’s a good thing, it means it’s not just a one-way thing of stories coming into games, but games generating stories that can find life in other forms.

It’s not like there’s a shortage of ‘non-high-brow’ games, so it doesn’t worry me at all. We’ve got such an amazingly diverse medium now and it should be celebrated. If there was only one type of game out there it’d be a pretty dull place to be. So I think if you don’t like high-brow games, the answer is simple, don’t play them. No-one’s going to force you to. And there’s no sign that they are dominating the market or reducing the quality or number of other games in any way, so it’s kind of a non-argument really.

-Do you feel artists and writers could benefit from exploring video games as a medium? Should an artist learn how to program to do this?

That’s a big question. I think like any other medium, it’s a craft that requires time, skill and dedication to really get right. It would very much depend on the artist or writer, what they want to do, etc. It’s more important that we have a body of really talented ­specialists making games who don’t feel like they have to ape other mediums and understand the very unique things that games can be and do. Understanding the technical aspects of game development is always important if you are going to do it though – you wouldn’t write a film without understanding what the constraints and opportunities in cinema are, or knowing at least a bit about the design history. And games are complicated, really complicated, to build. Lots of people who don’t know games don’t have any idea about how complicated and difficult it is.

Again, it really depends on the story. It seems to be something that we do well and are naturally drawn to.

You’re really looking for a range of emotions in a well put together story, not something that’s one dimensional.

Dear Esther is pretty flat in terms of emotional range I guess, but [A Machine for] Pigs and certainly [Everybody’s Gone to the] Rapture expand on that. ­Sometimes you have to just understand that you are wired a certain way, or tend to produce things with a particular tone. I’m naturally quite a dark writer.

- To an extent, it’s possible to extract a formula from your writing. Did you invent the mechanism of combining extended metaphors, or were you inspired by other writers? If so, which ones?

Yeah, I love a bit of symbolism and imagery in writing, I like the idea that the emotional sense you get is as important as understanding a plot or literal interpretation.

So few game scripts have anything resembling poetic use of language in them, it tends to be very descriptive and surface level. It’s not something I invented, but I think our games are usual in how much freedom the language has.

-Since you didn’t mention any authors in the previous response, can you list us some who you feel resonate with your style?

I can tell you my major influences, I wouldn’t want to suggest what I do is in any way on a comparable level of quality! Novelists I really love include the Strugatsky brothers, Philip K Dick, Margaret Atwood, J. G. Ballard, Iain M Banks, China Mieville. I like mainline science-fiction and am definitely drawn to sprawling, idea-heavy stuff. Rapture is very inspired by British apocalyptic sci-fi of the 60s and 70s – Ballard, John

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-How do you respond to criticism against the ­development of ‘high-brow’ games?

-Your writing often uses dysphoria as a form of complicating action. Do you feel sadness is important for storytelling?

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There are lots of games where writing and story is less relevant or not needed at all, so it really depends on what you are doing. In any game that does have a story though, it’s really important to see it as central to the process, not an afterthought. Writing can help with overall pace and the unfolding of events and action, and can be used as a design tool to help signposting, framing action, contextualising what the player is doing. It’s not just about slapping some plot on afterwards, it’s a really powerful tool. And no, I don’t think there should be limits. You’ve always got to push things forwards, see where you can get to.

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Wyndham, John Christopher. And I’ve always loved William Burroughs. He and Sam Shepard were ­definitely defining influences. And poetry. I love Galway Kinnell and Andrew Greig.

-What academic paths would you recommend for someone looking to work in a similar career to yours?

I really don’t know if I could answer that. A good creative writing course is useful for honing your skills, and there are definite skills to sculpting a good dramatic script that shouldn’t be overlooked. Actually getting into the industry is difficult for writers and is more about contacts than courses. Like most jobs in the industry, a portfolio is crucial, having some visibility for your work, even if it’s a free title or a mod.

-Are there different writing roles within video game development? Should a writer be flexible, or is it better for different writers to work in segments such as narration, plotting, dialogue, etc.?

It depends on the size of the studio and the project.

Large AAA titles usually have a team of writers, mainly focusing on scenes and dialogue, under the

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­ anagement of a Narrative Director who will work m at a high level with the design and production teams to sculpt the overall story. They will do things like ­engaging with the Art Direction – even more than film, in a game, the storytelling is delivered via visuals and audio outside dialogue. That can be challenging for a traditional writer.

-Your new game, Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture, will debut shortly on the PS4. What kind of writing can we expect to see in it?

That’d be telling. Good writing I hope.

-Despite the success of Dear Esther, you haven’t published any non-academic works based around scriptwriting or video game writing we know of.

Do you plan to do so in the future?

It’s a question of time as much as anything else. I write our games, but I also design them and run the studio with Jessica. We’re involved in every aspect of production and it’s more than a full time job. Maybe one day, but I love writing and designing games and I don’t feel any great urge to expand into other media just yet.

What Must the Dinosaurs Have Thought

by Tim Dubbelman

What must the dinosaurs have thought As volcanoes churned and meteors formed Enormous craters, huge welts in the Earth?

What terror did the tyrannical Tyrannosaurus feel As ash rained down and the sea congealed Into a gooey, sticky, deadly turf?

Did it exclaim, “Hey! That’s my prey you’re choking!

Don’t you know second hand smoking Is gross, and bad for other people’s health?

In fact, I think I feel a rising cough A tickle in my throat that’s quite enough To get a doctor’s note and a day off.

I’ve got to look after myself.”

What must the dinosaurs have thought As volcanoes churned and meteors formed Enormous craters, huge welts in the Earth?

What last, barely-living roar was finally choked into a sore-throated, croaking, no-joking rattle of death?

Was it the Ankylosaur, armour plates eroded and back sore from batterings by iconoclastic clash?

And what must the mammals in their burrows have thought As they heard the final bellow and snort Of predators too big to hide from death?

As memories of scaly demons with gnashing teeth and eyes that gleamed Turn into dreams of dragons and toys for the children, Did they know this was how it would be?

That, millenia from now, they could watch documentaries About their hunters over afternoon tea?

That remains would be found in the white cliffs of Dover, Bones would be stacked and puzzled over And wired together in a museum To attract gawping children who wanted to see them, Books and toys laid out on gift shop shelves Bought by reluctant dads, secretly for themselves.

And at night, when we dream, asleep under the roar Of a passing plane, or the parents’ snores, What do we think, when the sound creeps through our ears And awakens the memories of ancient fears?

Clutching the Apatosaurus plush -Which I always knew as Diplodocus The plush that we’d bought earlier in the day The last of our pocket money whittled away; What sort of nightmares run through our minds Of snores turned roars in ancient times?

Of the noise of planes as we lie in our bed Turned screeching Pterosaurs wheeling overhead; What do we think when we lie there at night All tucked up in our burrows, quiet, out of sight?

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Did it try to find some shelter, A place to save itself from The disaster we know to have occurred?

Does fossil fuel show us the smarts Of giant reptiles from the past Or are we to believe what everyone says?

That dinosaurs are hopeless bores When it comes to intellectual talk They just can’t hold a candle to our heads?

Was it the Triceratops, not feeling so hot with its horns worn down to stubs by abrasive ash?

What about the toothless Allosaurus, joining in this sad and mournful chorus who gums in futility at rotting corpses cloaked in ash?

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What must the dinosaurs have thought As volcanoes churned and meteors formed Enormous craters, huge welts in the Earth?

What did a suspiciously smart Stegosaurus wonder About the rocks which tore the sky asunder?

Did it know more than scientists confirm?

Did it think, “Is it worth sticking around on this blue planet?

Everything’s really going down the can, it Can’t be all that good if this is what we’ve earned!”

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Building Blocks

by Samantha Campbell We’re caught up in cars, hurtling down a highway onto an open road.

Years fly by without a care, without a second to spare, We’re all unsure of going somewhere.

There isn’t time to breathe because everything’s moving too fast, Hectic workloads increase the distance, Building the blocks of our own future.

Present is soon becoming past, Deadlines looming, decisions waiting in the balance.

We’ve forgotten how to stop, how to linger, To bask in the comfortable glow, Because we’re caught up thinking of where we’ll go.

Someday soon we’ll halt and look around To find someone we used to know, Hearing familiar names in the news, Seeing their scribble in print.

The wish for the clocks to rewind.

Hopes to slow down time.

The chance to stop, suspend and never end.

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Young Adult Fiction: The Dark Bored

by Joseph Carter

The worst thing was that I’d already crushed all my enemies. I loved to have a good war now and then, but there was nobody to fight anymore, all nearby kingdoms were invaded and destroyed last month! I would have hunted some dragons, but the season wasn’t for another two years since they nearly went extinct (not my fault they’re so tasty).

One of my servants came into the throne room where I was pondering my boredom. It was one of the old women, Veera. She approached the foot of the steps to my grand throne.

“Your stew is ready, Oh Great One.” She bowed, holding a silver tray with my favourite blood ‘n’ guts stew in a giant bowl. (It was made from the skull of a giant.)

“Get up here and give it to me,” I shouted down to her. I was never nice, that’s part of the job.

“Yes, Sire.” The little doddering woman climbed up the 600 steps to my throne. When she finally got to me, she bowed again and set the tray in front of me. The giant bowl of stew was still bubbling. “Will there be anything else, Lord?” she whimpered.

“Nope,” came my reply, as I pushed her back down the stairs. It was my evil way of saying

“CAPTAIN!” My voice ricocheted down the throne room and made the other servants jump. The 100-foot high doors at the other end of the throne room opened. I sat and waited for a full 15 minutes for the captain of the guard to jog to my throne.

“Yes…Sire…” Panting, he leant on his spear. (Cardio is important when working for me.)

“How many weapons do we have in the armoury?”

The captain paused for a moment, and quickly counted in his head (a task that looked quite difficult for him to do).

“We have five thousand swords, one thousand axes, twenty spears...”

“Twenty spears! I thought we had thousands of them!” My booming voice made him quiver.

“Yes Sire, but you used them to decorate your throne room.” He gingerly looked up, and glanced at the pillars of my throne room, which were ­covered in impaled peasants.

“Oh yes… So I did... Well, captain, I want you to take all of the weapons and leave them in the villages from here to the sea.” I leant back on my throne and scratched at one of the bones that had been nailed to the arm rest (it is a throne of bones, you see). I was quite happy with my decision.

“My Lord, is this wise? The peasants will have an uprising! They’ll use the weapons to attack our men. They may even assault the castle!”

“Oh yes that reminds me, leave the castle gates open too.”

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The problem was, I was really, really bored. It’s not like I didn’t enjoy being pure evil, that’s great! I just didn’t have anything else to do. Torture didn’t appeal to me (once you peeled off a person’s face they all looked the same, and if you’ve heard one scream then you’ve heard them all). Pillaging had gotten boring as well. I’d already taken everything from everyone anyway! Why would I keep pillaging them? I was the Dark Lord. I didn’t need anything from a pig farmer! (Except the usual 99% Tax on everything, but being evil is expensive!)

‘thank you’. The stew was quickly devoured.

(Eating in my terrifying armour was a technique I had perfected since it’s quite hard to avoid all of the spikes.) After the last chunky spoonful, I was bored again. I tossed the skull-bowl down the stairs to where some other servants were clearing up Veera. It knocked one of them down like a bowling pin. Just then, as I watched them pick up their fallen comrade, the idea struck me.

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I’m the Dark Lord of all around. For one thousand miles and one thousand more I conquered and usurped. Tyrant and villain, peasants cry at my name. Women cower, and men weep at my presence.

Wherever I step the very earth dries up in fear. I am all powerful.

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The captain’s face dropped. I gave him a look to strike him with fear (I’m good with those, I even learnt from Medusa how to turn people to stone, but I got bored of doing it). He ran back out of the throne room and barked orders at my soldiers. I sat back and waited, I crossed my hands behind my head. ‘Soon,’ I thought, ‘I’ll have something to do. Bye bye, boredom!’

with my people. All of them were so open and told me all about their lives. But at the end of the day, the throne room was full to the brim with dead peasants. There was still a very large crowd outside the doors. It seemed like I’d spent hours and hours just swinging my mace around, and I was barely warmed up. This had gotten boring. I went back to my throne and sat down in a huff.

* I waited, and it didn’t take very long. By that ­afternoon I had a long line of ‘heroes’ leading from my throne room doors and out into a crowd. Even from the top of my throne, I smelled the peasants.

‘Finally!’ I thought and stood up from my great throne. Barely containing my excitement, I jumped the last 120 steps to the floor. Veera came out of a side door again, hobbling on crutches whilst trying to hold onto another giant bowl of stew. I tripped her up and poured the hot stew on her head. (There was no time to eat!)

“Okay, Veera, clean this up.”

I went to the centre of the throne room, where I had a little arena set up. I took my powerful mace from its silk cushion. Its evil handle was perfectly shaped to my evil hand.

“Let’s get started,” I announced, “who is first?”

A bulky looking farmer stood in front of me, holding an axe that was bigger than his whole body. “I am Jeb, son of Jab! I am here to defeat you!”

“Are you really? This’ll be interesting!” I wanted to get this started already. Hefting my mace, I took a step towards him.

