Reflections
poetry.art. fiction.
Issue #1 Spring 2009
Reflections #1 Welcome to 'Reflections,' a new arts magazine which features poetry, fiction, visual art, music and nonfiction writing, from the South-West of England and beyond. There are no themes, no restrictions, no generic or stylistic boundaries: just work that the artist believes in. This is the first issue of the magazine, produced on shreds of shoestrings, but we reckon it's a good first try. We are based in Exeter- an amazing city, full of very creative artists and performers, and are proud to present some poems, prose and photography by: Matt Ashford: Matt writes poetry, fiction and playscripts. He is also one of the organisers behind the 'Umbrella Factory,' an eclectic performance event in Exeter. Vicky Franklin: Vicky has put her magical-realist novel on hold for now, and provides us with her epic 'Candytuft' series, a mix of Dickens, Thackeray, Chandler and Beatrix Potter. She is the subeditor of 'Reflections' magazine. Emily Ings: Emily is a photographer based in Devon. The images in this issue were taken in Devon and Cornwall using a pinhole Polaroid camera and featured in an exhibition of her work at Exeter Phoenix in 2008. Kirsten Irving: Kirsty lives in London. She is the editor of Fuselit and has had work published in Mimesis, Magma, the New Writer and Toad in Mud, among others. She likes octopuses, Wall-E and dorsimbras. We don't know what those are either. Natasha Kuler-von-der- Luhe: Tash is an Exeter-based artist who uses colour manipulation to highlight her rather ordinary subjects and infuse them with a sense of being extraordinary. She most often works with everyday urban settings and the natural world, but hopes to turn her lens toward human subjects in fantastical settings in 2009. Steve Smith: Steve has been writing and performing poetry since the early 1980s. In recent years he has produced two CD albums and a volume of selected works. A studio track features on the accompanying CD to Fuselit's 'Aquarium' issue. He also edits 'Reflections' magazine. Jon Stone: Jon is based in London. His work has been published in a variety of British and American journals, including Mimesis, The Wolf, Pomegranate and McSweeny's Internet Tendency. His debut collection is pencilled in as a release from bluechrome sometime in 2009/10 (depending on when he gets them a properly finished version). He has also both organised and read at various live events around London. Benjamin Akira Tallamy: Ben is a musician, songwriter, author and scriptwriter... and Steve covets several of his shirts. Ben has released his solo CD, 'The Melody of Distaste,' and is also a member of 'Catherine and the Owl.' Juliet Warry: After a few unsuccessful attempts at being creative musically, Juliet instead turned her hand to writing stories and poems. Now based in Bristol, she enjoys globetrotting, and mingling daydreams with chamomile tea. We hope you enjoy this first issue of 'Reflections:' get in contact to let us know what you think. Also, send us your own contributions, whether you are previously unpublished or incredibly famous! You can get in touch by emailing Steve at : stevesmithfragments@googlemail.com Also check out and join our Reflections Facebook group.
Benjamin Akira Tallamy Seventh Modal Her lips are lost to me, How it flickers; the memory fading, How it lingers; lowly light tossed Back and forth in hushed voices, Lurking like spectres with smiles of sleep, Her eyes are lost to me, How they hunger in thoughts of love, Thoughts forgotten and paced upon, A smile beyond meaning, Rots where none shall come to pass, Her arms are lost to me, Embraced in dreams and worlds of the skull, But unembraced so long now, The rise and fall of unseen breaths, Once heavy with sleep in these softer times, No more are the words tender or silent, Once locked in smiles and unseen gestures, She lifts the match from the flicker of the candle, Smoke that curls from her palm, Her love is lost to me, And so we close without mention, A flicker from thought, Before and evermore unseen, Touched; tamed and dragged away, With the softest breath of night.
Cellar Song Cain had a rock or so it is told, And through the days we find, That none could follow, For none would try. Cain had a rock and great things are done with stone my son, In ancient times there were those that spoke of paradise and those that spoke of gardens, And yet I believe, This time has not passed. I held a rock, And once; great things were done, But father I do not lie,
I do not even speak,
Instead now I know; I brought us life,
A death to defy you, My only father,
A death to defy the way things are made, My brother will know,
For in time all such things shall pass,
I walked a mile but he moved a mountain, And so you smiled, My only love.
