Fleet: GUU Libraries’ Creative Writing Journal, no.3

Libraries’ Creative Writing Journal

2 0 2 4 Illicit Gospel Bound

FLEET

2024

Cover artwork and layout by Lucy Hindmarsh

Copyright in all contributions resides with the contributors

OUR LADY OF MERCY / KERRY MCGAHAN

UNSHACKLING / SARAH FARLEY

HALF-GHOST / LAURA CATHRYN THURLOW

WITCHERY AFOOT / GUS CROWLEY

THE BOUNDARIES OF HUMANITY / LARA THORPE

THE CHURCH / LEONARDO GUERRERO

TWO POEMS / ELLIE TURNBULL

HOW TO LIVE AGAIN / CHANDRA GRACE JOHNER

SPECIES REVIVALISM /JULIA ANN CALABRESE

AN ALIENIST IN WONDERLAND / LORELLE BENSON

TWO POEMS / FRASER CURRIE

OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN / SOPHIE HANNAM

FAMILY OF GEESE / SARAH FARLEY

EDITOR’S NOTE

Hello Readers!

We are delighted to present the third edition of FLEET: the creative writing journal of the Glasgow University Union. Our key intention behind FLEET from its inception, has been to provide an accessible creative space in which all writers across all levels of experience are able to showcase their written work.

Within our third volume, our 19 such works span a broad spectrum of form, content and style.

The concepts: ILLICIT, GOSPEL AND BOUND captured our vision for a dynamic third edition.

They spoke to us of systems of control, social structure and accepted ways of thinking. They spoke of how these concepts bind us and bind society into patterns of behaviour and its expected responses. These sought at the idea of how minds are policed, and how those forces can be subverted via the illegitimatisation of the gospels that challenge writers. On a meta textual level FLEET has now established its own formula, an expected form of existence- as editors we strive to encourage writers to break our molds, seeking ever to innovate.

We would like to thank the G.U.U. for its continued support of FLEET, and our Libraries Convener, Rochelle Chlala, for all of their support in giving FLEET its autonomy and direction. We would like to thank everyone who helped to plan, design, and produce this volume, especially Lucy Hindmarsh and, most of all, our writers who submitted their work for inclusion. Unbound creativity, especially amongst the structures and rigour of academia, is incredibly valuable, and we are deeply grateful to be doing our part in facilitating it.

Co-Editors in-Chief 2023/24

Until next year, Francesca Lorelei & Radoslav Serafimov

THE HANDS OF GOD

By Anonymous

1- Caravaggio

The sword hangs heavy in my hand.

But my elbow is locked, I cannot support the sword and his head will not come off. My arms are too short and too weak to remove him. My wrists strain at odd angles, it is too painful to let go and too painful to bear down further. He strugglespushes himself over the edge of the bed. His neck slides further into my blade.

It is a good thing that this murder requires little effort from me.

While I wait for him to die, I catch the smooth pale of my arms in the lamplight. I am so young, so unmarred by his siege of my city, it is odd that they call me a widow.

His neck casts ropes of blood away from me, my white dress stays pristine.

My maid’s head looks on.

2- Allori

His head appeared in my hand, I do not know how it got here. Has it been delivered to me? My clothes are clean, as pristine as the day we arrived here, they carry no evidence of what I have done.

I look down at the head. This is not Holofernes, the man I have spent the last three days with. This head is too pale, and does not smell of the wine I gave to the general. Its eyes will not meet my gaze.

I cannot bring this head back, the general is still alive and his army is still outside Bethulia.

Who have I killed?

3- Gentileschi

I feel the gristle against my sword and push his head back so that I may carve deeper. I do not worry for my sleeves. I do not worry about the blood on my hands.

My maid holds him down. With his last futile breaths he tries to push her away, but he is no match for the weight of our bodies weighing him down into the bed. The God of the lowly looks down upon us as we work.

We work as quickly as we can, our arms expertly positioned to carry out our task. He has stopped making noise, though his drunken sleep made little room for shouting. Once it is light we will present his head to the world.

My sword glints against the precious stones sewn into his canopy. Out of the corner of my eye I can see my maid’s face contort in concentration as she keeps his chest down, this is her victory too.

This general, leader of armies, is a threat to my people. His blood spills onto the white sheets. He brought this on himself.

A NOBLE CALLING

By Karla Calvillo-Salinas

The book stood on a dais in the middle of the Town Hall, stabbed through so deeply that the dagger was lodged in the wood below. It used to be outside, in the Town Square, where the Elders hoped that it would attract witches, coming to rescue their sacred book. This plan had worked very well: in the couple of years it stood outside, 43 witches were captured and dealt with (mostly drowned or burned, some hanged; the Town was not short of options). Then years passed since the last attempt at retrieving the book, and the Elders believed the witches were all gone, so it had been removed from the Square and into the Hall, where it stood proudly as a piece of the Town’s triumphant history, stabbed and held in place by one of the witches’ own ceremonial knives.

Well, actually, only about 15 witches had been captured trying to rescue the book. The rest had been teenagers trying to impress their friends, curious outsiders who didn’t know better, thieves who thought too highly of their skill, drunks who didn’t know where they were going, or concerned citizens that wanted to remove this blight from their perfect little Town. Most of the teenagers survived, since the judges understood that young people will go to many lengths to make a name for themselves. Besides, they were too young when the whole situation with the witch coven happened, so they couldn’t have been involved. They did receive a very strong public reprimand and a reminder that if they had been successful in removing the dagger and opening the book, unknown horrors would destroy their Town (the horrors were unknown because no one knew if anything would actually happen).

The only others that escaped the pyre, river or noose were the actual witches. It was incredible that the people of the Town never thought that the witches could use their power to get themselves out of danger. Some had convinced the judges they were innocent and were let go. Most had only pretended to die and then walked away when no one was looking. Yet, for all their power, they had not been able to retrieve their book. This was a most perplexing mystery.

A few in the coven thought that it was punishment for allowing the settlers to cut down their trees and hunt so many of their animals. The idea that the Town must have a witch working for them, a traitor keeping the book away from its coven, was brought up once, but no one really believed it. The real story was more complicated. The book was ridiculously well guarded - so well, in fact, that they spared no eyes to make sure the people they executed were actually dead and stayed where they put them. Even when the witches had succeeded in enchanting the guards near the book, there had been more waiting further away. It was just a very tricky situation, no angry Gods or traitors involved.

The Coven had actually given up on retrieving the book. It’s true that it was important- it was the High Priestess’s grimoire, after all, and contained many of their spells, potions, rituals and information about their sabbaths, but it was far from the only grimoire they had. Most of what was in that particular book was also found in others, as everyone kept a personal grimoire, and their traditions, songs and chants were committed to memory. The only things that were lost by not having that particular book were some notes specific to the High Priestess’s role, but she knew them by heart anyway, so she just wrote them down somewhere else. The main reason they had tried so hard to get it back at the beginning was pride: it was ridiculous that one of their precious items was stolen, desecrated, and displayed by such a horrible people. But eventually they decided it was not worth it to keep trying. Yes, it was a loss, but the book could be rewritten (it wouldn’t be the first time it was rewritten; working outside or in close proximity to fire tends to wear out paper very fast) and the people in the Town were too afraid to even open it, let alone try to use it.

Metzi was next in line to be the High Priestess - or at least she hoped. She had her heart set on it and spent her days learning about magic and the forest, memorising spells and herbs and important places. Now that it was decided they would rewrite the book rather than get the old one back, Metzi volunteered to help in the endeavour. At first the High Priestess had been sceptical - Metzi was only 7 and so small a bear cub probably weighed more than her - but she knew she would find no one more enthusiastic for the task. And so a team was formed, comprised of the High Priestess, her two assistants, the best scribe in the Coven, and Metzi.

The High Priestess wrote down a list of all the information that had been in her grimoire. She would work with her assistants and the scribe to rewrite everything that had been in her own book, but she also decided to add different versions of the spells and potions from other people in the Coven and add some that hadn’t been in the old book. Collecting this new information was Metzi’s job. She took the list the High Priestess wrote and a list of all the people in the Coven and set out on her mission.

It went smoothly at first: most people knew Metzi and admired her dedication, so they were very happy to help and share their knowledge with her. They opened up their grimoires and showed her all the spells and potion recipes, told her about the people that had written and drawn the pages, and explained the history of their family’s work. Metzi was fascinated, but the more she talked to people, the more she felt a strange weight. She couldn’t place the feeling at first. She was learning so much, why was she feeling so… sad?

It was when she got to Matron Yamani’s house that she understood. Matron Yamani’s grandmother had been a young woman when the settlers arrived and built their Town by destroying their forest. She had told her kids and her grandkids about how the settlers arrived in small groups at first, taking only what they needed to survive, so the witches allowed them to stay. But then more

of them showed up and they started taking more and more, clearing out land for their crops and cutting down trees to build houses bigger than they needed and buildings that were hardly ever used. The witches offered to help- they had ways of talking to stone so that they could easily build with it instead of old trees, could protect crops so that they would grow well and not take up so much space, could find good places in the woods to forage, could get water from the river without permanently altering its course. But the settlers were scared of these abilities and not only refused them but began hunting down the witches. This caught them off guard, and a few witches were killed before they understood that these were not people to be reasoned with and started fighting back. They helped the edge of the forest grow again, so fast and so strong that the buildings and crops close to it were not able to stay standing. They released the river from its dam and taught the animals how to avoid the Town’s hunters. The angrier ones among them set a few empty buildings on fire. But the witches were not malicious, so these small acts of revenge and inconvenience were all they were willing to do. They would not kill the settlers, the way they had killed them, but they would make life so hard they would leave or at least have a difficult time living there. As time passed, the settlers took less from the forest - because they understood or because they could not get past the witches is hard to say - so the witches relaxed their attacks and went back to living in their own little, peaceful community deep in the forest, only interacting with the settlers enough to keep them in check. But some settlers were still afraid of the witches and their abilities, so when enough time had passed and they forgot about what the witches were capable of, they organised parties to go into the woods and exterminate them. The witches knew something like this could happen, so they set up traps around their camp meant to scare the settlers away. For the most part it worked, but occasionally some brave and overconfident settler would go in deep enough to see the camp and bring the information back to the town. They learned about the temple at the centre of the camp, about how it is open and a book sits unguarded in the middle. The settlers assumed that this book was of the highest importance, possibly the source of the witches’ power, so their goal became to steal it. Recently, they finally succeeded.

Metzi hadn’t even been born when the book was stolen and had been a small baby when the last witches had gone into the Town to retrieve it. Matron Yamani was one of the few that believed this was a punishment. She believed the Gods had allowed the settlers to invade the witches, just as the witches had allowed the settlers to invade the forest. Rewriting the book was a sad task, the coven reduced to having to write a new one rather than having their own ancient artefact to guide them (the stolen book was actually only a few years older than Matron Yamani, the previous one having been burned in a funny accident during a ritual, but she was choosing to ignore that fact).

