Flight by Commonword's Identity Writers Group

CROCUS BOOKS FLIGHT

By Identity Writers Group

First published in 2023 by Crocus Books

Crocus Books are published by Commonword, 3 Planetree House, 21-31 Oldham Street, Manchester, M1 1JG

Copyright © Commonword and the authors 2023

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Introduction

We are born falling – descending the birth canal. We emerge to live, to rise. Our bones lengthen, our cognitive powers increase, our vision extends beyond our parochial circumstances. We are born falling. But we are born to rise. The writers within this collection have risen to the challenge of creating works around the unifying theme: Flight. Buckle up. Apply goggles. Rise with them. Flick through this collection and see how they do.

This interactive e-book contains poems, videos, audio files and photography. Click on the links in blue to view more content. All Flight contributors are part of Cultureword’s Identity writers' group, which has been platforming and promoting writers of the Global Majority since its inception in 1986. If you wish to join us, email admin@cultureword.org.uk.

Songs of a Bulbul

by Ali Al-Jamri

I am told of a bird, its songs like a flute, its plumes like a rose, chirps freely in the groves, flutters, perches, head tweaked, twitters carefree with pleasure.

I am told, of this bird, you must sit in its home, soak in the groves, be the ripples in the spring, feel the sun kiss your back, let the song stroke your ear.

I am told if this bird ever should be caged it ceases its song, its wings drooped and limp, it dies soon of heartbreak, a grey silence spreads. Any true lover must always stay a watcher, never be an owner, accept the bird is free.

I have also been told that once over lunch when a revolutionary relayed this story, a greybeard across from him guffawed, flicked the rice flecks from his fingers, picked at meat between his teeth, tweaked his head and grinned, back home, I sought these songbirds for my menagerie, they can be caged, and they sang jazz, they sang their sorrows and their souls, they sang their songs for me.

Since I have heard these things, ten silent years have passed but still I am unsure which holds the greater truth:

these songbirds, freely gathering, these songbirds, split in cages, these songbirds, their heads tweaked curiously.

Click to watch

Concord

SONIC BOOM

by Clare Ramsaran

Agreement or harmony between people or nations; Agreement or harmony between things, ideas etc.

From the same heart

It was the highlight of our week when Concorde made its appearance in the skies above our school playground These flights were international news And in our small way We were part of it

On the news

Scientists made paper aeroplanes to Explain how its bent nose worked Described sonic boom to us

Our ears were attuned to hearing planes overhead, every few minutes Close as we were to Heathrow.

But when we heard Concorde’s rumbling growing to a lion’s roar

We knew this was not like the other aeroplanes

close enough to interrupt teachers, mid-flow (how grateful we were to those planes) or to sometimes crack classroom windows

This aircraft was different - special And we were special because we got to witness it. The sight that other people only saw on the news.

The playground went silent as we gazed up,

Tipped our heads back

Like the outsiders who were not used to seeing planes close up as they came in to land

Like we were

Each of us wanted to be the first

To spot the elegant, streamlined shape in the sky

Someone would see it, shout and point

And then we all saw it

Floating above us.

Rapid yet in slow motion

beautiful

awe-inspiring, in the way - they told us - that prayer was meant to be

It held our attention, silenced our voices

Brought us together – as one

Gave us a shared secret to keep us warm

And then it was gone

With a boom

That came with the breaking of the sound barrier

Bereft we stood there

Empty now.

The chatter and noise of the playground returned With a roar of its own

And then it - was just like any other day. Click to Watch

The Promise

by Deborah Black

Yasmine gripped the bow and arrow tightly in her hands. She was determined to make sure that her aim was true.  The wind blew carelessly around her, bringing with it a chill that it had swept in from the sea. Her target was slowly being carried by the waves further away from the beach, its view now being obscured by her tears that kept getting in the way. Yasmine slipped one of her hands into her coat pocket, pulling out a crumpled tissue which she used to dab her eyes. She took a deep calming breath, her family and friends were standing nearby waiting for her to shoot her arrow.

