Writing Local | Thinking Global by Seb

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Writing Local | Thinking Global

Writing Local | Thinking Global Hillingdon Literary Festival 2016 Creative Writing Anthology

Championing the diverse voices of the London Borough of Hillingdon

Published in 2016 by Hillingdon Literary Festival Brunel University London Kingston Lane Uxbridge Middlesex, UB8 3PH United Kingdom

www.HillingdonLiteraryFestival.com

ÂŠ All rights reserved The copyright of each contribution rests with the individual artist and authors and no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the individual artist or author.

BRITISH LIBRARY CATALOGUING-INPUBLICATION DATA A full record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-9085492-8-0 Illustrations: ÂŠ Jacqueline Chesta 2016 www.JacquelineChesta.wordpress.com Printed and bound in the UK by Minuteman Press Uxbridge

Contents Introduction

Foreword - Professor Julia Buckingham Vice Chancellor and President, Brunel University London

Alex Noir The Library is Flammable

Sade Johnson Great Text-pectations

AimĂŠe White The American Pancake Dream

Iris Mauricio almost soft, almost brazen

Patrick Awuru Ikwu The Golden Sun, The Changing Land

Sarah Simons Five Years

Julia Underwood Odyssey

Taiwo Oyenola Washed Up On A Beach

Ali May The Magic in Her Fingers

Jin Wei Wong Christmas Eve

Marjorie Bahhaj & Dante Major Umbilical Cord to Motherland

Aliraza Fazal Am I Not Human Like You?

Gurpreet Singh Rai Mantle of Deeds

Matthias Asiedu-Yeboa Quicksea

Michelle Stevens Pillars

Andy Mydellton Eddie the Anvil

101

Shirley Anne Cook Alphabets

107

Saira Arian Footfall

109

James Nadal Paradise Frost

117

Dr Rohail Ahmad 119 ZEN and the Art of Being a Modern Muslim Andy J Lewis The Witch's House

133

Elenor Paul War of Words

141

Thomas Hull Criquer

145

Simi Abe Sun Waltz

151

Jojo Chia The Council of H&H

153

Dev Aditya MOKSHA

163

Dilinna Bernadette Aniebonam Moving Forward or Travelling Back?

167

Vivien Brown Lovesick

179

Lia Harlin 3

181

Nicole ‘Zion’ Thomas Anxiety Lower V Higher Self

185

Angela Narayn Fleeting Encounter

189

Stephen Powdrill Dear Dave

201

Macaulay Cooper Asylum

207

Rebecca Pizzey Charred

215

E. A. Taylor Weaving the Warps and Weft of the Silk Road in the Twenty-first Century

223

Introduction

Inspired by the extraordinary talent in our community at the inaugural Hillingdon Literary Festival, we were determined to ensure that this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s festival culminated in a celebration of that. Our free festival features performances from over thirty bestselling and globally renowned authors; masterclasses from experts in their field; local artisan produce and crafts, but most passionately aims to champion the diverse voices of our community. We received a wide range of submissions, of a very high-calibre, to Writing Local | Thinking Global, our community creative writing competition. We must thank all those who contributed, as well as our judges - Professor Benjamin Zephaniah, Courttia Newland, Professor Philip Tew, and Suzi Feay - who have curated this collection. We feel this best reflects the range of local voices and breadth of global themes in our Borough. This collection is freely available to the community, but all donations will be donated to the British Red Cross, whose work reflects much of the considerations of the content. We trust youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll enjoy reading the proud and brilliant voices of our community. 9

Foreword - Professor Julia Buckingham Vice Chancellor and President, Brunel University London At Brunel University London, we are committed to promoting young and emerging talent and to playing an active part in the local community - so I am delighted that this creative writing competition, Writing Local | Thinking Global, is a key part of the second Hillingdon Literary Festival. You can see from the 35 entries contained in this anthology that there is no shortage of writing talent in Hillingdon. I understand our aim in launching the competition was to provide a platform for the diverse voices here at Brunel and across the Borough – and as you can see from what follows we have certainly achieved this! Getting published is always a challenge for new writers and any help they can receive along the way is very welcome. I hope those included in the volume – and especially the overall winner – are very proud of their achievements. The theme of the competition is one that is very near to our hearts at Brunel. We are – as indeed the Hillingdon Literary Festival itself shows – determined to be of and for our local community; but we also want to help our students and those 10

we support in Hillingdon to have a broader outlook, to see themselves as global citizens. In a troubled world, it is vital that we keep in mind all those things that we share in common rather than to focus on what divides us. The competition and anthology would not have been possible without, on the one hand, the hard work of our judges – Professor Philip Tew, Suzi Feay, Courttia Newland, Professor Benjamin Zephaniah – and Seb Jenner, the Festival Producer, and a Brunel PhD student at Brunel who has shown himself extraordinarily adept at organising large scale events; and, on the other, our sponsors: the London Borough of Hillingdon, Heathrow and the Arts Council for England. Good luck to all those whose work is contained in this volume – I am sure we will be hearing more of you in the future.

