Forge Zine Autumn 2021

Forge Zine

@ForgeZine

@ForgeZine

@forgezine

issuu.com/ forgzine

Autumn Edition Peak inside for a splash of spooky

#13

Editor's Ramble Hello and welcome back to another Forge Zine! We have quite a few new contributors for you this time. But first, some poems to remind you about the good things about this time of year. As well as another addition of Paul Whelan's Digital Magirtte series.

We also have another wonderful recipe for you from ErrolGraham Harsley and his history of edibles, as well as Amy Bobeda's latest addition to the Twice Told Tales series.

As it's Autumn and the nights are drawing in we decided to bring you a selection of autumnal delights and pure spooky tales to really make you feel uncomfortable in the dark.

Autumn Poetry Late Summer Evening

By Helen Openshaw

I quietly slide the key from behind The plate on the dresser And steal a moment in the coming twilight.

Red apples glow like fairy lights Amongst the gnarled branches, As though gently calling the nights to draw in.

Draw in! Draw in!

Winding path

By Teri Anderson

Now August is shaking off the dusty

Summer shimmer that can no longer Walking down a winding path Hold our attention.

Feet aching with torn skin The longer shadows pull, Feeling like I need a warm bath Leading us to heady Autumn days.

But don’t want to give in

The trees are starting to thin The mud is becoming soggy I want to be the sin But my mind is becoming boggy

Where have the rich colours gone?

From the Twice Told Tales series Amy Bobeda

Two Poems by

Sadie Maskery

Conversation with a yummy I'm thinking about wild swimming.

My spin instructor recommended sea-water, really getting submerged and all the nature thing.

Dolphins, apparently.

Or endorphins. Anyway.

He said his metabolism surged and there was a special breathing exercise regime, mummy does it but I don't know why, something with her yoga, but there is a definite benefit, Rodriguez looks super fit.

Bad Coffee

A billion futures layered, made a molten blade of black damascus steel swirling, bitter edged with blessed poison to be drunk to the dregs.

I feel it stain my smile, my throat, my soul.

Hell, it burns … drink it scalding, feel that pain to know you are alive; and pretend it tastes as good as its fragrance promised, the unholy smoky scent that made you open crusted eyes and slur, 'Here's to another day.'

Shedding Summer

By Claire Loader

When the wind shifts I breathe a sigh, readying the sweat and toil of summer to discard it.

Long days lazing, picnics by the weir – threading the hours together like leaves, shedding each frond, each loss in a spree of colour.

Two’s Company

By Sarah Robin

Promise of Return

By James Reitter

I name leaves on trees by tens, even hundreds.

Hope, Love, Compassion still cling to branches strong against wind & rain.

They chatter amongst themselves, slapping in celebration of hanging around. Names like Death, Hunger, Fear have long since dropped off in defeat to be mulched or buried.

This will happen w/ Wonder w/ Patience w/ Satisfaction as well until branches lay bare.

I sit outside in my winter clothes and a blanket over my lap.

Red breast and bright eyes, you perch on the table next to me Sharing my sandwich while I sip a cup of tea Peacefully, my favourite part of each day.

October

By Sarah Robin

The crunch of leaves underfoot, Dew-damp grass in glowing light, A tang of woodsmoke and ripening compost Tell us that the seasons have shifted.

This step into October Is every gardeners’ new year As the natural cycle propels us forward.

Now is the time to turn dreams into reality.

The seasonal shift and dropping Temperatures herald a change of pace, But our gardens remain hives of activity, Though often underground and out of sight

As plants reset for the year ahead And wildlife seeks out spaces for hibernation.

It’s a great excuse to get outside And tune into the season unfurling before us.

Errol's Vintage Edibles Cinnamon is considered one of the first spices that were traded in the Ancient World. It was name dropped in the Hebrew Bible too, under its Hebrew name Kannamon.

It was considered one of the best gifts to give to a Monarch or to the Gods as it was on the same value level as gold. It was so precious that as an act of remorse Emperor Nero ordered a year's supply of cinnamon to be burnt after he murdered his wife, sacrificing vast wealth to prove his remorse.