Her brother had asked that she be the one to do it. The one to shoot the arrow that was going to set alight the boat that would carry his body out to sea towards his final resting place, with his Viking style funeral.

It was all his idea, he was the eldest child.  Out of all of the siblings he had been the more daring, he was the child who would upturn stones then watch in awe as the insects scurried away to find a new haven, he took up sports that risked him breaking bones, driving their parents mad with worry and curtailing the liberty of his younger siblings should they even think about following in his dangerous footsteps.

Her carefree older brother had not been able to stop his later diagnosis of leukaemia eating away at his life, so he devoted every waking moment to defying it, hesitation was taken out of his dictionary. Noone’s raised eyebrow was going to stop him from enjoying his life that had been so cruelly time stamped.

He got married in the time it took for everyone to be surprised. His wife let him call their son Jian, he wanted him to have a name signifying strength as his legacy, everyone would just have to learn how to pronounce it.

“Watch this.” he had said to her one afternoon as they sat in his back garden. He took a picture of his son on his phone, then placed it into an app that made his son look progressively older until he turned into an old man. “I don’t have to wonder.” he said, holding his son closer to him.

Yasmine stood up and took a picture of them both. “This is for him.” she said, showing it to her brother as she sat back down beside him. “So he’ll know how fantastic his dad was.”

And he was, thought Yasmine, absolutely fantastic, he was the best older brother anyone could have asked for.  Showing them how to burst through doors, smashing them off their hinges and ensuring that you left muddy footprints behind you. “Gentle was for old folk.” he had said.

When it was clear that he was coming to the end, he sat them all down.  He wanted the last memories of him in their lives to reflect how he had lived it and not the illness. He had heard about the Viking style burials at sea and that was how he wanted to go out.  That was the memory that he wanted them all to be left with.  It was better than standing around in a cold damp cemetery, besides they were filling up which is why the government was now allowing them to take place. Red tape and restrictions meant that they only carried out two burials a week, and he wanted one of those spots. His

spot was now, on a cool May morning, with the breeze rocking his coffin gently further away from the shore.

All her months of archery practice had been in preparation for this solemn moment.  She had even spent the last few weeks at the club moving the target further and further away so that she could send the arrow over the required distance.

Her arms felt incredibly heavy, grief had travelled all the way down them.  By the time it had made its way to her fingers it had become intermingled with anxiety. She was doing her best not to let them start shaking. The funeral attendant was waiting for her to give him the signal so that he could light her arrow.

She could see her younger brother breaking away from the other mourners and walking towards her along the beach. He looked serious, handsome, and smart. Their older brother had insisted that he wear one of his suits.  He had argued that he had enough money to buy a suit of his own, but his brother had demanded that he take one out of his wardrobe and not to waste his damn money. It was amazing how easily arguments were won when you were on your deathbed.

She turned her head to look at him and gave him a tight smile, followed by a brief nod letting him know that she was okay. He stood beside her. She let go of the bow and put her arm around his waist giving him a comforting hug. They both turned and looked out at the small boat carrying their brother’s body.

“We can do this.” she told him, her voice slightly louder than the waves. He took a few steps to the side to give her some space.

Yasmine lifted her arrow, then signalled for it to be lit. She placed it against the bow slowly pulling it back with ever increasing tension on the string.

“Goodbye Miles.” she whispered, kissing the nock before she releasing her fingers allowing the flaming arrow to take flight.  She kept her eyes on as it soared through the air satisfied that its path was true. She saw another arrow quickly follow behind her own. Yasmine did not turn around to see where it had come from. She knew that it was the funeral director's back-up archer.  She smiled to herself, she did not need a failsafe, that was her big brother and she had made him a promise.

Metal slammed into wood as the arrows hit their target and flames engulfed her brother’s final resting place as it gently swayed in the sea. Red smoke drifted up from the boat into the sky, signalling to sailors and all around that her brother was making his final journey.

Taking flight to higher heights flight to escape externals fights flight to conquer internal strife flights fleeing genocide flights connecting families children man and wife.