“Because of you my entire village was ruined!” He started again, “I was chosen by the elders to take a magnificent quest to your castle. The beautiful lady of the well gave me this amulet.” The farmer held up a very cheap looking necklace. “It will protect me from your evil! NOW DIE!” The strange man ran at me, axe raised. I quickly crushed his head with my mace. (He did go on a bit, didn’t he?) I picked up the necklace and had a closer look, there was an inscription on it that read ‘100% Goblin made’.

“Well that explains it,” I said to myself (Goblins couldn’t even make toast properly). I turned ­towards the doors, “Is there anyone else?”

The next challenger came up, and the next, and the next. All of them defeated. I started to enjoy it. As a Dark Lord, I had never considered ­connecting

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It’s There

by Sophie Louise Rowson It’s there Trust me I feel it Watching me.

I roll over in bed It’s not, it can’t be But it’s conquered my head It wants me dead Dead Yeah, that’s what I said.

While it whispers to me To move, I won’t dare It tortures and chills me It’s always there There Yeah, why can’t you see?

It’s not going to leave Why would it?

Don’t be naïve.

It’s not going to quit Quit…

How can I make it?

The shoe fits perfectly, the dress was not a waste.

You have found your happy ending, fulfilling all your dreams.

But what happens when the glass shoe cracks, and the dress has been torn to shreds?

Are there really any happily ever-afters, or only broken dreams?

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I know…I’m a wreck.

The Fairy Tale

by Bethany Smith

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But sometimes I think If it needed a drink, I’d offer my wrist, Or my arm, Or my neck, And finally exist Feeling calm For a sec.

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Hackney

by Toby Fermoy My momma was always the best, she rarely hit me or smacked me, but she did force me to grow up in the wonderful province of Hackney.

Our council estate was a battleground, kids pounding on kids for pounds, For anything, anything that they don’t have, but nobody’s got nothing and these nobodies want something – Respect – respect with a capital R, this defines who they are, whether they’re a bum or a star – despite not even being old enough to drive a car.

One of these bums killed my bro. He was a good kid, just got stuck running the wheel like a hamster. And now he’s gone. This pain ain’t “gangsta”.

There’s no light, it’s just dark, but this fight, it’s a lark, on our plight to the Ark (that’s the pub by the park).

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Angry Poem

By Effie Ray ‘Smile, love’ and the corners of your mouth turn up.

As if to give a demonstration, as if the only explanation for not grinning like a maniac is a temporary lack of common decency, because for a pretty girl like me, with ‘such a pretty face’ any emotion, short of ecstasy, is completely out of place.

(And of course if I dared to be genuinely sad, a smile would fix that).

So should I smile, plastic and fake, until my lips bleed, until my teeth break?

Suppress my anger with a grin, keep all my emotions in until, one day, I finally snap with my teeth bared, my lips pulled back, and with my mouth, so pretty, so red, I bite off your goddamn head.

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by Ryan Khatkar

‘Names matter little,’ he said with a wry grin, eyes never leaving mine. ‘You may call me X’.

I suppressed a shudder and looked away. Something about him was wrong – almost unnatural – but I couldn’t place it.

He turned lazily to face me and as he spoke, his gaze had an odd, hypnotic quality as if he spoke through me – to something unseen.

‘When you close your eyes, the world is hidden from you. Correct?’

‘X?’ I asked, gaze wandering idly about the room.

‘Stand for anything?’

I nodded, unsure of what else to do but agree.

Laughing quietly, almost to himself, he answered in his bemused manner. ‘As it sits, the letter may very well stand for anything, but as I stand, I find myself in need of a seat.’

Left puzzling over his remark, I watched absentmindedly as he slowly made his way around the table and took a seat. I dismissed his comment for the moment and filed it away as just another ­eccentricity of the enigmatic X. He told me the barista who served us was named Jennifer – as if this was the most important piece of information he knew – before falling into silence.

I took the opportunity to study him for a while as his focus rested solely on her.

He had plain features, bland and undistinctive, completely opposing his obvious insanity. His mouth was ordinary. His nose was ordinary. His cheeks, jaw, chin, forehead – all ordinary. The only thing out of place was his eyes. Perhaps that’s what I saw about him; his unnatural eyes. They blazed with a fierce intensity, behind which was a veritable maelstrom of emotion and intellect.

This man was incredibly intelligent, that much was clear. The only thing tha‘Do you ever wonder if the world changes when you close your eyes?’ he said, still focused on the barista.

The question was so sudden, so unexpected, that my mind had no time to process its absurdity.

‘Pardon?’ I asked, hoping his answer would give me enough time to think things over.

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‘Then imagine, if you will, that the world…’ he paused for a second, mind searching for the right word. ‘…shifted slightly each time you closed them, shifting back the instant you open them again. In the blink of an eye, for example.’

He blinked slowly, keeping his eyes closed for a few seconds before opening them. He looked around, nodding to himself as if some untold ­theory had been proven. ‘Don’t you see? You would never have known the world had moved.

Unless you could see with your eyes closed of course.’

‘And that’s impossible,’ I said. ‘As we all know, of course’. I smiled, humouring him as I carefully considered how crazy he actually was.

‘As we all know? We? We! There is no we. You may know that seeing with your eyes closed is impossible but I do not. I know it’s very possible and-’ ‘We can’t both know something is right,’ ­I ­interrupted.

‘One of us has to be right. The other is wrong.

Simple.’

He continued to eye me in his amused manner, a half smile playing upon his lips. His gaze began to annoy me. It was patronisingly entertained, as if a child had said something obviously foolish and not realised. He was waiting for me to correct myself.

I didn’t.

‘We can both know that something is right and we can both be right.’ Suddenly, his smile dropped and he adjusted his tie. ‘I grow bored of this ­conversation,’ he said, resting the volar plate of his index finger within his chin dimple, the tip just reaching his lower lip. What an odd quirk – I wrote it in the margin. ‘Any other topics you wish to ­venture?’ he said.

‘No thank you,’ I said, finishing the last sentence on the page. ‘That should be enough for now.’ *** Almost half past six and he still hadn’t left. Didn’t he know we had places to be; homes to go to? Or didn’t he care? I stared dreamily out the window, wishing I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Michael came in from the back room, switching off the light and putting on his jacket.

‘Ready to go?’ he said, grinning, already getting his car keys out of his pocket. I smiled back ­s arcastically and nodded towards the man at the table. Michael looked over and his grin faded away. ‘He’s here again?’ he said. ‘Why hasn’t he left yet?’

back at the table with only one chair and turned to face him again, confusion clearly evident on my face.

‘You’ve been alone at that table all day,’ I said cautiously, unsure of what he was talking about.

He looked at me oddly, brow furrowed, about to speak when suddenly a smile came to his lips and his eyes brightened. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, adopting a more embarrassed expression. ‘Yes, I believe I am mistaken. I must have seen your name tag on the way in. Subconscious, eh?’ Those were his last words before he finally turned and left the shop.

Michael came over, just as confused as I was.

‘What was he talking about? Who was his friend?

Was he delusional?’ he said, as expressive as ever.

‘No,’ I said, sighing. ‘Just a regular author, I guess’.

‘I have no idea’, I sighed. ‘Every time I went over to tell him to leave, he just mumbled something about a great character and ordered another coffee’.

I watched the man closely now as he scribbled furiously in his notepad. He’d been there all day.

We opened the shop at 6 a.m. and he had been waiting outside the door, notepad in hand, already impatient to get inside. And here he was, thirteen hours later, still writing away. He must’ve filled up most of that notepad by now – it was only small, after all. I walked round the counter and grabbed the empty cup on his table. I could hear him ­m umbling something about the last sentence on the page. I turned to leave.

‘Thank you for the service today, Jennifer’.

His comment was so quick and so quiet that I hardly heard it. As I turned to thank him and ask him how he knew my name, he was already ­halfway to the door.

‘Wait,’ I said, anxiously. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘My friend noticed it while he was at the table there and mentioned it briefly,’ he said. I looked

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Truth About Our Unpredictable Mortality

by Phoebe Barker If I think about it for a moment, I lose my sense of balance and my head spins. My stomach knots and twists inside of itself and my eyelids become heavy, dragging themselves over my blurred eyes.

Have you ever tried so hard not to cry that you physically throw up? That’s happened to me a few times now. There is no lower state of misery than one which ends with your head leant over a toilet bowl. My body rejects my feelings and, along with it, everything else inside me.

I think perhaps I’m telling myself to let go, to stop fighting and to give in to the pain. But pain isn’t what I’m afraid of. Pain is the only part of him I have left.

It is the only physical reminder of his existence; my memories are distorted and I can no longer remember the sound of his laugh or the feeling of his hands. I’m not afraid of the pain. I’m afraid of letting myself go and not being able to stand up again.

Grief gushes over me. It pushes into my pores and as my body begins to swell, the weight makes me sink.

Sections of my mind shut down; I am unable to think in parallel lines. My world swivels and crosses inside of me, fond memories become torturous reminders.

I yank at my nails between the sharp edges of my teeth, shredding the corners and ripping the skin.

Physical pain creates a tie between me and reality. It is the happening, and he is the happened. Strangely, by defining tenses, I remind myself of all that I still have left. It puts me back on earth.

I am ungrateful though, because all I want is for him to be back. I care about nothing else.

I sink further, I know I’m on my knees but I don’t know how I got there. The carpet burns the skin off my shins as I rock myself back and forth.

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His body shut down but left his mind untouched.

Trapped, he was fully aware of his illness and his ­unfair fate, and spent his last days watching his family consumed with insufferable grief. It only took a few months for him to shrink down to skin and bones, unable to eat and taste. He became a pin cushion, wires and drips forced inside in final attempts to save him. His skin became yellowed and black and blue, brushed over him like a Van Gogh starry night. Except there were no stars. There was no light.

It would be the stuff of nightmares, if only I could fall asleep.

It’s a scary place to be. Death makes you feel both everything and nothing. I keep forgetting to breathe.

Why is it so difficult to exhale when I’m thinking about him? Perhaps it’s because without him, I don’t want to breathe at all. I don’t want to live without him.

Slumped on the floor with my hands pushing the flesh on my stomach, I’m holding my insides in; I don’t want to fall apart.

I know this pain is forever. And that’s okay, but no one tells you that. There should be some kind of warning.

Death isn’t a reminder of how short life is, it isn’t a window into the next world, it isn’t a safe haven, it doesn’t bring peace, it doesn’t remind us to be thankful, it doesn’t drive us to be better people, it doesn’t make us stronger or better or more appreciative. It is a miserable destroyer. It is a pain that cannot be kissed ­better or plastered up. It’s where our ghosts come alive; the memories stay and haunt us forever.

Death is a black hole and, eventually, it will swallow us all up.

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Miserable Love

by Gabrielle Jones List of Characters:

Setting:

JAMES and KATE are husband and wife.

The setting is two armchairs placed side by side, ­separated by a small table. The location is a counsellor’s office and the situation is a couples’ therapy session.

Both characters are staring forward to begin with as though looking at a therapist. The therapist is not a present character and actors are to imagine the ­audience as the therapist. KATE has her hair tied up.

• JAMES: early thirties, engineer. He likes solving problems and asking questions to understand and explain everything. He doesn’t believe in magic, ­coincidence, fate or miracles, only facts and reasons.

Very serious.

• KATE: late twenties, primary school teacher. She likes to learn but really only to help others and make them happy. In her opinion, there is nothing more important in this world than having fun. Very ­sarcastic.

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(JAMES sits on the chair to the left and KATE on the one to the right. JAMES stares expectantly at KATE who looks everywhere but at him.)

JAMES: Please speak… say anything.

(KATE looks at JAMES and then to the audience.)

KATE: (To audience.) It sure is a delightful set-up you have got yourself here. I love all the pictures and the crème walls, very…comforting.

JAMES: (To KATE.) Really?

KATE: Yeah. (To audience.) I like my walls a bit brighter but…

JAMES: (Interrupts.) Why would we come here to compliment the Doctor’s place of work?

JAMES: I couldn’t help but notice you were sat alone?

KATE: And you’ve come to save me? So noble.

JAMES: It’s hard coming to a stranger’s house with your…boyfriend?

KATE: I don’t have a boyfriend.

(JAMES perches on the side of his chair and holds out his hand.)

JAMES: Hi, I’m James.

KATE: (To audience. Patronising.) You’re a doctor?

JAMES: (Buries his face in his hands.) Are you trying to make me snap?

KATE: (Leans forward in chair and talks to audience.)

I mean, I know you must do some kind of training but all you do is sit there and listen. So long as you got ears, you’re good right?

JAMES: About us Kate! You are supposed to speak about us.

KATE: Oh…(Leans back in chair and stares up.) Then no.

JAMES: (To audience.) Apologies, she promised to at least cooperate.

KATE: (To audience.) I said I would come to therapy if he would stop pestering me. I didn’t realise this was going to be a platform for him to irritate me more.

JAMES: It helps to talk and put things out in the open.

KATE: Kate. (She shakes his hand.) But I actually live here, it’s my brother’s party.

(JAMES stands up quickly and takes a step back from KATE.) JAMES: I… urm…

KATE: You alright there? You seem to be choking on your words a bit.

JAMES: Not sure what’s appropriate. I mean there are rules…

KATE: (Sarcastic.) Rules? I didn’t realise, do you have to keep a certain distance, avoid eye contact?

