Forge Zine Autumn Equinox 2020 Edition 9

E FRE AY EAW V I G IDE S N I

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FORGE ZINE'S Autumn Equinox

Co-editor's Caterwaul

Welcome back, readers! I hope you're as excited as we are to celebrate the Autumn Equinox with a brand new issue. This zine is our 9th instalment in the Forge Zine catalogue (our 3rd since starting the seasonal release schedule). I can hardly believe we have almost reached an issue in the double digits.

If you are missing E. Hartley Smith's regular editorials, check out her interview with Imogen Peniston on the Greenteeth Press blog. It is a wonderful discussion on lockdown creativity, the inspirations for the zine, and its general "school book" vibe. But to me, the ethos for Forge Zine is best summed up by the opening of our first issue: "Well why not?"

This has certainly been an exciting experiment in publishing. Since starting in June 2019, each zine has had its own distinct feel. The zines started out in black-and-white with crude line drawings (of mine, mostly) but has recently become a platform for vibrant, expressive paintings from more serious artists. What began as a small poetry outlet has since expanded into printing short stories, collages, and even film scripts.

With each release, we try out different styles and visuals. Some zines appear more neat and stylistically consistent while others offer a more wild and unrestrained experience. Even for someone obsessed with order and consistency like me, Forge Zine has been a uniquely freeing project to work on.

Here's looking forward to Issue 10 in December. I hope this zine continues running (in whatever form it takes) for many years to come.

Paul Whelan

Autumn Equinox Autumn. The brightness of the sun clasped between two hands. The skin of an orange punctured by fingers. All the trees ablaze. Turning golden, and then black. Shedding their leaves as scales from the tawny moth’s wing.

The red flame.

The red flame.

The red flame.

Raised and then snuffed out. The turn of the wheel. Summer is found, and then lost again.

Winter twists its head from the vast, frozen sea and greets us, arms wide. But first, Autumn. ***** At this time of year, day and night have curled themselves into a gentle equilibrium. All is balanced perfectly, but this balance can mean only one thing: the scales will tip once again, this time in favour of the dark of winter. The air will grow cold, the trees will cast off their leaves and the daytime will shrink until it is no more than a sliver encased on all sides by the thick oil of night.

This darkness is essential for the cycle of life, of course. Through death and decay comes rebirth, new life. We must give thanks for the night just as much as the day, for neither can exist without the other.

How do Pagans draw in the Autumn, then? How do we celebrate the end of the harvest and prepare ourselves for the long summer ahead?

With a big old party, of course!

Symbolically, this time of year was meant for resting after the labours of the harvest. It is a time for making merry, even now, a time for drinking and dancing, sharing feasts and gathering with your loved ones. But alongside the celebrations comes the more solemn side of the Autumn Equinox. The Gods, Nature, or whomever else we may honour in our practices, have gifted us with an abundant harvest and we must show gratitude.

This is a time to offer up a portion of our harvest as our thanks. Food offerings are traditional, but in the modern age our “harvest” may have nothing to do with food at all.

We might acknowledge the personal growth we’ve experienced over the Summer, the rewards we have reaped in our personal lives, and offer our thanks for these metaphorical “harvests”.

So, have a very happy Autumn. Be thankful for all that has entered your life over the Spring and Summer, and go forward into this transitional period. Surround yourself with friends and family, and celebrate the result of your hard work (safely, of course!)

A blessed Mabon to all who celebrate it. @jrancewriter

@james.rance48

James Rance

The Haruspex James Rance

Last Tick I am trying my hardest to concentrate on why Harry was so upset when he came in from lunchtime and who was making him feel left out and why he can’t just play with somebody else but… the clock at the back of the classroom has stopped. I didn’t notice this morning but now I cannot think of anything else.

“-- and it was my idea to play the game and now Billy says he started it and Tom is just agreeing with him because-” Of course, the children are completely oblivious to the clock at the back of the classroom now that the smartboard reassures them how long it is until playtime.

“-- and he said that I wasn’t allowed to play and now--” “Sit down, Harry. We’ll talk about it at the end of the day.” -- when you’ve all made up and forgotten about it.