Flights

by Daniella Edwards

Flights crossing seas in the dead of the night, flights that greet the morning light and bask in the sunshine. Flights that take off but only in the mind, the ones that fly but not to the naked eye.

Anticipation of a flight based solution in search of improvement.

The ability to fly a gift to humans.

Roaming skies soaring above clouds migrating to different towns, flying around.

Catching flights, changing life’s flights.

The Girl who Could Fly

by Marcia Hutchinson

Mercy climbs up the creaky wooden stairs from the cellar living room to the ground floor. She loops around the hallway careful not to Mek Noise as she passes the two ground floor rooms. The tenants live there, Miss Zena in the front ground floor room and Miss Luke in the back one. Their rooms are huge with big widows, high ceilings and iron fireplaces and skirting boards that come up to her knees. The next set of stairs from the ground floor up to the first floor are much grander than the cellar steps. The handrail is a dark wood that glows rather than shines with years’ worth of hands that have slid up and down it. It ends in a post which is carved and knobbly. She likes the ball on the top. The rails are all curly and twisty and Devon got his head stuck inside them. Daddy had to put chicken grease on his ears and twist him from side to side to get him out. He cried when he finally got out and then Daddy gave him something to really cry for.

She makes her way to the bathroom on the next landing up. It’s a half landing really. The bathroom is at the back of the house, cold dark and blue. She doesn't like the drippy bathroom, but this is important. She reaches up and twists the round handle. The big enamel bath takes up most of the space.

She pulls out the red plastic box from under the sink. If she stands on it on her tiptoes she can just see into the mirror above the sink. It has eight sides and the edges slope creating lots of broken reflections around the edge. The mirror is faded in the corners and a couple of spots in the middle so anyone looking into it looks like the Olden Days.

The chain is made from rusty looped metal, each link forming a little u-bend and locking into the one below it. There is a large circle at the top which is hung on a big nail in the wall. The mirror is high up so Daddy can see to shave because Daddy is high up too.

If Macry is stands on the box on her tip-toes she can just see her face in the mirror. A little olden day girl stares back at her. Plaits pointing this way and that and a scar on her forehead. The ears are a bit on the small side and the eyes are a little bit too big for her head. Her eyelashes curl back on themselves almost forming perfect circles.

Mercy examines the face closely as if it belongs to somebody else. The faint wispy eyebrows with the wide gap between them. The nose which is a little bit turned up at the bottom. The round lips which when closed, form another almost perfect circle. And the apple cheeks which Mummy’s friends seem to find irresistible. It's as if they are public property to be kissed, squeezed, patted and pinched. She practices a smile. The corners of her mouth pulling up and backwards revealing small white even teeth. It doesn't look right. The eyes don't look right; let go. She lets her face rest. She tries again. The apple cheeks form as she opens her mouth. They look like someone has stuffed two little golf balls into her face. This time the smile is a little better but it still hasn't reached the eyes. The forehead is still too serious.

Mercy knows she has to get it right. There is a right to smile and a wrong smile Mercy wants to get the right smile. She thinks of Dolly and making clothes for Dolly. This makes her happy. Maybe this is the right smile. But is she catching up her lip? ‘

‘Ketch up your lip’ Daddy always says. Mercy doesn't know how you can catch your own lip. It's part of her face so she can't catch it. It's not like someone threw the lip to her and it slipped through her fingers and hit the floor. “Kech up your lip”, “Fix your face”, “Stop knit up yuh brow.”

How do you fix your face? Is it broken? What does a fixed face look like? Can you fix your face all by yourself or do you need somebody to help you? Is there a school that you can go to to learn how to fix your face? She doesn’t know the answers and she doesn’t know who to ask but he knows that she must learn and learn quickly.

Mercy doesn't know that a smile comes from inside and that you can't construct one like a jigsaw puzzle. She knows she hasn't got it right but nobody has told her how to do it properly. Everything depends on getting the smile right.