JAMES: You know what I mean. Boundaries, you’re a little sister.

KATE: Hardly, we’re only a year apart.

JAMES: Stop it! That’s not helping.

KATE: Sorry.

KATE: (Sarcastic.) Well don’t let me stop you.

(KATE makes a hand gesture for him to continue speaking.)

JAMES: Don’t be nice! This is hard enough already, could you make yourself less attractive or something?

JAMES: Fine. (To audience.) The beginning, I suppose? …We met at a party. I saw Kate sat alone and went and spoke to her…

KATE: How?

(JAMES gets up and walks around the back of the stage to stand to the right of KATE’s chair. KATE sits up and leans on to the side of the chair closest to JAMES. She unties her hair and looks happier.

The two look over at each other and transport to that night.)

KATE: I don’t know… OH! I don’t like cake, people have told me that’s weird.

JAMES: Well, what’s wrong with you?

JAMES: (Laughs.) No! Don’t make me laugh.

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(JAMES collapses on to the chair and stares at KATE.)

KATE: Yes, I have food and water and oxygen and a pretty hutch to scuttle around in, but I am not a rabbit, James.

JAMES: Now what do I do?

KATE: You have to ask me out.

JAMES: I break my back eleven hours a day at a job I can’t stand, just so you can be happy. You should be grateful.

JAMES: And then what?

KATE: (Leans on the edge of her chair so she is closer to JAMES.) Well, we go somewhere and you ask me some questions, and then I ask you some questions, and if we like the answers we do it again another time, and if we don’t then we won’t.

JAMES: (Sits up and leans towards KATE. ­Sarcastic.) I know how dating works, thanks. ­( Inviting.) But what if your brother sees us in public and gets all protective?

KATE: (Sarcastic.) I am so content with my life. I could be the perfect housewife except you don’t let me clean because…

JAMES: (To audience.) Because she could ­collapse trying to reach all the cobwebs or put her back out mopping, it’s too tasking.

KATE: Or cook…

JAMES: (To audience.) She has a horrible memory, she’d put something on the hob, fall asleep and the house would be burnt down.

KATE: (Smiling.) We’ll go somewhere private then.

(JAMES and KATE lean back into their chairs and away from each other. They transport back to therapy and KATE ties her hair back into a messy bun. They look miserable and stare at the ­audience.)

KATE: No James, I’m dying.

JAMES: She has Colorectal cancer.

JAMES: (Interrupts.) Eight.

KATE: (Winks.) It’s in my bottom.

KATE: (To audience.) See what I am talking about?

JAMES: The doctor said that chemo could give you a couple more years…

JAMES: (To audience.) My wife gets puzzled from time to time.

KATE: (Interrupts.)…Flat on my back in a hospital where the lights sputter and I have tubes coming out of every orifice.

KATE: (To audience.) And my husband can be a bit of a dick sometimes… I feel better for sharing that!

JAMES: (Pleading.) It would boost your probabilities of survival.

JAMES: Can you be serious?

KATE: Great! We could place bets!

KATE: This is the most ridiculous situation I have ever been in.

JAMES: How can you possibly find this funny?

JAMES: Well, what do you want to do?

KATE: True, if I survived I’d lose and if I died I can’t exactly accept my winnings.

KATE: To go back to work.

JAMES: Kate, that is disgusting.

JAMES: I provide for us, don’t I?

KATE: Disgusting was you suggesting I give up meat and wine.

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JAMES: Because you’re sick, Kate!

KATE: Was that only seven years ago?

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KATE: Because I am such a pathetic and delicate woman who can’t be trusted.

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JAMES: (To audience.) They increase the risks of cancer.

KATE: (Laughing.) I already have cancer…I would rather die now than be a vegetarian.

JAMES: (Stands up. To audience.) I am ­e xhausted actually!

JAMES: Can you not say that word?

KATE: He used to look at me like I was a ­complete distraction…and smile, all the time, like he had a secret.

KATE: What? Vegetarian? Are you not supposed to call them that now?

JAMES: You are impossible.

JAMES: I can’t sleep at night. I’ve counted all the patterns on our ceiling twice.

KATE: Oh you meant die? What would you ­rather…’breathless’?

KATE: Oh God, is that what my funeral will be like?

JAMES: You are not going to…do that…so just don’t say it.

JAMES: Before she was diagnosed we would go up to bed together and fall asleep…

KATE: James, the chemo is not working. I want to come home.

KATE: Everyone all upset and whiny! Maybe I’ll book a clown.

JAMES: No! The doctor said lots of patients stop hoping in the beginning if they don’t see results.

You must keep trying at it, it’s completely normal to feel like you do.

JAMES: Facing away from each other, barely touching except for my arm around her waist.

KATE: Or a couple, I could have them dotted around the church.

KATE: That’s good, I wouldn’t want to be special.

JAMES: And now the bed is empty and it’s lonely.

JAMES: If you have cancer it’s natural to feel down…

KATE: And when someone cries they could pull out a hanky, but it ends up being several!

KATE: I’m not depressed, I’m bored.

JAMES: And chemo affects your appearance…

KATE: (Angry.) Are you calling me ugly?

JAMES: And can make you angry…

KATE: (Angry.) I’m getting that, yeah.

JAMES: Why do I feel like I am more concerned about this then you are. For once, can you just not treat everything like it’s a joke.

KATE: You’re not concerned, you’re in denial and you’re miserable!

JAMES: I am not miserable.

KATE: (To audience.) He denies.

JAMES: And it makes me angry! It makes me hate her for this decision.

KATE: And do the flower trick! You know the one where you lean in to smell it and it squirts water at you.

(JAMES and KATE stop talking and look at each other confused. JAMES moves towards her side of the stage and KATE backs up a little.)

JAMES: (Smiling.) You want a clown at your ­funeral?

KATE: (Hurt.) You hate me?

JAMES: (Takes a step back.) I didn’t mean it like that. (Takes the step forward again.) Your funeral will look like a circus horror film.

JAMES: I’m tired.

KATE: (Stands up. To audience.) I am so sick of him looking at me like I am already dead.

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KATE: (Takes a step closer to JAMES and laughs.) It’ll make people smile. (Perches on JAMES’s chair and looks at the floor.) Do you hate me all the time?

JAMES: (Soft and loving.) Kate… (Sits in KATE’s chair and reaches over to her.) I love you even when I hate you.

KATE: (Smiling she looks up. Seriously.) Do you think the clowns would be a bad idea then?

JAMES: (Bursts out laughing.) A terrible one.

KATE: (Deflated.) Oh. JAMES: (Reaches for her face. Sad but smiling.) I am going to miss you. So much.

KATE: I know.

JAMES: I want our future.

KATE: (Sighs and shakes her head.) But that’s where you are so wrong, James. (Grabs both of JAMES’s hands and holds them tightly in hers.)

We have it and we are missing it. Wasting it in stupid therapy sessions… (To audience.) No offence!

And our lives… (Stands up and pulls JAMES up with her.) My life is going to pass us by when we aren’t watching…I want to die laughing… ­preferably in your arms.

(JAMES hugs KATE tightly.)

JAMES: It’s not fair.

KATE: No, it sucks.

(KATE hugs JAMES back. KATE smiles to herself and pulls back to look at JAMES’s face.)

KATE: (Seriously.) But you are just going to have to man up about it and stop whining.

(JAMES laughs and rubs KATE’s arms.)

JAMES: (Sighs.) Love?

KATE: Yeah?

JAMES: (Smiling.) You are definitely going to hell.

KATE: (Smiling.) I’ll save you a seat.

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Coffee Shop #1

by Joseph Carter

Contemporary Haiku

by Lauren Sheraton

Chalk on a blank board Wipe it off, to start again It’s the dust that sticks

Colourful, calming creature Spreads its wings to fly.

One delicate touch Of a human’s clutch Will end its innocent life.

Red

by Emma Freelove There was a young lady named Red Who took her sick grandma some bread.

But a wolf won the race To the old lady’s place: When Red got there, old granny was dead.

Traditional Roots

by Matthew Barton Trees, in winter, die.

We decorate their corpses.

Gifts to cross the Styx.

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Cynical Cinquain

by Raef Boylan Birth. Death.

Bit in-between.

Person developing, into what is yet to be seen.

Good luck.

Grandad’s Call

by Munira Ezzi Echoes of loud screams; ‘You can’t go to school today.’

Death comes unannounced.

The Lover’s Odyssey

by Helen Owen Forget about the former schlep, Hurled abuse and degradation, Scared to move on to the next step, Lost in a peregrination.

Your name like a word repeated, Withered, stale, old. Love defeated.

Nothing left but a shattered heart, Which was delicate from the start.

The other side of the abyss, I’ve moved on from tribulations, Trials and false expectations.

What kind of romance is this?

Now to the future, eyes forward, As we move towards it.

Out on a brand new expedition, Which, together, we can achieve.

Sail seas, cross oceans, touch the sky, Reach the stars, the moons, the heavens.

Fly. A bodily exploration, And a journey covering infinite miles.

The Sea in My Bed

by Julia Viljanen The last rays of sunlight like blood on my collarbones Everywhere you used to be, My lips, my cheeks, my cold, cold toes.

I drown in this bed that’s wide like a sea.

In my sheets I still feel your siren call Weaved tightly to the soft threads Like doomed sailors do, I fall, fall, fall On my forehead sweat beads.

I am radiant in my sorrow, Though the light of stars fades I’m not even thinking about tomorrow.

Your parting words were like exquisite blades.

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And in the morning there’ll be only fragile bones here.

In the bottom of the murky sea you left behind, my dear.

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The Bitch and Bullock

by Michaela Beddis The Bitch and Bullock. A small tavern on the outskirts of town, just over the highland pass, where nothing of interest or excitement ever happens. On a rainy ­twilight, the fog is rolling in and a poised and elegant ­figure is silhouetted against the glowing, orange window of the tavern. A lady – of sorts – is standing under its awning with a lit cigarette, in a holder, in one hand and an erect Victorian dolly brolly in the other. As she looks out over the moors, a tall, dark figure passes through the gates of the tavern garden.

Dressed in a riding cape, his face is obscured by the hood.

“Good evening, ma’am, my name is Bhram and I wish to take cover from the rain.” The man stands in front of the lady and she moves aside to make space for him under the awning. “Thank you, ma’am.” He pulls a ready long pipe from his cape pocket and a box of sodden matches. Without words, the lady holds a lit match up for Bhram to take. With a light jesting tone in his voice the man repeats ‘Thank you, ma-am’ and lights the pipe.

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The lingering light from the sun dims more so, as the fog thickens and the rain dissolves further into a mist.

As Bhram snuffs the tiny match flame out of existence he turns and faces the lady.

“Why is such a lady out alone when darkness is ­coming?”

The lady smiles and her words come out of her mouth like silk. “My, you do sound like a budding poet. And what gave you the impression that I am a lady?”

The pitter-patter of rain starts up again. A rhythm of drips and splashes changes the ambience, much to Bhram’s exasperation. Thankfully, the moon rises above a blanket of grey cloud and sheds light onto the situation.

“I was a gentleman, once...” Yet again, Bhram’s ­vacant voice breaks the calm, startling Rose. “…but not now… Now I am but a dead man walking, destined to shake hands with the devil when my spirit is ripped from this mortal body.”

“Pray that not happen soon.” Rose twists the brolly handle in her hands, causing its parched laced canopy to dance in the moon light as it twirls above her.

“Are you taking the highland pass?” Bhram asks again.

“My, you are so adamant on receiving your answer.”

Bhram is exasperated by the stubbornness of his ward. How could he protect her if she wouldn’t ­cooperate? He asks “Where are you going then?

Surely you cannot be staying here; a tavern is no place for a lady to stop the night unaccompanied by a man.”

“I can mind myself. But I suppose you are right. A normal lady would certainly run into trouble in a tavern such as this. Why, there was one here earlier. Such a pretty little thing…”

“Where is she now?” Bhram interrupts.

“She departed momentarily before you arrived.” Rose looks up at her brolly as it stops spinning.

This isn’t right, thought Bhram. I would have passed, or at least seen her, if she left as I came.

Whilst Bhram is thinking, Rose takes a key from her pocket and opens the cast iron mail box that is screwed by the oak door of the tavern.

“You live here…” states Bhram.

“Yes, I do. Oh look, I got another post card.”

As she turns it round to read it, Bhram sees that the photo on the front is of him. Something clicks in his mind. He turns on his heels and runs for the exit. As he reaches the gate, a pen knife is pulled from the handle of the Victorian brolly. Before he can cross the threshold of the garden, the blade is swiftly thrown.

And, as he says his last prayer, the tiny dagger makes contact with the nape of his neck.

Tranquillity befalls the highlands. Murmurs of drunken speech blend with the fading rain in a lulling haze of innocence. It consumes The Bitch and Bullock, which is a small tavern on the outskirts of town, just over the highland pass, where nothing of interest or excitement ever happens.