Thank god it’s PPA this afternoon. I can’t get through an afternoon of hyperactive year 6’s with that clock bothering me. Laurel Class happily leaves the classroom with the hippy-dippy music teacher who takes them twice a week and I can finally take a look at it. On my tip toes I find that… the battery’s dead. Obviously. Oh, who can be arsed with that? It’s impossible to track down Alan and he refuses to give keys out to the electrics cupboard… Oh, well. I have loads of marking to catch up on. I’ll just not think about it. Let’s see, where did I put those English assessments?… English assessments… Here we are. Now, mark scheme and… Where’s my coffee? I can’t concentrate without...

The time was 9:22pm.

It must have been ‘pm’ because I remember it ticking away during the morning register yesterday. It stopped when nobody was here.

Nobody heard it’s last tick. Nobody noticed the fact that it wasn’t ticking this morning. Nobody would even remember the sound.

I do, though. It’s like when you don’t realise how loud the extractor fan is until you turn it off and you can suddenly hear yourself think. I do kind of miss the tick now that I think about it… What am I saying? It’s a clock. It hasn’t worked in all the nine years I have been teaching in this

classroom. Not properly, anyway. It used to freeze up occasionally, just for a few minutes at a time. Nightmare. I had to keep resetting it because I told the children what my mother told me, you can’t do anything right if you can’t do it on time. She always told me that time keeping was the most important thing if you wanted to be successful. She told me that all through my exams. In fact, she kept saying it even when she couldn’t remember what year it was…

Oh, screw this, I’m finding Alan.

Trying to keep to the left side of the staircase so that I don’t get roped into a conversation with Sarah because I know exactly what she is going to say and NO, I do not want to talk about it. Just keep left and look busy then maybe -“Jenny!”

Damn.

“I’m so glad I caught you, we have all been so worried.”

You mean, we have all been gossiping about you in the meetings you skipped.

“Yeah,” “So, how is she? Was the home nice? Oh, it must feel so awful having to move your own mother to somewhere like that but I suppose it was for the best."

“Yeah, for the best.”

No point starting a long sentence in a conversation with Sarah.

“Oh, I’m sure. I bet she is very happy there, anyway. Gosh, best dashbut so lovely to see you Jenny, glad you enjoyed the visit!”

I didn’t go to visit. I got a phone call the next day explaining that it had happened during the night and it had been very peaceful. I have no idea whether she was happy in the retirement home. I have no idea whether she missed staying at our house, the same house she grew up in, or whether she was happy to not be a burden on her daughter and son-in-law anymore.

I don’t know whether she was happier to have people around her who wouldn’t lose patience with her when she forgot their names, or put milk in the cupboard instead of the fridge... I don’t know whether she missed us, or even realised we weren’t with her anymore.

I do know that I was too scared to visit her. I know that the pills she was taking could make her forget who I was.

I know that she died alone.

“Nah, sorry Miss B. Looks like it’s busted.”

“I know that, that’s why I asked for new batteries.”

“I’ve put the bleeding batteries in, Jen, they’re still not working. It’s knackered. You’ll have to get a new one. Although, I wouldn’t bother replacing it if I were you. You got a watch ain’t ya?”

“Yeah, never mind. Thanks, Alan.”

“Hey, how was your ol’ Mum anyway? Didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“She was fine.”

He looks a little awkward when I don’t offer more information, then smiles and leaves.

I do have a watch. It doesn’t matter, really. The clock was no use to anyone in the state it was. People had even forgotten it was there. It got on everybody’s nerves, even mine.

It hadn’t worked properly for years.

Elsie Franklin

Flat Lover

I twist on the hot tap in the toilet upstairs, The one encrusted with rust or shit, And on comes the boiler in the kitchen below.

It quakes and gorges up the soundwaves between us, Gurgling through the floorboards to me just above.

It frightens me at 2:35am Refilling my water bottle, after a wee.

There’s a creature beneath me, coming up to get me – My tired, tormented mind deduces.

I think I was right when I said I think I’m done with houses.