The Library is Flammable By Alex Noir

My hand outstretched, my fingers fumble across the call numbers of so many collected thoughts and theories, and in the split seconds before each one meets my touch a tiny spark passes like synapses trading orders. I feel the prick of their enlightenment forcefully imploring me to free them from their dusty confinement; promising fresh perspectives, new answers to old questions and new questions to old answers. The meaning of life is bound by thread and adhesives, scrawled on the pages neatly stacked between Literature and Fiction. But the clock’s ticking, and if I start at the beginning I’ll be dead before I get to the end. So the usual selection criteria must be upheld. This font’s mundane, that cover art’s pretentious, definitely not; I can’t stand loose dust jackets. Ah, The World’s Wife, a familiar typeface, surely I can trust in Carol to ease my despair? Page twentythree, Mrs Faust – I feel condescended. And aroused, optimistic and depressed. It was a fool’s thought to hope that the words of a poet might award me clarity. Damn you Duffy. I return the collection to its resentful position – bordered either side by Dubie and Dugan – I continue my 13

trek through the aisles. Scanning my way through to ‘S’ I lock eyes with old lovers. Shelley and Stoker fix their gaze in my direction, their titles rooted proudly to the shelf like aged oaks in private gardens. They stare knowingly at their conquest, superfluous to plead for my attention, they’ve had me before and they know they will again. I fight my way out of their tractor beam, I’d applaud my own strength but I’d do so in vain, for I know these gothic giants and I will resume our game of chicken the next time I pass through these aisles. These minor victories cannot win me the war. The books have the numbers, the time, the perfect strategy. They need only wait for my advances, but with each wave of attack, as I clear the enemy cover to cover, their numbers replenish and the lines grow stronger. Onwards to ‘T’ I continue my despairing count of enemy forces and I’m starting to wonder; will they be here forever? Patiently stagnating in their erudite purgatory, until some new philosopher discovers the secret of omniscience and follows in my stead, his oily palm cradling the laminated spines that once rested in my own? Or will my kind have long ceased to patent libraries and schools and supermarkets while these omniscient walls still stand, undisturbed, bestowing nothing unto no one, the obituary of all mankind.

So enveloped in this thought am I, that I have until now, failed to notice the invasive wailing of an alarm hammering rhythmically at my eardrums. But rather than a stampede of middleaged gentlemen clenching papers beneath their arms, mothers pushing toddlers in prams – as though rushing organs to awaiting patients – and trailing pensioners hobbling behind getting their money’s worth out of bone handled canes, I turn to find a small crowd gathered around the unconscious body of a drunk whose fag-end has kissed the reflective forehead of Boris Johnson – a regrettable act of intimacy – which has, evidently, set fire to the biography section. The floor assistants are doing their best to encourage evacuation, but as I meander disingenuously towards the exit, I’m keen to discover what the tramp was reading. He’s just reduced my decision by one. Arriving home, empty handed, I collapse into the armchair where Shelley and I once shared a blanket. Deprived as I am of a linguistic companion, I lean back and shut my eyes, recalling the incident at the library. The crowd that eventually formed outside the main entrance were transfixed by the excitement of the Firemen’s intervention. But once deprived of the sight of hardbacks ablaze, the enthusiasm waned in our mass spectatorship almost as quickly as the fire inside had subsided. The rabble soon 15

disbursed. Murmurs surfed through the crowd like airborne pathogens searching for a suitable host. People were keen to speculate the damage. It seemed quickly to become a matter of fact that the fire had taken with it all the Bios up to ‘R’, but not one of my fellow onlookers laughed when I suggested the rest had been saved by Keith Richard’s spell of immortality. I find myself now, though mourning the absence of literary escapement, quite memorised by the recurring image of the fire. The way the flames licked at Johnson’s face with all the vigour of a Labrador lapping at the cheeks of an owner with no regard for the bacteria between a canine’s jaws. It’s not the visual of combustion itself that stains my mind, but how quickly plastic curls, ink melts and paper turns to ash that turns to dust. It’s how, in the time it took our excitable hoard to swarm around the flowerbeds outside, the recorded legacy of so many was reduced to tiny fragments of matter. Had they been the only copies, what would remain of the long dead, the scholars of whom had expired themselves? This strain of panicked pondering lingers in my subconscious, following me into bed and inflicting upon me dreams of Armageddon. At night I’m stood, shackled by my ankles before the familiar shelves of the Library’s ground floor. Again the alarm emits its melody of warning, but 16

it sings only to me. The flames appear, ignited not by the carcinogenic extension of a drunkard’s hand, instead they simply burst into being from the ground before me. This time it’s not the oily pored façade of a politician I’m seeing cleansed by the insufferable heat, but the collected works of Shakespeare. And then Joyce, Selvon, Baldwin, Burgess, Nichols, Tolsoy, Yutang, the works of authors from all four corners unified into one enormous tapestry of flame, rapidly weaving itself free of its charcoal bookends. Looking around I see every shelf fall victim to the same hellish destruction. The roof is no more than the inexplicably preserved edges of what was once a great dome sheltering the library. Through the enormous void I can see what look like spessartine chem-trails, and a globe of orange fury – that can only be the sun – heading with terrific speed towards me. Even the witchcraft of aging rock stars couldn’t save the originally surviving biographies. The apocalypse around me is final. Lifting my head free from the literary holocaust, despite the terrible nature of these dreams, I find myself enlightened. I’m able to revaluate the meticulous selection process that causes me such great distress. I feel with more certainty than ever that there is no inherent purpose to anything I may do or have done. But I feel endowed with a new and relieving optimism that despite this 17

epiphany, I still have every desire to keep reading. The pressure to know every sentence as intimately as one knows a lover’s hairline is seeping out of me like a cold sweat. I feel strangely more connected with my beloved paper portals for knowing one day, like me they will perish. Despite their vastly superior lifespan, the stories within are as human as we are. Walking back through the entrance of the library I find myself feeling as one often does when inside a cathedral. As though this place and I share a history of a thousand years, and despite the unrecognizable world outside, we’ve somehow remained untouched by time. I’m no more sorrowful for having seen the cataclysm of this sacred place than a child is for knowing the palace he builds in the sand will be washed away by the tide. I no longer feel hopeless in the face of the book’s inevitable victory, just delighted by my hunger for battle. No one will ever see from my exact perspective, or know the things I know from reading what I read in the order I read them. That is itself a kind of solipsistic omniscience. That is itself a kind of victory. I emerge from these aisles, spoils under my arm, and walk to the front desk. The librarian rolls her eyes at my predictability as she stamps a wellworn copy of Frankenstein.