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The Hunter

by Catherine Walsh The ErlkÜnig in the Black Forest roams His crown of leaves bejewelled with bones Cloaked in fog the wind his whispers Calling to him all willing listeners Skeletal branches darken the skies At the foot of his throne come soft cries For all of his victims softly shall fall It is only your nature to hear Death’s call

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Prisoner of the Moon

by Emma Freelove A man whose fate Lies in the wait Writhes naked in the wood Body gives in To curse within Contaminated blood The beast’s demise Is at sunrise His secret’s safe by day Stalking the night With devil’s bite He’ll feed on human prey Eyes wild and wide With every stride Instinctive to the hunt Skulks on the heath Baring his teeth Sensing movement in front Along the track - brutal attack!

One victim meets his doom A homing prowl A midnight howl The Werewolf greets full moon

What the Moon Wants

by Elena Aldridge The moon pinched the sunshine, Filched her in the night.

He sought to keep her to himself, Her tender glowing light.

He strained to hide his secrets And his lack of grace.

But sunshine blazed straight through him, And his cold embrace.

But the crack of dawn was looming, And for his arms, she yearned So when she finally rose again, She promised to return.

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M.O.R.O.N by Anya Parke

SUPER-TECH ROBBERY BAFFLES POLICE Saturday, May 25, 2075

BY SOFIA PARKE

Police were left bewildered today after a robbery at the Solid Fortress Citadel Vault. Workers arrived this morning to find the vault empty. Thought to be ­i mpregnable, the vault has not been breached in the fifty years since its doors opened in 2025.

An estimated sixty billion pounds in gold, cash and diamonds have been stolen in the biggest heist the world has ever seen. Police confirm that they are ­following leads but at present have no firm suspects.

Bodie looked into what should have been an empty swimming pool. It wasn’t. The oval-shaped, six-footdeep pool was laden with every type of currency, ­precious metal and gemstone ever considered valuable.

His mouth was dry, he gulped trying to produce ­saliva. If there had been water in the pool he would have drank it.

‘You really are a moron. How did you get all of it out in one go? Never mind, I don’t want to know. There’s no way we’ll get away with this. What are we going to do?

‘In answer to your first question, there is no doubt of my M.O.R.O.N status therefore I do not understand the relevance. If you do not wish to know the logistical elements of this acquisition then I shall not e ­ laborate.

Thirdly, I do not understand where you want us to get away to or what we need to do’.

Bodie put his hands over his eyes. He clenched his back teeth so hard that he could feel it in his cheeks.

Every swear word he had ever heard rattled in his throat. They edged closer to his lips, but his mum’s face appeared in his mind, disappointment in her eyes. He sucked back the words and replaced them with a sigh.

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‘I told you to get us some money for the weekend.

Some cash to do a 6D movie or go cyber-bowling.

Why did you take all this?’

‘I employed mathematical logic. I have extracted one thousand pounds, eighteen times previously. I calculated that from this outlet I could acquire sufficient funds to enable longer periods between withdrawals, therefore creating efficient use of my time.’

There was no arguing with the logic. Bodie’s legs and arms went limp, he felt as though his skeleton had gone. The grass under his feet spun now and he felt sick. He slid down onto a deckchair.

‘I want my mum’, he said. He turned and glared at the robot and through gritted teeth said ‘Shut up’, ­before the M.O.R.O.N could state the obvious.

It was only supposed to be three months. It had been twice that already since he had waved his mum goodbye. Although she was smiling, she’d had tears rolling down her face. His stomach had lunged at that, but he didn’t cry. He was thirteen, not ten. He wanted to cry now though. He’d spent six months with this M.O.R.O.N (Mechanically-Operated, Robotic, Observational Nanny – the robotic equivalent of parents). M.O.R.O.Ns had been invented in the forties. In 2045 after World War III had ended there had been an international shortage of adults and an abundance of orphans. Although their digital faces and genderless ­appearance lacked humanity, they had brought about an end to children’s homes and foster care. By ­replacing parents in a home environment, ­institutionalized child abuse had also been eradicated.

At first, Bodie thought living with a M.O.R.O.N was sick. It had taken less than an hour to reprogram it.

No rules, just no to anything he didn’t want to do.

He’d started small, with phone calls to the school exaggerating illnesses. Nobody ever asked who the voice was. Mum was a hero now, she could do no

nose. Tom was upset and hadn’t spoken to him since. Maybe that was a good thing. It had taught him to be more frugal with his spending.

Ever since Bodie’s mum had met Fat Dave, things had got bad. They’d met at work. If he didn’t know better he would have said that it was Fattie’s fault that the tunnel had collapsed. He wished now he had begged her not to go. She might not be two miles below the earth’s surface, with only a one-way video link and no radio contact to know that she was alive.

But how could he, she was saving the human race.

She had realized another frontier that no one else had thought of, and engineered the machinery to get us there. The ozone layer had less than ten years left before it would scorch the planet’s surface. The government’s attempt at locating a habitable planet via space travel had been an epic fail. Going underground was the only option. His mum had gone from major league nerd to global hero. King George himself had given her a personal escort into the tunnel. With everyone underground the ozone layer should repair itself within one hundred years and the human race could start the cycle of destroying the earth above ground again.

wrong, and he was the golden boy. But being off school with only limited funds had got boring. Hacking cash point machines had been a natural progression and proved just as easy for M.O.R.O.N. They never took large amounts, just enough for days out or Chinese takeaways. A few presents to himself, the odd hover-board or the latest hologram iPad. His mum had always said no to a hover-board because of the accident rate. His hands had been shaking when he unwrapped the box. It was like sticking two fingers up at his mum for not being here. But the excitement had been short-lived because people had started to ask questions. People like his best friend Tom. ‘Where did you get the money for that? I thought ya mum said no.’

Bodie was flustered. He hadn’t been prepared for questions. ‘Err, erm, no err, she didn’t, she said I could have one because she was going away.’

Tom’s nose had wrinkled; he frowned and said, ‘Why ya lying?’

Bodie turned red and said something horrible about Tom’s ginger hair and always having fingers up his

He could hear the sirens racing up the drive now.

Bodie was glad that his mum and Fat Dave were out of contact. He wondered whether they’d let the M.O.R.O.N go to kid prison with him. He hoped he would be out in time for the next cycle above the earth’s surface.

KING GEORGE ISSUES ROYAL DECREE PRESS RELEASE: Monday, May 27, 2075

All M.O.R.O.Ns must be surrendered to local government offices within the next seven days for software updates. The manufacturers, HoloCorp. Ltd stress that there is no risk to public safety and individual units will be returned within 4 weeks from date of surrender. My own personal M.O.R.O.N has overseen three generations of the royal family, including my own childhood. It has been handed over for its update. I look forward to receiving my M.O.R.O.N back in its new and i­ mproved condition. I would ask that my loyal subjects act with immediate effect.

For more information call the HoloCorp Ltd helpline on: 0887 9999991

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When Fear Constricts

by Raef Boylan No stranger to a sleepless night. Slumber is evasive, you have to be devious. Fight fire with fire, like they say, ­although they probably don’t say it to fire-fighters (whoever ‘they’ might be). Creep up on sleep, perhaps swathe yourself in sheep’s clothing and invite sleep to count you. Conduct the brain waves into silence.

Ssshhh. Library-quiet, please.

And you lie there staring into blackness – until the blackness panics you into sitting bolt-upright and waving your hand in front of your face to test that you haven’t gone blind. Then you lie back down, ­shaking your head at your own pointless antics. Time to sleep now, you’re ready. Duvet pulled up to chin, legs ­positioned comfortably, brain gently sliding down the wall. Yesss, it’s happening...

But wait. What was that? Something is wrong with the bedroom. Are you alone? Can you be sure? Yeah.

Yeah, of course…um, no. There was a noise, a slithering.

Maybe just the room figuratively pulling at its trouser crotch, settling in for the night? Not a problem.

It’s stupid, you’re being an idiot. There’s nothing there.

So it’s okay to move. Make that first move, roll over and turn your back on the NOTHING that is there.

You’re safe. You can’t alert NOTHING to your presence.

Go. Go. And so over you roll...

You casually stretch out your feet, socks reacquainting themselves with the sheets. The bed covers are bunched up in a solid, unrelenting lump at the end of the bed.

Strange, but with a couple of tactical kicks you shift the weight, spread it out across your lower legs. The duvet feels heavier than normal down there; it’s a comforting sensation on this chilly November night.

On the other side of the room, tethered to the wall ­socket, your mobile phone announces the arrival of a text message, bathing the ceiling in an eerie glow that fades as quickly as it startles. The impulse to sit up, plant your feet on the cold floor and navigate through the dark loses out to your sluggish brain’s determination to finally fall asleep.

Within minutes, rhythmic breathing changes to a guttural wheeze, which gradually fades as you lose consciousness.

Incidentally, the text was from your housemate Mark:

Except there it goes again. Was it just the wind outside? Poor wind, the usual suspect (shut up now ­Nature, some people are trying to sleep). The room feels bigger, shadowy furniture looming. You wonder how this familiar space – the private sanctuary where you sit for hours each evening to watch comedy DVDs and scratch your bum – can have transformed so abruptly into nameless terror.

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R u home? Stay calm bt python nt in tank. Can i check in ur room? Txt bk.

White Blank Page

by Carlota Maura I closed my eyes and absorbed the darkness, letting everything around me come alive. I had roamed the streets for hours, taking it all in: the smell of melted mozzarella on the world’s finest pizzas; the ghostly decadence of the city’s oldest buildings; a loud melody, Chopin perhaps, heard through an open window; the dazzling chaos of roses, daffodils and poppies sitting on sills, stealing each other’s colours; and the repetitive navy-andwhite striped men, proudly parading visitors down Venice’s shimmering canals. As I reached San Marco, Venice’s personal hotbed of human stench and anarchic clatter, the sweltering summer air was hard to take in. The waves of flickering cameras and the howling chatter of the crowd engulfed the piazza. Revolted, I wriggled away from the daunting humanness. I moved away from the crowds, seeking silence. The chatter faded away, as did the Sun and the unbearable trail of heat it left behind.

Rio Marin wasn’t in the guides. No passing gondolas, no cameras. There was no trace of outsiders, and by the steps of Ponte del Cristo, I finally found my place. As the Sun gave its last good-byes and hid behind distant rooftops, the neighbourhood of San Polo quieted. Silence. A rare peace of mind that makes you aware of everything surrounding you. Suddenly, everything feels alive. Everything breathes. Most people find it in the mountains, on a desolate island, or by the side of a river, far from the screeching tires of urban life. But here, silence leads. Here, Venice has a different meaning.

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The notebook lay open on my lap. I needed a story. I needed characters. There was no one to be seen, so I closed my eyes and tried to forget the white, blank page before me. I was in a city of writers. One of those places stained with brilliant minds and permanent words. Truman Capote described it as “eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go”. This was the city where Harry’s bar still stood, over eighty years since its opening.

The original Harry’s bar, where Hemingway had his own table in a far corner. This was Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. Othello. Permanent words. I listened to the gentle rocking of the water at my feet. Slowly, stories started to unfold around me, and as I opened my eyes, shadows mutated into characters and the evening breeze took on the colour of magic.

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A blurry figure in a long blue dress rushed along the sidewalk behind me, golden strands of hair floating behind her, inches away from dozens of silver arrows directed at her heart. Shadows ­followed, and under the bridge, concealed by darkness, a crooked man whispered ancient ­verses. A swishing and flicking motion of his fingers made the silver arrows dance chaotically, away from the fugitive princess. At the end of the canal, the gentle waves of Rio Marin grew. Another figure emerged from behind a mask, climbing out of a rusty boat and onto the sidewalk. He stretched his arm out to the princess, ready to take her away to safety.

A tap on the shoulder breaks my story and snaps me back to reality. The mask, the princess and the dancing arrows evaporate. An old woman in a shabby, green dress is looking down on me, a basket of flowers on her right forearm. I think this one’s real. Smiling, she gets closer.

“Tutto bene? Ti sei persa?” (Everything alright?

Are you lost?)

Suddenly, I realise I might have spent an unusual amount of time looking around in awe, fascinated by a scene only I could see. I mumble through my rusty Italian and reassure her that I’m okay. I ­explain that I am just enjoying the peace of my last summer night in Venice. She frowns, but keeps smiling at me like I’m a stray cat.

“Bene! Allora non ti disturbo!” (Good! I won’t bother you then!)

Laughter. She might have been eighty, but her radiant laugh is barely sixteen. I smile back. Her wrinkled smile and the reflection of the water ­behind us in her soft, blue eyes convey a sense of soothing calm. She reaches inside her basket, pulling out three white poppies.

“Un regalo, per te.” (A gift, for you.)

I look back at her, wondering if she’s real. I smile again, this time meaning every inch of it. Grazie.

Without another word, she turns and goes on her way down the side-walk. As I watch her go, my mind starts playing again. The contour of her long, silver strands of hair becomes the golden locks of the fugitive princess. As she fades out of sight, I look back at the white blank page before me and fill it with the petals of her white poppies.

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Bungee

by Hannah Russell Anticipation travels Through every nerve ending Impulses telling me it’s fine When I finally take the plunge I have the feeling I can fly

OJ 287

by Hanna Carter We’re simultaneously Ahab and his whale, you and I. Like the dance between two orbiting black holes, we perpetually cling on verge of devouring one another. We stand by the edge of the abyss watching it stare back. Do we jump? Perhaps someone pushed us in already and our hubris is about to slam into us. You are the taste of chlorophyll after a schoolmate tripped me; I am the smell of naphthalene and the stale dust of old age.