Metzi understood the sadness she had been feeling. Even if she didn’t agree with Matron Yamani’s idea of the Gods punishing them, she saw that the book they had lost had been precious to their people. Someone had worked hard to make it, just as she was working hard to make this new one, and now it stood

alone, surrounded by people that mocked it and disrespected it. At least the ones that had been lost in the past had been destroyed here, in their coven, by the elements or by accidents that provided funny stories, rather than sad, bitter tales.

She wasn’t able to get much of anything useful out of Matron Yamani, but she thanked her anyway and kept going. She wanted to go ask the High Priestess why they stopped trying to retrieve the book, but she was afraid to get a sad answer. So she finished her rounds for the day, gave her notes to the High Priestess (who was very impressed) and left for home.

Her dad was waiting for her on the porch of their house. It was a small stone house, big enough for their little family to sleep, store their things, and do some personal spells, but they didn’t need much more than that. Their coven was so community-centred that all the important things happened in their shared spaces. He asked her how her day went; she told him about Matron Yamani and that, despite being very proud to be working on the new book, she was also sad that their old book was trapped in such a horrible place.

He then told her another story. His cousin had been one of the last witches to try to retrieve the book. The first ones did go trying to get it back, but then the High Priestess had an idea. She sent a few more people to “steal” the book and get captured, with plenty of magical protection to make sure they weren’t actually hurt. From the ones in the past they had learned that there was always a trial, though it was really just an interrogation. During this trial, the last witches would say that they’re so desperate to get the book because without it they have no power and their Coven would disappear. The last two said that there were almost no witches left, they had all gone or died without their magic, and that the book was their last hope. Then they stopped going. The High Priestess understood that, in the end, the book was just a book, and what really mattered was protecting her Coven. If the settlers realised that the book was of no importance, they would renew their assaults on their camp, and it was only a matter of time before they got lucky and caused real harm. So she created a little deception to make the settlers believe they had won, and the only true sacrifice was a book that could be rewritten. They would continue messing with the Town just enough to protect the forest, but remain as hidden as possible. When Metzi asked why not everyone in the camp knew about this, her dad replied that most people did, but those that were angry and hurt, like Matron Yamani, had a hard time seeing past what they had lost.

Metzi went to work the next day with a new sense of purpose. This new book they were working on was not only replacing their old one, but laying down a new era. In the past they had lived in harmony with the forest; now they knew they were also its protectors. And Metzi understood that the High Priestess not only led her people in ritual and magic, but was also in charge of keeping them safe, and making hard decisions that some will refuse to understand. It was a noble calling, but a difficult one.

Metzi went around the camp asking people for their spells and stories, and listened and recorded every single one. The more she listened, the more she was sure about wanting to be High Priestess. She loved her Coven and wanted to do everything she could to protect them. While the spells and potion recipes were written in the new High Priestess’s grimoire, the stories she recorded were so long and numerous they had to be put into a separate, ever-growing book of the Coven’s history, a project Metzi started and kept going when she became High Priestess. The grimoire Metzi worked on as a child lasted all throughout her time as leader, and was used by a few of her successors, until it was so worn they needed to make a new one. The book of their history was well preserved and cared for, and new priestesses started new volumes when the space ran out.

The Town never grew much. The witches’ magic kept them from spreading deeper into the forest. The book remained their only win. A few times more people tried to start new settlements around it, but the witches made it so difficult that many of them did not stay. Only those that came in wanting to learn to live in peace with the land were allowed to stay, as long as they never forgot this intention. The witches even showed themselves to some, who accepted their offers of learning to use magic to work with the forest. In the generations to come, more settlements did develop, but thanks to the work of the witches, this only meant the forest gained more protectors.

MRS. BUCHANAN

By Calum Loudon

Levenside Medical Practice, January 2004.

‘So that’s it. Av got cancer then?’, Sandra said, matter-of-factly.

The doctor slid a pamphlet titled ‘YOU’RE NOT ALONE’ across his desk and offered an apologetic gaze. The leaflet featured an elderly woman, in a cosy office (much nicer than the one Sandra was in now), shock etched across her face, tears welling up at the bottom of her eyes, with a handsome man on his knees in front of her, arm spread across her back. A quote in a bright white font cropped up to the left of the woman, which read “as soon as I heard the word cancer, everything turned black”.

‘I know this is a shock, Mrs Buchanan. Take as much time as you need and ask me any questions that come to the forefront of your mind’, the doctor replied.

Sandra let the silence infect the room and looked out of the office window, taking in the bright, cold January afternoon. Her stare was drawn towards a little courtyard outside the practice. It was a miserable attempt at a garden, boxed within a circle of rusting metal gates. Inside, a thin magnolia tree stood on its last legs, its buds at the end of the branches appearing tiny and dead as they wilted to the bottom of the dirt. Come the early spring, they would be bursting out of the ground and swelling into creamy white flowers, teeming with life. Sometimes it would blossom as early as March, sometimes not until the last weeks of April. Sandra knew this as she had one in her own back yard, which she had particularly enjoyed admiring in the recent summer. She loved gardening; being close to the dirt and taking in the cool, clean odour of newly bloomed flowers and wet grass. It reminded her of her childhood, a time before tobacco, scheme odours and mucus had dulled her sense of their sharpness.

Sandra was struck by all the flowers and trees and plants she would never get to see, to smell, to spruce. She had figured she’d get around to learning everything there was about botany, through some kind of natural osmotic ageing process. But that option had now been taken from her.

‘Alright’, Sandra said, getting up to leave. ‘Cheers son.’

‘Ah, Mrs Buchanan?’

Sandra turned back; her hand was on her overcoat and her thick woolly scarf was already halfway whipped round her neck.

‘Aye?’

‘Please, take a moment. You must have some questions.’ ‘Naw.’

Six weeks; that’s how long Sandra had waited for the news. As it played across her mind, usually during anxiety-ridden, sleepless nights, she had played out her reaction in a variety of different ways. Yet, oddly enough, what was proceeding had never been rehearsed.

‘Mrs Buchanan, we need to discuss treatment options as soon as possible.’

Sandra threw the coat over her shoulders. ‘Naw’, she sighed. ‘We really don’t.’

The young doctor rose and timidly slid around the side of the desk. Thick, brown hair draped over his forehead down towards two bushy eyebrows. His face was young, healthy, and he spoke with a clean accent. The boy must have been half Sandra’s age. She couldn’t recall his name. Something to do with a hairnet. She unsubtly glanced at a black name plate on his desk, which spelt out “Hartnett”. His hand was outstretched now, placed nervously on Sandra’s thinning shoulder. It was the first time she had been touched by a man in years.

‘Look – Mrs Buch…Sandra..,’ Doctor Hartnett gulped while Sandra raised her eyebrows at the sudden change in formalities.

‘This reaction is much more common than you would think. Most people, once they’ve got over the initial shock, realise it’s wise to at least hear about the treatment options. Perhaps you can discuss this with your loved on…’

‘Wit’s ma loved ones got tae dae wi this?’ Sandra snapped, shirking the doctor’s hand from her shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…offend.’

Sandra shook her head and sighed once more, more sympathetically on this occasion. ‘Listen son, you don’t need tae be worryin about it. Or me. It’s life, and it’s just the way yer cards are dealt’, she said, nodding sagely. In truth, Sandra was fighting down an emotion this young man would struggle to understand, through no fault of his own. Part of her craved the whole speech about the tumour on her lungs not being a death sentence. About how the treatments could help, the gruelling, exhausting hours of chemotherapy not being ‘that bad’. About the miracle survival case, involving a woman of similar age to herself, beating the odds. She was sure there were leaflets ready for all these outcomes. But Sandra was wary

of such optimism. It had let her down before, in especially convenient moments. No, she was going to stick to the overriding emotion she was feeling and finding a curious peace in. Well, that’s it fucked.

‘Would you like me to refer you to a counsellor at least?’

‘Naw.’

‘Sandra, I think you are in denial right now.’ The doctor’s tone shifted. The bullshit had ended, which gauged Sandra’s interest.

‘Denial eh’, she said, turning from the door while a defiant smirk played across her lips. ‘And whys that son? Why don’t ye illuminate me, since you know the inner workins of ma heid so well.’

The young doctor swallowed hard, and Sandra watched as his Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down his throat. ‘Well…usually people ask ho..’

‘Usually people ask how long theve got’, she smiled, enjoying a smug amusement at interrupting a medical professional.

The doctor was blinking strangely, his anxiety becoming more difficult to hide. ‘Well…yes. Precisely.’

‘Well go on then, since you’re so eager oan tellin me. Goan n tell me when am gonny die?’

‘Eh…we..it’s…it’s tough to say.’

‘Gies a bawpark.’

‘Okay’, the doctor said solemnly. ‘Without treatment of any kind, if things continue to progress at this rate, for lung cancer this aggressive…’ – he looked Sandra straight in the eye – ‘three to six months.’

The weight of the words changed the atmosphere in the room. Sandra watched Hartnett’s expression transform from concern to expectation, as she considered the vital information she had just been presented with.

‘Great, well a’ll mark the occasion in ma calendar then’, and with that, Sandra tutted her way out of the office with an air of royalty, walked directly past the concerned looks of the receptionist, and out into the cutting wind of the car park. Three to six months. She took a deep breath and instantly regretted it, the cold air intruding her lungs and causing a harsh, spluttered cough that required the aid of a raggedy old hanky, which had become a staple item when leaving the house. She stared at the tissue, now decorated with tiny droplets of dark red blood, before

focusing on the dying tree, which stood in front of her. She let out a low, tired sigh. Sandra got on the 68, the only remaining bus route that goes directly through the scheme, and wandered up to the back row. A group of teenagers, blasting out invading rap music from their phones, giggled as she staggered past.

‘Auld yin’s high as a kite’, an unbroken, shrill voice commentated, and the group burst into excited, mocking laughter. Usually, in such circumstances, Sandra would have swaggered up to that cheeky wee cunt and clapped him twice around the ear. Then she would have followed him home, gone up to his door, and for good measure, clapped his mother’s ear. Yet, for what seemed like the first time in her life, Sandra didn’t have the required energy for such a confrontation. Youth is wasted on the young, she considered.

Sitting separate and aloof, she watched in a daze as the vehicle entered Bonhill and chundered past rows of identical grey houses, all with fenced-in gardens. None of the houses had any flowers in the front, and instead, looked bare and abandoned, mostly used as dumping grounds, or convenient places for dogs to shit in.

She trudged from the bus, up the street, up the hill, and into her house, defeat hanging over her like a heavy shadow. ‘Andrew?’

There was no reply. Sandra noted the emptiness of the house as the kettle clattered to a halt, and she took out her favourite comfort mug (a rose-inspired design, salmon coloured, the stem curled around the side to form a nice wide handle) and watched in a trance as the water splashed around the teabag, bringing out the reddish-brown hue. Today, it looked like rusty old water. She sat in her kitchen, carefully sipping on her tea, and noted how the winter had ravaged her garden of any beauty.