Paul Whelan

Artwork by Monica Marshall

A smidgin' of music Emerging from the challenges of lockdown, Leeds based alternative band The Tenmours have unveiled a stunning new single: ‘Elise’ is the first in a series of nine to be released over the ensuing months.

The band has had been going from strength to strength since their emergence onto the local music scene in 2017, with an infectious energy both on and off stage, they are proving to be one of the hardest working acts on the circuit, with lead singer and songwriter Alex Seymour’s vocal range captivating audiences, and demanding attention. Live performances (including Leeds Festival Alternative Stage 2019) respected by such luminaires as acoustic pioneer Jon Gomm “It’s SO rock!”, and Simon Johnson (Iglu Music) “The Tenmours are easily one of the best bands I’ve EVER seen live” As 2020 crashed all around us, The Tenmours saw an opportunity for creativity, and have used their time throughout the COVID-19 pandemic to record nine new recordings remotely.

Widely anticipated by their rapidly growing fanbase, the first of these, ‘Elise’ has proven to be a song of pathos that seems to resonate in people’s hearts.

Elise herself was Alex’s Grandmother who had sadly passed away. The song is a conversation between Alex and Elise. Together with percussionist Adam the song was composed in her home whilst on tour in Carlisle, inspired by the memories and atmosphere of Elise. Two days later the song you hear now was born.

Elise was an enigmatic artist, who specialised in mosaic murals and had a career as an art teacher in Scotland and Nigeria. Her presence and love is still felt within the family and by those around the world who knew her.

The single sees a dynamic blend of nostalgia, melancholy, hope and comfort; a delicate yet powerful elegy conveyed by The Tenmours’ uniquely alternative sound. Brandishing a complex but melodic guitar performance with undertones of flamenco and dark British folk. The song unveiled itself expressing a love of culture as Elise did and the eternal magic of loving someone.

@the_tenmours

@thetenmours

Create your own!

Use the line below as inspiration to create your very own spooky scene and submit via Instagram (@forgezine) or email us at theforgezinesubmissions@gmail.com for your chance to win your very own copy of Acid Bath Publishing's Wage Slaves. Send us your art by witching hour on Halloween Night for your chance to win!

Monica Marshall (also known as Clownchic) is a multidisciplinary artist who has recently completed her BA in Fine Art at York St John University. She favours painting, drawing and printmaking in various scales and works with motifs to respond to a world she sometimes struggles to navigate as a neurodivergent. The impact of her Asperger Syndrome often comes up in her practice through her obsessive motifs and prolific making, representing her thoughts, feelings and experiences through text, cartoonish self-portraits, visual diaries, and ugly/cute characters. Another recent issue Marshall often discusses directly and indirectly in her work is COVID-19; has made a significant impact on her practice in terms of subject matter as well as art materials themselves; she has done many works on cardboard packaging and/or envelopes due to having to have parcels delivered rather than buying in store, as well as her enjoyment of the raw element and how it amplifies the emotion and imagery in her work. Marshall is currently studying an MLitt in Fine Art Practice with a specialism in Print Media at the Glasgow School of Art.

www.monicamarshallblog.wordpress.com

@clownchic

Two Poems by Kali Richmond

Squirrels a glint in the recess of the oak nest of metallic shred, its crisp grease giving rise to dreams of slaughter – we used to eat them now we coax them closer with monkey nuts gnawing shells long enough to allow a cascade of shots clicks that have no impact yet they jerk primordial skitter up tree trunks chests heaving cheeks distorted bodies cresting and foaming in preparation for high tide for salt water soil for winter’s soporific lapping descent into waning sleep gradual reduction to bone

Bat watching and my attention slips

focus it all goes out of focus this sky is fantastical earth tilted too far round does anyone else see the mistake the last of the northern daylight orange yellow green ablaze in the wrong place bats should be darting in crepuscular emergence but I find only crackles flashes at the edge of the bruised meat this sky has clouds that aren’t changing that linger in symmetry someone messed up the simulation myriad windows glass eyes dark sealed caves am I the only person looking

Life in the time of Corona A man walks along the riverbank; a small patch of countryside within the urban metropolis that is his home. The sky seemed to be the purest shade of blue he had ever seen. Not a cloud in the sky, just the scorching sun beating down from above.