Great Text-pectations By Sade Johnson

Stare down at the worn out keypad of life Beep beep, click click, beep beep, click click, click click Anxiously waiting for texts to come quick Itching to reply and unload my strife At last, receive what Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been waiting for But expectations risen, now do fall Technology ruins relations all Delete, move on, and donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t call anymore But soon contention grows and takes control The frenzy of inbox, outbox, received The device from my hand the air did thieve Utter disbelief then does flood my soul Still, independently I turn away From broken pieces that once caused me pain

The American Pancake Dream By Aimée White

Sunday morning. It had to be a Sunday morning. Are those not the doziest mornings, when people don’t want to unravel themselves from the kindred bond they have formed with their mattress overnight? You disliked getting up most mornings, so I was sure that Sunday morning, when the world would suck its thumb, would be the morning I would make you pancakes. It’s a daydream I’ve had a thousand times, with hardly any deviation to its plot or screenplay. So whenever I thought about the time I would make you pancakes I imagined it happening on a Sunday morning. We would be in a quiet house somewhere – not one we’d ever actually lived in. I suppose the room was never integral to this dream, but the room I pictured was always whitewashed, like those rooms you see in television adverts. The ones with the matching furniture that is elegantly simple, that people who saw our bedroom would like without thinking we’d tried too hard. We’d be sleeping in this room, on a bed with white sheets, and the sky outside the curtains would be 23

bashfully sunny, so as not to completely awake you. I’m not sure why, but I shied away from the idea of you being completely awake. A Sunday morning would likely mean no work and sleeping in. Myself, I’ve always disliked sleeping in. Mostly because I cannot do it. Like a doll I would remain by your side until your need of having a grip on me waned and I would slip out of bed, of sleep’s physical trappings. My movement might not have caused you to stir, but I liked to imagine that on this Sunday morning you would shuffle and open your eyes, seeing that I had gotten up. It just seemed so much better, somehow authentic, if I did not have to shake you awake so that you could hear me ask: “Would you like me to make you pancakes?” Your attention would snag on the word ‘pancakes’ and I’d wait for you to gather you thoughts, untwining the hairband on my wrist and catching it in my hair - still long in this scenario. I’d remind you that I would make them from scratch, and not some dirt-dry ready mixture. Things made from nothing are usually so much better. Finally your sleep-addled mind would decide exactly how happy you were with the prospect of pancakes.

“That sounds nice,” you’d say, voice still gagged from slumber. You didn’t have the choice of denying them in this scenario. I would offer pancakes and you would always want them, with the predictive formula usually reserved for things less human. “English or American?” Just as your eyelids would have been drooping to reacquaint themselves with their lower half they’d break open. You’d stare in wonder at the creature before you who had both the knowledge and the will to make you either of two nationalities of pancakes from scratch. In a slightly befuddled tone, as if you were expecting me to have been leading you on, you’d ask for American. Always American. Because that is the recipe that requires more time, more ingredients, and is altogether more impressive. I have always enjoyed making American pancakes, and have never thought of it particularly as a chore. But to you it would have seemed like such a bother, like I’d stepped far out of my way to make them just because, and only because, you had asked for them. You would begin to close your eyes again as I walked to the bedroom door, but before I opened

it I would ask, with the perfect measure of easy nonchalance, “Would you like chocolate chips in them?” I enjoyed pondering the exact expression your face would morph to in that moment; a disbelieving slackened jaw, the barest touch of your mouth quirking to a smile. That was the culmination of my imaginings. The idea that you would not want chocolate chips was simply an undiscovered thought in this dream. When I wanted this to happen I still don’t know. It would be after this moment that I would know we had succeeded in our relationship, that we were the paragon of couples, the incarnation of modern romance. Like the white picket fence people used to picture lining their gardens, I’d picture offering you American Pancakes, knowing that on the day these things became corporeal I’d finally be able to think to myself: I’ve made it. My imaginings halted in the same place. There never was an afterward, because I was so caught up in the thought of making you pancakes that I forgot all about actually making them.

almost soft, almost brazen By Iris Mauricio

there is waking up, and then there is you, still slipping between strange dreams, with hopeless, half-murmured apologies hitching under your breath, the fact of the sunlight streaming in slashes through the cracks in the blinds, marking you in golden barcode, marking you beautiful in mid-morning mellow. it’s winter and we’re warm, we’re provoking false summer, pretending pollen from dust, turning two bodies into tinder and it’s like prometheus promising the people light, like discovering flame and fire for the first time, and we’ve illuminated this in instances. you exhale and it’s soft, it’s simple and certain, and somehow i’m seeing this, i’m seeing the way your eyelashes cast shadows, shading the skin beneath your eyes; somehow i’m here, trying to trace the thin pink trails of sleep across your cheek like i don’t have to be anywhere else. and i know this. i wake up still wishful, i wake up still wanting, and i know this, because there is waking up, and then there is you.

The Golden Sun, The Changing Land By Patrick Awuru Ikwu

In the late summer day, a cry for help was heard. A thunderous plea, like the ancient voices that were once feared. Despite the sun's rays that called out for merriment and joy, The scene had arisen that called for a darkness born out of a lore. It was like a brief shockwave, sharp but effective. It rocked the minds of many, leaving so many minds defective. Even though this situation was one that has been seen a time so many, It left such a sour taste that surpassed that of any. This cry, whose voice proclaimed it? Who called out for support even when the world had least heard of it? It was of the wise land, the one that broke the status quo. It understood the need for companionship that the world had seem to forgotten to know.