She took it all in, her pride and joy which had stayed loyal throughout the years. Come summer, weans would walk from all over the scheme to see it, the only bright spot in Bonhill. As Sandra cast her glance over the limp branches, the faded colours, she imagined it was peak summer; the bird feeder, which sat covered in spiderwebs, stripes of orange rust spoiling its charming umber brown, would be dangling proudly, enticing cooing birds to enjoy a well-earned pit stop. Just under, bursting out of the ground in bold blocks of red, pink, and blue, would be the energetic Clematis Rainbow, while to the left, the white violet of the Pansy Ocean Breeze would stir gently in the wind, the cool guy at the party. To the right of the garden, the pink tinted stems of the Hydrangea would sit upon the back fence, commanding, keeping a watchful eye over the assemblage. The garden would continue round in a loop to the left; the green rows of Calluna Heathers, yellow splashes of Gold Flame, the orange flash of the Shrub, which connected to the dwarf fruit tree, producing succulent, ripe plums. The grass would sit olive green, leaking with nourishment. It would be thriving.

Today, and for the next six months, Sandra’s back garden was void of life. Everything was dead.

She went for one final gulp of her tea, accepting it would be best to get to bed, get this shite day over with, when, cup halfway to her face, she saw it. It took several minutes for movement of any kind. Sandra stood there, gawking out her kitchen window. If any neighbours had witnessed this reaction, word would have gotten around the scheme very swiftly; old Sandra Buchanan had finally lost the plot. She clambered out her back door like an enthusiastic child and stopped ever so gently in front of the magnolia, which sat humbly, curled up and defeated by the harsh Scottish winter.

She sat down in the dirt, wide-eyed and awestruck. She was sure that someone would be witnessing this scene from their window; there was always eyes watching in the scheme. But she didn’t care. Not today. Leaning in closer, she examined it in wonder; the tiniest sole bud had blossomed at the tip of the tree in a dirty pink. It was as fresh as it was crisp, and it sat proudly, putting its peers to shame. Sandra leaned into the plant, and carefully stroked the bud like an old family pet. She bubbled out an appreciative, emotional laugh as tears began to well up in her eyes. For the first time in forty years, the tiniest glint of hope got lodged in Sandra’s chest.

And she couldn’t shake it.

CUT TIES

By Clair Logan

Where there was once a soft and glowing warmth between us, now lies a never-ending space, in all its blue and chilling glory. It is difficult to understand it, to try and navigate it. We find ourselves further apart now than when we did not yet know each other, when we did not know one another’s souls inside and out. We were strangers walking the same path of life, now we travel alone, drifting apart from each other, no longer bound together as we once were.

Now, spending each miserable day without you, my heart finds a new way to define the sorrow that racks my bones, clinging to me no matter where I go. I’ve let go of my love and my life and my friend and my everything, I let you go. I sit for hours questioning myself, wondering whether I in fact made the right decision, was I overreacting, did I cut off the best thing I had…

… remove those glasses, those delicate, brittle, rose-tinted glasses you cling to.

…what are you not seeing? Remove the ignorance, the denial, the love you thought you had, what did you overlook? Say it…

…the arguing, the late nights, the crying and the screaming; I couldn’t do it. The upsets and torrents of torment, the lack of power and inability to grow. I can’t grow with you here by my side; I cannot grow whilst I am bound to you, whilst trying to kindle the dying light between us. You were overwhelming me, and it frightened me. The hurt I carry with me is mine and mine alone; you can’t demand answers of me like that, asking me to open up. I can’t do that.

I cannot say for sure when I felt it, the cold and savage space between us begin to grow, but I felt it. One too many tears ran down my cheeks, fell into my lap, staring back at me. One too many nights spent sat with my mother, questioning whether I am worthy of more than this, whether this is the fate I was bound to.

When he calls you, telling you he’s changed, that he won’t make the same mistakes… … you won’t listen to a word he says, he will still be the same.

I hate you, for making me feel like this, for making me feel this small and showing me I wasn’t worth an apology. I love you, for being the most beautiful part of my life, for being my shoulder to cry on, for giving me every part of yourself and so much more. Yet the highs do not outweigh the lows…

So, I cut you free. We couldn’t have stayed bound together like this forever, the rope was fraying slowly, you just didn’t want to see it.

MY GHOST

By Lauren O’Hare

My phantom trails me, mute yet lingering near

He’s a genial ghost; though indifferent he may appear

He’s still my own; this truth I know He comes and goes on whims I can’t control

This spectre was once a manOr rather, just a boy

Then temper flared, eyes watered... Hush took over

And he was a phantom

Now living, breathing his heart’s still beating

But between us communication lies dead

No words uttered he orbits around my head

DEAD ICARUSES

By Jasleen K.G.

Lately I keep meeting dead birds on the pavement

Where it takes one thousand years and eight minutes for dirty snow to reflect the sun’s light

Dark eyes that never close and wings sprawled still yet in flight

Today a crow, time last a sparrow

First a flycatcher with a body like air, empty before I even buried it

And we were still, together, sitting in the cold on the black trailer as the sun fell too

Sometimes I wonder why I keep stopping in my tracks

Halted from flighty ambitions because of what I’ve seen

Little tired things with dead and drawn faces reminding me not to try

Mentors tell me to unearth my old dreams in my back pocket

That I’m good enough to keep going even when I’m not sure I want it

Now I can’t look ahead of me but I do know what the ground says Don’t rush forward and stay wary ahead

OUR LADY OF MERCY

By Kerry McGahan

A series of notable diary entries from 16-year-old Dorothy Gallo, preceding the death of her family friend Sebastian Wilson, c.1944.

21 May 1944

Bex’s family came along to mass today. I like to think it was to see me. Daddy says we are proud catholic Americans; the catholic first, and the American second, but definitely both in tandem during these times. But Bex’s family have been in the states practically since the Mayflower and of course never do they fuss about coming to catholic mass! Anyway, it made the thing much less dull. She was wearing one of Sebastian’s old shirts. She does that lately, wears his clothes, even though both our mama’s are aghast.

22 May 1944

The more I think about mass yesterday, the more I worry I have committed a terrible act of blasphemy. This is difficult for me to put into words. Take Jesus as he made his pilgrimage, crucifix over the shoulder, to his end. Every time I looked at the back of Bex’s head my stomach flipped and I was filled with an understanding which I’m sure the saints have longed for of the longing Christ felt, the disappointment and the crushing hope, as they placed the thorned crown on his head and postured him in the glory of death for all to see. Perhaps I am Mary Magdalene, slandered by ancestors, or Mary Mother of Jesus, weeping over the judgement of her child. Or maybe I encompass the people’s sins. I am committing them now.

I have also lost the rosary grandma gave me for my first communion, and I dread to tell mama.

2 June 1944

Since Sebastian left, I have felt the need to check the toilet whenever I use the bathroom in case a baby has come out. Every time I say to myself, surely you would notice yourself giving birth. I think my concerns should lie with whether there is a baby growing inside of me; mama says there can’t possibly be, because I’ve never had sex, but she doesn’t know that Elliot Jones kissed me last month at the Spring fair and I felt his – privates – rub up against my leg for a second. I don’t think this is enough to get pregnant, not that I know a lot about it but health class has taught us the basics, but I can’t help worrying that God saw this happen and decided to teach me a lesson for my sin.

I got a new rosary and have been saying my hail Mary’s every night. It isn’t Ordinary Time or October or Advent but it won’t do me any harm. If I can appease the Lord, he might see it fit that I lose the child.

15 June 1944

Bex and I went to the pictures today. I didn’t know what it was going in. Something she wanted to see. It wasn’t a good one. Then she cried in the restroom. Sebastian hasn’t died and yet she cries like he has. I told her he would come home, and she said there would never be a home for him to come to. It has changed, she said, since he left. His cigarette smoke used to linger in the wallpaper and without him it curls, and where she thought she would find his face behind is only wooden panel and balls of insulation pouring from between the slats. I was silent then, because she had gotten my attention; I understood so completely what she meant. I haven’t gone into our playroom for months, as with every look inside I can see Sebastian, lying on the carpet, arms and knees raised, balancing me atop playing aeroplane.

This obsession I have with Sebastian does ease my suffering regarding Bex, however. For these sinful thoughts I have of her at night, or when I kissed Elliot Jones and wished he had her curves, must only be about Sebastian. I never crushed on him as the other girls my age did, but I have always been a late bloomer in this regard. My consciousness misses him, so it redirects its feelings to Bex. I am sure this is the reason. I am sure it has to be, anyhow, because daddy already thinks my little brother Thomas is homo-affective and imagine it was the both of us!

25 July 1944

Diary, I keep forgetting about you. I’m sorry to leave you alone for such long stretches only this summer has been so hectic because now that Sebastian is gone mama insists, I am old enough to help her with her work at the funerary home. We only work with Catholic funerals, and it’s mostly administrative work, arranging services with the priest and such. Mama rarely makes me touch the bodies because she knows of the terrible fright it used to give me as a child.

My stomach hasn’t grown any. I am keeping a close eye on it. Every morning, I measure myself around the waist. It is mama’s fault, I have decided, and her dead bodies, that I have to pray so often to keep myself safe from God’s wrath. He loves me, but I must prove myself as worthy. My mother and I are too close to the gates of heaven – or hell. This baby is a test to prove my faith. I haven’t told Bex about it because she would call me crazy. I don’t need her approval; I know what I know. I keep having the terrible thought that if Sebastian does die, they will send his body to us. He was always lively, a tall tan and strapping young man. I cannot imagine him lifeless upon a silver table, his soul amongst God’s Kingdom but him, here, in front of me, without a joke to crack or a kind word. Is this why I am convinced God has chosen me as his next vessel? Is it why I have a voice in my brain, as the Saints have had, as Jeanne de’Arc heard, instructing my every move? Is this growing up, abandoned amongst corpses, dreading the day I see the death crawling in the bones of my friends and family as it does in mine? Will my son or daughter someday be as holy as I am? As obsessive. As lost. Will I bequeath this curse onto them? I am not sure. Often, I find myself starting a thought, sure I am about to uncover some wild truth, but I always lose my way. It could also be the tendency Bex says I have to make everything about myself.

UNSHACKLING

By Sarah Farley

He was the miracle his parents so desperately prayed for. Every evening and every morning, their knees met the wooden bedroom floor and their elbows leaned on the edge of the bed, their chins touched their chests and they prayed for a child. They would summon the Presence, and ask, if it’s according to His will, would He please give them a baby and help their baby to stay alive. They did this, every evening and every morning without fail for 10 years. After treading through 10 years of expectations unmet and promises gathered in bloody clots in the pool of toilet water, remnants of their dreams swirling into the drains with no idea where they were headed, the Presence came to visit his mother one evening. When the Presence told her that, a year from now, she would have a baby boy, she laughed. Out of all the responses she could have chosen, she was unable to hide her doubt and she burst out laughing. At this part of the story, the story she would tell him annually on the evening before his birthday, her eyes always shone particularly bright through the thin sheen of happy tears. She laughed because she had already battled the demons of her infertility and was forced to make peace with them, shaking their hands, making a deal so that they would stop harassing her. She didn’t have the strength to hope once again. Instead of tucking her own child into bed with whispered prayers and wished sweet dreams, she tightly wrapped a blanket around her dream of being a mother, silencing and suffocating its bickering voice. So when the Presence told her that she would have a child, the words tugged forcefully at the hibernating dream, forcing its arm, until the whole skeleton was out of the neatly wrapped and tucked away burial cloth. The Presence turned its eyes of raging fire onto the mother’s, with sparks of such deep affection and compassion that she was left breathless. “It was as if he had experienced the same pain I had”, the mother would say as she described that moment to her son. He loved that story, he really did, but he had heard it so many times that he could already predict the exact words his mother would choose to deliver a punchline. So every time she’d start talking about her encounter with the Presence, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. The Presence had never come to visit him, nor made Himself known to the son in any way. He didn’t believe the Presence actually existed. But he loved his mother too much to accuse her of lying or claim her experience as a mere coincidence, a hallucination, or a very vivid dream. It would add too much pressure to his life if it was true that he came to be under such miraculous circumstances. Believing that his existence was a coincidence helped him sleep better at night.