Wreck Of The Eliza May. And so she sailed on in times of pitiless virtue, Bereaved and bare-bodied, She whispered through waves, Lifting her head ever higher, Voices wavered, Hopes belayed, All words seemed lost and loveless, Forever drowned beneath a blinding tide, In wasted hours, True sailing is but lost art, And the crack of the canvas, Shall deafen no ears, If ever she sailed, then let it be known, A wreck of ages is no refuge for hope, Aeons aside and months long suffered, True dreaming is dead, At mercy’s side there is safer mooring, And with such gentle sights, We bring about an end, A broken prow, Clenched in shadow, All is lost beyond the crash of scales.
Vicky Franklin Candytuft: Part One
A glance over the morning's headlines were all that Bobby needed to ascertain the facts. The local mob was getting out of hand and were now targeting local businesses with their threats and molotov cocktails. Personally he preferred White Russians but a look at the clock suggested that it was too early even for him. Something else was called for. A slowly smoked Gauloises with the excess smoke blown neatly towards the No Smoking sign on the far wall did the trick while he leant back in his faux leather executive's chair. It was while in deep contemplation of whether to call in to The Golden Pheasant or The Curried Parsnip for an extremely long lunch that his extension buzzed. “I know you didn't want to be disturbed Mr Angel but it's urgent.” “I doubt that Teresa but you might as well carry on.” Oh for the good old days of double agents and nights spent playing cards and drinking cheap whisky. Now if he so much as coughed then Health And Safety In The Workplace swooped on him brandishing ring binders pointing out that such behaviour created noise pollution and anti socialism. “So I told him that of course you'd help,who else is possibly up to the job?” “What?” Before he could ask Teresa to repeat herself the receiver had been dropped and he could hear voices coming from the outer office. As quickly as possible Bobby dashed to the mirror to straighten his cravat and try to flatten his top fin. His reflection showed a rather handsome Angel fish clad in a well cut grey suit with a white rose in the buttonhole. As long as the client didn't get too close then the bags beneath his eyes would not be too apparent. Most people's image of a private detective would probably be someone wearing a grubby mac who loitered on street corners; in this case nothing could be further from the truth. Bobby believed in good presentation because if you looked smart then the client trusted you and would be willing to pay more than the going rate. As for lurking under lamp posts, he had discovered that some of the best clues were found inside a comfortable drinking establishment or restaurant where long range binoculars saved a lot of leg work. It took him a moment to recognise the ginger guinea pig shuffling across the threadbare carpet towards him. One of his paws clutched a pork pie hat while the other held a brick wrapped in paper and secured with a rather tatty elastic band. “It's Mustard isn't it?” “That's right Mr Angel,sir. Mustard's the name and sharp as mustard's the game as you might say.” “I thought you were doing 18 months inside for forgery?” “The witness statements turned out to be vicious lies so the pigs saw sense and I was pardoned.” He accompanied this last word with a deep bow, almost toppling over. “Mmm..,” Bobby drained the remnants of his hot chocolate and opened his notebook to a clean page. “So what can I do for you?”. The guinea pig held up the house brick. “A friend of mine received this in the post this morning.” He dropped it on to the nearby desk with a thud, Bobby whipped a small magnifying glass from his inside pocket and moved closer to examine it. “So was it thrown through the window?” “No sir, it came through the mail as I said.” Mustard pointed to the stamps plastered to one side of it. “That must have cost them a fair bit to send!” The detective pulled off the rubber band and unfolded the dirty sheet of paper. On it was a message comprised of words cut from various publications, which had been glued on rather crookedly in places. “I don't think much of their grammar; if you're going to send a threatening letter at least make it readable.” After copying the words onto his blotter and adding his own punctuation, Bobby managed to work out that unless Augustus [ the owner of the ice-cream parlour ] paid up before the end of the week, they would sabotage his freezers so all his stock melted. The most obvious course of action was to question the local crooks and see if any information was let slip. “I don't know nothing Bobby, swear on me old Ma's basket.” Stanley the fat Persian kitten crossed himself before taking a gulp from the bottle of milk he was holding in his paw. “Well I hope not Stan. I know you're partial to a bit of fencing, but it would be shameful to your family if you were demanding money threatening local people.”