However Ancient Egyptians also used it in embalming practices as a preservative and aromatic. From the Middle Ages it was used as a treatment for the common cold, sore throats, fevers and general hoarseness when brewed as a tea. In Chinese medicine it is used more as a daily medicine to keep your complexion nice and clear.

So I think it's safe to say during the beginning of the long, cold nights of autumn, let's have a brew!

1) Start by steeping one stick of cinnamon in a cup of hot water for around 7 minutes.

2) Add a black leaf tea bag to the mug, leave for for 1-3 minutes.

3) Stir in honey to taste and voila! Cinnamon tea, to cure what ails you, even if you’re just a bit rough around the edges or fancy getting a head start on the embalming process.

Tasty Cinnamon Challange

Two Poems by George Freek Inspired by early Chinese Poetry

BANALITY (After Tu Fu) My mind is on banal things.

That leaf falling from that tree is reality to me.

BY THE RIVER (After Li Po) And the moon, as I see it,

is only in my mind. Yet, A cool breeze rustles leaves.

I think there’s another moon, A few boats move downstream. beyond my thinking, Stars dimly light the sky. which I can never find.

The moon is distant, I hear a night bird yet seems nearby. Its beams singing in a far-off tree, ripple on the waves, which I can’t see, drifting, I can’t say where. singing a haunting melody.

They flow with the river, I’m afraid I’ve grown old, as vague as my feeling of despair. staring at that moon, Half awake, half dreaming, and looking for birds, which I doze fitfully in the chilly air. care nothing at all about me.

Rain interrupts my

uneasy dreams. I think life is often exactly what it seems.

I watch a drunk stagger along the distant shore.

I’m like he is, I want a glass of wine, but I fear I need much more.

My Daughter Asks About the Afterlife

By Angharad Williams

What if the fallen acorns, strewn and exploded like popped corn underfoot, end up as ghosts of these unrealised oak trees?

You ask me is there a tree heaven, seed heaven, leaf heaven?

They can’t root through the path, so do they haunt it?

I tell you they really need the right conditions, water, good soil with worms, and care.

Some things do flourish in the hard places but they shouldn’t have to.

We imagine a tree heaven, a sprawling mansion, a room for every cracked nut and leaf skeletons floating around hallways.

So now the green brown innards, their crunching broken sound is just a happy epitaph to our walk.

Digital Magritte series Paul Whelan

Spooky Stories

SPECIAL SPOOKY SECTION

remember them nineties witches drinking midnight margaritas in kitchens and riding reluctant vacuum cleaners

By Emma Filtness

pushing pins into the hearts of doves and eating chocolate cake for breakfast talking to bad animatronic black cats and stealing books from woo-woo shops wearing floral sundresses, velvet, crop tops listening to stevie nicks and covers of the smiths casting spells and hexing the patriarchy in synthetic swirls of light & the glitter of SFX

Moonshook Nectar

By Mark Valentine Beech mast underfoot.

Owl-echoes in the frost.

Scarlet berries, glinting eyes.

Musky, lingering leaves.

Jackdaws laughing, winged signatures.

The faces of passers-by Fungi on a dead oak, are crumpled paper. lie ancient fingered The autumn bees sip faded playing-cards. monkshood nectar.

Ghosts

‘GHOSTS ARE WHAT WE FEAR AND WHAT WE HOPE FOR.’ ADAM NICHOLSON

I always believed in ghosts fearing the inevitable that someday I would see one.

Though what would happen next would be anyone’s guess.

Fuelled by grown-ups’ gas-fire tales at family gatherings: spectral bedside visits, cowled reunited grandparents; my sceptic Dad pursuing his wandering Nan downstairs; your father’s posthumous pint stoked us cousins well, scaring ourselves richly; mythmaking not only bedtime stories.

Anywhere invoked destiny.

Heightening old haunts, corners where a dark glint could summon fearful relief: My time come.