They lowered her into the ground on the first Tuesday of October. The three of them had the habit of going bowling the first Tuesday of every month, a tradition that had weaved its way into their lives unintentionally. His mother always won. Her death forced father and son together, not able anymore to lean on the moth-

er to unite them all and Bowling Tuesdays were cancelled. “Family” seemed like an inaccurate term to describe them. Two persons were too few members to fill a word so heavy with significance. So they ultimately grew apart but what they didn’t know they had in common was the anthem in their minds, repeating “I am ok, I am OK. I am fine.” After the funeral, they never spoke about her, the topics of conversation limited to football, the son’s school, the father’s job. When the son went to Uni, he withdrew further into the darkness of his grief. At parties he tried to make friends, but he couldn’t think of the right jokes to make, the right amount of alcohol to consume - too little was lame, too much was overbearing, annoying, it put you in a vulnerable position of having to rely on someone to take care of you and he didn’t have anyone who made sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit in his sleep. In class he would remain silent, not trusting his voice to betray him and spill his secrets, the worms of his mind crawling along the classroom floor and up the legs of his classmates as soon as he spoke.

A loud pop pulled him unwillingly out of his self-inflicted trance. He found himself at yet another party, forcing him to try again. He slowly blinked, as if to carefully break the news to his eyes that he was somewhere he didn’t want to be. He craned his neck, tipped his toes, in an attempt to identify where the noise came from. It wasn’t necessarily that he cared, but more because he craved for his body to do something different than just stand around awkwardly, waiting for someone to notice him. Ah there, the evidence he was looking for. The floor was covered in a colourful sheet of confetti, some blues and greens and yellows winking at him every time the sea of feet would part to reveal patches of floor. With his eyes fixed on the floor, he started counting the yellows, his favourite colour, until he caught himself—what the heck am I doing? He closed his eyes and took a careful breath. The options of how he could stand, where to place his hands, his arms, whether to smile, to frown, started to overwhelm him and he could feel his chest tighten. He didn’t want to open his eyes too wide, lest he communicated his insecure innocence but also didn’t like the idea of narrowing his eyes into slits, that would make him seem careless and boring. Nobody wants to talk to a careless and bored person, right? He tried to focus on the sounds of the party—the clinking bottles, the murmur of voices, the sporadic bubble of laughter, the low hum of the drum and bass playlist someone was playing through the speakers. He heaved a deep sigh, ready to give up, call it quits and go home. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and crossed his arms. He started biting his nails, waiting for it to be midnight, the personal goal he set for himself. Collecting the fragments of his bitten nails in his coat pocket, he moved to the other side of the room, closer to the exit, for preparation purposes. He could already see Grief’s shadow leaning against the doorframe, patiently waiting for him. He was planning to bin his nails at home. He didn’t want any part of himself to stay behind at this terrible party. If he dropped them to the floor, someone might identify them as his during tomorrow’s clean up. He didn’t want them knowing about his nervousness. No, he was definitely going for the dark and mysterious vibe now that he spoke to nobody, and nobody spoke to him. He peeked at his phone and saw the satisfying row of four zeros. The last mental image he was left with before exiting through the door was his bitten off

nails lying next to the colourful palettes of confetti on the floor, introducing each other, becoming friends.

When he arrived at his flat, Grief greeted him at the door. The dark figure shook his hand so forcefully that its fingers left tiny red dots on the son’s skin. Grief swung the door open for him, revealing to him nothing but deep, inky darkness. So dark it almost seemed fluid. Sticky. Grief placed his hand on the son’s shoulder, handed him over to Loneliness, like guards handling a prisoner. Grief returned to guarding the door. It had to make sure nobody disturbed him. Loneliness led the son to his bed with slow steps. Step, feet together, step – the rhythm of treading under water. The spirit tucked him in and tied his wrists to the bedframe. The son couldn’t make out Loneliness’s body but could feel the mattress sinking beneath its weight where it was sitting beside him. Loneliness told him a bedtime story, tales of missed opportunities and could-have-been adventures. Regrets and memories of his mother started harassing the son’s mind as Loneliness told its tales. It sang him a lullaby which made the dark figures stomping on his heart dance faster. They pirouetted to the song, swung each other in grandiose twists and turns. Loneliness ended its ballad on a high note to which the figures gathered in a constellation—small ones in the front, tall ones in the back—and bowed in proud excitement. However, nothing in the boy’s body applauded the figures, so they kept dancing, desperate to earn someone’s approval, but they were performing for the wrong master. Loneliness squeezed the son’s hand one last time before getting up and lowering itself into the armchair facing the bed. The son felt the dark figures in his chest quieten down and his breathing returned to its usual rhythm, and he thought maybe he could rest now. But Loneliness didn’t join Grief outside and instead lowered itself in the armchair, keeping an eye on him through the night. The figures on his heart resumed dancing the waltz and his lungs tightened.

When the son woke up in the middle of the night, he saw four flecks of light projected on the bedroom ceiling. At first, he mistook them for the reflective stars his parents had stuck to the ceiling of his childhood bedroom. When he would wake up in the dark of the night as a child, he would gaze up and start dreaming of the galaxy created by his parents’ love. But he wasn’t in his childhood bedroom, he was in the presence of his dark companions. His eyes followed the stream of light and he saw that it must be coming from the streetlight outside which was pouring through the holes in the curtain. When he woke up again later, the son saw the stars dancing across the ceiling. He thought he must be hallucinating. The little dark figures must have travelled to his brain, distorting reality, and mocking him with the fond memories of his childhood. But it was only a car’s headlight driving down the creepy alleyway outside, its light interrupting the room’s darkness. It was hard to tell how many days and how many nights he spent shackled by the company of his enemies. He would faintly hear his phone ring from time to time, but he couldn’t reach it, couldn’t answer. Sometimes, the spirits would leave but he would remain paralyzed, even in their absence. No matter how much he twisted and wiggled under the blankets that bound him, he couldn’t get out of bed. One night, he felt so paralyzed that he struggled to even extend his chest to let the

slightest bit of oxygen into his lungs. When he gasped for air, someone placed a hand on his chest. Gentle, but firm. Was this another presence in the room? Was it one of them? What are they going to do now? Has he not been tortured enough? The murky darkness of black shifted to grey. A light started pouring through the holes of the curtains, so strong it ripped them into two halves, disrobing the window of its barrier. He could see a haze of a shape, a bright flash of something throwing dust particles into the air like confetti. Grief entered the room hurriedly, walked over and began stroking his cheek. The other Being was still resting its hand on his chest.

“Shoo, shoo, shoo”, Grief hushed as if trying to calm down a fussy baby.

“Remember.” The slightest of whispers, a breath tickling his ear. The voice didn’t belong to the Evils. This voice unclasped the heavy cloak of the constant hassling murmurs of the Evils present and removed it, lifting a layer of pressure off the son’s skin. He saw peals of sweat running down Grief’s forehead, leaving behind translucent skin. Loneliness came over and started weeping and shaking Grief by its shoulders. The Evils were crumbling right in front of his eyes.

The One with its hand on his chest remained and the dancing figures stopped screaming. Silence filled his mind, his body. This calmness quietly led the dark figures out from the chambers of his heart, they weren’t welcome anymore. Whatishappening? This calmness even allowed his thoughts to resurface from where they were suffocating under the blanket of dread, like ice thawing with the arrival of spring. Warmth radiated from this Spirit’s hand, rushing through the rest of his body. His tongue was detangled.

“Who are you?” His voice came out raspy from being left unused for days, or perhaps even weeks.

“Are you with them?” But even before asking the question, he knew the answer.

“I’m the One who told your mother about your existence before you were born.” The Presence.

“I didn’t believe you existed”, the son said.

“I know, but that didn’t stop me from existing.”

“Now get up and walk again.” The phone started ringing again. “Hello?”, the son answered.

“Hey son, it’s your Dad here. I’ve been worried about you. Are you ok?”

“Yes, Dad. I am.” He was surprised that he meant it.

“I think it’s time we go bowling again.”

HALF-GHOST

By Laura Cathryn Thurlow

She began to suspect that Ted might still be alive just a few days after the funeral.

Walking into town, she was asked, “How is your husband?” As though there was any way for him to be.

Yet, “Fine,” she replied. She imagined he would have to be. While unsure of the precise definition of heaven, she felt quite certain that there was a pleasance to it which might have evaded Ted on earth.

When they met, while still in university, he had looked at her like she’d be a suture. But she had struggled to identify his wound. Certainly his act, his choice of her meant one thing – validation. She had struggled to be a girl, always wearing ill-fitting skin. Now, she was a wife. The story is supposed to end that way.

Women had children in his family. There was a line, a legacy, a history. A sacred duty to which wives were taken for. They were named before they were born, after his own father, after whom he himself had been named.

But after three babies-that-never-were, that disappeared in the night, that grew no larger than a thimble - she had reached the confident conclusion that she was never going to be a real woman. Well, to the least, not that kind of woman. So, he said he loved her anyways, and she knew anyways would have to do. In spite of, in order to.

One day, ten years of marriage simply began to feel like a decadent sort of thing. Some hardship avoided, some promises forgotten, she began to wonder if she had only ever been involved for his dream of children. And there were no children. There was only a body. What then, of her? Childless and eighty-two, she did not envy that idea. Child-free and eightytwo, surrendered to government care. The thought of losing him plagued her as she watched him shovel peas between his thirty-two year old lips. There was no love in it, she thought. In places, disgust. In others, worry.

Something about being too tall, oblong, ugly, had thrown her directly into his twenty-two year old arms. Strong arms, they had been. Arms which

went to medical school. Arms which understood. What a nice husband she would have, how nice he would be. With the power of his private practice they might purchase a house and garner a pension.

On their first date, she contemplated strangling him as she watched him fold the restaurant receipt into an accordion shape on the table. He placed it, tenderly, in his jacket pocket. “I like to save them,” he said- a profound statement of fiscal responsibility. Ten years later she would find them everywhere, senseless wasteful souvenirs, shoved in corners and in books and she tried to scrub the scent of him from the floorboards.