Stanley toyed delicately with his whiskers before adjusting the fit of his gold bracelet. “If I hear anything I'll let you know. Cat's honour.” With a flick of his tail he ran off into the crowd, trying to be as incognito as anybody wearing a Hawaiian shirt could possibly hope to be. Bobby spoke to some of the street vendors: most of them had heard about the incident but couldn't say who was responsible. “Probably lads,” was the opinion of the man who pushed the stripy sock cart. “You know what they're like, a bit of fun becomes something more.” Bobby's reply to this was that most teenagers probably had better places to go than the local ice-cream parlour. “Well, we've all heard what these artificial colourings can do, probably sent them crazy!” By the evening, Bobby had had enough of the stupid comments offered by the general public and taken refuge in “The Four Monkeys.” It wasn't the cleanest of pubs but it was cheap, and if he wanted a sandwich it wouldn't come in rustic bread that he couldn't bite into or be covered in limp pieces of fancy lettuce. “Hard day at the office? Tell you what, I'll swap jobs with you. I'll sit in a comfy chair while you make small talk with all the local piss-heads.” The barman carried on drying glasses on a stained bar-towel while Bobby laid his head on the bar and groaned. “It's a deal. You'll probably have more luck than I've had.” He carried his pint over to a corner, opened out a copy of the local paper and pretended to read it. To a casual passer by they would see a trilby-wearing fish engrossed in what ever gossip the paper had invented but closer inspection would reveal the existence of two eye holes cunningly cut out for Bobby to watch the room through unobserved. After nearly half an hour all he had seen was a woman slip an ashtray in to her handbag. By eleven o'clock he was tired and disheartened, deciding the best thing to do was to sleep on the problem and see if it became any clearer in the morning. The only way home was across Cathedral Green from where a fierce wind was bombarding him with rain. It was while he was passing the statue of The Noble Scholar that he realised he wasn't the only person out and about in such dire weather. “Stick em up. Nice and slow now, don't go getting any fancy ideas of bravery.” In the small of his back he could feel something that could have been either a pistol or a pea shooter. Another fish might have tried to challenge the assailant but he had only recently purchased the suit he was wearing and didn't want it ruined. He was also regretting having that last chaser of brandy to brace himself against the cold. “Turn around.” The pressure increased slightly. “And let's keep those hands high.” Though stumbling a little, Bobby managed to comply and found himself facing empty space. “Down here.” A prod in the midriff brought his gaze down to a black rabbit sat on top of the low wall running alongside. As you might by now have guessed, Candytuft was no ordinary rabbit. She was in fact a much respected member of The Highwaymen's Association with the purple velvet bandit mask she wore an indication of her rank. On the ground nearby sat a matching bag with the word 'Swag' emblazoned across it in curly gold lettering. She tapped her foot impatiently. How much longer would he continue to stare open mouthed at her? Did he not consider that maybe she had other places to be on a night like this after having been sat waiting in prickly bushes for several hours. All she wanted to do was pass on her message and go home. A glass of home-made wine and a flick through 'Thieves' Weekly' before hitting the hay. It was the cocking of a pistol that brought Bobby back from a reverie where he had almost convinced himself that this was a dream and he was probably sprawled across the the floor of the pub. “What do you want? I haven't got any money.” He pulled out the linings of his pockets to prove this but only succeeded in making Candytuft stick her cap gun right in his face. “Just listen then: no- one will get hurt and we can go our separate ways.” With her free paw she wrapped her travelling cloak more securely around her body to keep out the rain. “I hear that you're on the trail of the intimidation gang.” Bobby nodded cautiously; the slightest movement was causing him to feel queasy. “Look under the ground for those that hide from the daylight.” “What do you mean?” Candytuft sighed and scratched her nose. “Obviously the rumours I've heard concerning your intelligence are grossly exaggerated. I'm afraid I haven't got the time to make some flashcards so in the simplest language possible. Go and visit The Hit-Munks.” To be continued...