It called for a banding, of a re-grouping of nations. It called for the building, of not many, but one beneficial station. Will the world listen and drop its own individual plans? Will it forget its worries and begin to work together hand-in-hand? Time will tell, time will say. But for that glorious moment, I eagerly await that day.

Five Years By Sarah Simons

I remember fear. The debilitating terror borne out of the disintegration and loss of all I hold secure society, structure and those I love. Existing on adrenalin fuelled by dread. Experiencing fear every day, through the forfeiture of any remnants of human dignity. I remember hunger. Waiting for food. Looking for food. A deep ache in the gut, persisting beyond pain until hollow and numb. When I eventually ate, I didn’t ask what the food was or where it came from: The scavenging of stray animals from the street is what I later suspected. Recorded here are my diary entries, moderately edited, and centred round the time of my birthdays, over a span of some five years, beginning with my 12th. * I am 12 years old today. It has not been the best birthday. We did the usual. I’ve opened my presents and we’ve eaten cake. My parents haven’t said much. Father recently lost his job. I could see how upset and angry they are. So my mother is now the only one earning. 35

Over the past year there have been protests in the city where I live. My parents and I have witnessed some of these demonstrations, which we have tried to avoid. The protestors would run off once they saw someone in uniform. The presence of the army or military police on the streets here isn’t unusual. That’s how it is. They control the city and the country and appear whenever there’s trouble. Recently the protests have involved larger crowds, often leading to fights in the street. Most protestors are removed by the military police. My parents have been whispering about it. They think I can’t hear but I can. They know of people who have disappeared, and they’ve mentioned a few names. The protests have become riots and are happening all over the country, not just in our city. The government’s television and radio stations still don’t even mention it. Going to school, the other day, I noticed a large group of people outside a military police station. Father said two people had died after being taken there for questioning. This group were trying to get into the building. Some were punching the air in anger and all of them were shouting. It made me nervous. I held my 36

mother’s hand tightly. I hadn’t done that since I was small. As we walked away we heard gunshots. I didn’t look back. * Today is my 13th Birthday. Mother and father have been making an effort to celebrate. They are not smiling and it doesn’t feel much like a Birthday should. Mother lost her job six weeks ago, she didn’t say why. They both tell me not to worry as they still have some money saved. We keep it hidden around the house. * My parents no longer whisper about what is happening in our city. It’s all they talk about. I hear every word they say and it scares me. They say people are angry, and the country wants change because the President is hated. Father says the President refuses to leave and is using the army to remain in control. I don’t understand why the President doesn’t listen to his people. I see rage everywhere, including neighbours who are angry and friends who no longer speak. When they do, conversations are brief and often end in arguments. I’ve asked mother why. She’s tried to explain that people have different opinions, and frustration with the situation is making them angry. Now the riots have grown in size. Missiles are thrown and people are being 37

injured and killed. The army are now patrolling the streets, shooting at any groups of people, even those who aren’t rioting. I no longer flinch when I hear gunfire. * It is my 14th Birthday so I’m nearly grown up. Perhaps this is the reason I didn’t get a present. I received a handmade card from my parents. Written inside was a simple message of love. Tanks are a regular sight now. Roaring down the streets, they are like armoured dinosaurs. They pause to fire at people and buildings, before moving on to their next target. The tanks can blast holes through the thickest walls, reducing whole buildings to rubble in seconds. Last month I missed school for the first time. An explosion near to where we live killed several people. We didn’t leave the house for two days, but eventually we had to find food. We are hearing blasts frequently, often several times a day. Improvised bombs detonated by rebels. Father describes the rebels as people who are opposed the President and the army. Two more families in our street have recently left. Nobody saw them go. We only noticed when we saw strangers going through their homes, 38

taking things that may be of use. Food is scarce. We eat the same thing every day but smaller and smaller amounts to make it last. * I am 15 today and I don’t care. Yesterday I saw the body of a boy not much older than me. My mother pulled me away to stop me staring at him. Bombs shaped like barrels are being dropped out of helicopters. My father said that the barrels are filled with explosives, shrapnel and oil. The destruction and contamination spreads some distance from the site of the explosion. Often a second barrel bomb will follow soon after the first, to target those trying to help the injured. I’ve asked who is dropping the bombs. My father is certain that the President is doing this to his own people. I now dread the sound of helicopters. * We are now being bombed at night by the air force of another country. Father says he thinks it’s to help the President fight the rebels. How do they tell who is or isn’t a rebel? Now there is hardly anyone left in our area. Some families left because their homes were destroyed. Others could not cope with the fighting and hunger. I feel so lonely. 39

Last week there was an explosion close to our house. Everything shook and the glass in our windows shattered. I thought the entire building would fall down, killing us all. We cleared up and removed the remaining glass. Where the windows were we now have holes in our walls. It’s so cold at night we sleep together in one room downstairs. We haven’t eaten for three days. Tomorrow’s plan is that mother and I will stay at home while father searches for food. We’ll take turns fetching water from the one tap in the next street. Hundreds of people are sharing it. It’s an odd colour. We still drink it. * It is my 16th Birthday and we have no food. I cry as my stomach hurts so much. I try not to think about food, or ask my parents for any. I haven’t been to school for almost a year as it was destroyed by a bomb. I have now given up on my hopes of ever becoming a doctor. The bombs are being dropped continuously day and night. Rumours are spreading of Sarin chemical attacks, by the government, across most of the city. Father says that Sarin is an odourless, colourless liquid that is carried inside rockets. It causes nerve damage and paralysis.