He was gone now. When she forgot the book on the train, she hadn’t heavily anticipated its return. When it showed up at her door, delicately folded into brown paper, she had suspected a Samaritan of the decent sort. When she opened the book and found a receipt, delicately folded in a familiar fashion, she cursed him for this inadequate haunting.

Walking into town, she met his sister. The sister asked, “How are you doing?” and so the not-woman replied, “Fine. I am sorry.” “We don’t blame you,” said the sister, “We know you would do anything to bring him back.”

Walking home, she wondered. Anything? Maybe, at least a couple of things. There is no honour in being alone. She wondered why she had not yet prayed, if she might have knocked on god’s door or paid attention to some other church. At home, for a thought, she checked his urn. Finding it empty, she thought to cram it full of his receipts and chuck it out to sea, see if he might notice.

She wished she could call him out, or at the least, call him. How does one reach the dead, or the half dead? She began to realise how faint the memory of his voice had become, and that, perhaps, at this point she would only recognize him actively scolding her. Some voices start off soft and then grow to blame you for the entire falsehood of your sex. You know how women are, or at least, you have some idea.

She went out to look, but it seemed that perhaps, he wasn’t in town. Perhaps he had moved on, as some people do. West, she thought, he must have headed west to sandy beaches and quiet storms. Who has the energy to haunt your not-wife? There are so many places to be.

It was when she heard him breathing that she thought perhaps it was the

house that was the bones of him. The floorboards glistened clean and waxed as she pried them from their places. “Did you wish it was me?” she wondered. Truly, she knew, that he had loved the very bones of her. Perhaps that was how it became so hard to breathe.

But he wasn’t dead, surely. It was not that kind of story, her life. She had handed over her solitude for love, and she had found it. Love saves, love forgives, love reproduces – never dies. Or if it dies, it’s not like this – a whimper, a voice she can no longer hear. “Are you dead, Ted?”

He was, then. He didn’t reply. There were no bones, flesh, gathered underneath the floor. She had left him at the crematorium. She had pushed him down the stairs.

Not pushed, not pushed, as he ran away from her, she only – only – let him fall. Exactly what he should have done to her. But no, not that, instead he’d rushed home and found her all red and wet. He said, “It’s not too late for this baby.”

But it wasn’t a baby. It wasn’t even the bones of one. It was a thimble. She flushed it down the loo. She didn’t name it. How perverse. She pushed him down the stairs. He fell. She watched. He was always wearing too big shoes – never had a firm grip of things. Not her hands, not her mind – she let him go. She’d waxed those hardwood stairs. It wasn’t her; it was his body. His body, his error.

And love, it seemed, had been the error. Love had rotted their bodies. Love had taken their dreams. He was going to stay angry forever. Now, he only had to stay silent.

She puts the floorboards back down as she knows she’ll have to sell the house. Ted hasn’t left her any money – IVF, the luxury. They could have bought a boat, fine bottles, a pure-bred dog. He hadn’t wanted those things. He only thought her body would do what a body should do. And now, she thinks so too.

She’ll head west for sandy beaches and quiet storms. She’ll find a lover, or she won’t. She’ll find a way to live with it – fine bottles - she will answer her own prayers. She will not reproduce. His last words will end with her, his legacy, his body, his choice.

WITCHERY AFOOT

By Gus Crowley

The night was dark, but not stormy, for Ezekiel had done his due diligence and divined a clearing that wouldn’t be bothered by the oncoming cold front. Surrounded by old-growth oaks, each taller than ten storeys and thicker around than a man could reach. The forest around him was rich with potent herbs and rife with wildlife and forest folk that tended to its rampant growing power, but Ezekiel had set up wards to ensure he was hidden from most curious observers and undisturbed by everything else. It was the end of the month, the moon hiding her face from the world, yet to sheepishly shed her light again as if embarrassed by her own tantrum. The young witch stooped down low, unfastening his sickle from his belt, gathering one last small cutting of yarrow. A large raven, invisible against the night sky but for the flapping of its wings alighted on a branch of the tree above him. It tried to nonchalantly preen its feathers, but couldn’t stop itself from breaking the silence.

‘You know, when this whole ritual inevitably implodes, I hope you don’t expect me to bail you out. Again.’

Ezekiel tutted, rearranged the remaining flowers around the cut stems, and straightened to his full height, turning from the plants to his ritual circle without looking up at the bird.

‘You know, when this ritual is an inevitable spectacular success, I hope you don’t expect to hog all the credit. Again.’

Squawk squawked indignantly. ‘Now see here! I am an indispensable font of ancient and powerful wisdoms, and I will not be dragged hither thither and yon, widdershins and back again about the countryside, ogled at by some of the seediest smugglers in the dingiest night markets just so you can try and fail at playing witch!’

‘Squawk, where is your faith in your companion?’ Ezekiel asked, a grin spreading across his face, ‘I am not playing at anything. Perhaps I am simply the greatest caster of hexes and plagues ever to grace our humble coven.’

Squawk flitted to the tree opposite his current one to make sure that Ezekiel could see him settle onto the branch and puff his feathers in irritation. Ezekiel met his display with a raised eyebrow. Some ancient spirit he is. Stamping

about like a child denied a candy.

‘My faith is somewhere back in that graveyard–in the Netherlands, remember–where you tried to raise Atilla the Hun from the dead because some pockmarked friend of yours said she was “sure” that was where he was really buried. Or maybe my faith is under that standing stone you toppled. Or perhaps my faith is back at that party where you got drunk and tried to shimmy your way into someone’s bed with card tricks!’

‘This is different than those times Squawk.’

‘Prithee reveal to me exactly how?’

Ezekiel shrugged. ‘I dunno, it just is. I got a feeling in my gut.’

Squawk squawked, but finally resolved to let sleeping dogs lie. Ezekiel plucked the petals from the yarrow and sprinkled them on the ground, finishing the curve of the circle marked on the floor of the clearing with him inside of it. He took a deep breath, let the wind play with the hair sticking out from under the brim of his hat, and called out for his magic.

It awoke like a cat dozing in a sunbeam from where it slept just beneath his skin, uncoiled like a hungry serpent from where it rushed through his blood, and extended its roots beneath his feet into the earth like a maple awakening from winter to spring. Ezekiel let himself blur and meld with the world around him, just a touch, feeling his heart beat in tune with the chirping of crickets and his breath sync with the gusts of wind. He was a witch of the wilds, and the witching hour had come.

‘I call now upon the Lost Face, you who are neither Maiden, nor Mother, nor Crone. I call on she who is the shield of the highwayman and the patron saint of liars and scoundrels. I would ask of you a chance to entreat a boon, a chance to parley for a great working of magic. I have gifts to offer, and I know stories of your mighty skill and great ken.’

Ezekiel waited, and the night was quiet, all the sounds of scurrying hunting night creatures faded away, till it was just him and his heartbeat in his ears. He waited some more and felt darkness descend like the shadow of a swooping hawk as the stars one by one went out. Well, clearly I have her attention, he thought to himself. Or y’know, something’s attention. He kept his face measured, knowing that the night may blacken his sight, but not anything else’s. Suddenly, a voice spoke, coming from directly in front of him, where the centre of the circle would be. A gravelly, strained voice, as if its owner had not needed to speak for years, nor had any desire to.

‘Who now calls on the Lost Face? I who am neither Maiden, nor Mother, nor Crone? Perhaps a highwayman, blood still on his hands who needs an escape, or are you a liar and a scoundrel come to swindle me of whatever he can take?’

‘I have been called all these things and more, high sister,’ Ezekiel said, doffing his pointed hat and bowing low, ‘that is why I knew to come to you rather than anyone else.’

All was still dark. Ezekiel realised he could no longer even see the ground at his feet, much less the figure two metres from him. He would not see if she charged him for an attack.

‘And what of this boon you ask? Few come to me asking favours. My sisters are usually much more receiving of sycophants and beggars. Speak warily, for you are in the shadow of the light I do not cast, and you speak to the New Moon.’

‘Then it is a good thing I am neither sycophant nor beggar. I would propose a trade. I have many precious gifts, but I have need of your skills with shadows and deception. Nothing greater than you can accomplish, I’m sure. Surely you would at least hear my request?’

‘Gifts? It has been a long time since I have been offered a trinket or treasure.’ A pause. Ezekiel let the moment hang, letting the New Moon think of how many people praised her sisters, and left her by the wayside. ‘Very well. Make your offer.’

‘Excellent, high sister, exceedingly excellent,’ said the young witch. ‘I have four treasures of earth, sea, fire, and sky. Each more beautiful than the last, and each a natural mirror of your deepest, blackest dark. They will remind you of the night even when the sun shines high in the sky. In return for these gifts, I would ask for the smallest fragment of your true darkness, fashioned into a cloak of shadows, that I might walk without prying eyes or listening ears dogging at my steps.’

‘A cloak of shadows?’ responded the New Moon, ‘You are a foolish boy, not some great warlock from ages past. Leave your piddly baubles and crawl back to your bed where dreams like yours should stay.’

‘High sister, if you would but–’

‘But nothing! Times have changed boy, and we must all change with them. Even my sisters and I. Even you.’

Another pause, pregnant with words swallowed by grief.

‘You are right, high sister, times have changed. But wouldn’t you like them to change back? Are we to roll over like dogs in the face of adversity? I ask for a working of magic from old reckoning, that I could wear it as a reminder to my fellow witches that for all the tide withdraws, it always returns, and often at the time of greatest ebb, its mirror is the mightiest crushing wave.’

Ezekiel waited, though he couldn’t stop himself from shifting his weight from foot to foot. In the quiet of this dark place, it felt deafening. At last, she spoke, ‘Fine. But when they call you a heretic, and tell you you go too far, and dream too wildly, know that I gave you fair warning. Bring out your offerings to the New Moon.’

Ezekiel bowed graciously and took a seat cross-legged on the grassy floor. From his rucksack he took four small cases and lined them up in front of him. The first was a small jewellery box which he flipped open for his patron to inspect. Nestled on the cushion inside, though he could not see it for it was as black as the darkness around him, was a black pearl.

‘This pearl comes from an oyster, found deeper than any living thing should be found in the sea. It was pulled up from the depths in the dead of night and has never been touched by daylight.’

The second case was a wood box, rich hardwood that had already stood the test of time. Taking its lid off, Ezekiel showed off the small stone within. It had been polished to a brilliant sheen, but in this place with no light, it reflected nothing.

‘This is an onyx from deep in the earth, and it has whispered much wisdom to me in only the few weeks it has been in my possession, for stone has a long, long memory, and this stone remembers only the pitch black beneath the earth.

Next in line was a drawstring pouch, and despite the chill in the air, Ezekiel could still feel its still smouldering warmth. Reaching a hand in, Ezekiel showed his fingers, stained with ash, though he could not even see his hands.

‘I bring you an ember from the greatest fire in the memory of stag and wolf, wrapped tight in its mourning veil of charcoal. It still hungers to consume

anything it can, and turn all the sunlit world to blackened ash. The final gift was in a paper box, folded from a flat sheet to a cube as ornate and beautiful as it was delicate. Gently unfolding it, Ezekiel held up a black feather, short and fluffy, invisible in the air.