Kirsten Irving I am a humbug (a cover of ‘The Man Who Corrupted Hadleyberg’ by Mark Twain) It jumps you on the way home, holds on, tells you it's going GNNNFF to kill you, then is gone. The penny drops. I'm a fraud. You start to question everything, from why NOT murder? to whether, since you were delirious with pain at the time, that child is even yours. To whether that weighty burlap bundle entrusted to you for despatch wouldn't look better remaining here. And we are so poor! The imagination darts about as if crosshared. How? Honour, for Pete's! But we are SO poor! No! Even now, as you dump down the sack, unopened, you slap away demons. The red wine won't come out of the covers. You thought it. Damn it. And damn you. A mane of straight white hair There it goes. See, what I did was tape it to a kite, the better to show it off. You're only five foot two, after all. That's really no platform to hang unicorn silk from. You'll thank me. Reports have reached HQ that the ponytail sailed over Finland two days ago, kickstarting a few dormant myths. The US believe it's a promo for Fox. Had they seen it on you, they'd have said nothing, or maybe "Wow. gray at eighteen. Sucks." As it navigated Cuba, it inspired protest and gunshot. Tribes from the hardest geography quizzes have deified it. All this as you chew panini in some cafe as it rains, wincing as you stroke your prickly scalp.
Sigyn Kills Time So get out of this one, Wizard. Never ones to do things by halves, they’ve pretty much stitched you as tight as can be. As tight as your lips that time, thick crisscrossed twine scribbling out your speech, dots of red where the needle dove pitilessly into your face. Thank me for my unpicker. For not saying “I told you so”. If you find yourself in a grateful state of mind, thank me also for running here to this rock where stringy parts of our son bind you. Thank me for selecting the biggest bowl in the larder to hold like an umbrella between the serpent’s drips and your face. If not for staying, thank me for my choice of crockery, the extra inch of rim granting fewer dashes to empty its contents onto balding patches where nothing will grow, returning to find you splashed, eyes fizzing, screeching a hundred names, rarely mine. The following Hanne stepped to my side last Easter. I was slugging a milkshake I think. She bought a milkshake too, genuflected and kissed the cup. Two months into Hanne's vigil, Jed showed up. Stood in my garden in pyjamas just like mine. Began with shoulder length frizz and shaved it to match my buzzcut the next day, almost ashamed to have missed the detail. I read trash. They bought all formats. I tried putting on the music I'd normally hate. They bought that and scorned it and still craned to listen. Jed began building a miniature church from mixed shed remainders. In a few days, my lawn was a festival of faces held up to my window, like dishes by teenage boys. I asked them why, and if they could stop squashing my sunflowers. No answer, but the sunflowers became a totem.
Told them to go home and leave me alone. “Go home,” was painted on the church door, “leave me alone” on the roof. The birds stopped coming, afraid of being sacrificed by the smiling silents. “I liked those birds!” I complained. They made me a misshapen finch out of wire and ivy. I tried to leave and sell up. They stopped me at the gate, quizzing me with strokes. I hollered “but I'm just like you! Why don't you make one of you lot your idol?” Then Hanne stepped forward. “an excellent idea.” “Well maybe not her. She's nuts,” I conceded. Hanne smiled. “Burn the infidel.”
Natasha Kuler -von-der-Luhe
Juliet Warry constellations under the ceiling Velvety lips blush pink like carnations, brush over freckles in constellation, dot-to-dot, tongues tracing the stars, bright eyes further away than Mars. Beads of dew on glistening skin, prickling, tickling as heat kicks in. Falling, floating, at the same time, sweet and sharp like sugar and lime. Waves lap the banks of endless space, still delicate like handmade lace, build into swells of smooth black silk, folding round skin as white as milk. Stars shoot through deadened nerves, sparklers searing up and down curves, flare like fireworks in a twilight sky, blazing out through blind naked eyes.
Lapis Lazuli We rest on the shore, cool from a swim. I lie on top raining waterdrops. A crimson sky begins to dim. I slide tighter to your skin that's smooth and sleek as a white shark's fin. I soar and sink on a soft heartbeat as night sweeps in like a black-out sheet flung on the sky; a sequinned veil that mirrors the lake all spangled with scales, buzzing sub-surface like dragonflies: scattering fish as the whales cry. Shears are slicing the sun's last threads. Slowly we raise our hazy heads, watch moonbeams burning through a cloud-break spill a yellow pathway on the lake. Our skin glows silver on the sand. You lift me to stand, clasping my hand. Just a few steps from where we lay, We're at the edge of the yellow pathway. I tread carefully as if onto glass and my mind starts to unravel fast, wondering if this could really be right: I thought it was just a trick of the light.
Stepping silently across the lake we leave no footprints in our wake. The pathway ripples under our feet and yet it's as real as hard concrete. Now I glance back toward the land, and think if I were to drop your hand, fall through the path into dark navywould you leave it too, and save me?