When Daddy comes home she wants to smile for him. This time she turns a three-quarter profile to the mirror, almost falling off the box in the process. Her calves are beginning to ache from standing on her tip-toes. Maybe if she can sneak a look at herself before she knows she is being watched she can catch the right smile before it turns into the wrong one.

The real problem is the eyes. It’s only a proper smile if the eyes are happy. Mummy sometimes talks about the Why People’s smiles. How they only smile at you with their mouths. As if nobody thought to tell their eyes to join in the party. Mercy knows this is very bad. You have to smile with your whole face. Your eyes have to get dressed come to the party. She knows what to do, she just doesn't know how to do it. Do you make your eyes big or do you make them small and crinkly?

She gets off the box, kicks it back under the sink and heads up to the bedroom. Past the two big rooms on the first floor. The lodger Deacon in the sunny front room. Mummy and Daddy’s dark bedroom at the back and the tiny box room over the front door. She glares at the door to this room as she passes it. Devon has a bedroom all to himself. Not Fair.

Up again to the attic. The big front attic bedroom Mercy shares with her three sisters. It runs the whole width of the house but the slope of the ceiling means that there is not much useable space. The best bit is by the dormer window where you get bathed by sunlight. The girl’s bedroom is always messy with piles of clothes everywhere. The chest has four drawers, they have one drawer each but it’s hard to stuff everything you own into one drawer.

Mercy finds Dolly sat atop the clothes in her half-in half-out drawer. She pokes Dolly between the eyes “stop knit up yuh brow!”. Then she feels bad. Dolly is her friend and besides, Dolly is always smiling with her wide eyes, her tiny ski-jump nose and her blonde shiny hair. Dolly does not have a care in the world.

She rummages in Janey’s draw and finds a red cardigan. With Mummy’s big scissors she cuts off the cuff from the right sleeve and fashions this into a lovely skirt for Dolly, using some of the unravelling wool to pull the skirt tight around Dolly’s waist.

Two floors down she hears the front door sla, blam! Daddy come!

He will go straight down to the cellar living room. She has to get down there fast before all the sweets are gone. She hopes it is Pear Drops, she loves sucking them even if it does cut the roof of her mouth. She races down the three flights of stairs like it’s a competition. She’s the last one down to the cellar. They are clamouring at him asking for sweets. He’s picking them up one by one and hoisting them in the air and back down again. Devon is laughing like a fool. Mercy hangs back hoping to be thrown in the air too.

Dinner is late. Mummy is tired and busy. She only just got in from work before Daddy

Ah weh mi dinner deh? he asks.

Soon come Son, she says pushing pans about on the stove.

But Daddy is angry now. Dinner should ‘deh pon table’ when he gets home.

He hasn’t noticed Mercy. She didn’t get her turn to be thrown in the air. She frowns. Pickney! Says Daddy. Stop knit up yuh brow.

Mercy tries to stop knitting-up her brows. But she doesn't know what knitting is and she doesn't really know what a brow is. The more she tries to stop the worse it gets. Her brain tells her face what to do. Be happy Mercy, be happy, just be happy. But she cannot do it for the life of her. She can feel her shoulders climbing up towards her ears, the muscles of her neck taut and expectant. The half a brick that lives in her stomach is getting bigger again.

Now Mercy is flying. She lifts off so fast that her shoes stay on the ground. Scruffy brown leather Tbar sandals with a buckle and dirty cream crepe soles. The right shoe stays put but the left one falls over onto its side. As she ascends like an Angel, the air sucked out of her lungs.

The colours in the room sing bright and shimmer like a heat wave. Gravity has released her from it’s heavy grip and time has gone haywire. Moving both fast and slow and part of her completely stationery all at the same time. It’s magic. It is impossible but it is happening. Mercy’s big little brain is working hard but it can’t keep up. She doesn’t know when her feet left the floor. But she knows that they are no longer touching it. Tingling toes, lengthening limbs, belly drop.

Deep space. Limbs slowly flailing. Maybe she will be the first Mercy on the Moon? Before the Russians and the Americans. Go Mercy go. Collision, impact imminent, irresistible force meets immovable object. The immovable object is the wall of the cellar living room, blue painted cement with little sandy holes where the damp has bubbled through.