My teens’ homemade Ouija boards ghost-hunted validation to reach anyone beyond this life.

Who pushed the glass to invite white terror messages, and nights embracing the Bible?

Then before I knew, outgrown.

Reasoning and sense won out.

Even your sudden early death

did not scare me. Habitual comfort felt you were still there.

Before I could realise you were more than just misplaced and family rifts widened the space that could not be filled the searching dreams ceased. You were undeniably nothing.

You, simple and honest saw what you believed so in turn they came back to you. Untrue but true to you; not for me.

But hang the laws of physics scare me with the floating bed, the apparitional grandma smiling through the wallpaper…

Back at the family home I stay up alone recalling your presence, in your arm chair.

The memory grasps - willing you through the old shadows where only childish hope remains.

Peter Burrows

Spooky Games

SPECIAL HALLOWEEN RIDDLES I have no feet to dance, I have no eyes to see, I have no life to live or die but yet I do all three. What am I?

The person who built it sold it. The person who bought it never used it. The person who used it never saw it.

What is it?

A man is found murdered on a Sunday morning. His wife calls the police, who question the wife and the staff, and are given the following alibis: the wife says she was sleeping, the butler was cleaning the closet, the gardener was picking vegetables, the maid was getting the mail, Win a free copy of Acid Bath and the cook was preparing breakfast. Immediately, the Publishing's Wage Slaves! police arrest the murderer. Who did it and how did the

police know?

Be the first to solve all three

riddles and email your answers to FIND THE ANSWERS IN OUR NEXT ISSUE! theforgezinesubmissions @gmail.com.

Summer Riddle Answers

What kind of band never plays music?

A: A rubber band What is cut on a table, but is never eaten?

A: A deck of cards What starts with a T, ends with a T, and has T in it?

A: A teapot What has words, but never speaks?

A: A book

Two Poems by James Reitter Morning Blood After Coffee She woke me for a sit-down warned me I needed coffee first, but the spin cycle in my stomach already hit before any caffeine comfort remedy. Braced for another talk about my various addictions, news of a bleeding ceiling came as relief. Melted snow seeped its way under the rubber skin into second-rate wood communed with metal and dripped through a hole drilled to hang our witch ball. Drops spattered the alcove walls and floor.

Blood is much easier to clean when it’s not your own.

Take It Off

Remove the blouse the bra the jeans.

Underwear too.

Smudge out the makeup.

Wet down your hair, scrape away all of your polish.

While you’re at it—

shed off the old skin and permit the blood to glisten with bone.

Expose your innards, your lungs, kidneys and spleen.

Own up to the shriveled pruned heart that I know is there, despite all efforts to cover it up.

Once the façade is gone, this is all you have, and it hasn’t pumped magic for so long now.

Things occurring!

Sept 2021 - Publication of Acid Bath Publishing's The Worst Best Years, available to order at www.acidbathpublishing.com/shop - £8+PP What did the prospectuses leave out? Bringing together the work of 29 writers of poetry and prose, The Worst Best Years is a thorough investigation into the underside of university life. Featuring tales of debauchery, spontaneous sleepovers, and harrowing hangovers, this anthology examines what really defines the student experience - the worst, the best, and everything in between.

25th-26th Sept - Meet the Vikings @ Murton Park, Yorkshire Museum of Farming (Tickets available at murtonpark.co.uk) Until 28th Sept - York Food and Drink Festival - £Free until you smell the delicious food!

5th Oct - World Animal Day York Animal

Home Fundraiser @ The Orchid Vegan - £27.54 (Tickets on Eventbrite) 25th-28th Oct - York Ghost Week/Little York Ghost Hunt, hosted by York Ghost Merchants - £Free (More information on Facebook) 20th Nov -The Gin & Rum Festival @ Trafalgar Warehouse, Sheffield - £15 (Tickets on Eventbrite)

Published in the UK in 2021 by Forge Zine

Content © the individual contributors, as credited 2021

Editorial © E Hartley Smith 2021