‘Finally, I bring a dark down feather, from an owl who flies silently through the night. He gave it to me just the other day, for he said he had grown so fat from being such a successful hunter he could spare this feather and more.’

Ezekiel placed the feather back into its box and knelt before the New Moon, his gifts in a line between them. There he waited, until his knees began to grow weak and he could feel his back start to ache, and yet he did not rise. Eventually, he felt something change. He heard no rustle of movement, felt no footsteps on the earth, and he certainly saw nothing in the pitch around him, but through some sixth sense he knew that if he reached out his hands the gifts would be gone.

‘These gifts are pleasing to me,’ and now the voice spoke not at a respectful distance, but directly into his ear. It maintained its gravelly, disused quality, but now had a measure of coiling sweetness to it. ‘You will have your cloak, but we must still discuss payment.’

‘High sister?’ Ezekiel let himself sit up, suddenly wary. ‘I offer these gifts as payment, I have not much gold or riches to offer you right now.’

‘Nor would I ask gold of you, and yet pay you must. These treasures are much appreciated, and they are powerful reminders of my darkness, but they will have to be used as materials for the crafting. And surely you know, when commissioning a great work of art, you provide the materials in addition to payment for my skill. So until you can spin spider silk into thread and find a sewing needle of ancient bone and cut a patch of the night sky down to earth, I will ask for something more.’

The voice, which had been pacing around where Ezekiel sat, faded away with a chuckle, and he realised he wasn’t entirely sure where the New Moon was about him. The trees at the edge of the clearing bounced sound in strange ways, sometimes muffling and sometimes amplifying, and for the first time, Ezekiel finally understood that he may very well be in danger.

‘I would accept a year and a day in service to me,’ the voice continued. ‘It is a traditional form of payment.’

‘Ah. That’s an interesting proposition, but I’m afraid I’ll have to negotiate,’ Eze-

kiel said. ‘I’m afraid my time is not entirely my own. If you still hold true to the old barters, perhaps I could offer a favour for a favour?’

‘Hm.’ She seemed displeased at that. ‘I suppose I could accept that. Each time you don the cloak you would be indebted to me a boon.’

‘Well now, I hardly think that’s fair,’ Ezekiel said.

‘And I hardly think you understand exactly what you’re asking for. Do you think yourself unknown to me boy?’ anger in the voice, quickly unfolding its wings to take flight. ‘I am oft forgotten by most, but in their absentmindedness they oft forget to watch their words and so I know many things most others do not. Including exactly what kind of witch you are, and what kind of witch you would be, were there not others to keep you in check. Impudent they call you, and impudent you are, and much more besides. Fool am I for entreating with you, but no greater fool than those who think to guide you from the storm-rocked path you decide for yourself.’

Ezekiel stayed sat where he was as these words were hurled at him, doing everything he could to keep his face even and his breathing slow. He thought at first that his high sister had left him there, but still the stars were put out, and still he felt that presence encircling him. As silence rang out through the trees, he took an opportunity to make her wait on him. Eventually, he spoke.

‘And yet entreat with me you do. For you are as desperate as I am, and as many witches are. Yes, even you, who has seen so much and heard so many tales that come from so far. I offer three favours in exchange for the cloak of shadows and our compact is done. Three favours and the words of praise that would tumble from my lips as you prove your skill and generosity. Three favours and all the new favour that comes from finally being recognised among your sisters again.’

Another pause. Perhaps she had to collect her thoughts, or perhaps the New Moon was sharpening its claws.

‘Fine. Three favours, just the once, but I will require one more piece.’

‘And what do you require of me, high sister?’

‘Your shadow. Just a piece of it, but if you would swaddle yourself in a fragment of my darkness, I would have a fragment of yours. I wish to keep an eye on my new debtor, and see how he develops.’

Ezekiel could feel the power pooling in the clearing as negotiations reached their end. It weighed on his tongue as he formed his response. ‘I find this agreement acceptable. May we both be bound to it.’

‘I find this agreement acceptable. May we both be bound to it.’ Her voice was now just behind his ear, at a whisper even quieter than the grave. ‘And I have the talismans you so generously provided, now all I need is that final piece. A bit of shadow, woven into your new cloak so that it will know it is yours, and always find its way back to you and you alone.’

Something gripped Ezekiel’s hand, something ice cold that immediately began to make his arm feel numb. Before he could react he felt the same cold flash across the base of his pinky finger, severing it in a cut so quick and clean he hardly noticed the finger was gone. As he tried to reel back, before he could even shout in pain, he felt the same frigid pressure on his other wrist. Again came that same flash of a cold, numb blade, and his other pinky was separated from his hand.

‘And the rest, just so that I can see what you grow into, impudent boy.’

Ezekiel felt a wave of power wash over him, and before he could gather his wits or bandage his now bleeding hands, he fell to the ground, the cackle of the New Moon ringing in his ears.

He awoke in the same instant the dawn broke over the land, light coming back to the world. He looked at the boughs of the nearby trees and found Squawk still asleep where he’d been perched last night. Then, as memory flooded back he looked to his hands in a panic, but he counted three times and found five fingers on each hand. Indeed, Ezekiel realised with surprise he had weathered the night better than to be expected. That’s when he noticed he was wearing a new cloak. Made of what seemed to be nothing more than black wool and lined in dark fur, it was so light he barely noticed it, yet it kept the early morning chill well at bay. He felt no different wearing it, but he had no doubt of its power. He examined his hands again, and saw that in the sun’s rays, his shadow followed his movements exactly, save that when he waved at it, it waved back without the last fingers on each hand.

THE BOUNDARIES OF HUMANITY

By Lara Thorpe

When you look up at the night sky, what do you see? Beyond the luminescent yellow mist of the man-made cars and skyscrapers and streetlights- beyond the restraints and restrictions and rules of being human- what do you see? Maybe, you see nothing. Nothing at all. Rows upon rows of endless nothingness, an eternally existing vacuum of emptiness.

Or maybe- just maybe- you see a gateway: a celestial portal, into the midst of a Universe. Of all that is in existence at this very moment. A vast expanse of glittering Creation and Consciousness, way off in the distance. A glimpse into a kind of sovereignty that you will never know.

Iwonder,doyouseetheStars?AndwhenIsayseetheStars,Imeanreallysee the Stars. Because usually humans look without seeing. Touch without feeling. And when they’re way up there and out of reach, in the faraway land of galaxies and constellations it is difficult, I suppose, to really see the Stars. To appreciate the Stars. To recognise their individuality; unique and temporary blazing swirls of energy ignited.

I think when we see the stars, really see the stars, we envy them. How could we not? The Stars have the autonomy, the liberty to simply be. Simply exist. Whilst us humans are forever constricted to, trapped within, the very structures we destroyed the world to make.

Humans are bound by Time and Corporeality, and quite often spend lifetimes trying to escape that which is looming over us. Humans are bound by the expectationsthatweplaceonourselvesandeachotherand,therefore,freedom is something that is constantly just out of reach. Humans are bound, simply by being born human.

And yet, we love, and we live. And we look up at the night sky and we look down at the nature on the Earth. And we capture fleeting moments of feeling light and free.

So perhaps human existence is one of juxtaposition; limitations and freedom interlaced with each other.

THE CHURCH

By Leonardo Guerrero

Simone had prayed and cried all night. She withdrew all of her savings from her bank and house and went up the hill to the Lustigian Church. The church was on a hillside surrounded by mountains that seemed like the shoulders of headless giants. It was a cross-in-square temple with three rectangular arms and an apse at the liturgical east. The tholobate was shaped like an eye, green and ethereal; its five windows gave way to nameless beings, coming in rays from the sky. The southern portal was decorated with an astragal and rosettes; in it, Simone delivered herself like a package covered in dirt.

She mused on the wickedness of money. Her concern was double because it entailed the fact that if she gave all her money she wouldn’t be able to feed her daughter and the Christian mythology that commands offerings. She had to mingle these factors in a sacred bowl to present the mash to the priest. Then she’d go to the confessional to speak of the gnarl on her soul-trunk hoping that the fine axe of Divinity would cut it and present it as a sign of her forgiveness.

—Father, I am a sinner.

—We all are.

The priest sat in an oak arm-chair and, according to protocol, next to him was a Sellaphim.

—I must be a massive sinner for Heaven has struck me with all its might. I’ve been fired from my job, and have no idea what I am going to do to take care of my daughter. She’s had it rough with me since she was a young kid. It’s a miracle she made it through, her brother died. I had a friend whom I asked for money but I’ve done him wrong and now guilt would overcome me. I had been stable for the last few years with this job but now I’m doomed. Oh, it’s all about this terrible money.

Simone grabbed a handful of her life savings and shook her fist to the priest and said:

—Oh I do wonder, Father, why is there no congregation with rules against greed? If the love of money is the root of all evil, why aren’t there any mandates against the pursuit of money for money’s sake?

—We do, as you said, discourage the love of money. We don’t discourage having money. Sister, do you have hate in your heart for money?

—Yes, Father, I do.

—But there is an aching too.

Simone bowed her head and nodded while grasping the bills near her chest. Her light-brown eyes wandered through the floor.

—Well, of course, you need the money to feed your daughter. Now ask yourself: would you like to be around folk who despise you?

—No, Father.

—If you despise money, you shouldn’t be surprised if money doesn’t like to be around you. You are indeed a sinner sister. Hate of money is also a sin, even greater than the love of it. The Lord instructs us to be in abundance so that we share with others.

Simone, still grasping her fistful above her chest and in between her dark hair, said:

—Isn’t it hypocritical to say that it’s not the rich but the poor who will inherit His kingdom and not have any commandment discouraging materialism?

—Do you need to be reminded of the Ten Commandments? Thou shalt not steal, never boast, thou shalt not desire thy neighbour’s wife, or his slaves, or his animals, or anything of thy neighbour.

—Yes but church doctrine doesn’t denounce greed. How come we have all these wealthy pastors?

—Rich people aren’t greedy. It’s the poor people who, considering only themselves, go around stealing and coveting their neighbours’ possessions.

The pastor took a secret sip of wine and said:

—For poor people, victimhood is an identity. How are they going to find the road to success with themselves on the way? Now tell me, are you poor?

—I’m not sure.

The pastor got out of his chair, took the bag with the money and showered Simone with it.

—Sister, are you poor?

—No.

—Louder!

—No!

The pastor screeched around with “No!” coming out of his throat.

—It is our Lord’s command that you shall go out and buy the most expensive shoes you can find to make a new path to abundance and salvation! Will you, sister?!

—Yes pastor!

—Will you?!

—I will!

—The Lord’s work is done. Just leave a tithe for maximum blessing.

TWO POEMS

By Ellie Turnbull

The sun has one kind of glory, while the moon and the stars each have another kind. And even the stars differ from each other in their glory.

And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and thrown in the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you.

- 1 Corinthians 15:41

- Luke 12:28

on being lonely

i am good at being held good at holding on i can tangle a thigh with a thigh and weave my body like a braid of discontent how do i feel content?

Inspired by Ocean Vuong’s footnote poem ‘Seventh Circle of Earth’ from his first poetry collection “Night Sky with Exit Wounds”.