The black hole, the white whale - whatever monster Nietzsche dreamed up will swallow us whole and spit out our bones.

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Young Adult Fiction: Ugly-Butt-Munching Stupid Face Bart

by Melissa Merlos “SHUT UP! You don’t know anything! You’re dumb and I hate you!” My vision was crimson and I shook. I didn’t care anymore.

“Frances Dillian! Who do think you’re talking to, young man? I am not one of your friends, come back here RIGHT NOW or I will...!”

“Don’t call me that!”

Running up the stairs and slamming the door hard, I felt the house shudder. Not even caring if my tornado simulator fell on the desk, I flung myself on the bed.

She doesn’t get it, she doesn’t understand. She never will. I wanted to punch myself in the stomach and throw up. Josie Marie was the only girl for me and ugly dick-turd Bart kissed her right in front of me.

There he was and his ugly-butt-munching stupid face, kissing MY BEST FRIEND after school. I couldn’t get that stupid picture out of my head! What kind of name is Bart anyways? It rhymes with FART! My heart was throbbing so hard, it was all I could hear. I didn’t care about getting into big trouble for almost being ­suspended from school. I knew I had lost Josie Marie.

My life was over. Nothing else mattered, for sure I was going to be grounded and dumb ol’ strawberry-burnt-Pop-Tart Bart gave Josie her first kiss and that was it. Everyone knows you marry the first person you kiss. What on earth was I going to do?

I couldn’t go back and face Josie! Everyone was going to want to know why I beat booboo-sissy-pants Bart up. I hate him so much, he ruined my life. That’s it!

I’m just going to change schools, and go by a different name. I’ll call myself Blaze. No one will want to kiss my best friend with a name like that.

Ahhh, but Josie. How could I live without her? No, I just need to be strong. Mom doesn’t know it yet but I’m changing. I’m becoming a man. I’m moving to Kentucky.

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“MOM, I’M MOVING!” Looking down from the staircase, I saw her peek her head round the kitchen door.

“Is that so, Frankie?” she asked, walking towards my view. “And may I ask where to?”

“I’m going to Kentucky and you can’t stop me!”

“KENTUCKY?” Mom snorted and made a dumb face.

“Why on earth would you want to move to Kentucky, Frankie? How are you going to get there?”

How will I get there? Where is Kentucky at exactly?

Running to the computer, I Google Mapped how far it was. It couldn’t be that bad.

2,224 miles, 734 hours. From Los Angeles to Kentucky.

Oh no, no, no, no, moving to Kentucky was out of the question.

Collapsing on to the bed, I was almost ready to give up. What was I going to do with my life? I couldn’t face Josie. She was going to ask why I hit putrid-peacock-puke face Bart and I could not tell her it’s ­because I like her. He ruined my life. I can’t take it.

“MOM! I’m not going to school anymore!” “What?”

If I can’t go to Kentucky then I‘m left with no other option, I’m simply not going to school anymore.

“Snooze you lose, Mom!” She needs to pay better attention to me.

Running back into my room I saw my tornado simulator on my desk. It was going to be the coolest science project any fourth grader could ever turn in.

It was really grand! It was almost as tall as me and could really make a baby tornado. Looking at my calendar I realized the fair was tomorrow and my heart dropped past my stomach into my feet. I had been looking forward to tomorrow for almost a month.

Maybe I could go to school just for one more day?

I mean, I can’t let that doo-doo-bumbum-head win that too. Just the thought of him winning made my blood boil, like a volcano. No way, Jose was I going to let that happen.

Mom knocked on the door and came in with a plate of mac and cheese and sliced apples. I was almost too angry to eat it, but it’s my favorite so I just tried to hold a mad face and eat.

“So what’s this I hear about you wanting to move to Kentucky and not go to school any more, young man?”

Oh man, here comes the crack down, I knew I was going to get into trouble. I looked at the food and mom’s face and I knew I was being nasty.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I don’t really hate you but you’re not going to understand and now I’m mad I have to go to school tomorrow to turn in my tornado and everyone is going to know. Can you just drop it off for me please?” I was ready to get on my knees if I had to.

That would solve all my problems!

“Frankie, my baby Frankie has a crush!” she said, looking up to my ceiling as if it was a person. “Baby,” she said, giving me a tight squeeze, “just because Bart kissed Josie, doesn’t mean that YOUR life is over. You can’t drop out of school because of something like that. You don’t always win in life baby, and I’m sorry your heart feels broken but you can’t punch Bart for doing that either, even if he is your ‘arch rival enemy.’ If Josie doesn’t want to be your friend anymore then that’s her loss, but you’re not going to know unless you go to school and find out.”

The next day at school when I walked into the classroom, everyone stared at me. Unsure if it was because I was holding the tornado simulator or because I punched Bart, I went to my desk and looked at Josie.

She scribbled something down and passed me a note. My face was getting red again.

Frankie, thanks for punching stupid Bart yesterday.

My dad said for you to come to dinner tonight. He said you’re a real friend for having my back.

- Josie

“Frankie, what is going on at school? I’m worried.”

Mom sat next to me and started petting my head.

Leaning on her, I sighed. I felt the weight of the whole wide world on me.

“Mom, stupidBartkissedJoiseandIpunched himintheface.”

“Whoa, whoa there speedster. Slow down, stupid who?”

Dropping my head down into my pillow and in a muffled voice I told her everything. “Bart kissed Josie and I got mad and punched him.”

Mom chuckled a little and I shot my head up in my defence.

“Mom! Josie is my best friend and he kissed her ­without permission so I punched him. HARD. Who does booty-butt-head think he is? He ruined my life, mom. Now Josie and I aren’t going to be best friends anymore because she’s going to want to hold his hand and ignore me and everyone will know that I’m a loser because I lost my best friend to my arch rival enemy!”

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My face was getting red hot and my ears started to burn.

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Grunge

by Katherine Westwood

Withheld Ink

by Dermot Connaughton

Forms huddled in street corners, Shuddering among broken glass.

Devoid of any and all mourners, Awaiting horrors yet to pass.

Melted pens and feathers write glistening syrup, as red as black, in my glass of sinking flame.

Bottled ink from finger to white flats of restricted paper now shine innocently with the folds of encased blood.

The purple silk thirsts for the thirsty.

Dolled-up ladies on the sidewalk, Legs cocked forward, chests thrust out.

Men drive near for eager ‘small talk’, Leaning close with wallets out.

Junkies dosing in empty buildings, For a better life that’s fantasy.

Eyes cast up towards the ceiling, Blinded to reality.

The poor and homeless inhabit streets, Unmasked contempt from their peers.

Starving with nought to eat, A hunger that shall last for many years.

That Angel False

By Ryan Khatkar As Sun goes down and day grows dim My heart is fraught with grief For she, my life, my soul, my heart, Left me for her heart’s thief.

I think upon her beauty now, The first time that I saw Her pure white skin, her almond eyes, Without a single flaw.

She sat and washed her golden curls Upon that midnight hour.

Her eyes – they twinkled as the stars And drew me with their power.

As our eyes met, the silence left And we did not give chase For all our words, like rivers ran, To Cupid’s resting place.

Our romance swift, I thought it time And took her as my wife But now that false seraph has gone, My heart, my soul, my life.

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And when it floods, bends, scars the sheets, only then it will survive from my glass of sinking flame.

Flowing, flowing, diving as velvet shadows swallow and intertwine with their former beings, breathing and pulsing like the purple silk that thirsts for the thirsty.

Marks and streaks of growing spice, fruit and filter for intimidating posterity, thanks to my glass of sinking flame.

How it carves into the silk stone of trees, and replaces with the unstoppable; flights of grinding laughter behind red tears, while the purple silk thirsts for the thirsty.

Until the end of the glass, it sighs.

No end, no end, since I pour the rest into my glass of sinking flame to always encumber and wait, wait, wait. Until, follow and write from the liquid eyes that melt and lead from the purple silk that thirsts for the thirsty.

Dear Parisian Diary

by Lydia Crispin Dear Diary, It is said that love is the most beautiful form of selfharm, yet with a nomad heart I wander through life in search of it. Asking myself, where better to begin such an expedition than the city of love, my venture begins tomorrow.

Dear Diary, The city was awoken by a kiss from a majestic sun, sending life pulsating through its streets. The blissful laughter of the heart of Paris echoed through each café. As I sat and invited a buttered croissant into my watering mouth, I finally understood the magnificence of French cuisine.

The evening was spent lost in a theatrical whirlwind, drowning in an ocean of colour. I watched tiny figures dance. The room was a circus; I was its caged bear, forced to dance by the contagious rhythm, taunted and teased by its performers.

Many fell victim to the Moulin Rouge. The dancers set their souls on fire as they leapt across the stage, kicking, spinning and burning with passion.

Hours passed, time had slipped by, yet the Moulin Rouge was a timeless place, forever as ­glamorous and exquisite today as it was portrayed in its youth. The Moulin Rouge was undeniably sensational.

Darkness swallowed the day and so I continued on my journey to the very symbol of Paris, the Eiffel Tower. Standing proudly, her iron structure watched over the city by night, laced with twinkling lights. I stood transfixed, just standing, just breathing, just existing in the moment. Excitement took over; I rushed to begin the climb.

Breathlessly struggling, legs burning, heart pounding, I eventually made it to the top. The beauty of Paris can’t be justified by pen and paper; she was an illusion, a mere fantasy. The lights of Paris dizzied and dazzled me as they shone as far as the eye could see. Magnificent. Electrifying. Crushing back to reality, realisation set in, tomorrow was my final day.

Dear Diary, My final hours in Paris were spent where two souls are joined under lock and key. It was here that I realised I had succeeded in finding true love. So, at last, I was able to leave a lock upon the ‘love lock’ bridge… My heart forever belongs to this wonderful city…

Dear Diary, The auditory droning sensation roared across the entire city; thousands of engines cried out as they ran through the mazes of Paris. I jumped into a taxi and travelled to le Louvre.

Spending the day in a daze, I was in awe of its collection. The Mona Lisa of course took refuge here as one of the most famous paintings in the world, for centuries serving as the inspiration to many. It’s been said that she is a portrait of a ­Florentine merchant’s wife. She is the essence of an untold love story, captured by art. Art, of course, created to make one feel. Paris made me feel and was truly a work of art.

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A Chicken, a Wolf and some Satanists

by Toby Fermoy In the smoky haze that hung in the air after they finished their cigarettes, they discussed the m ­ erits of goats’ blood over chickens for performing ­sacrifices.

“Well this is beside the point. We have a chicken today because it’s easier to transport.”

“No, idiot. To appease the mighty Beelzebub.”

“That too.”

With their intentions laid clear for all witnesses, they set to work.

The three teenagers sat in a blacked-out car, driving down a dark, wooded road. The view that flew by outside the window was black, the silhouettes of the bare trees even blacker. The world as they knew it made up of different shapes and shades of darkness. The devil worshippers sat in ­excitement, dressed in the self-same black of the night and covered in tattoos and piercings, awaiting the events the darkness would gift to them.

The first two unlocked the cage and took one side of the chicken each, turned it upside down and placed it up against the face of the headstone, its head pointed toward the dirt of the grave. The third began taping the chicken to it. The chicken twitched its wings, moved nowhere, and gave up.

They took in sights; the headstones stretching into the oblivion of the night, the ornate memorials and the bland nametags, the countless dead. Then they began to walk. Strolling past the newer headstones still decorated with flowers, to the older headstones, dilapidated and forgotten by time and everyone else, the teenagers were brashly indifferent to the silence of the cemetery. The only sound was of low wind and the crunch of leaves underfoot. The edge of the cemetery backed out onto a forest, where the oldest graves were adorned only by fallen leaves. A place occupied only by the hastily dug shallow-graves of faceless war victims.

They reached a crooked headstone covered in mould and stopped, deciding this was the one.

With the preparations done, they looked at each other silently in some sort of mutual acknowledgement, and then formed into a circle. They extended their rights fists forward into the centre and began pumping them up and down. Simultaneously they chanted.

“Rock, paper, scissors, go!”

Two scissors, one rock. The winner grinned ­triumphantly and grabbed the knife. He took up his ­position next to the headstone whilst the other two stepped back and observed intently and ­h ungrily.

He placed the blade along the neck of the chicken, lining up his shot. He bought the blade back slow, and swung it down fast.

The blade clinked as it connected with the stone, the decapitated head thumped softly on the dirt.

A stream of blood began to trickle from the neck, dripping onto the grave and spilling down the headstone, embossing the name “Jennifer Anne Carter” in stark red. The only light in the darkness was the teenagers’ eyes shining with ecstasy. After a few minutes, the chicken was bled dry and under its open neck a clump of mushy blood-soil had formed.

“Who’s got the stuff?” the leader demanded.

“Okay, let’s do this,” the leader ordered.

One responded silently by displaying the caged chicken, the meat cleaver and the masking tape.

The other two bowed their heads whilst the leader spoke the words.

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“To kill a chicken.”

“I know. I’m just saying if we could fit one in the boot, a goat would be better.”