Mercy is the irresistible Force. As her back crumples into the wall the breath deserts her lungs. Every molecule of air runs out through her wide-open mouth in one big woosh. Molecules rotating, paint and sandy cement rolling onto Mercy’s green woollen jumper and swapping places with wisps of wool left clinging to the wall.

Mercy is too heavy to cling. Gravity is back, reasserting its authority. Dragging her down, earthbound. Arms out like a crucifix she is slipping down the wall towards the corner where it meets the floor. Concrete grey worn shiny by feet.

Mercy unzips her skin. The zip is made of bone and cartilage, like the toughest of fingernails interlaced along her skin. Starting at the depression between her collarbones and ending at her belly button. There is a faint thrum and purr as the teeth of her zip disengage from each other and open her up to the outside air. She pulls back the skin and climbs out of flesh and bones left crumpled on the floor. She climbs on air, solid like treacle up to the corner of the room, top right hand side. She watches. She is a gentle ball of floating light. Will she stay up here where it’s quiet or will she return. She looks down at what used to be her body. The vomit slowly rolling down the side of her face and pooling on the floor. She can see across to the charging bull in the trilby hat on the other side of the room. Nostrils breathing heavy cartoon air, horns growing out of the sides of its head filling the room. Up here Mercy is safe. In her corner, in another world, in another dimension.

Mercy doesn't know how long she is up there as time slides backwards and forwards over and under itself. Like an autumn leaf, she slides and floats back down into the body on the ground. The unzipped carcass seems cold. But she dips her spiritual toe into the belly like a hand into wet tripe. Then she slides her foot into the trouser leg. Toes re-inhabiting the skin. Arm wriggles into the flesh, her fingers fitting like a glove underneath the nails. She shuffles into the torso a slightly too tight dress. Flexing her newly inhabited fingers she rezips from the belly button up past the solar plexus to the collarbone. She is back. Her eyes do not focus yet. Perhaps because her glasses are gone, broken in the corner of the room.

Her lungs are out of action. Every ounce of air has been pushed from them. She waits as her skull wraps around her rattled brain like a bonnet. Connections remake, neurons refire, synapses are crossed and the message finally reaches her flattened lungs. Breathe.

She is reborn into a world of pain. Her lungs start-up like ancient bellows creaking open to haul air back into her body. Blood travels up and down taking oxygen around to the fingers toes and everything in between, spilling a little from the back of her head. Her taste buds spring to life and register acid vomit in her mouth and she coughs and spits. She lifts her head to see her Daddy turning on his leather heels and walking out of the room.

Flight

by Jane Adelakun

A world-weary woman once said that everyone leaves

And I’ve watched fragments of my heart depart

As I’ve waved from train platforms, security gates and car parks

Enough times to know that this is true

So when it was my time

I wasn’t going to leave you with empty platitudes

Or let you be kept company by frail promises

Ours was a farewell that required sacrifice

Nobody tells you that sometimes there’s grief in gain

And what we lost in the blessing demanded mourning

Insisted on recognition

So I made a martyr of what I had

Handed my widow’s offering to you

It was a teddy bear

Do you remember?

Black eyes cloudy with age

Once velvety fur matted with use

Limbs loose, seams splitting

But only you would recognise the grandiosity of the gesture

Because you knew my comfort companion well

In the days where stability was an abstract theory

And we were way too young to roam the streets as we did

He was the third party to our adventures

Witness to the memories we shared

So I entrusted him to you

A reminder that our magic was never just a fantasy

This parting gift

A goodbye too big for words to contain

And as I walked away

Nostalgia filled up the space between us

A tether across cultures and continents

Catching Flights not Feelings

by afshan d’souza-lodhi

Have you ever tried to take a photo of the moon? It sucks. It doesn’t matter how good the moon looks, or how good your lens is, the image never seems to be able to capture your experience of it. And yet we keep on trying to catch sight of it. Keep on trying to capture it. I feel the same way about sunrises. Whenever I travel, and I am privileged enough to be able to travel a lot, I find the highest point (or most often the prettiest and most accessible point) in the city so I can watch the sun rise.