1 when He creates glory in the stars / the moon / a glory when you raise an arm / a hand / and an eye closed shut / among the shout of voices singing / holy / holy / holy.

2 the knees / of your daughter / of your son / ache / with desire / to be whole in / your / spirit.

3 you heal

4 and golden water / fills / a bottle / covered in holes / and / heals / these wounds / of a past person / and / holds / us / so we / can / feel.

5 fall / into an arm / collapse a heart / in a stronger / hand.

6 while He waits / you run / through everything you / feel / and drown / when your soul / is in solitude / so / stop / when your eyes look to the stars / and give glory / exalt Him

7 singing / holy / holy / holy.

HOW TO LIVE AGAIN

By Chandra Grace Johner

To be human is to wear a mask; to remove the mask is to be monstrous.

X. Consider removing your eyelids, exposing the entire surface area of your eye, so that maybe, this time, you can see clearly, & the tears can flow freely.

X. Stay away from self-help books, cross-fit, & crucifixes.

X. Immerse your entire form, from the chin down, in hot wax, let it dry, then walk around as it moults off your body. Observe everyone’s disdain. Those who do not mind may also be trying to live again.

X. If you must read a self-help book, please refer to Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein, also referred to as the Modern Prometheus (Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones, 1818).

X. Abstain from cigarettes, processed foods, mindless consumption, suntanning, & silver.

X. Go to the movie theatre & observe the audiences’ emotionless faces as they stare at their phones upon entering.

X. Did anyone try to peel the wax off of you? Beware. Peelers often don’t know when to stop & may peel back your skin, bones, & organs, thinking they are doing you a favour. They’ll peel you into oblivion & expect a thank you.

X. If you are really committed to living again, consider getting fitted for a cape or dressing like a vengeful wizard.

X. Return to the movie theatre, observe the audiences’ emotionless faces as they stare at their phones upon exiting.

X. Seek to befriend others trying to live again. They often can be found in bookstores with poor lighting, walking around the woods at night, or lingering around primordial swamps. They will be attracted to large bodies of water, but, beware, not all at the shoreline are trying to live again.

X. Peelers are not to be confused with zombies, who rip out your insides in order to feed knowing full-well they are killing you, & whom you should easily recognize this time around.

X. Have you ever witnessed someone sighing aggressively into space? Chances are they are trying to live again.

X. If you think you’d like to start dating, wait until the wolfbane blooms & the moon is full & bright.

X. At times you may regret your decision to try to live again, but once you’ve removed the mask, there’s no going back.

X. Those trying to live again may also be found at kaiju movies, air shows, & mausoleums, or simply in the middle of a field or a river; however, they will never be found vaping or drinking Red Bull.

X. Remember, living again is associated with the same risks of disappointment & pointless wandering as before, & an increased likelihood of experiencing inconsolable longing & alliumphobia.

SPECIES REVIVALISM

By Julia Ann Calabrese

You always wanted to know what the outside world was like, but the walls always ended in a ceiling. Afternoon was spent sitting crosslegged on the grey tiles beside the square drain, below the cone shower head, in the never-used changing rooms. The changing rooms were where it was warmest. Nobody had been able to tell you exactly why, only speculate that it was because of underground ‘pipes.’ It was the best spot. It was the spot that you and Reagan sat, and sometimes napped, after finishing your chores.

Mostly, you did the tasks that were assigned to you by the speaker system. Lady Frances was the one who spoke. She directed the nurses and janitors and other staff and called for everyone to gather for lunch, for dinner, for breakfast. You and Reagan were often assigned to the environment rooms, because you both had a fascination with nature. The environment rooms were fairly large, and contained mini-ecosystems, many filled with insects, which were used to pollinate the crops in the farm rooms, which were used as food, to make clothes and dyes and to process waste. There was another, even more important, destination for the insects. Lady Frances told you, and you told Reagan, whispered it to him one afternoon by the drain when you had butterflies in your stomach that wanted to burst out. Reagan promised to keep it a secret.

Reagan liked the earthworm room and you liked the caterpillars. Was it true that the caterpillars turned into butterflies and flew up dizzyingly high in the air? Yes, it was. You had seen it. The caterpillars had to be fed brassicas plants frequently or they would cannibalise. The first time it happened you were horrified — a paste of caterpillar pieces littered the ground. The leaves were gone and they had nothing else to eat, no plants to move to. Eat or die. They had to become butterflies.

Reagan fed the worms scraps from mealtimes in waste buckets after the kitchen staff had finished tossing everything out and washing the dishes. Reagan wanted to try composting the plates to see if the insects could lick them clean, but it was unsanitary, Lady Frances said. They would still have to wash all of the plates afterwards.

Reagan had been here for as long as you had, which was as long

as you could remember. He followed you loyally, and when his dark mop of hair disappeared you were displaced all of a sudden, in a place you had never before left, between walls you had memorised, in the eyes of people you saw every day.

And so Reagan disappeared. The day he disappeared you didn’t sleep until one of the nurses caught you sneaking through the corridor late at night. He rushed you to bed immediately. He scolded you.

“You shouldn’t be awake now.”

“Are you looking for Reagan?”

“The janitors will find where he’s hiding, don’t worry.”

Raegan wouldn’t hide, not from you, not for as long as this. You said that, but the nurse reassured you.

“He might have gotten stuck somewhere, if he tried to get out. It’s very hard to get back inside the building from the outside.”

You and Reagan spent your afternoons wondering about ‘outside.’ You were lucky to be inside, where it was safe, but you both wanted to know what it looked like ‘outside.’

Reagan drew pictures with chalk that you washed away (as a joke) by turning on the shower. The water was cold and explosive, and both of you screamed when it splashed off the tiles and pierced through your clothes as though they weren’t even there. The red chalk looked like period blood as it swirled down the drain. That was the end of Reagan’s drawings. You couldn’t even remember what he drew, and the thought was so visceral that it tightened your throat as you curled in bed. Had he drawn something he wanted to see?

You wished ‘outside’ didn’t exist. If it didn’t exist there would only be inside and there would only be you here with Reagan in the never-used changing rooms, sitting by the warm drain. It smelled a little, today. This was the second day that Reagan had been missing. Suddenly you knew he was inside the drain.

The janitors came walking. With their beetle-green tool boxes

and crumpled yellow trousers, they looked down the drain with a torch and smiled and reassured you. Reagan wouldn’t fit down the drain — the ‘pipes’ were very small. You were shaking all over, and shaking when they unscrewed the drain cap because you wouldn’t stop screaming until they had looked properly.

Reagan wasn’t there. If he had been, he would be dead, you thought. Maybe his skeleton would have bobbed up in the unseeable water beneath the drain cover.

You banged on Lady Frances’s door the next morning, spedwalked to her room without stopping the moment she announced it was time to get up and start the day. It took five heartbeats for Lady Frances to come to the blue door. Then open it, and look at you with a worried frown on a face that never changed. “What’s wrong, darling?” she asked. Her meringue coloured dress was warm and inviting, like the sweet treat, and it stuck your tongue to the roof of your mouth with sickliness.

You didn’t speak to Lady Frances often, but she was always there and always kind. Like the mother of everyone here. “Reagan has been missing since… the day before yesterday,” you said, nerves tingling as though it were a confession.

“Come inside,” she said, and invited you into the room. One of the staff brought some tea and biscuits on a white tray. The teapot was ceramic and so were the teacups, they had a yellow and blue pattern.

Lady Frances explained that she was in a difficult situation. “It may be that Reagan has left our building. Do you remember the secret I told you about the compost?”

“It gets sent out to the trees.”

“He might have snuck out with it, and been taken on the railway system quite far out. We’ve put in a missing person request. If he is in one of the tree plantations, we should hear news of him.” Lady Frances poured the tea and handed you a cup, milky beige.

“The trees,” you began, “are ‘outside’, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they grow up tall and have beautiful leaves.”

Reagan had left then. He would never return here, because he had finally made it. You held on to your teacup. “What is ‘outside?’” you asked Lady Frances.

“It is an endless space. Everything we produce here exists naturally out there, but not in abundance. We repair the outside world so that future generations can go there again.”

“So we’ll never see it?”

“No. It’s against the law.”

“Have you ever been?”

Lady Frances’s face changed slightly, as if remembering something that brought her grief. “It was a terrible mistake, when I saw it through a window. The only thing I could do was to forget. It’s best if you forget as well.”

“I’m not forgetting Reagan!”

“Forget about going outside. Forget that he tried to go there: That’s your glimpse. One glimpse can destroy you.”

Your chest sank on the inside, you could only describe it as the sensation of down. To the ground, pressed flat, face against the tiles in the changing-room by the drain as tears dripped down — where water was supposed to go.

You sat up eventually and dried your eyes. The lights in the changing room were steady and pale, and Reagan was still gone. There was only one other way. You walked along the corridor with an empty bucket.

In your distress you hadn’t fed the caterpillars this morning. They would pupate soon, mash themselves up inside their hard shell-like chrysalides, then the shell would crack, they would break out, wings quivering, filling up with yellow insect blood until they were full, and then the butterflies would flutter their wings and fly up past the ceiling. Into the blue sky. You had never seen the sky before.

AN ALIENIST IN WONDERLAND

By Lorelle Benson

Excitedly, I took my lopsided chair under the Cheshire Cat on the other side of Alice, downwind of Absolem.

Today, we are being entertained by the Mad Hatter’s word salad of riddles in a variety of voices, as he gesticulates wildly all the while. I professionally ponder the pronoun that fits the Hatter. I think they, them or their seems most apt, as there appears to be multiple personalities seemingly both manic and psychotic vying to come out.

On the other hand, Alice is a constant consternation, perpetually presenting as dazzled, dazed and discombobulated. A prescription of Prozac with a good spot of tea would perk her right up I thought, as I poured her another large cup.

Ah yes, the magnificent tea. The strangest thing I must concede, occurred to me as I greedily guzzled another pot of Wonderland tea. Bright orbs and auras suddenly appeared, mildly dismayed I tsked, “surely it can’t be the Earl Gray?!” I dismissed. No, It’s the brownies I decide, knowing what “special ingredients” they can hide.

The Cheshire Cat grinned broadly in my direction, which appeared disproportionate to his body and permanently affixed to his complexion. “So, what do you think my dear?” The multi-coloured Cat leered, interrupting me as I busily jotted down my observations. When I failed to respond to his curious question, his smile remained whilst his body disappeared without hesitation. I blinked, needing to clear my vision, “too much botox and body dysmorphia I conclude, but the constant leering Cheshire is simply just rude!’ I quickly added in desperation, so as not to deflate the feline’s elation, “I will profess; however, the hookah is quite divine.” Then to my surprise and titillation, a crystalline cosmos appeared, a magical constellation!

I sat contemplatively watching the kaleidoscopic colours imbue the Won-

derland skies, and continued to inhale, soaking up the scent as well as this rare cosmic event. When a sudden whoosh startled me from my illicitly sublime reverie, as a frenetic White Rabbit darted about in front me. I watched in awe as he zipped and zimmered with a large gold pocket watch precariously perched on his paw. Mmmm, a case of ADHD? No, a simple case of overdose on Wonderland tea, I decided, as I began to sway from side-to-side feeling woozily lopsided. His frantic need to never be late simply screams people pleaser to me, which I only mention as I think it warrants some attention.