They eventually reached a clearing decorated by an ornate black metal arch over a locked gate. A sign read “Ascendancy Cemetery”. They parked in front of it and got out of the car. One of the three led the other two down the fence to where it began to stoop low to about head height. The leader climbed over it, and the others clambered up and followed him in.

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“We three kings pledge everlasting allegiance to thee, Antichrist, who shall rise again when you decree your appetite has been satisfied. We three shall surrender the lives of others until you be pleased, lest we run out of chickens. And should you want us three to join thee in hell, take us now from this mortal plane and we may be of use to you in the land beyond.”

Before they had the chance to be taken, there appeared a wolf from the woods beyond the gravesite. Jaws slathering and eyes alight with hunger, lean and predatory, it smelt food.

“Holycrapawolf!” the leader squealed.

The Satanists instantaneously turned and sprinted away, keen to escape the mortal danger. They sprinted and sprinted, past all of the graves, from old to new, not taking in the dark beauty that surrounded them just running and running. They kept running until they noticed they weren’t being chased.

They pulled up and looked back to their place of ritual, where the wolf was still occupied. The wolf sniffed at the remains of the chicken, but decided it was not of interest, so he began digging up the soil of the shallow-grave. He kicked up dirt and made a keyhole through to the person below. He stuck his nose in and sniffed each bone that decomposition had left behind. He picked out some bones, an arm, a jaw, decided they were not of interest either and discarded them. He eventually settled on a certain rib bone and picked it out of the ground. He took it in his jaws and began to throw it up into the air to try and catch it again.

Throw and catch, again and again, his fur bristled with the joy of play. After he tired of doing this he then balled up in front of the headstone and began to gnaw the ends of his rib bone, to suck out the marrow juice from inside.

The Satanists observed all of this from a distance away, shocked, still in disbelief. They stared unblinking at this shadowy creature, examining its cool countenance with fearful admiration. Once the wolf was settled, they began to shuffle.

“What do we do now, boss?”

“We thank Beelzebub for this gift,” he replied.

“And then we go home.”

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The Golden Arrow

by Joseph Griffin The door opened and the rest of the crew joined Robyn, inside. Dale looked nervous and Jon seemed about to cry. Robyn realised they couldn’t see her in the dark, so she cracked one of the glow sticks from her pack into life, illuminating the tunnel with a disco green light. She grinned at the band ­gathered before her.

‘Cheer up lads,’ she said, ‘your makeup’s running.’

*** The day before, or to be precise, twenty-three hours ago, Robyn arrived back at the slum she and her friends called home. It was a quiet part of Old City, lightless, always smelling faintly of charcoal, with an inch of stagnant rainwater always at your feet. The only sounds came from the distant New City, its shining chrome skyscrapers always visible on the horizon, staring down at the sub-citizens of Old City with disgust. Robyn walked through the half-standing door, ignoring the ­hero-worshipping clamour from the kids, strode over to Mae’s dilapidated tent and entered quickly.

Robyn went to her, and softly stroked Mae’s cheek as she took the syringe out of her pack, and took in the worsening effects the contagion was having on Mae’s body. Her once honey-coloured skin had turned a gargoyle grey, her teeth and nails an obsidian black, and her eyelids could not open because of the congealed blood behind them. She did not notice Hector lurking in a dark corner.

‘You look better than yesterday,’ Robyn told her as she emptied the syringe into Mae’s motionless left arm. Mae didn’t answer; she couldn’t talk and probably couldn’t hear either.

‘She needs Ambrosia,’ said Hector, making himself known. Robyn turned quickly, drawing her knife as she did. When she saw who it was she lowered it, but did not put it away. Not that it would be any use against the cyborg. His brass-chassis couldn’t stop Privileged weaponry, but was more than ­effective against a simple bowie knife.

‘What do you want, Hector?’ she asked him.

‘My boss wants the Golden Arrow,’ the mechanical thug replied. His monotone made it clear he didn’t care. ‘Still.’

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Robyn turned back to Mae and took her decaying features in a second time. The steroids weren’t going to keep her alive much longer, and they would never cure her.

‘Fine,’ she told him. Hector left and Robyn turned back to Mae, looking at her crushed grey fingers, a reminder from the last time that she had refused one of Hector’s demands.

It didn’t take Robyn long to pick her crew as she didn’t have much choice. Most of the people ­living in the slum feared Data Tower 12. Only the ­desperate would try to break into it. The desperate were, in order of age and not counting Robyn: Sheena, nineteen, the punk rocker who had once killed a man; Dale, seventeen, who had a way with computers and Jon, nine, who was still small enough to fit into most access tubes. Hector also insisted on accompanying them, to no-one’s delight.

Before they left, Robyn visited Mae one last time, kissed her grey lips, and promised to be back soon. As Robyn walked away she remembered how Mae had looked before the contagion. She had been so beautiful with her smooth honey-hued skin and deep dark eyes. The memory almost made Robyn cry. There are few things more ­distressing than watching a loved one suffer.

It was a long trek across Old City, and approaching the silver monstrosity that was New City was more than a little daunting. It was a capital offence for sub-citizens to “taint” the sanctity of New City, meaning people from Old City often associated the so-called “heaven on earth” with death by incineration. Or being processed if they were unlucky. Knowing they could not walk through the streets of New City, Robyn’s plan was to walk under them, through the power pipes and directly in the vault of Data Tower 12.

The entrance to the power network was just outside of New City, so when Dale hacked the ­maintenance shaft open they entered unobserved.

The square pipes were well-lit by the neon blue liquid energy flowing through them, so Robyn didn’t need to use any of the glow sticks she had brought with them. They would never have found their way to Data Tower 12 without the help of Hector, who had a map of the power pipes downloaded into his cybernetic memory. Robyn had to

admit that the thug did have his uses, as they navigated the labyrinthine passages, always clinging to the wall so they didn’t fall in the electric river.

Dale kept staring at the current beneath them, distracted by a level of technology he could barely comprehend. ‘It’s like being inside a fibre-optic ­cable,’ he said, before Sheena pushed him forward and told him to shut up.

When they reached the shaft leading up to the vault of Data Tower 12 they hit a snag. There was no terminal for Dale to hack the doors open. Jon and Dale began to despair, and Hector looked ready to abandon them in the tunnel for wasting his time, until Sheena spotted the access port high above them. There was no ladder leading to it, but this was no problem for Robyn, who, with an almost superhuman agility, climbed up to it, ­using the right-angled corners of the wall for leverage. She climbed through the port easily and onto the other side, and then descended again, more slowly this time.

It was dark on this side of the door, and despite Robyn’s excellent night-vision she could make out very little. Fortunately there was terminal on this side of the door, the soft blue-light from its screen gave some illumination. Robyn had no talent in hacking, and did not even have an icebreaker module like Dale, so instead she plied off one of the maintenance-shields on the door with her knife and hotwired the door’s motor, opening the doors. The other peered through, the blue light of the tunnels silhouetting them. Robyn cracked one of her glow sticks. Dale and Jon wore frightened faces.

‘Cheer up lads, your makeup’s running,’ Robyn joked, trying to cheer them up, then immediately vowed to work on her sense of humour.

closing door to the power pipes and their way out.

Robyn, Dale and Sheena made it through the door but it closed on Hector, and would have crushed him if not for his brassy carapace. Jon squeezed between his legs and made it to the other side.

Hector was paralysed and unable to move or talk.

The group had no choice but to abandon him, except that he had the Golden Arrow stored in his cybernetic memory, which jutted out of the left side of his head.

Robyn wasn’t proud of sticking her knife in and prying the man’s memories out, but as she told herself at the time, and every night afterwards, she had no choice. The group abandoned him there as the Privileged sentinels advanced forward. The rich who had once been human, then “upgraded” with cybernetics until they had barely any organic components left.

They made their way back towards home, following Sheena’s excellent memory and sense of direction, Robyn carrying the soon-to-be dead man’s bloody implant in her hands. If he was unlucky, which he probably was, he would be processed. Ground and juiced into the biomass that powered New City. Robyn tried to feel sorry for him. Although she had been worried about trading with the gangsters, Robyn was delighted when they delivered the ambrosia Mae needed, apparently not holding a grudge against her for Hector, or even caring.

The ambrosia worked, Mae’s skin turned back to its beautiful natural colour. The congealed blood behind her eyelids started to disappear so she could open her eyes again. And she could smile at Robyn once more.

Finally they were all in the vault and surrounded by buzzing hi-tech servers. Striding forward, Hector efficiently began to patch his way into one of the machines via his cerebral adapters, while the others kept watch nervously.

‘Robyn?’ asked Jon, ‘What is the Golden Arrow?’

‘I don’t know,’ Robyn admitted. ‘But it’s worth a lot to the people Hector works for.’

No one asked any more than that. You didn’t ask questions about the people Hector worked for.

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As the cyborg finished downloading the Golden Arrow sirens blared out. Everyone ran to the now

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Spilt Water and Lilies

by Kelly Ebanks Sometimes bad things happen to good people.

Sometimes it’s fate that paves the way. Life is what you make it. It’s all cliché, but this is my story.

Regardless, I loved my little cousin. I wanted to show her love, to be there in general when she falls like her parents were supposed to.

“Right, Nat, if you need money, company, help with your school work, whatever, I’m here. I’m always here. I got you.” This was something I had been drilling in her head for years. Finally she knows I mean it, she knows I will never leave her, not like her Mum did.

I’d always find Natalie on a bench, staring up to the sky as if searching for answers, face blank.

Every night I’d go to fetch her knowing the exact spot she’d be. I’d cuddle and walk her home. Her and I.

Natalie seemed detached from people, family, and she never made any efforts to maintain friendships.

“If my own mum never loved me enough to keep me, why would anyone else?” she would sneer.

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“Surprise Mum, these are for you!” I said as I presented her with her favourite white lilies. I loved my family and wanted to know they were well looked after. “Ooh darling they’re beautiful, you have grown into a fine young man, not like a few

“Thank you Ben,”, Mum said.

The disease was taking its toll on her gaunt face, the fragile body lay lifeless in the bed.

“Ooh Ben, I wish you’d have a shave, you look so much like John -“ “DON’T YOU MENTION HIM. DON’T YOU EVER MENTION HIS NAME AGAIN. EVER. DO YOU FU***** HEAR ME?” I said, turning away from Mum. “I’m sorry…” I said as I walked over the broken glass, spilt water and lilies. I had a monster within, just like him. That disgusted me.

As mum’s condition worsened I became the cook too. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were prepared by me.

“Ben sweetheart, for a man of your age you have too much on your plate. What with looking after me, Natalie, cooking, cleaning you do it all. You are an amazing son, more than I could ever have wished for… Go have some fun for a change. I’ll be fine, promise.” I took Mum’s advice. I hadn’t been out anywhere for months.

------------------The leaves rustling above my head is all I can hear. My heart cut open, a soul seeping out leaving me empty. I watched the grieving crowd, a sea of black, blues waving through the air. A piercing scream then shattered through the murmurs of sadness. A scream I will never forget.

“Natalie, Nat, Natalie!” I was being shaken by someone, someone of no importance. I wanted no one except Ben. The shovel lifted one final time, completing the ­lifetime imprisonment. I felt the same way, trapped. A mere vessel. What is life without the one person who loved you? I gave up.

Another letter dropped through the letterbox.

Another letter from school about my poor attend-

I was now a sixteen-year-old completely alone in the world. No Ben. No Aunty Sharon. The funeral had finished and Aunty Sharon was laid to rest with Ben. Looking up to the sky I sobbed.

“Ben, you said you would never leave me, now where are you? Where are you?” I screamed.

“What am I supposed to do now?” A figure somewhat resembling myself was approaching me, with what looked like an awkward smile. An awkward smile pasted on a pretty face. A pretty face framed with the most beautiful head of hair and piercing eyes. “Oh, come here sweetie. I didn’t ­realise how sick she was. I’m sorry I-“ “Who are you?” I said.

The woman perched next to me and said “Natalie, I’m your mum. I’m Julie. I know I have a lot of explaining to do but I know right now you need me and I promise you, I will never ever leave you again.” Silence. I just didn’t know what to say.

Tears flooded my eyes, falling into Julie’s chest, releasing what was left of me.

“Welcome home, Natalie,” Julie said.

‘Home’, ‘Mum’: these were alien words to me, an alien concept. I dropped my bags and stood awkwardly. Julie was trying to make up for the past sixteen years, lavishing me with gifts and fine ­dining. I was developing an attachment for this woman. An unnatural bond I had never experienced, not that I’ll be admitting it to her anytime soon. Truth is, now I’d be lost without her. Alone, empty and cold but I have her, my “Mum”. Finally there to look after me and pick me up like she was supposed to. I have a little brother too. He is a living reminder of Ben. My only wish is that he would have got to meet him. I finally have a ­family, I’m ­rediscovering what love is and I now have ­something to live for.

Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. Sometimes it’s fate that paves the way.

Life is what you make it. It’s all cliché but this is my story.

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Noticing my blank facial expression she paused.

ance, missed deadlines and everything else. A meeting perhaps, but what’s a meeting going to fix? Nothing. A meeting doesn’t get Ben back. A meeting doesn’t give my life any purpose. A meeting won’t fix Aunty Sharon’s aching heart or body she was deteriorating and fast.