I used to arrive an hour before the sunrise, sandwich and coffee in hand and set up my phone to take a time-lapse video of the sun’s rays penetrating the dark sky. On more than one occasion I missed the sunrise. Either the phone was angled too high, or too low or in one instance the camera was facing in the complete opposite direction to the sun, instead taking a time-lapse of the clouds doing their slow morning stroll. After dozens of failed videos, I now just go and sit in the cold and allow my body to wake with the city.

It’s a privilege to be this slow. To be able to time my breaths with the clouds that pass by.

I’ve tried explaining this to my parents and they don’t really understand it. Why would I spend so much money going to places to just sit and watch the very same sun rise from in between familiar clouds? They’re from a generation that see travel as a necessity. They travelled for business, or to see family, or to leave behind wars. They travelled to relocate because they were told [insert country here] had better job prospects. It’s how my parents met. Through a necessity.

In the 1990’s the Kashmir insurgency was at its peak and India-Pakistan relations had deteriorated. For my parents who are from opposite sides of the war, The United Arab Emirates became no man’s land. The Emirates allowed for them to meet, fall in love, get married and have me. My father travelled from Pakistan to Dubai as a young man and started his own business with his brother. My mother similarly left India as a young woman seeking better job prospects in Dubai. She eventually began working in a bank. They caught flights to find work and ended up catching feelings.

They then moved again because of necessity, this time to the UK and with me in tow. UAE law was not favourable to immigrants and my parents were painfully aware of how expensive and difficult our future would be in Dubai.

Growing up, I found that my parents preferred to spend money on visiting the many homelands we had: India, Pakistan and Dubai, then going to explore new places. It was less to do with a lack of curiosity and more to do with them prioritising family over superfluous travel. Any and all ‘holidays’ were spent going to see family and attending weddings, christenings, communions and funerals. They never felt like holidays.

It’s not that my parents never took part in sight-seeing, it’s just that the sight-seeing was always secondary to other things. It was never the primary activity. Perhaps they felt an uneasiness with just standing and looking at things in foreign places, the way that some people feel walking around art galleries, or perhaps it’s about spending money on just looking at things instead of doing.

As an adult, I’ve learned to be comfortable with the awkwardness that comes with solo travel. My first solo trip abroad was a work trip that I extended. Someone else paid for my flights there and back and for some of my accommodation. It felt like a free holiday. It wasn’t. I still had to pay for the

additional days I was there and fund my own daily expenses. But as it was booked into my calendar as a work trip, I felt less guilty about taking time off. I was so accustomed to working 7 days a week even during national holidays that the concept of travelling for pleasure felt unusual. I got used to it pretty quickly though. I got to know who I was in the way every cliché talks about. I ‘found myself’! In some ways I think I used to use travel as a way of running away from my feelings. It was easier to get on flights and see new places than it was to feel sadness or even heartbreak.

I figured out quickly that I If I wanted to travel to a particular country, I could justify it by finding something work related to do such as performing, or networking, or engaging with the art of that country. This way I could justify it to my parents. The trip could live in my calendar as a ‘work trip’ and I didn’t have to feel guilty about it.

Over the past few years, my parents have become accustomed to me travelling and merging work and pleasure together. They even encourage it. I have no children, no dependents to dictate my schedule and as freelancer my work is flexible. With a British Passport in my pocket, I travel because I want to, because I can, not because I need to. I catch flights out of desire. A desire to get out of England, to let the sun make love to my skin and to watch the sun rise from in between buildings. I want to see the world in between the guttering of the nine images on an Instagram grid.