He tries to keep his head down when passing people, he can’t stand the eyes narrowed at him in suspicion peering over the top of face masks. He preferred not to see them purposefully move out of the way of him. He knew it was the guidelines but still he felt like a leper; an overwhelming urge to shout “I’m clean I tell you! I don’t have it!” bubbles up inside his chest as he walks past the others.

The man continues on his way until the riverbank turns into a vast green park. Bright yellow policemen patrol the area, eyeing up anyone they thought would linger in one place too long.

Small groups of people huddled together, walking slow enough to not count as stopping but just fast enough to keep the police off them. Children were being pulled on leads out of the way of other groups, parents holding the handles in a white knuckled grip. The man watched them all, moving on slowly himself.

Any other nice day and this park would’ve been filled with playing kids, gossiping wine mums, disinterested dads, sunbathers, picnic havers, dog walkers and people sprawled in the grass lost in the pages of a book.

But today, while being a nice day was not a very nice day at all; the words ‘highest death toll so far’ hung heavy in everyone’s minds.

The man wanders on deeper into the park, eventually leaving even the police patrols behind him. He allows the park paths to guide him into a semi secluded wooded area. He wanders off the path a little ways and comes across a cluster of tulips, nestled under a tree.

After looking over his shoulder, searching for any glimpse of those dreaded high-vis jackets, the man lowers himself to the ground with a deep seated sigh. He fumbles in his pocket for his trusty pencil, paint flaking off but the nib sharp and true. He then pulls out a folded piece of paper after it.

Using his leg as a table he begins to sketch the flowers and the trees and the grass and the sky.

With each piece of his surroundings recreated, the real world was pushed away, until it was only him and his flowers.

Errol G. Harsley

Coming soon...

ABP's Wage Slaves

Everything Takes Time

Imogen Peniston

"Without the warmth of The Sun everything on earth will freeze and die"

Like Like Someone once told me that The Sun is a star.

Stop Like Like

Like "And when the core runs out of hydrogen," they said, "it will collapse under its own gravity."

Like Like Follow They won't shut up "The core expands, burning the star into a red giant."

Like Unlike "And when the helium runs out, the core will cool-" please stop Comment: *heart eyes emoji* Like Like

And you still continue to engage in a deceitful transaction.

Where's your heart and where's your honesty.

Unfollow

Monica Marshall

"

Scary crossword Time

Ice cream flavour 020 2 r e answers! umm

S

1) Bubble Gum

4) Chocolate

2) Strawberry

3) Pistachio

5) Banana

6) Rum and Raisin

NEW from Acid Bath Publishing!

Wage Slaves: An Anthology of the Underemployed Gathering stories and poems from around the world, Wage Slaves captures a range of unfulfilling roles, from fast food work to teaching, office jobs to retail, targeting all with a ruthless sense of humour and directness.

Available to pre-order at www.acidbathpublishing.com/shop @AcidBathPub

@acidbath publishing

Leader's Report Paul Whelan

Stuff going down Very little this time Due to the virus which still lingers, everything is running at a Sunday afternoon slow pace. So we suggest treating it as one. Enjoy the walks in nature (while there is still some) and continue to stock up on booze, books, music, and whatever else you need and staying inside for the foreseeable future. Until then, stay tuned for updates on Forge Zine, Greenteeth Press, Acid Bath Publishing, and obviously the general state of the world. In the meantime, keep writing, drawing, painting, working on your art. Please stay safe and happy.

Exciting productions unaffected by the virus (so far!)

Greenteeth have just closed submissions so keep an eye out for their next anthology. An interesting blend of poetry, short stories, flash fiction, and some artwork in a retro sci-fi theme.

Some live music is beginning to resurrect itself in York so keep an eye out! If you can't find any go for a nice wander around York City Centre and enjoy the buskers who are doing their best to satisfy our live music desires!

Want to see your work here next time??? @forgezine

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We welcome all forms of work, traditional to modern and everything outside this description (as long as it's your own!). Everything from poems, flash fiction, drawings, collages, anecdotes and doodles are encouraged!