Forge Zine Winter Edition 2021

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Forge Zine Winter Edition 2021

Editor's warming words You're sat in front of a roaring fire, watching the flames dance against the glass of the stove door.

You're cuddled in the fluffiest blanket and cradling your favourite warm beverage. Are you warm now?

Welcome to our fourth and final edition of 2021. This year we have seen two series run their course, we have the final additions to Amy Bobeda's Twice Told Tales and Errol's Vintage Edibles. We will be sad to see them leave, but we hope this isn't the last time their work will be published by us as we have thoughly enjoyed their contributions.

We now have a website where you can buy printed copies of our Summer and Autumn Editions 2021.

This edition will be available to buy in hard copy in the new year. As it is so close to the holidays we could not make that happy this year, we hope you understand. Visit forgezine.bigcartel.com to purchase real copies of our editions!

We hope you all have a very merry festive season and a fabulous New Year

Patience

Edward Batchelor

I awoke in this land as if from another, alone and afraid. Great gaps wrought my memory as I sought to recollect my arrival here, I reached down for fragments and found nothing but dust. Where memories had once been, now only questions remained: what was this strange land? And why am I alone?

Great sheets of grey clouded the skies, unmoving and malevolent as if to hide the land’s surface from the light above, working so tirelessly to peek through to the earth below. A blessing I thought, for if it did glance upon this desolate landscape then it too would lose hope and abandon its station perched on high. The land was scattered with grey stone crags and lifeless caverns, multitudes of stones and boulders piled high in columns as if they had been arranged that way by something. In between the calcified remains of this world no life persisted where one may expect to find it, no grass nor weeds grew between the pebbles, no insects made their homes buried under rocks beneath the earth. The waters of what must have been of this once large beach had since long receded past the horizon, creating paths of stone and grey sand which stretched further than any man could walk let alone see. I called as I walked with no direction in mind, hoping what life that remained would find comfort in my company and return my wails for help. The sound travelled far, echoes of my own desperation called back to me. Like laughter from the wind they mocked me, repeating, repeating, replying.

Time passed inconsistently in this land, too dark to ever call it day and yet too bright to ever say night. The only indication of time passing was my own fatigue and the feathers that formed in mounds in my mouth as I stumbled over these everlasting fissures, praying that with each step I would be brought closer to some semblance of life on the horizon.

That’s when I saw it far off in the distance a great wave of eternal light seeped forth from the otherwise encompassed skies and covered the barren hills in the promise of life and prosperity.

Patience Tall, old forests of wood and not stone sat underneath its warm embrace as rivers flowed between their roots deep within the flora saturated earth before cascading into glistening lakes at the base of the valley. As I approached I heard the cries of others than my own emanating from within, birds tweeted amongst the branches whilst insects rustled though the fallen foliage and mammals and fish scattered the land hunting, nesting, surviving.

A great garden lay before me, bountiful and beautiful, the last bastion of life in this otherwise forgotten land I felt hope for the first time since arriving here, hope that I might not be alone, hope that there may be answers to my questions. But it seemed I would not be satisfied, for no matter how long or far I searched I was this garden’s only inhabitant that looked the way I did.

Desperate for answers I turned to the creatures, “have you seen my kin?” I asked. They each in turn scanned my features and left with nothing but the shake of a head for they had not seen my kind before.” Ask the trees and waters for they are far older and wiser than us” they advised.

I heeded the creature’s advice and took consort from the garden but they too could not recall. Each petal examined and each droplet dew reflected my worn face for me to see for myself and were saddened by what they saw. “We may be old but brother stone is far far older than we, your answer rests with him” they said.

Finally I turned to the earth at the edge of the garden where the light met the grey and cried out for an answer. I waited, patient in their response of which there was none. Silence, save for the return of the question I posed echoing against the crags. I cried out again, bleeding the rocks dry for an answer which crumbled to dust in my mouth. The words poisoned and tainted by the ears of the intended recipients I crawled back to the garden to gain my composure where I propped my drained body up against the bark of a willow tree where a warm sunbeam fell against my face.

Patience That’s when I heard the voice of mother light speak, “Trust not your brother stone, for he is covetous of you and your sister’s gifts. Life is ever changing and brings meaning to this world where none existed before. But it is this before your brother longs for, a still and motionless land where all is ground to sand and salt flats, a land where even the wind dare not speak and the life that once flourished be but a distant memory only privy to the sentience of a stone. For that is your brother’s greatest gift; patience.