Two months ago my cousin was injured when part of my uncle’s home collapsed, following another night of airstrikes. Our family helped get my cousin to a hospital. Half of the hospital was closed from mortar damage. The electricity supply was unreliable as the generators kept failing. The part of the building still open was crowded with people suffering terrible injuries, including limbs missing and skin burns. An exhausted doctor said there had been an outbreak of dysentery, which is killing the children. My cousin was sent away as his wounds were not considered serious enough. My uncle said he and his family would be leaving the city as soon as possible. We haven’t heard from them since. I hope they’ve reached a safer place. I see bodies all the time, some as a result of executions by the rebels. Bodies are left on the streets as a warning to others. The rebels have control of the city on the ground, and are punishing people for reasons I don’t understand. All around us is rubble, the remains of roads and buildings. There is permanent dust in the air. It clogs my nose and lungs. Nothing is clean. We don’t wash. Our clothes remain dirty. Anything that burns is now used as fuel. Added to this 41

toxic mix is the stench of exposed sewage and decay. Tonight we are preparing to leave once it gets dark. This should be my last night in the city. It is no longer safe to stay here. My parents say the world has forgotten us. * Taking only what we can carry in small bags, including my diary, we make our way along the remains of our street for the last time. Mother is crying and I am scared too, although not in tears. I asked my father where we were going. To find somewhere safe he told us, and to do that we will need to leave the country. My parents are hoping to meet up with other relatives who have already made it out. My uncle has made contact with us today, and tells us that the country they are in is prepared to take in many thousands more people like us. They are calling us ‘The Refugees’. * That night, we were fortunate as on our route to the river we didn’t see any rebels, and the sky was free of bombs. It was still dark when we reached the River Thames. The last of our money was handed over to a man with a boat. Over thirty of us crowded on, as it lurched from the shifting weight of holding too many people. Huddled tightly together we moved away from the bank. No one spoke. 42

Our escape took us down the river, past the ruins of the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben. A partially collapsed bridge almost prevented our progress, before we eventually reached the sea. We then headed towards Southern Europe via the English Channel. We hoped to find a place without bombs, a place without death on the streets, and a chance for me, one day, to go back to school. * We were on that boat for over a week before we were rescued. My parents and I were eventually taken to the Middle East as refugees. We were given food, clothes and somewhere to live. My father died from a heart attack just a few months after our arrival. I was able to return to education, where I achieved excellent grades, whilst also learning a new language. Now aged twenty I am being sponsored by a charity to study medicine at university. On completion of my qualification I hope to work in a medical role for MĂŠdecins Sans FrontiĂ¨res (Doctors Without Borders). Adam

Odyssey By Julia Underwood

My little sister, Layla, kicks and, like every day, I wake with the taste of brick dust in my mouth. I turn over and try to sleep again, but noises outside and discomfort stop from me relaxing. We sleep in a room downstairs now; the upper storeys were destroyed by bombs months ago. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done our best to clear the rubble from the floor, but it is an endless job. At the windows, the glass all gone, my father has fixed sheets of newspaper with tape, but it keeps splitting and people can look in from the street. My baby brother starts crying in his wooden crate. Mama wakes and lifts him up, rocking him gently, crooning in her sweet voice. The tune is so familiar, so soothing, that I nearly fall asleep again, but Layla is restless and I have no time to drowse. I must find breakfast for us all. The boys are stirring and have started arguing; over their clothes, their toys, anything. I take no notice and get dressed. In one corner our makeshift kitchen holds a primus stove, a low table and pots and pans weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve salvaged. Wrapped in a cloth is bread left over from yesterday. I cut it into pieces and arrange it with the last of the hummus. 45

My father enters through the doorway, blocking out the sun’s early rays. Although he’s clearly dropping with exhaustion, his face pale and haggard, he is laughing. ‘Come on, you lazy-bones. Time you were up. Today’s a special day.’ Mama looks over the baby’s head, doubt in her dark, suffering eyes. The boys besiege Baba with noisy questions, excitement making them shrill. ‘Can we go to school, Baba?’ ‘I’m sorry, boys. No school, it’s closed. You’ll be learning again soon, don’t worry. It will be in a better place.’ Baba ruffles their hair, comes in and sits on a chair. The open door allows in a breeze carrying the scents of our ruined city. We scarcely notice the stench of cordite, decay and death any more, it has become commonplace. The reek of broken sewers is harder to ignore and sights in the streets strike fear and despair into our hearts. We seldom venture far from these four walls and Baba forbids us to go beyond the end of the street. Sometimes I disobey when I’m foraging for food, trying to find a shop with anything edible to sell. We’ve all lost weight, particularly 46

Mama, who has gaunt, sunken cheeks, although she should have the most as she’s still feeding the baby. The fine, soft skin on her hands looks transparent and even her voice is thin, though still tuneful when she sings. Baba treats patients when he can, but the hospital was bombed months ago and there are no medicines or equipment. He is consumed with frustration and suppressed anger, able to do so little to allay suffering. He feels diminished and powerless. ‘Why doesn’t anyone help us?’ he asks. ‘We can’t continue like this. People are dying and I can’t help them.’ ‘You do everything you can, my love,’ Mama soothes. ‘Even you cannot work miracles.’ The boys still pester Baba as we eat. He has brought some dates, a rare treat. How delightful it is to taste something sweet. ‘I have an announcement. Listen. You too, Sayid, this is important.’ We gaze at him in silence. ‘Today we’re moving. We can no longer stay here and wait to starve to death or die from disease or 47