Matt Ashford Runaway it is as though challenging batten down remember crammed am remember your coal furnace, gladly stoked ... tired of remembrances possibly of devoidance sick (sic) but absence holds still like repetition and a gloat I can hear ... here sprained-facial. A puddle on kitchen or facial bath just suppose a vanity mirror swings don't you suppose cracked as though bruised
out
Emily Ings
Steven Michael Smith January#1 (for Adrian Mitchell) Eleven o'clock The sky January grey, Mist plumes from my mouth Others slip on ice, Bare tree branches score the sky Birdsong lusts and warns Hills and houses haze, Closer the pinus negra Black-green reaffirms --I am sitting on the outside, Braving mild cold, calm-seeking to tell myself my ramblings, Inconsequential. I am not braving the freeze of fear Of bombs that tear The dear in pain Unrelenting. I just sip my beer. Inhale. Exhale smoke and mist. My three children live. I gaze on winter beauty. My worries are nothing On this immense grain Of sand. Our land, For all the encroachment Of curtailment Of liberty Is freer yet, So, I guess, There is cause, Iguess, To be glad. So spare the expense of empathy, Worry about the freeze, Despair the bleak economy, Wish on a magic bean, And tell me yet more lies. --Twelve o'clock passes As I have taken refuge In safety of thought
I close in wrap warm And turn newspaper pages In honest concern Ten corpses inside And more dozens in rubble Of the family home Hoopern Valley The gorse flowered here In my endlessly recreated memory; Now the tangle of twigs, The curious damp-and-crispness Of leaves show a certain age As I bid good-day To the lone magpie. Lichen yellows and ivy beards, Nettles struggle and the keys of leaves hang Still, in no breeze; The movement is of birds In the periphery of vision, The sound is of distant Construction, and the Somewhere buzz of saws. This is my valley. This is my excuse. This is my escape; Where children do not want to leavePicture a picnic of sausage-sandwiches And crossing streams, cowpats And mud, Wary squirrel-acrobats, The varied repetition of birdsong, Distant purple dreams of hillsides, A pocketwatch hung in sepia From a once-known bough, Disguised now in the lack of leaf, Its tick echoing yet.
JUST
as the backhand slides as you ride the river as in our hearts are flowers wrapping shards of wizards' glass as the wind is tuneless as you awake as the sun picks out the last of the green on the tree by the brook as weeping queues lengthen as echoes unfold as the dream is broken and the hail razors your cheek I see the small whirlWinds of leaves that dance around Corners of buildings
Landscape (from 'Suppositions') “Where do you want to go?” “Let's go back. Back to where it all started; well some of it anyway.” “Elmfield House, you mean?” “It's not called that now of course. Yes, let's go there. It's cheap.” “Ironic, really.” We walked down Mount Pleasant and along Union Road, towards the university. It's an ancient ridgeway, seen sheep and soldiers, architecturally only Victorian onwards. Students up and down, today. There was, is, a cholera pit around here; I can't remember exactly where. Then we turn off to walk along the footpath through Hoopern Valley, into a whole different landscape. What is landscape? An expanse of natural scenery seen in one view? A picture of natural inland scenery? Yet how do we view landscape? We view landscape through our eyes. We can view landscape through the eye of a camera. We can view landscape through the eyes of other people; the eyes of artists long since dead as we study their paintings, their drawings, their photographs and words that conjure landscapes in our minds. Landscapes are always framed. Our eyes are always limited by the peripheries of our vision. The camera frames a field of space. The artist's canvas has a perimeter. Windows frame so many of our views, as we look out from our homes and hotels; landscapes change before us as we look out of car, coach and train windows as we journey. Aeroplanes too. We glimpse landscapes through bare tree branches. Landscapes themselves change. They change over time: sometimes slowly, over the course of millennia as a river erodes a valley; sometimes quickly, as when buildings are constructed over a period of months in what had been a meadow. We can walk, in a matter of minutes, from an urban landscape into a rural one, retracing the steps of ghosts. We interact with landscape. We do so with our memories; as adults we can revisit scenes where we played as children and reflect on the emotions thus produced. Landscapes can cause us to smile, cry and contemplate. They can take our breath away. We interact physically with landscape. We can sculpt it, get our hands dirty. We can alter it; we can protect or destroy it. We live within landscape; it surrounds us, yet we cannot see it all. It is late October. A mist thickens over Exwick and the hills beyond, gently-fuzzing outlines of trees, awaiting the grid-click of amber streetlights to come. We sit awhile, on the wooden step below what used to be a timber stile, now a greymetal gate, factory meshed, and sit in our own silence.. Rusted barbwire decays. Whippystalks of bramble trail. Paint this o painters of English deciduous woodland. The pen cannot fix the beauty of the autumn leaf. These are the shades of an ageing yet a promise of rebirth. Have we all got to hold on to that? Instead, maybe just feel the moment. Get lost in it. The more you look, the more abstract it seems, as the light slowly fades and... what was that poem? This valley, this slowly-gentle rent in the earth, its steep sides tussocked, its watercourse lined with the most charismatic oak and sometime willow, like a moat, an earthwork of Gaia, protecting nothing yet all. An ivory tower. We walk further along the path. It's a good place to see bats at dusk, figure-eighting the man-channelled clearing, and in Springtime it is bright with territorial birdsong. Blue bells and nettles. You are not narcissus. Your own thorns cut you, Your bells toll blue And your garland wreathes, Yet dawn brings the kiss Of a dewdrop to your petal And you curl, uncurl, Curl.