But if after all this you still wish to know of your kin look beyond this garden to those great mountainous peaks and stone filled fields, there you shall discover the answer to the question your brother hides so avariciously”.

Following in the light’s wisdom and closer to the truth than I had yet to be before I raced away from the warmth of the sanctuary and once again entered that timeless abyss of twilight. Towards the cliffs I clambered, spurred on by a fierce determination that I might soon discover the truth, a truth of which I was not prepared for.

As I approached the cliff, dwarfed by its stature I reached my hand out to feel a familiar surface. A face, carved into the rock jutted forth, mimicking the features of my own face. Beside it a more complete figure stood half exposed, posed as if in action, a pained expression over its face. Taking a step back, and then another I began to see the grand scale of this art work.

Bodies of my kin and other creatures lined the cliffs along with stone trees blowing in a breeze and frozen streams caught mid splash.

Amongst the bodies stood a familiar figure, a stone woman in a long flowing dress with a solemn look about her stood almost completely detached from the cliff, her foot being the only connecting feature, as if she had stepped forth from the mosaic itself. I placed my hand against her cheek as my heart started to race, or at least I assumed it was my heart. I brought my other hand to my chest to examine the irregular beat but was met with a steady pace.

Patience It was then I realised the beat emanated not myself but from my hand on the stone woman’s cheek. Frightened by the now alive nature of the statue I jumped back, tripping over the uneven surface in the process, landing with a thud on my back, cracking my skull against the jagged rocks below. Moving my hand to my head I felt the rush of blood trickling forth, cascading down my brow and blurring my vision. It was through this blindness that I saw the truth. For in that moment those statues writhed in agony before me, attempting to free themselves from the flesh wall they were attached to, calling out in my own tongue for help. The air was filled with a pink mist that rose from the ground along with the cries of the sea of broken bodies that lay discarded and made up the great stone fields I had climbed over to reach here. Limbs and viscera now stood in place where rocks and stones had once been. Heads and hands that bit and clawed now littered the surface of the floor where I lay.

I struggled against them as they tore at me leaving marks. “Help us Henry!” The stone woman cried as she reached out her hand to me, desperate to be pulled forth from the wall.

“Kassandra!” I cried, although I knew not why.

I threw my hand over my eyes and wiped away the blood. The world was once again silent, leaving behind only the stone I had come to expect of this place. Each statue had changed place, even the rocks beneath my feet had shifted. Who was this Kassandra? And who is Henry? I asked myself.

How was it that flesh could remember stone?…

Edward Batchelor

The Castalian Spring James Rance

Winter Weather Writing Blizzard During Dinner

Greeting cards arrive like another dreaded batch of acidic snow Write thank you letters, sprinkle glitter, into the unread messages folder, say congratulations, be curious, into the arrival halls of the airport I want to have something to tell the children of the metaverse if they ever notice the snowballs dotted on top of the matrix's brackets not the cotton sheets of ice, nor the air-conditioned cities but winter, as in tangyuan, dumplings, wontons I will wait like the skeletons did, in the shop house with my binoculars, watching for any capable airplane flitting through the blizzards In the kitchen, decrypting mandarin accounts of families bankrupted/divorced, estates cleansed/auctioned, for some sign of a connection at the reunion dinner, if the planes ever touch down at all.

Nina Anin

Fairwinds Five months after 7/7 Still wary of wearing A backpack They have killed An innocent Brown man

9 th December’s cold air Visible breath! That’s a thing?

This migrant is frozen Fair Winds take him to Norfolk

Always a warm welcome At the Thompsons’ Pramod Subbaraman

Writing With Winter Weather Weather Wars

What She Said

In the library across the road from her parents' home,

the books of her childhood line the shelves many still unread.

In the garden two blue chairs and a blue table sit in the shade of the willow,

and, sisters, I have much to learn

SabihaWritesPoetry

Thunder bellows and bangs within long, leaden pipes, rattling this centenarian abode’s wooden bones.

Steam hisses and huffs from once-white radiators, fogging single-paned casements.

Just beyond reamy glass, snow squalls torment protracted, dark hours.

Domiciliary climate battles for dominance over wintry elements scarcely across a well-worn threshold.