bombs. I’ve arranged for us to go somewhere safe.’ Mama’s eyes flash. ‘We cannot leave our home. Everything we have is here. Family...’ Her voice fades. All her family are dead; killed in the bombing. Tears trace channels down her cheeks and she pulls the baby tightly to her breasts. ‘Don’t make us leave,’ she whispers. Baba leans over and kisses her forehead. ‘We have to, my love. There is no future for our children here. I can do more good elsewhere, even in a refugee camp.’ We shudder at the thought; terrible stories of such places have reached us. We all fear the possibility except Layla, for whom another life would be Nirvana and who quivers with anticipation at the thought of other children and toys to play with. ‘But why today?’ Mama’s alarm makes her querulous. ‘There’s so much to do.’ Baba glances round the pathetic remnants of our home. ‘You must all help to pack as much as you can carry. Just essentials; no rubbish. Wear as many clothes as you can and pack everything else. I’ll help.’ 48

We children look at each other. This must be serious; Baba never helps with anything but homework. I go to find food while the others pack our scant possessions. Today I’m lucky. A vendor is peddling bread and vegetables two streets away. It’s early so there is still enough for a family of six. I pile everything into the big basket I’m carrying and hurry home. One of the boys has a small cart on wheels made to ride up and down the street with his friends. We load it with food, canned goods and as many bottles of water as it will carry. Each of us has a bottle in their personal bundle. ‘I know it’s heavy,’ says Baba, ‘but you’ll need it. Try to make it last.’ Ready to leave, Baba leads us into the street, his arm around Mama’s shoulders. She is weeping, for, however ruined her home may be, she’s lived here for sixteen years and she’s bereft. The baby is tied in a sling across her chest; his sweet, round face placid, contentedly sucking his thumb. ‘We’re going to meet a bus down the road,’ says Baba. He names a suburb which is farther away than he implies, but our little procession follows him dutifully, even the boys keeping complaints 49

to themselves. The ground is rough and gritty with broken brick and stone, the air full of swirling dust and redolent with the odours of our wrecked city. At last we arrive, dishevelled and dusty. What appears to be a huge crowd, all as burdened as us, is gathered in a car park. The people mill back and forth, greeting acquaintances or merely lost and bewildered. Mothers with anxious eyes try to keep children beside them, quelling the cries of babies while their men folk attempt to look as if they know what they are doing. We’re loaded onto buses by rough men with impatient voices. Soon our vehicle shudders into motion and we move off. At first the chatter in the bus rattles the windows, but as the sun rises the crowded seats become uncomfortable and the voices silence, except for the occasional cry of an infant, as the vehicle trundles for miles through unfamiliar, barren countryside. ‘Where are we going, Baba?’ asks Layla. ‘To the sea, my darling. You’ll see it soon.’ The sea! We’ve never seen the sea before, except in pictures. ‘Is it far?’ 50

‘Quite far, but we’ll be there soon,’ Baba lies. Hour after hour we lumber over pitted roads that shake the bus, bruising our weary bodies. Sometimes the driver stops and lets us out to stretch our legs and relieve ourselves. Mama has me stand guard while she crouches behind a bush as far from the bus as she dares. ‘Don’t let them leave us behind,’ she begs, smoothing her skirts and grabbing the baby from me as soon as she’s finished. We hurry to the bus before it lurches off again. The passengers are grumbling, uncomfortable, hungry, every bone and muscle cramped. ‘How much further? I can’t take any more.’ The baking sun has set, but we are still travelling; on and on as if forever. The sky is pink with dawn when the bus finally halts and we stumble out of confinement, stretching our stiff limbs. An unfamiliar odour wafts on the early morning breeze; the scent of the sea. The boys and I rush to where a low wall overlooks a beach lapped by waves. We look into the distance at the horizon, so far away it looks like the world’s end. 51

Baba joins us. ‘This, children, is the sea that the Ancient Greeks travelled to explore the world.’ ‘Hurry, hurry, get your things. Don’t waste time gawping.’ Another loud stranger is chivvying us to climb down to the beach. He shoves women and children along with urgent hands, not listening to their protests as they struggle to carry their clumsy bundles holding all that is precious. A strange vessel wallows in the shallows a few metres from the shore. It looks huge at first; an open craft with engines at the rear and awnings propped over the open decks. To me it resembles a giant version of the blow-up boats Baba took us in on the lake in the park. We’re told to take off our shoes and then shoved out into the water. ‘Get on with it. You have to wade out to the boat; we can’t bring it further inshore.’ Mama lifts the hem of her skirt, but it is futile, soon soaked through. I relish the feel of the cool water, but Layla makes me carry her as she’s afraid of being nibbled by sea creatures. Baba and the boys lift the wooden cart above their heads, protecting our food from the waves. Soon we’re clambering on board the vessel and sitting on bare wooden seats fitted along the sides and 52

across the boat. We’re lucky to have seats as we’re among the first on board. Those who embark later have to sit on the deck between the feet of other passengers. Baggage is piled high wherever there’s space until we’re packed in as tight as olives in a jar – knee to knee, elbow to elbow – no room to move. ‘No more, we can’t take any more,’ someone shouts. But still more families squash in wherever they can. After what seem hours of pushing and shoving, and shouting, the crew start the engines and the boat glides out of the bay into the open sea. I trail my hand over the side, but the water is too distant to touch. Its deep blue is as smooth and clear as a mirror and I watch strange sea creatures dance in its depths. Layla shudders. The boat moves steadily until we can see nothing but a thin line of the land we have left behind. Will we ever return? As noon approaches the sun beats down and people grumble at the heat, even under the awnings. Mama keeps the baby covered, but he whimpers as he begins to feel the furnace of the sun’s rays. Baba makes us drink water and keep our heads covered, but many have no water and suffer in the molten heat. The misery is infectious. 53