Jon Stone Sleeper Leaner and less greedy than Philby and co. he meets me at a place we’re both familiar with. He’s hard to recognise from his passport photo, still easy to locate for such a xenolith: Toshiro Mifune’s beard and teeth, McGoohan’s navy turtleneck and jacket – an eyepatch’d suit him, or a scar just beneath the cheekbone. He sits sheltered from the racket, hands on a book, eyes on the clock (those eyes, at 51, only just going, so getting used to glasses, though his usual look – the Dutch cigar and single malt, the throwing glances like torn tickets through the thick smoke – ‘s very much in force). My ears’re keen, since I owe him them – and I remember last time we spoke when our mutual mistrust led to a scene. His information’s detailed. Diagrams and blueprints. His opinions well delivered. I sift through, murmuring approval. We’re a couple of skinflints when it comes to compliments. It’s also true that we are not known for our dangerous capers and we’re not the most efficient of war cabinets. He’s quick to knock ash on the secret papers and change the subject to the Plantagenets.
The Woman Obscured No one has pursued you more doggedly Nor with more sly ingenuity Through all your deserts, into the sun, down the shaft of the needle, onto the back of your naked life, treating you like a wild bull A calm night, a warm room – made bed, breathspace, suspended array! Then she’s back again, like the rain on the skylight, or the frantic intruder, trashing the place in search of the files on your heart! Who is she? The ghost of a past life’s lover? Vengeance of a girl betrayed? Who have you betrayed? Think, man! Before she hooks you again, through the mouth of another, tender woman – right into your lip, and drags you up shining rapids Before, with a swift cue action, she pots you, with a crack, right in the heart of the pocket of your heart!
One day, sipping your hot water like Brancusi, you spy her from your window – the veil! Nightshirt billowing, you thunder downstairs, out onto the street. Where? Ahead! She slips across the tramlines, and you start to follow, but a taxi sends you spinning into a vast puddle Blast! You pound the water with a fist
Caligula on the Couch (note: this poem was wrought before the timetable in Liverpool Street station was replaced with a disappointing digital variation) He said to her: I’ve ruled not one, but two whole empires – count ‘em – yet the feeling that it’s not enough hangs round here like some phantom. I rationalise, I hold aloft the naked truth like a lantern but the ghost’s got pangs like Phineas and its played by Harry Dean Stanton. The crux is: though life (sigh)’s a pig, a flagship held in drydock, the world’s a stage of tears, blah blah, I’m not too keen to die, doc! Since what’s the use of fighting off contenders for the prize if the victor has to give it all up when he dies? At Liverpool Street Station I stood trembling in my rayons under the departures board like I was at a séance. The times and destinations riffled like a tarot deck or wheel of fortune – clackety-clack – and me a nervous wreck. I s’pose I was expecting something almost this unpleasant: instead of Norwich, Cambridge, Braintree, Colchester or Cheshunt, up came death and death-on-death, deathdeathborough, deathchester! I swore and kicked my briefcase, and was not the lone protester. To my left and right the ranks of travellers stood steeled against the scam, as furious as flash-fires in a field. They could not have felt more cheated if the claret in their chalice had a hidden kick of hemlock or was laced with digitalis. And just as, when disaster strikes, men hurry to apportion blame, when facing death they try to get off with a caution, or still more cunningly, attempt to broke a sordid deal. I realised then, and tell you now, it’s this that stokes their zeal. Heads in freezers! Heads in freezers! All the world is rife with plots to outlive such diseases as old age and life, and each desire to conquer is as mad as great-great-granddad Caesar’s was – it frightens the bejeezus out of me, by Jove! Bring me scissors, anaesthetic, summon sum’n who’s good with a knife. No half measures! This pathetic longing’s got to be hacked, by Jove, out, out, out of my own heart’s grove. These weren’t my thoughts at first, you know. I saw it as defiance, felt like a pint-sized hero in my own Land of the Giants, like a racist squaring off against the foreign tide, like anyone who’s got their heart set on tyrannicide