Michele Mekel

Specters Winter’s ghosts wander my garden— trudging through now barren flower beds.

They whisper of tears unwept, words unspoken— while haunting my January heart.

Michele Mekel

Hibernation

The Cailleach moves us inward into warm warrens of the soul to nurture seeds we’ll plant upon rising in spring.

Michele Mekel

Poetry by Thomas Markham

Born to Please

I struggle where to hold the line To draw it in the dirt so we can see it Boundaries; that’s all I want to create.

But their approval keeps me at bay, I nod Yes, sir No, sir So many bags full of everything you want to hear.

How can I stand my ground against people I want to please?

When I want to let everyone in how does the door get shut before they cross the threshold?

They all stare Wanting me Every time a decision is made they scowl at me, blacked flesh clumping into a crease across their foreheads. A cross of swords to signal battle. They do not agree that it is right.

I struggle to hold the line against their thoughts I can’t even hear But I promise I do Echoing in my brain.

They are real.

Hard copies of our Autumn and Summer editions are now available at forgezine.bigcartel.com

Twice Told Tales The Shoes That Were Danced to Pieces

Amy Bobeda

Dorian I hide myself in you, my reflection.

But I’m still trapped by my lies For Iif I tell you everything You can’t hide it; you wear it all on your sleeve.

I should have drawn you differently I should have written you away from myself.

Now everyone knows who I am They learnt it all in the messages I left behind.

Thomas Markham

Errol's Vintage Edibles Dickens the Foodie Charles Dickens has seen both sides of society, absolute dire poverty all the way to the best that the world can offer. He was known to throw massive dinner parties for friends and family, it is believed that his interest in food and drink stemmed from his difficult childhood in the workhouse.

Only having absolute pennies to buy food after his father was taken away to prison on debt charges.

Is it any surprise he can write through the eyes of starving children so vividly? He captures all the sensory wonders that food has to offer from the oh so simple to the spectacularly lavish, his own tastes reflecting this.

He was known to be a big fan of a leg of mutton stuffed with oysters and roasted but he would always have a simple supper of cheese on toast before retiring to bed.

This man is even credited to have invented the modern Christmas Dinner. Plum pudding was first called Christmas Pudding by a wellknown cookery pioneer at the time, Eliza Acton. Shortly after the publication of A Christmas Carol the traditional goose got upgraded to a more luxurious turkey after Scrooge changed his ways which reflected in what high society began to then serve for Christmas Day dinner.

Dickens even became part of a Victorian movement aimed towards reformation. He worked alongside Victorian philanthropist and heiress Angela Burdett-Coutts to take in disadvantaged women and teach them how to cook as well as other household duties so they had some way to gain employment.

Errol's Vintage Edibles His magazine Household Words spoke out against the common practice of food Adulteration; one thing Dickens despised was bad foods. His publication was spearheaded by the popular medical journal The Lancet. One discovery they made was how much bread was altered needlessly. One in 48 bread samples were adulterated, best case scenario was bad flour, worst case was lime and alum.

Dickens is more known for his contributions to literature but it would be a fool’s errand to forget his contributions towards the food world.

Vegan Irish Liqueur Fudge

800g Plant Based White Chocolate 397g Sweetened Condensed Coconut Milk 50ml Vegan Irish Cream Liqueur

Melt the chocolate and condensed milk over a double boiler (place a glass bowl over a pan of boiling water) until melted completely and combined.

Take the chocolate mix off the heat and stir in the Liqueur.

Allow it to cool slightly while you line a standard sized cake or brownie pan.

Pour the mix into the pan and allow it to cool and set in the fridge for at least 4 hours to overnight, depending on how solid you like your fudge.

Slice into segments and enjoy!

What the Dickens?

Down: 1. Dicken's favourite supper (13) 2. Number of ghosts in A Christmas Carol (5)

3. Hungry orphan's favourite food (5) 6. Type of pie the convict eats in Great Expectations (4)

Across: 4. Scrooge's first name (8) 5. Last name of a hungry orphan (6) 6. Main character of Great Expectations (3) 7. Main character of Dickens' last novel (10)

Spooky Riddle Answers 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? A: Fire

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: Coffin

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, and the cook was preparing breakfast.

Immediately, the police arrest the murderer. Who did it and how did the police know? A: The maid. There's no mail on Sundays.

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