As the world becomes more knowledgeable about climate change and its impact on our quality of life, catching flights to ‘see the world’ becomes an ethical problem. Studies have shown that the younger generations are not having children1 and aside from it being an issue for the economic stability of the country, it means that we have more time on our hands, and more disposable income. That paired with the increase in flexible working arrangements (thanks to the pandemic), we have even more time and money to catch flights. The younger generations are also known as the ‘sustainability generation’ 2 Collectively, as a generation, we are the most likely to make decisions based on our values and principles. This leads to the dilemma a lot of young people are facing: do I give into what my mind and body need, a trip abroad, or do I try and reduce my carbon footprint by not flying?

It has affected how I feel about travel. While I no longer feel guilty for taking time out for myself, I now feel guilty for adding to the global warming crisis. One way I’ve gotten round it is to spend more time away when I do go. That way the carbon footprint is spread out over a longer period of time. I don’t know how true that is, but I need it to be ok for me to fly around the world.

Like a lot of people my age ‘catching flights not feelings’ has become a motto with which we live our lives. It’s not something our parents would understand, but it’s how we make sense of the world. It’s how we disconnect from all the problems of the world. Someday, it would be nice to watch sunrises with my family. For now, I’m happy trekking by myself with a sandwich and a cup of coffee up a hill to see the city wake up. I won’t be taking any pictures of it though.

1Forbes Magazine 2018: https://www.forbes.com/sites/josephcoughlin/2018/06/11/millennials-arent-havingkids-heres-why-thats-a-problem-for-baby-boomer-real-estate-retirement/?sh=599cac5b2058

2 Forbes Magazine 2021: https://www.forbes.com/sites/gregpetro/2021/04/30/gen-z-is-emerging-as-thesustainability-generation/?sh=41d782378699

The Escape Bureau

by Dipika Mummery

I let the customer in and lock the door. She’s nervous, but they all are. Darting eyes, constant swallowing. The ghost of a bruise haunts one cheek.

‘I’m Nita,’ I say quietly, calmly. She nods. We go into the windowless back room, empty save for a cupboard.

‘It’s simple,’ I explain as I take out a pile of black cloth from the cupboard and unfold it. ‘You just close your eyes and think hard about where you want to go. The life that you want. Who you want to spend it with.’ I pause. ‘If anyone.’

The woman swallows again. ‘And that’s it?’ she asks.

I nod. ‘I’ll do the rest.’

Her watery blue eyes catch on the garment I’m holding in both hands. Customers are always fascinated by the intricate silver embroidery on the pitch black cloth. It’s the sparkle that they see first, then the hand-stitched letter.

‘What does it say?’ she asks, as I step close to her and bring the garment around her shoulders without placing it on them. She smells of perfume and sweat.

‘It’s a letter S,’ I say. ‘Now close your eyes.’

She looks puzzled, but does as I say. ‘S?’ she murmurs. ‘Why an S?’

I smile at the question. It comes every time. Some of them work it out, others don’t. Let’s just say that it’s my little joke.

‘Where are you going?’ I whisper. Her face settles into concentration. After a few moments, I place the heavy cloth on her shoulders. She twitches at my touch, but her eyes stay closed. I step back.

‘Good luck,’ I say, as the woman fades away and the S cape falls to the floor.

I pick it up and fold it carefully, ready for the next customer.

Tribute to Bessie Coleman

by Naomi Kalu

Who would not want to kiss the sky? Follow Jack’s beanstalk way up high?

Mingle with the giants and gods up there Zoom into the heavens – or at least try?

I’ve always searched for rainbows

I’ve always believed in the pot of gold

That’s stuffed with adventure and liberty, The stuff that can’t be bought or sold

Everyone wants to elevate

To wave to the earth goodbye

Air speed? Check. Chocks away!

Everyone wants to … …fly!

Contributors

Ronke Jane Adelakun

Ronke Jane Adelakun is an award-winning poet and spoken word artist. Her work explores themes of race, identity, and empowerment. She has been commissioned to write for organisations including Factory International, Black Ballad and Huffington Post, and her performances have been featured on BBC Radio Manchester.