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years ago eh? Ooh you had a terrible temper you did, breaking things, punching walls, punching people…”

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An Interview With Siddhartha Bose

by Ankita Roy “A nose for paradox Made me read Chuang-Tsu On a late autumn afternoon In Washington Square — From his butterfly dream I too emerged with wings, A flowing gown of red and green, A taste for wet fingertips.” (‘Chinatown, New York’) Siddhartha Bose is a poet, playwright, academic and theatre-maker based in Hackney, London. He was born in India and spent seven years in the US. Author of two poetry collections from Penned in the Margins, Siddhartha has written and performed three works for theatre: Kalagora (2010), London’s Perverted Children (2012) and The Shroud (2014). Let’s take a look at Siddhartha’s life…

Q. So, how does it feel to be an all-rounder, being regarded as a poet, playwright and a performer? What’s your personal take on this?

A: I’m hardly an ‘all-rounder’, far from it, but I have been writing and performing from a very young age. I have published three books in the UK over the past five years and written, performed and toured three plays as well. I have also made short films (my film, Animal City has just been accepted as part of the official competition at the second Goa Film Festival). So, to answer your question, I try not thinking in categories.

For example, my writing is as influenced by film as it is by literature. I am also aware that this ‘poet, playwright, performer’ thing is quite fashionable nowadays. I like being rigorous in what I do. I go on stage from time to time because I’ve been doing it for a while. If I didn’t have some training, I don’t think I would attempt it.

Kalagora comprises of a book of poetry that was written over eight years and a play of the same name, which is set across Bombay, New York, and London. Despite sharing the same name, they are two totally different pieces of work. If I could, I’d alter the name of the poetry book so as to emphasise the difference. The book is straightforward enough.

The show, on the other hand, was an experiment that incorporated movement practices derived from Lecoq, poetry, theatre and film (the film segments were shot in the three different cities; we didn’t use ‘found footage’ and all that). We also had the music of Pankaj Awasthi, who is based in Bombay. With this show I wanted to explore a ‘coming of age’ tale across three cities, while also pushing theatrical form and language. Funnily enough, the starting point was the filming, then the script emerged, and then my director, Russell Bender (and my associate director, Joy Mills), and I went through a painful process of making the language as physical and detailed as possible.

Q. Every artist has a beginning. What was yours? What circumstances nurtured the ­creative and the lyrical in you?

I grew up in Bombay and Calcutta, India. My years in Calcutta (from the age of thirteen to eighteen), and its history as the country’s cultural capital, had a significant influence on me. I was lucky to be amongst people who introduced to me the arts

Good question. More of the latter, I think. Kalagora the play, in particular, did address some of the ­issues in a post-9/11 world. I guess I was trying to talk about a character that is mixed, hybrid, global, like a lot of us are these days and about issues

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Q. Your work Kalagora, has been showered with accolades. What prompted you to take up a unique project like this?

Q. Kalagora is a Hindi neologism meaning black man/white man. Does this reflect on colonialism and/or racism? Or is it a take on the differences in ethnicity and cultural shock based on your personal experiences all over the world?

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and made me fall in love with it all. At the same time, I have lived my entire adult life in the USA and UK, and these are countries that provide great support to the arts and the life of the mind. In the UK, in particular, I’ve benefited immensely from generous support over the past ten years, and I hope I’ve contributed in a minor, modest way. I’ve also lived across three continents in a variety of changing, and difficult, circumstances. More than anything else, this has shaped the work and the stories I want to explore. We live in a global world and, more than ever, I feel we need to explore global stories.

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surrounding power, border crossings, and control.

However, I never start with an ‘issue’. I try not to talk about things I haven’t experienced. Instead, I mostly approach these ‘big’ themes from the ‘inside out’- I only feel qualified to explore direct experiences, not just my own, but those of my globalised tribe.

a very direct experience of mourning and grief.

These are experiences that stay forever, and I felt the need to explore this artistically as well.

Q. Where do you draw inspirations from, for your work? Is your work theme-based,or are you flexible with variety?

I am first a writer, I think. I have a fairly strict routine by which I make sure that I write a specific number of words every day. I also enjoy acting, and have trained from a young age. However, since I am an Indian living in the UK, I realised early on that the best way for me to perform was to stage my own work. As an actor, I have continued learning by participating in a variety of workshops (with the likes of Tim Supple, for example), and I’ve been fortunate to have performed quite extensively. At the end of the day, I like keeping things simple. I don’t like overthinking things.

“I always feel that I am starting afresh, as a beginner.”

Q. Your work Doctor Sahib resonates with death. Your recent work Shroud similarly ­resonates with death too. Is death a theme that appeals to you? What inspired you to delve into this miniature epic about loss?

Interesting question. I think death is quite important to me, not in a purely morbid sense, but also as something that paradoxically gives life and meaning. I think all cultures across the world have always been obsessed by death (from the Egyptians to Buddha to the great Christian mystics and the Sufis). Our media-dominated culture today is obsessed with the instant, which itself is liberating in certain ways. However, perhaps we’re losing out on depth and rigour and substance and sustainability. I mean it’s quite interesting that we’re all going mad on twitter and FB, but the reality of death is ever-present. I think that’s an interesting tension to explore. The Shroud itself grew out of

I think most audiences have been fairly kind. Certainly, a London audience is very receptive, but I’ve found keen audiences in places like New York and Berlin and Helsinki too. I try not to think about audiences too much. I do the work – sometimes it resonates, sometimes it doesn’t. You learn, and move on. Of course, criticism from the right people is always a blessing.

Q. Being an academic, what knowledge would you confer to our readers, to enable them to keep them equally inspired and interested in the rigour of creativity?

I am a part-time academic. I love teaching, and I find I learn a lot from my students. They have far more to teach me than I to them. In terms of advice or knowledge, I always feel that I am starting afresh, as a beginner. I try not to approach things with preconceptions or prejudice of any kind. I don’t consider myself an expert in anything. In Zen, they talk about having a beginner’s mind. I think moments of creation happen when we’re in that state.

Tour dates and more can be found at Siddhartha’s website: www.kalagora.com

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I try not to think too much about inspirations – that way you end up imitating other people. I try and focus on the story and the questions I want to explore. Sometimes, it starts from an image or a sentence or a character. I know that I am a big city creature, and that obsession keeps resurfacing.

But yes, variety is really important to me.

Q. Criticism and appreciation are a part of an artist’s life. Having catered now to a global audience, what is your take on “audiences”?

How accepting or unaccepting are your ­audiences to your work?

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I think each project that I work on has its own internal logic. I also try not to repeat myself. For example, the works for the theatre (Kalagora, London’s Perverted Children, The Shroud) are quite different from each other, in form as well as in content.

These differences have also been shaped by the variety of collaborators I’ve been fortunate to have worked with, from directors and performers to musicians and editors. You are only as good as your team, and I’ve been lucky to have worked with some amazing artists who have taught me a lot.

Q. How different is it to write and act your own plays, and how do you juggle between the actor-writer mode?

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The Frederick Holland Poetry Collection Award Fred Holland This award is co-ordinated by the Frederick Holland Trust and the Department of English and Languages, in loving memory of Coventry poet Fred Holland.

The Frederick Holland Poetry Collection Award Winner 2015: Harry George Evans Third-year Law student Harry Evans is our 2015 competition winner. A veteran writer of poems and short stories for fun, Harry hopes that people enjoy reading his winning collection as much as he enjoyed writing it.

Evolution Is Smarter Than You

Twenty First Century Chess

Father, I don’t want to get a Tattoo, ‘cause I don’t want to be like everybody else.

I’m a non-conformist, a Tiger, not a Sheep. Would you like another generic Danish beer?

It’s half-four in this Dive bar, two television screens, I feel like Grandad in Only Fools; six pounds left, all in coins, last game of the night: some Russian against some other Russian.

Another dishwater Coffee? (I was insane six months ago…) Forty days since the last existential crisis.

(Here I go again.) Even if I did have change I wouldn’t give it to you.

No, sorry mate.

(Piliavin’s Cost-matrix.) Maybe I’m too smart to believe in Intelligent Design, or be bashed with The Bible?

Your Worship, I’ve been left for dead in the Desert, turned over by the Flood… let go of me ­Sergeant… but I’m a free man now.

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I bet the lot. Pawn to e4.

I have half a beer left, lukewarm.

Son of Sorrow defence, the rest is a hazy blur.

Then I’m out on the street in the rain; I’ve lost, and I kick something warm: Lazarus in a sleeping bag.

Endgame. A Queen and her Castle approach me.

There’s no escape.

Table For Two She likes to talk about the last time she was drunk, and what she did, and what she doesn’t remember.

I like to talk about her and what she’s done and what she hopes to do. Deflecting anything that could be about me.

And when we tell the waiter what we’d like, he goes away, coming back when we’re eating to ask us if it’s okay. Is it okay? Is it nice?

I don’t know why any of this really matters, the universe stretches out across the rolling blue and time plateaus around the sun regardless.

But in her presence I am no longer worried, bothered about this; suddenly we are all significant: and what happened last night, last week, last month, is the only thing worth thinking about.

Stamina So I put on a false bravado, hit the Gym and lift fifteens skip legs, straight to cardio, go home, eat three Snickers Duos, and iron the creases on my work jeans.

Then I go out, another Saturday, meet up with the friends in my head and five beers later I’m doing Karaokethe Sid Vicious version of Sinatra’s My Way. (Play that at my Funeral when I’m dead.)

Stagger out at 4am into the Ghost town, the Nantucket Fried Chicken shop’s openso I go in and hit the floor. The manager shouts down: you’re six hours too early, you muppet, you clown… go sober up in the break room – your shift’s at ten!

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Traditional Love Poem All the great stories are told with humour.

Not much, but a drop or a dash, here and there, sometimes dark, sometimes light. But never when it comes to love stories is there humour; merely a pensive sadness, a misrepresentation of the past that helps repaint a fading picture: But all the days I spent with her weren’t that bad.

Not even the ones where we were both miserable together. We knew it couldn’t last forever; it’s sad how lying arm in arm can make you feel so bad, worse than watching one of those third world appeals: £3 for her lunch? She’s eating better than I am.

I knew when she said she loved me she was lying.

And I used to say that her sympathy was misdirected, as there’s people sleeping rough on the streets, and dying; or, if you’re a cynic, there’s people in black hoodies lying on cardboard, making us believe they’re sleeping rough, and technically speaking, aren’t we all dying?

But do you remember making chocolate milkshakes with 59p Ice Cream? Do you remember the songs?

The books I lent you, do you still read them? Do you remember the radio shows? The places ‘round here that no one else goes? Do you remember that episode where Blackadder says to Baldrick: “Boom Boom Boom?”

I do. And if I ever write a poem like Baldrick’s I’ll have it mastered.

I will. But I’ll never write about the nights that we were plastered.

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CovWords Short Story Award 2015 Congratulations to our three CovWords Short Story Award winners! The competition has been running annually since 2013, thanks to a start-up donation from the Chancellor’s Fund. We had some great stories this year so many thanks to everyone who sent in their writing. This year, first prize (£250) was awarded to Caleb Azumah Nelson for The Naked Mile, second prize (£150) to Joseph Griffin for Devilsmouth and third prize (£100) to Olivia Andersson Hjelm for The Wire.

Keep an eye out on the CovWords website for next year’s submissions guidelines. We can’t wait to read your amazing entries for 2016. It’s free to take part, so what have you got to lose…?

2015 First-Prize Winner: The Naked Mile by Caleb Azumah Nelson

‘Adam. Adam.’

‘Hmm?’ ‘Get up,’ she said, short. ‘You missed your run.

You’re going to be late for work.’

‘Hmm.’ The prospect of tardiness was not as ­repulsive as he thought it would be.

‘Come on, get up. Shower, breakfast, work.’ She outlined his routine to him and he swallowed the resentment at the monotony his life had gained over the four years they had been married.

‘I’m going for my run,’ was the first thing he thought to say.

‘You can’t. You’ll be late for work.’ He heard the sheets beside him rustling and knew she was sitting up.

He didn’t want the accompanying lecture which came with this new position, so he muttered a “fine” and went to take his pre-shower pee. Eyeing a small pile of clothes, Adam realised he would not have been able to take his run this morning anyway; his running kit, a luminous blue and yellow mesh vest with matching shorts sat atop, his

‘Adam, what are you doing? You’ll be late for work.’

‘I’m going on my run,’ he said.

‘Your kit isn’t even clean,’ she said. ‘You can’t run in dirty kit.’

‘You’re right.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘You’re right.’ He tore off the vest to reveal a rippling torso, followed by the skimpy shorts of runners and the compression tights. Only the socks and shoes ­remained.

‘What are you doing?’ Helen whispered.

‘I’m going on my run,’ he said.

‘But you’ll be late for work.’

‘So?’ ‘You’re never late.’

Adam shrugged. She let out an involuntary bleat as the world she knew - Adam, by extension, part of this world - was slashed into uneven pieces.

‘Won’t be long. Usual few miles,’ Adam said,

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Their bed was a queen size, far too expansive to hold the drowning couple and their failing ­relationship. Often, as they were now, they slept with rigidity, back to back, lest one of them graze the other with a touch they believed unwanted.

Helen spoke, the words possessing a slight muffle, as if not addressed directly towards him.

specialist shoes were not far from the bundle.