Caligula, old boy, I said, you’re deadlier than Bethnal Green’s own gangster twins, old chap, you’re gunna ring death’s death knell (And don’t we all go charging, whether stupid or in love, to stall that last-ditch cowering, the hands-up ‘not-me-guv’?) But I quickly got fed up with every other desperado who seemed to have the same idea and equalled my bravado, which constitutes most anyone whichever way you lunge O quantum est hominum beatiorum! Plus ça change In fact, your lonely Emperor was nothing but a Johnnycome-lately, would you credit it, to this mulligatawny of daring escapology – their plans had been in motion since the late Cretaceous, plans to put the old kibosh on Thanatos, like Sisyphus, that tricky little swine, did. Boulderbrain, a roll model? I doubt he would’ve minded! But uh, the kind of projects all these Sisyfans are bent on seeing through, they’re all demented, 100%. In fact, I made a list and brought my spiral notebook, sister – how’s about you read it through while I take a siesta? No? You want it from my lips? “What else does she want from his lips?” the patient wonders. No more letching, doc, I promise! But Heads in freezers! Heads in freezers! All the world is rife with plots to outlive such diseases as old age and life, and each desire to conquer is as mad as great-great-granddad Caesar’s was – it frightens the bejeezus out of me, by Jove! Bring me scissors, anaesthetic, summon sum’n who’s good with a knife. No half measures! This pathetic longing’s got to be hacked, by Jove, out, out, out of my own heart’s grove. The list? The list! It starts with the least crazed, the most concrete – and don’t think it’s exhaustive or by any means complete – but 1) the rut of barons, rich as I, who use their hoarded wealth to startle scientists – “You’ll be well rewarded if you pledge your brains to this high cause – I’m shitting bricks – work out how a man like me can dodge the river Styx!” Think that’s the stuff of movies? Doc, I swear it ain’t. There’s not a one of the super-rich who learned the word ‘restraint’. 2) The ones who, lacking wealth, an aptitude for science or any means to change the cosmos, join in an alliance to fool themselves (and hopefully the Universe as well) into thinking we’re all marched from this life – schnell, schnell! – to another where we languor in a stagnant state, punished or rewarded by The Jumped-Up Magistrate. 3) (And now we’re getting to the bona-fide head cases) Those who feel it counts if just a part of them, a trace’s still intact beyond their expiration date – a spark, a smudge of DNA inside a vial inside an ark. For them, y’see, departing’s not the real affront. What’s rotten is in a trice you’ve never lived at all – you’ve been forgotten! “This shouldn’t be!” the victims wail. And yea, their plans unfold, plans to etch their names into the schooldesk of the world.
For some a child’s enough; for others, five or six. For some it’s critical the kids go through a strict curriculum. (I know it’s round about the time for my next outburst-chorus. Believe me, doc, the urge is on me like a psychosaurus. But number three’s important, so perk up, prick up those elfin ears, Frau Caligorgeous – it’s the one I put myself in.) As I say, for some stage two’s to drill the kids for years to be like them, uphold the name, be more than DNA smears. Others gun for infamy – the Khans and Bonapartes, cabalists and most of those who go into the arts. Armed with peer approval and some self-important bollocks, they loot the town for subject matter, eel-jawed Eli Wallachs who see themselves as more akin to fresh-faced Horst Bucholz: innocent, courageous, pure of heart for all their faults. Heads in freezers! Heads in freezers! All the world is rife with plots to outlive such diseases as old age and life, and each desire to conquer is as mad as great-great-granddad Caesar’s was – it frightens the bejeezus out of me, by Jove! Bring me scissors, anaesthetic, summon sum’n who’s good with a knife. No half measures! This pathetic longing’s got to be hacked, by Jove, out, out, out of my own heart’s grove. Pluck me from this fug, this trance, this palsy-esque mindfog. What’ll cure what ails me, my sweet neo-mystagogue? Genocide, vivicide, cosmocide, or deicide? Matripatrisiblicide? I dunno, doc, you decide. I should be gone completely when it’s time to blow this party. Oh, to blazes with posterity and feeble dismembratio of soul and carcass; ‘atomised’s the only proper status. No legacy, no monument, no death-put-on-hiatus. Great to get that off my chest. Now … I’ve got a few hundred on me – How’s about the two of us abandon with this money and put it on Black Death at the 3.30 down at Haydock then stay up watching second-rate Disney movies – whaddya say, doc?