Finally, at the other end of the spectrum, I have a completely different conundrum. We cannot leave Wonderland without discussing the Red Queen in all her resplendency, especially her raging narcissism and psychopathic tendencies. These are by all accounts characterised by her violent temper tantrums which are publicly displayed whenever she’s displeased. As if on cue she stomped her foot and screamed, “off with his head!” I added further to the diagnosis, the overwhelming evidence of an extremely poor prognosis.

Preoccupied with treatment plans and therapeutic acumen, my time in Wonderland was sadly drawing to an end. I scooped up my careful compilation of copious notes with some procrastination, quietly wondering if hallucinogens could ever be considered antidepressant medication. “Where to start?” I sighed in despair as psychedelic butterflies played happily in my rainbow-coloured hair.

TWO POEMS

By Fraser Currie

Linoleum Consecrate

in a community hall in Maryhill where your granny maybe played bingo a primary school teacher starts a mosh pit with all the post-punk fervour of a hedonist

at the end of tether where the bassist complains to a sound crew & herd revolving bass thrum goading the ground wink-widen & the hack job haircuts opposite fiery ledges & spoken word faces stuck (in time) tributing an eighties union boy

dole-struggle surface-skirts this one toe-hopping toes welcoming a fist a timeless rascal taunting iron ladies expired she scuppered chances for all these women content to be jerked between boys whose peckers would pulse if they weren’t so ecstatic as the sullied floor

throb SWELL frontman indecipherable steering machine oiled rat-king engine bacchanalian indie fascist enemies of sample pretentious beneath dense mantle & the crowd crowd the crowd hover around burgeoning pick-me floating at periphery of damned Monday will be damned now is now the sweat never salty enough the sound navigating opposite receivers meeting from behind overlapping orgiastic drop of the moment

better to be stampeded in the dancehall than crush a man’s sonic structure if the ground takes them under they will incinerate the music to new ground down they will take the ground.

Procession

On the year’s longest night they are short of ecliptic certainty. The circumference of the crown worn by druid priests no longer measures right in the slanting light of church edifices. Before they were pillaged aligned stones balanced the sun in a reverence for the visible. Missionaries sought to replace it with the invisible man whose reverence for oak stopped at the confessional booth. Papal bulls substituted white bulls in a bovine parade.

I watched a Catholic and a Protestant argue over technicality five hundred years and counting.

SUN which they cannot alter bides its time in technicolour

OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN

By Sophie Hannam

The feeling rises up- through the back of my cheekbones, spreading like a dull flame across the tip of my nose and welling into the bottom of my eyes. Hot and angry water begins to accumulate, pushing against the barriers of my eyelashes. My nose is wet and ticklish, taunting me with the unstoppable itch that reminds me of my failed willpower. I will not cry.

I will NOT cry

The tears begin to pour. The flood of sobs and stifled whimpers begin to shake my deflated soul into submission. Broken and empty, sadness began to take its course.

It wraps itself over the folds of my skin until I am suffocated by all the remaining hope my body has left. Shellshocked, I sink to the floor. Bare knees cut against the unforgiving cold stone, bruises already forming in aggressive splotches.

“Are you there … Do you exist?”.

No response. I have never expected one- if God did exist - he would have better things to do than prove his existence to a random girl. Still, the isolated echoes of my own voice slice my heart beyond all recognition. If divinity and miracles didn’t exist, surely, there was no resolution to my pain. I grow angry and bitter- FUCK YOU. If he didn’t exist, and if we are alone in the cosmos then so be it. I don’t need him, I don’t want him, I can sort my own problems out.

“Fine! Stay quiet, … stay mythical, … so much for omnibenevolent, … I never thought you existed anyway. See if I care!” My cheeks flush

and my fists tighten.

I care far more than I ever thought possible.

I am an atheist. Inside my world view, when we die there is nothing forever. Before you sit and think “Jesus that’s a bit macabre,” it is not meant in a depressing sense. I take a lot of comfort in nothing. If there is nothing, then it does not matter what happens when we pass, because everything will cease. All the pain- all the sadnesswill go.

Yes, along with it joy, and love- but the feeling of loss toward such emotions also disappear. It truly does not matter.

I came to terms with death years ago, death is a comfort blanket when life seems a bit too much. An attitude was partially founded on my being hypersensitive.

The repeated scolding of my personality rings as “You are so over dramatic”. Yes, I do take things a bit to heart … a lot to heart. I can’t quite differentiate a big problem from a small one. Flatmates can vouch for this after witnessing panic attacks when I can’t place my keys. Nonetheless, it is the one thing I am most proud of. I live my life feeling as much as I possibly can, happiness, sadness, laughter, tears, I feel it all. If I truly do not exist after my body stops working, why not experience as many of these feelings as possible?

Growing up in a religious school created a lot of guilt surrounding my atheist family. My sister and I, were some of the few pupils left unbaptised - aka branded with a one-way ticket to hell. We didn’t go to church, we didn’t pray, we were sinners. I struggled a lot with this guilt as a kid, I remember at age 8 looking to the adults in my life to answer the question of whether I should have faith or not. A question that was never met with a concrete answer. Merely left with the hollow confusion of whether a higher power could logistically exist. Where I could place the line between fact and fiction

against my understanding of this reality?

Now I have gained some age, and hopefully some wisdom, against the eight-year-old version of me. I understand why I was left with nothing other than a gentle smile when I questioned the presence of divinity.

I can’t say for certain that there is no God.

I could be wrong.

The hope and comfort religion of all kinds provides for those who fear a life past this is, in almost every possible way, an almighty gift bestowed upon the human race.

I couldn’t take that hope away from a curious eight-year-old who could barely grasp the complexities she was yet to face.

Maybe life would be easier if I knew it was an act of God, that he had a plan for me in this world. That I wasn’t alone. Maybe it wouldn’t be.

***

He was my faith. A singular, solid figure in which I could embed all of my worldly hope toward. Prayer took the form of the innocent, passionate kisses we shared in the graveyard, found in the back of his house in the sweet summer air. Hiding underneath the thick willow tree every time we heard a twig snap or the sound of voices- for fear the purity of our union could fall corrupt in the gaze of another.

He was my faith. My church was his body, with each embrace I felt protected, loved. All of the experiences I had craved from a traditional conception of God. His arms were pillars, holding the walls high to prevent the cruelty of the world outside, his eyes and lips the colours of stained glass. Capturing me within their beauty for

an eternity. The congregation consisted of the two of us, for that was enough. My devotion was found in our long walks across the river, and the late-night sobs in which I would aggressively fight for him to keep on living, refusing the biological urge to sleep in order to protect my celestial love.

He was my faith. Every hateful word he turned towards himself felt like a cleaver into my very soul. If he couldn’t be happy, couldn’t feel loved, what reason had I to believe such emotions existed? If he was everything, if he was God then nothing could exist outside of him. Nothing.

He was my faith. My friends didn’t understand my newfound religion. They failed to accept my church and refused to join my congregation. The devotion I placed onto my saviour seemed, to the eyes of the non-believer, an act of lunacy. To them I had lost my place on this earth, falling fast down a gaping hole of pain and torment. They were wrong. If I had left Earth then it was only because I had ascended towards him. I was reaching the pearly white gates of his presence. He was everything worth knowing, his pain, his laughter were all hymns that I would permanently etch into my mind.

He was my faith. When he decided to hurt me it was okay … it was an act of God. Sometimes higher powers perform acts that seem cruel and malicious to the minds of us mere mortals. We don’t see the bigger picture, we do not comprehend the path God has set in motion for us. I was his vessel, his humble servant. I didn’t matter. I was not relevant against the ecclesiastical spirit of his heart. It didn’t matter … so when I failed to embrace it I knew I was no better than a sinner.

He was my faith. He made me feel dirty. I couldn’t clean his holy spirit from my body no matter how hard I scrubbed. I would lie in the shower for hours, religiously scraping the sponge up and down until I turned lobster red. He was still there. His hands, his body, his mouth. His omnipresence further proof of his godly capabilities. I

was entangled in between his touch. Bound to my God without consent or desire. Without my faith.

Healing from heartbreak is one thing. Healing from the destruction of your theism is something else entirely. Nothing without my God made sense. How I saw it, nothing could extend itself beyond his grasp. But then it did. And I couldn’t understand how.

When I was little I used to pray in secret. Almost as if it was a sin itself. I didn’t want anyone in my family to know I had engaged in such an act. Not that they would have minded, my Grandmother herself had been raised in a strict Baptist household and my mother had spent the majority of her adult years studying Hinduism. My house was, for all intents and purposes, a religious safe haven. Still, I think I would have died on the spot if anyone had caught me.

I would lie in my bed listening to the sound of my mother getting ready to sleep. Counting the steps in her routine until I knew it was safe. As soon as her light would click off I would slide out of my covers. Tiptoeing toward my window that looked down upon a rather poor excuse of a community garden. I would then squeeze my eyes so tight that I thought they may not ever reopen, and press my palms together.

My prayers were not by any means virtuous. Usually, I would wish to be transported into a life that resembled that of High School Musical or Hannah Montana. Sometimes I would switch it up by asking God to smite one of my classmates who I felt had wronged me earlier on in the day. That would inevitably leave me lying awake all night, left a nervous wreck under the possibility that I had engaged in a murderous pact with the almighty. On the bad days. The days where I would cry myself to sleep, sobbing quietly into my teddy. I would pray for my parents to be married again. That we had never had to leave Essex. That we were all one big happy family who were never apart.

FAMILY OF GEESE

By Sarah Farley

I don’t breathe so that the rain droplets balancing on the fabric of my trousers won’t sink into my skin, I don’t breathe so that the sleeves of my sweater don’t get wet when I wash the dishes, I don’t breathe so that I don’t think about him I don’t breathe because I think about him. I don’t breathe because the bread can’t stay in the toaster for too long otherwise, I have to scrape the burnt bits into the food bin and then I don’t breathe because I don’t want the toast accidentally touching the food bin, contaminating it with all sorts of diseases. I cannot breathe until my bottle is fully filled up with water and I don’t breathe until someone in my seminar starts answering the professor’s questions because I hate awkward silence. I can’t breathe because I don’t like my coffee cold and my food lukewarm, because I slaved over it for forty-five minutes, carefully carrying out the instructions given to me by an anonymous blogger; I need it to be piping hot for full enjoyment. Why do I feel like crying when I see a group of kindergarteners crossing the road, their safety vests radiating in the wet Glaswegian weather, patiently waiting to see if the lorry driver will let them go ahead, and then joyfully waving when he lets them cross. I see the lorry driver smile. They waddle like a family of geese and now the geese are in front of me. Why do I not mind being stuck behind them? These sweet geese, they force me to smile and to breathe because now I got the time anyways. Thank you, little geese, for reminding me it is okay to slow down.

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