Ali Al-Jamri

Ali Al-Jamri is one of Manchester’s Multilingual City Poets, a translator and educator. In 2021, He edited ArabLit Quarterly: FOLK and published Between Two Islands, an anthology of BritishBahraini poetry. He has been published in Modern Poetry in Translation, Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal, Harana, Bahr Magazine, Zindabad and his work has been featured at the Liverpool Arab Arts Festival and by the Manchester City of Literature. Twitter: @ali_mn_aljamri. Instagram: @alialjamri_scribbles

Deborah Black

My name is Deborah Ennis (maiden name), I have always loved writing as a child and this passion has never left me. I had my first short story published in 2022, which really boosted my confidence. I write and perform poems on a regular basis and truly enjoy being a wordsmith.

afshan d’souza-lodhi

Born in Dubai and forged in Manchester, afshan is a writer of scripts and poetry. Her debut collection ‘re:desire’ (Burning Eye Books) was longlisted for the Jhalak Prize (2021). She is currently part of the Royal Exchange and WarnerMedia writers exchange programme and is developing a series with Sky Studios with co-writer Guleraana Mir.

Daniella Edwards

Daniella Jade Edwards is a multi-talented artist specializing in both writing and developing creative arts. She is a writer, singer, actress, model, and drama workshop leader. Her unique selling point is that she has managed to, against all odds, develop both herself and her creative art. Daniella has a love of humanity: warm, open, and honest; these personal traits also inform her creative art.

Marcia Hutchinson

Marcia Hutchinson ran Primary Colours until 2014, which specialised in culturally diverse learning resources. She was awarded an MBE for services to Cultural Diversity in 2010. She has co-written The Blackbirds of St Giles which will be published by Simon and Schuster in 2025. She is also working on her debut novel ‘The Count’ which draws heavily on her political experiences as a Labour Party Councillor, as well as Mercy and The Laws of Physics, both Autofiction novels. She has also written for the Guardian and the Yorkshire Post among other publications, on race and diversity.

Naomi Kalu

Naomi Kalu is a young musician/songwriter from Oldham. She is interested in black history, and the lyrics and music of Lauryn Hill, John Legend, and Frank Ocean. The Bessie Coleman film was shot on a mobile phone in a local park one rainy afternoon, and she is flat out on an outdoor table-tennis table for duration of the shoot - no easy thing to do!

Dipika Mummery

Dipika Mummery (she/her) lives in Manchester and is a graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at The University of Manchester. Her short stories and flash pieces span genres including sci-fi, fantasy, realist fiction and horror. Her work has been published in print and online by Comma Press, Arachne Press, Fox & Windmill, Tasavvur, and Fly on the Wall Press. Dipika is currently working on her first novel.

Website: https://dipikawrites.wordpress.com/ Twitter: @dipikamummery

Clare Ramsaran

Clare Ramsaran holds a master’s degree in Creative Writing from the University of San Francisco. In 2022 she was longlisted for the SI Leeds Literary Prize for her first novel – Kala Polari. It follows Indo-Caribbean brothers who join other immigrants in 1950s London, in the pursuit of love (of the inter-racial and queer varieties) and justice.

Clare has been a Web Developer for the Mayor of London (Ken, not Boris…), a techie in Silicon Valley, and now in Manchester. Her creative writing has been published in anthologies and journals in Britain and the US.

Blog: clareramsaran.blogspot.com Twitter: @clareram

Crocus is the publishing wing of Commonword/Cultureword

A cross-genre publisher rooted in the North-West, we publish and celebrate excellent work from global majority and working-class writers. Crocus proudly distributes across print, performance and digital. In 2022 we are committed to helping writers find cutting-edge digital methods to both create and share their work.

We foster long-standing relationships with those we work with. From major poets such as John Siddique and Keisha Thompson, to the virtuoso crime fiction of Vijay Medtia, to the astonishing multimedia Twine stories of Juice Aleem, our publication platforms centre the diverse talents of promising writers – and bring those talents to a national audience.

Through Commonword/Cultureword, our writing development programmes nurture and support new writers, providing a springboard to literary success.

Thank you to our funders Arts Council England