Night Ferry Men and women are clumps of coal on and under every step, for the length and breadth of the vessel. Massed, squeezed on. It is hot with bodies, even outside, where you can smell the steel. In First Class, the pretty Dutch girl and I agree to watch each other sleep, in turns, for no other reason than we like to look, and will part when we reach Dar. “At even the smallest encounter,” she says, “Do not hold back.”
Introducing The Tabernacle Arts Café… by Fin Irwin If I were to choose one word to describe the ideology behind this project it would be 'inspire'. I have been in Exeter now for seven years and I love it here, but I'm a creative person, I'm a passionate person and I'm ambitious and I've struggled to find reason to stay. I go to Bristol, I go to London and I see opportunity and passion and I think, if only Exeter was like that… but I get back here and I realise we can't be like the big cities because we're not a big city, we're little old Exeter. But let me tell you, as if you're not already aware… Exeter is full of amazing people. That's why I'm still here and that why I'm going to open The Tabernacle Arts Café - to inspire these amazing people, to offer them the opportunities to explore their creativity and to vent their passions. The Tabernacle Arts Café will, providing everything goes to plan, open in early spring of 2009. It will house two large studios for workshops, classes and rehearsals; two small offices for start-up businesses in the creative sector and a large café/bar/performance area. The Tabernacle Arts Café CIC is a not-for-profit social enterprise, which means we're not out to make as much money as we can. We will be there to offer affordable space and the opportunity to perform, to experience performance or to simply kick back and enjoy a good cup of coffee. In terms of what is important to me, what I want to create and offer access is paramount. I want the Tabernacle Arts Café to be accessible to all. I wish to create a community within the wider community, where students, young professionals, retired couples, young mothers, refugees, artists, musicians, business men and women; the entire demographic of Exeter can come, feel welcome and experience some performance or simply relax with a cup of coffee and a book. I hope for The Tabernacle Arts Café to become a prominent figure in the community and cultural development of Exeter. I am very passionate about art, music and performance as well as promoting social wellbeing and most importantly respect. I want this venue to act as a common ground where people from all walks of life can converge under one roof, with a mutual respect for the arts and each other.
More details, including fundraising events the mission statement and ways to get involved can be found on our Facebook group or at www.tabernaclecafe.co.uk
The Next Issue of 'Reflections' will appear in Summer 2009. We need poetry, short fiction, photography and other forms of visual art, non-fiction writing ... or mixtures of any of the above! You can email submissions to stevesmithfragments@googlemail.com, or contact us via the 'Reflections' magazine Facebook group. Please feel free to send us any ideas or comments, and mention us to your friends. After all, we've never done this sort of thing before! 'Reflections' is a non-profit making journal- it will be fine to break even, but any extra money will be used to make future issues bigger, brighter, and more professional in design, so as to grace your bookshelves proudly!
Be seeing you!
Natasha Kuler-von-der-Luhe
All work is the copyright of the authors and artists Front cover photograph by Natasha Kuler-von-der-Luhe Back cover photograph by Emily Ings For further information: Matt Ashford: umbrellafactory@yahoo.co.uk Vicky Franklin: jemmimamai@googlemail.com Kirsten Irving: www.fuselit.com Emily Ings: dhorn@hotmail.co.uk Natasha Kuler-von-der-Luhe: www.myspace.com/buttersidedownuk Steve Smith: stevesmithfragments@googlemail.com Jon Stone: www.fuselit.com Ben Tallamy: www.bentallamy.com Juliet Warry: via 'Reflections' Facebook group