CREATIVE WRITING SUBMISSIONS

re-settlement

A stab of homesickness ruptured his heartstrings driving up the A-road choking up towering lorries, cars with their window wipers swinging, flashingcolours red and amber and green. Road blocks lined like soldiers. SLIPPERY WHEN WET. DRIVE SAFE. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. REDUCE SPEED NOW. Trafficcones, a shade of smouldering embers, burning retinas. A fresh love slumped in the passenger seat rounding with new life, a plus-one to the angelic form laying dazed, tucked safely between cardboard crates filledwith remains of a past life.

And pulling up to the concrete box that was supposed to imitate ‘home’. Tore a new hole in the throbbing heart that ached for the bitter cold cobbled Walsall streets.

Craved the delightfully atrocious aroma radiating from Gill’s Fish Bar on a bitter Friday night. Long after the bars had closed and the inhabitants had thrown up their memories in an empty doorway. Hiding in the rear view mirror were reminders of change, in peripherals, a white Peace Lily, discoloured by the sulphur hue of streetlights. Once pure, now a sombre parting gift from the life he left behind, doomed to fall through the cracks in the road.

Words by Laura Mae

Design by Constance Cua

Words by Isla McCormack

Afterglow

Clocks tick for so little time - a week Yet so long, weaved into infinitie As we sit around the table having tea, Singing songs all night because we daren’t sleep. I’ve never felt like this before Where I would wrestle giants and slay monsters To see them safe, and sound, and happy, Dancing the night away with them - lights And sipping away at coffee. How can there be such strength in our bond? Maternal silk wrapped around The inside joke in gold, Creeping to living life on the edge, Never sleeping ‘til the sunrise catches The glass on the tabletop ledge.

From rolling in at 4am, Feet aching and sweating bodies, We never stopped smiling, Our faces hurting, never lonely. Shaking my head but still smiling inside At the antics of causing mischief that night. They’ll never not have me now, And we’ll always be connected, Glued like limpets to rocks And wet hair to a forehead. Warmth in my heart, An evergreen glow, Where my deep love and care Will always grow.

Wanting, Wanted

What do you want? It’s a question familiar from birth, but one you never really get to answer until about a full year. At first,it’s a wail or cry, then it’s a yes or no, then you finallyget to say it. ‘I want.’ All of a sudden, those two words become vulgar. You can’t use them anymore. It’s ‘May I have’ or ‘I would like.’ Even then, without a please, you’re frowned at. A decade later ‘I want’ becomes unfamiliar. What do you really want? you ask yourself. Or if you’re lucky, someone in your life- maybe your guardian angel- really asks you. You ponder. You have to give it some thought. Almost immediately, everyday life lets you forget; nature lets you forget. But then life comes to a pause. It’s deep into November, practically December, but the odd leaf says otherwise. It’s curled round the edges, rouge in the middle and still holding onto the last remnants of autumn. It reminds you of the time you waxed your firstsurfboard, red, shiny and new. Bali. It was only months ago, mid-summer, and a little more humid than you’re used to. Face flushedand shoulders now aching, you ran into the warm water; more shocking than the water back home: cold, sharp and uninviting. Bali’s water, however, could have slapped you in the face and still felt like a welcome back. Even more so than in the Caribbean, its water just as friendly as its people. It was a deeper blue, with some patches of turquoise and milky white. Strange. At the shore, schools of fish– yellow, grey, and silver in some lights, darted past your ankles as you stepped through, careful. They reminded you of the candle lit lamps in the markets of Turkey, burning, warm, and a vibrant amber. The one room you walked into was royally designed with golden architecture on the walls, intricate but almost pretentious, obviously there to entice tourists. It was the perfect scene of Eastern Europe, its other lamps an array of different colours: oranges, reds, yellows, blues, and greens that hung from the ceiling. You had to take a picture. It never looked quite as good though. Through your camera, the green reminded you of the early summer alps, borderline spring. After a long uphill hike, the view you had earned was not something you could capture through the same lens. Every bit of life was still blooming; nothing wilted in the fresh heat. Every strand of grass was thick in its wilderness, and as you sat, finallytaking some rest, with your fingersswollen and faintly throbbing, you took a sip of water. Your eyes never left what was in front of you. So much nature. Crickets chirped beside you. Or in front, you weren’t entirely sure. And when two white butterfliespassed you by, you felt safe and at home (you’re a little superstitious about them) because they always seemed to find you, wherever in the world It’s at this point that you remember, you’ve forgotten to answer their question. What do you want?

Words by Anushka Kar