Night falls with merciful abruptness and a strong breeze begins to blow from the North. Soon the sea froths and the boat leaps and falls when the waves lift it and drop it down, jarring in its ferocity. The tranquil sea of the day turns into a monster trying to engulf us, gobble us up and spit us into its depths. Instances of calm are mingled with terror as we cling to each other and the ropes along the sides. The murky skies lower and flash, and rain, which during the day would have brought relief, soaks us through. I can read fear in the boys’ faces. Mama buries her face in the baby and Layla clings to her dress as if she’ll never let go. One of the engines stops suddenly and the boat circles until the crew can start it again. In the relative silence we hear wails of terror from passengers convinced they will never see land alive. When we’re moving again, the boat bucking violently over the waves, I hear a great cry from the rear, which is lower in the water. ‘Help! Help! My wife has fallen overboard.’ ‘We can’t stop,’ says a crew member. The crying of the woman’s children stabs us, but the crew refuse to go back. Another woman, 54

dressing her baby in dry clothes, holds his slippery body up and he slithers from her hands into the roiling deep. Screaming, the woman jumps up and over, following him. Her family vainly clutch at her clothes. But she is lost. Despairing, I’m convinced we won’t survive the night. I try to distract the children with stories, but the wind’s too loud. Baba holds Mama close to quell her panic. After hours of struggle the storm stops as suddenly as it began. The wind falls, rain becomes drizzle, and we, exhausted and drenched, fall asleep up to our knees in sea water. When morning breaks the boat stills tosses like a toy. We eat some food, bale out sea water and look around. On the horizon I can see a faint smudge – land! At last. We urge the crew to go faster but there’s no speeding up the tired engines. Our bodies ache and the stench of so many close together makes us want to retch. The smudge on the horizon grows no clearer, no closer. We’re not moving. As if my eagerness to progress has unleashed a curse, the engines have stopped. We’re drifting. No more fuel. Some cans were washed away in the storm and nothing can be done. 55

The despondent wailing starts again. ‘We’re all going to die!’ Mama starts to cry but Baba won’t let us despair. ‘Help will come,’ he says. We float, marooned in the searing heat for hours. And then, out of the sun, comes the rattle of a helicopter. We wave and wave; they shout down to us before they leave. Another hour or more and a stout grey vessel steams towards us. When it arrives we’re helped one by one onto its decks. Layla slips on the ladder but Baba catches her and carries her up. The boys shin up like monkeys and Mama, on reaching the deck, chants a prayer for our deliverers. We’ve lost much of our baggage, but we’re safe at last. On board we eat and rest and shortly we’re standing on land again – land that seems to shift as we walk across the sand. Everything seems so weird, unreal. Strangers with kindly voices and smiles greet us in a language we don’t understand. They guide us to shelters erected along the shore. One passenger is carrying her little girl, about three years old, in her arms. The child is dead, 56

drowned in the storm while her mother slept, oblivious. Baba and Mama watch the drama when they take the child away and they gather us close into their embrace, thanking fate it not one of us. We have made it to safety. To a new life in a foreign land.

Washed Up On A Beach By Taiwo Oyenola

In their thousands, hundreds, in their ones, You will find them, Hidden in the backs of vans Stowaways of a plane And It sounds insane, That at mid-flight, Men fall like rain Paying no attention to the pain, The pain that theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re going through Because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nothing like the pain that they went through, The pain they were sent through, That tore through lives and cries like it was meant to. To think that the risk of a fall from that height, In his eyes, No way resembled the plight, Of his people and his tribe Or the fight for his nation and its lives. What about the women? And the woman whose only wish and will, Is the care for her child whose suffering and ill? Yet still she finds the gates barbed and closed, 59

As if she posed a threat For the hostility she met, And I say this with no shyness or regret Was disgusting, Absolutely disgusting, Disgraceful and distasteful, In every manor and every way And every moment till this day, The use of fire hose and the aggression of the police Against humans seeking our help, Our sanctuary, That level of force is completely unnecessary. They are not your enemies Every single one of them is from us, A part of us. And they're there, Waiting by Calais But the fences are raised While we live comfortably Seemingly unfazed Of the cold, harsh wintry days that awaits them Abates them, As if theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re filth, worthless But not their spirits or their resolve Because underneath the surface, Underneath the loathe, Burns a courage and a faith that you and I can never know. 60

And I dare you! To gaze into the eyes of that little boy Washed up on a beach Or to reach, Deep into the depths of your hearts And ask yourselves a simple question, What, have you, done? What, have I, done? Pay attention to the silence That fills the room And consumes Every heedless heart And distracted soul. It’s like I don’t even want to get caught, In all this emotion and thought Because it’s the kind That binds And confines The minds In silent solitude. If only my tears were an ocean, And my words ships, I would use them to carry the migrants safely, Safely into the arms of their families And friends Because even with “Brexit” 61

There is no exit From the responsibility And accountability To the migrants, Nor the blame And the shame On tyrants. Those leaders who've abandoned these people But the world hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t and we never will Our hope may lessen or even be broken But our drive and voices will never be outspoken So take this as a token of my appreciation I write this for the migrants and all those seeking refuge: Peace, and justice is coming, after all, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s like nature, It must take its course.