He couldn’t have worn his kit dirty. Why not? He ­wondered. He looked at the clock in the bathroom. No time to run, said the rulebook of logic.

He considered for a second, then pulled on some dirty ­compression wear, as well as the vest and shorts. The look completed by an odd pair of socks - one black, one white - and a pair of plain black ­specialist running shoes. He re-entered the bedroom. Helen had returned to her previous position, semi-foetal. She looked towards him, then sat up, shocked.

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Adam lay on his bed, next to his wife, his body fraught with some emotion under the heading of ‘despair’. His long frame appeared to have shrunk overnight, his knees drawn halfway up to his chest, the size he had acquired in the previous months of rigorous training, now reduced. He stared towards the obese yellow star in the sky, burning his irises even when he tried to look away.

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bounding on the spot to prepare himself for exercise. Helen opened her mouth and closed it, several times, as if trying to inhale some understanding.

There wasn’t much else to say. Adam was going for a run. That’s all.

He descended the stairs three at a time, filled with a daring he’d abandoned in his youth. Keys: check. He tried to place them in his pocket, automated, and the bunch of three clattered to the tiled floor. No matter. Helen would let him back in.

With this last thought, Adam thrust open the door, took one sure step outside, and then another. The door clicked shut behind him with a barely audible tick. He had the overwhelming urge to turn back, to hammer and slam until Helen came running, to clothe himself. He wanted to leap overboard from this ship of resistance he did not remember boarding, and hope not to drown in whatever tremulous ocean awaited. He was caught in an existential tug of war - to resist or comply, that is the question.

The two forces at work jerked and pulled, but in the end, it was his physical being which made the decision for him.

He tripped over the cracked slab Helen had been telling him to fix for months; he tried to balance himself with short, stabbing steps, and before he knew it, he was at the end of the path, running.

In this action lies simplicity, for it does not require any planning or debate. One merely puts one foot in front of the other, and repeats. To run, one only needs to continue moving forward.

Adam’s footsteps slipped and slopped with every step. A squeak occasionally interrupted the proceedings. At the end of the road, he collided, phallus first, with his neighbour.

‘Morning, Jeff,’ Adam said, when they had ­untangled.

‘Good God, Adam, what the hell are you doing?’

‘Running,’ Adam laughed.

‘But…where are your clothes?’

‘At home. I can’t stop; I need to take advantage of this wonderful day before work. I shall see you later on perhaps? Come round for dinner?’

‘But it’s Tuesday,’ Jeff said, mortified. Wednesday night was dinner with the neighbourhood clique.

Adam laughed again, rich and throaty and joyous, and departed.

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‘What’s your name, sir?’

Adam had never been inside a police station. He panicked.

‘Dave.’

‘Dave...?’

‘Just Dave.’

‘And where do you live, Just Dave?’

This time the panic was debilitating. A torrent of addresses danced on his tongue, none his own, the words so jumbled he was unable to articulate any of them. The only place he could think of was Mordor, but wisely, decided not to say this.

He sat in a rusting steel chair, by a desk, opposite a policeman approaching obesity. They had wrapped him in a cream sheet - with his pink flush of activity, he resembled a raw pig in a blanket.

They had not even bothered to handcuff him. Most likely because when they had pulled up, he had entered the car of his own accord.

‘Listen, I don’t think your name is Dave. We had a woman call her husband in earlier - which you match the description of.’

Adam continued to stare at the man. He was having difficulty focussing. The thought currently stewing away in his mind was whether the policeman would be able to keep up with him on a run or not.

‘Okay, let’s try this again. Is your name Adam Johnson?’

Adam nodded.

‘Of 77, Burbage Road?’

Another nod.

‘What do you do for a living, Mr Johnson?’

‘I’m a hedge fund manager.’

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He was right; although only in its incipient stages, the day was progressing beautifully. The sky was a solid block shade of powder blue, with fat dollops of cumulus cloud dotted like servings of cream. UV rays aided in the rapid production of sweat on this man’s garmentless body, but a thin breeze dried the droplets on his skin. Dulwich was deserted, and blankets of blossom welcomed him on every street his feet pounded. He laughed again, the joy morphing to wonder. How had he ever missed this?

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The man’s forehead crinkled. ‘Bit young, aren’t you?’

Adam shrugged. More details were exchanged.

The policeman informed him his wife was waiting outside. Adam rose with his new acquaintance.

‘Look,’ the policeman started. ‘I don’t know why you were doing what you were doing, but you’re lucky to escape with just a warning. Take my ­advice - wear some clothes. It’ll make your life easier.’ The policeman handed Adam over to his wife like a delicate trophy.

They walked in silence, out of the police station, to the oversized family car which hardly saw the road. The vehicle had been purchased when ­notions of a family had entered their lives with such ebullience; notions which sadly, remained just so. When they had both sat down and ­s ecured seatbelts across torsos, Helen spoke up.

‘I’ve called work for you and said you needed the week off, that it was an emergency.’ When he didn’t reply, she went on. ‘This happens, you know. Mid-life crisis. It will pass.’

‘Mid-life crisis,’ Adam said. ‘I’m thirty years old.

Are you saying I’ll die at sixty?’ He turned to her.

‘Don’t be so literal and melodramatic,’ she said, starting the engine.

Two days into his involuntary holiday. Adam and his wife sat at their dining table. He piled scrambled eggs onto his plate. She observed, nursing a bleak cup of coffee in her hands, the steam rising from her mug, vaporous hands tickling her e ­ yelashes.

Why does one ask questions that they already know the answer to? It is as if the question ­answered by self lacks validation, could ­p otentially be falsities of the mind, and all one requires for ­confirmation are words, signs, signals, be it ­answers or non-answers.

He remained at the table, cutting through his now tasteless eggs. A thought nibbled at his consciousness, and then began to gnaw its way in, until Adam could no longer ignore it. When he had accepted the idea, he couldn’t believe he had tried to ignore it in the first place. Why had he not had this idea earlier?

He abandoned the eggs, now as chilly as the frost lying on his relationship, and left for the city centre.

Two hours later, he returned with a dog. The beast woofed upon entry.

‘Adam, is that you?’ Helen called from the kitchen, as he neared. ‘Did you close the door, I thought I heard a-’ She stopped dead at the sight. ‘Oh my... shit. What is that?’

‘Helen, meet Luigi,’ Adam said, like a proud father.

‘Our new dog.’

‘Adam - it’s huge.’

Luigi, was indeed, oversized, even for their gigantic dwelling.

‘He’s a mastiff,’ Adam informed.

‘You not ‘ungry?’ He asked with eggs and toast bulging from his cheeks.

‘Why did you buy a dog? We didn’t talk about buying a dog.’

‘Why do you hate me?’ Helen asked.

‘Well, you mentioned children earlier, I thought this might, you know, ease the pain, like a substitute or something-’

Adam choked. The toast turned to cardboard, the eggs a thick glue, which he would never digest, let alone swallow. He glugged down a glass of water, hoping to buy some time.

‘I don’t hate you.’

‘Don’t you want children?’ She knew the answer.

There was no reply to this, other than, ‘I don’t hate you.’

At this, she burst into tears and left the table.

Helen did not return, until the daylight had faded from their thoughts and the night now occupied their lives. A weak bedside light attempted to ­illuminate their bedroom. Adam lay on the bed,shoes on, supine, motionless. Helen entered the bedroom and collapsed beside him, prostrate.

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‘Do you hate me because I can’t have children?’

More tears. Helen, once more, dashed from the room to a symphony of her own sobs. Adam was left with Luigi for company, who did not look altogether pleased with him either, and began scratching at their French doors, desperate to be let out. Adam sighed, detached the lead, unlocked the door, and let Luigi run free.

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Adam shook his head and swallowed, with some difficulty. ‘I don’t hate you.’ He returned to his eggs, slicing through the soft yellow mess, inserting another forkful into his mouth.

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‘How was your day?’ she asked into the bedsheet.

Silence descended once more, filled with truth.

‘Wonderful. I took Luigi on a really long walk. We went through the big square in Brixton; you know the one with the fountains? There was a guy ­listening to his iPod there, singing at the top of his voice.’

‘Do you want to go on a run?’ Adam suggested.

‘What was he singing?’

‘I only run on Fridays. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.’

‘I think it was Adele. He seemed quite upset.

I think he had his heart broken. It was really ­emotional. Wonderful voice though.’

‘That’s not normal.’

‘What do you mean?’

Helen inhaled, then turned her head when she ­realised there was nowhere to release the air.

‘Singing in public like that. It’s not normal.’

‘But what’s wrong with it?’

‘What’s right with it? No one wants to hear that.’

‘You’re wrong. Lots of people were listening. Luigi and I enjoyed it.’

‘Why is he called Luigi?’ Helen asked, propping herself up on her elbows.

‘It was either Luigi, or Federico. I fancied ­something new.’

‘I’m stuck,’ Helen said, sotto voce.

‘Have you got cramp?’ Adam asked. ‘Do you need me to turn you over?’

‘No Adam, I mean-‘ she paused. ‘We’re stuck.’

‘Oh.’ He understood. ‘Let’s go on holiday.’

‘We just got back from Barbados.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘It was more fun the first time we went,’ Helen mused.

‘I agree.’ They lay still for some moments, swamped in their own silence.

‘Do you want to adopt?’ Helen broke the ­unintentional pact.

‘They wouldn’t let us. We’d fail all the tests and interviews.’

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‘It’s eleven pm.’

‘So? No better time than now.’

It was Thursday. Adam rolled off the bed and walked to a set of drawers, perusing frantically through them. He returned, holding out his wife’s sports bra. They smiled at each other. There was affection in this exchange, which warmed the dying temperatures of the darkness.

Outside, both parties wearing expensive gear, a healthy serving of the moon providing the pathway with light. A light drizzle had fallen earlier, the slabs of rock still holding on to the moisture. Past their open gate, another couple teetered and tottered, intoxicated to the point of impaired motor function. They stumbled along, hand in hand, both carrying a bottle in their free hands, trying to have a rather loud conversation, in which their love for each other appeared to be the main topic. The exchange carried, even as the shadow stole them from sight.

Helen looked at Adam, Adam at Helen. Helen made the first move, pulling her black nylon t-shirt over her head. By the time Adam had recovered to drop his shorts, Helen had shed her top layer and was working on her undergarments. Within a minute, they were both au naturel, that is to say, stark ­n aked. Only their shoes remained.

‘You’re still as beautiful as the day we met,’ Adam said to his wife.

‘You’re just as big,’ Helen replied, clasping her hand to her mouth, surprised at herself. Contagious laughter erupted, spreading from husband to wife, until their own tears added moisture to the ground. Without warning, Adam took off, darting through the gateway and onto the pavement. Helen followed, still giddy, guffawing.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Adam said. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘Shouldn’t we follow that couple?’ She motioned to the two whom had staggered in the other direction they had taken.

Adam thought about this for a second, then shook his head. ‘They don’t know where they are going either.’

Submissions for CovWords 2016 Issue: Since the magazine is only as good as our student writers, we depend on you guys to send

us your work. If you would like to contribute to the printed magazine, website or pamphlets please check the guidelines on our website and email your work to: coventrywords.bes@coventry.ac.uk.

Be sure to ­provide your full name and course title and place your submission within the body of the email (we do not accept attachments). If your submission is exclusively for the website or magazine, please let us know in the subject line.

We accept short stories, various forms of poetry, flash fiction, drama scripts, travel-writing, interviews, reviews and more. So if you’re a student writer or artist, now is the time to have your talents recognised.

Submit your best creations, and help us make the next issue of CovWords even more awesome.

We’re looking forward to reading your work. Good luck!

– the CovWords Editing Team’ If you are interested in creative writing and publishing, join CovWords Magazine Society via the CU Student Union website: http://www.cusu.org/opportunities/societies/a-z-societies.

As well as enabling students to experience the key ­processes of magazine production, the society ­organises

writing projects and special events. Active members will be involved in d­ esign, editing

submissions, ­marketing and promotion (including Twitter, ­Facebook and the official website) and distribution alongside students of the English and C ­ reative Writing course.

Contacts for 2015-16 are: Munira Ezzi (President), Toby Fermoy (Vice-President), Sophie Rowson ­(Treasurer) and Bethany Smith (Inclusion Officer). E-mail: coventrywordsmagazine.su@uni.coventry.ac.uk.

Writing Society for students interested in developing and sharing their

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There is also a Creative written work.

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Created by students. Written by students. For students.

CovWords is an accessible literary magazine presenting YOU with the opportunity to have your creative pieces published. No matter what degree you’re doing or your preferred style, all Coventry University students can submit to CovWords. This is a great chance to see your work in print, helping to build your writing c ­ redentials and improve your CV.

The student editing team works hard to cater to a wide range of reading tastes. Take a look inside to find this year’s selection of original prose fiction, poetry, scripts, creative journalism and interviews.

“Coventry Words provides an invaluable forum for new student writers. Not only does it present students with an opportunity to be published but it challenges them with the task of producing a professional magazine. And, for readers, it offers innovative writing, fresh thinking and really beautiful words.”

- Dr Lynsey McCulloch, Senior Lecturer in English Literature

coventrywords @coventrywords

ISSN 2045-189X (Print) 2045-2144 (Online)