The Magic in Her Fingers By Ali May

She bought barberries. She had enough saffron at home. A twenty-kilo sack of smoked rice was still untouched in the kitchen cupboard. She was going to kill the fattest chicken by the fountain, let it bleed out and skin it right there on the mustard mosaics. She was going to disintegrate the bird in four: two legs and two breasts, marinade it in her magic mix. “Magic” he used to call it. It is just a few spices and butter, she’d protest, what’s so magic about it? Your fingers, you’ve got magic fingers, you touch anything and it becomes the yummiest. Saffron, turmeric, cumin, that was it really. But he called it magic. Half a kilo of barberries. A bit excessive, perhaps, but he liked his rice really sour. He would have a big slice of chilled watermelon afterwards for dessert. Sometimes two. They would sit on the floor, spread the cloth between them, set the food in the middle, punctuate the space with round bowls of yogurt and cucumber salad. Iced water in a blue, crystal jug would sit on his right side. He liked to pour it. He liked calling the cheap glass crystal. If it was a Friday lunch, they would 65

eat late so that they could listen to the 2 o’clock story-reading on the radio. Did she have enough cumin? Cumin, was it? Enough? Any at all? What was that again? What did she have enough of? She checked the contents of the red, plastic basket. Barberries. Why did she buy barberries? Didn’t she want courgettes? What was she going to do with the damned barberries? She gave the plastic bag back to the man behind the till. I need aubergines, not damned barberries, I hate barberries, she almost screamed. We don’t sell vegetables, but if you take a seat I’ll go fetch you some from next-door, said the man. Damned barberries, she said and headed out of the shop. Your money, shouted the man, you didn’t take it back. Not again, he said under his breath and ran after her with the crumpled notes. Who was she? Why was she wandering in the streets that she didn’t recognise, with air so thick she felt she was choking? Why was she in that ugly, dark, black coat? Why wasn’t she wearing her miniskirt that was the colour of a spring’s sky? Why was she carrying that cheap, plastic basket? What happened to her leather handbag? Had she forgotten to put on perfume? Why did the city look so different? Was she walking in a nightmare? She would give anything to wake up from it. 66

It was for him that she had changed her life. She wore a facade of piety for him, with a dash of revolutionary ideology. It was for him and him alone. Sit and eat on the floor? Keep chickens in the garden? Wear the chador? She would never have committed such incivility if it weren't for him. She didn’t care much for her husband. As a responsible child, she knew she had to do it, the family business depended on the marriage, so did the reputation of her father. She looked at it as a project with an end date and she soldiered on. She wanted to get pregnant as soon as possible so that none of her attention nor her mental space were given to the husband. Mazdak was born in the summer. Dry heat clutched at Tehran’s throat. The hospital was not far from the mountains in the north. In the morning that he came out of Leila’s womb, a breeze played with the willow’s branches outside the window. Leila couldn’t stand the scene. Shut the curtain, she screamed. Mazdak, in her embrace, began to cry before the nurse had the chance to comply. Leila had hated weeping willows ever since. It was a day to be celebrated not eulogised. Stupid trees, she would say every time she walked past one of the family. By the time the revolution happened and the Ayatollah took over, Mazdak had already bought his first razor, his legs already hairy, his voice 67

coarse, his father removed from the picture for a few years. But the changes were not just in his appearance. Just a couple of years of the new regime and Mazdak had already turned into an enthusiastic supporter of the Islamic Republic. Leila found it difficult to comprehend. That was not his son’s upbringing. She knew she had no chance if she fought him, so she played the acceptance card. Made changes to the way they lived. Put the dining table in storage and conceded to sitting on the floor. The gramophone was discarded along with the wine glasses. Luxurious china sets were replaced with all that was cheap and cheerful. The house started to look like a bloody seminary, she thought. She fried the chicken with saffron and let it turn golden. She took a couple of spoonfuls of rice and mixed it with the barberries in a bowl, sprinkled a few drops of brewed saffron over the concoction. She liked serving in individual plates instead of big trays. She made a hill of rice in Mazdak’s plate and added a layer of berries on top. The chicken would accompany in a separate plate. Lunch is ready, Mazdak-jaan, she called out. He’d been too quiet since coming home. It was halfway through lunch that he made his announcement. Leila felt the earth open its mouth and gobble her up. She could not hear anything. The room around her moved with such 68

speed that she felt sick. She tried to get up, but life had left her muscles. Why hadn’t she seen this coming, she pulled at her brain. After she felt better she wanted to scream and shout, slap Mazdak in the face and forbid it. Tell him she would never give him permission. That he was not allowed to take his life in his hands and take it to the frontline. That she couldn’t bear the thought of his body torn by a land mine, or perforated by the careless shrapnels of a grenade, by bullets fired from a rickety kalashnikov. She did not. She sat there on the floor, numb, and stared at her child. The son that was her everything. She entered the store with her red, plastic basket. The owner looked at her in despair. Have you got any barberries? The good ones. The really sour ones. I’d like half a kilo. The bag of barberries that he had weighed just half an hour ago was resting by the till. Why do you want so many barberries, he asked. It’s for my son’s lunch. He loves Zereshk Polo. There you go, he handed her the bag, knowing that the son’s body was never found, that the last Zereshk Polo made by the woman was thirty years ago. Leila paid for the dried berries and left the shop. She had enough saffron and the bag of smoked rice was still untouched in the cupboard. She was going to make Mazdak his favourite, magic meal. She still didn’t know why he called it magic. 69

Christmas Eve By Jin Wei Wong

Christmas Eve at town square was Cold, with its biting frost and darkening dusk Creeping over us, a shadow over the spirits Of electric lights wound round chopped-up pine trees. The weather forecast had been wrong. I shuddered, like the metal shutters as they were pulled Down like heavy eyelids over the closing shops, Sealing themselves away from the five o’clock frost. I walked like it didn’t matter, like it didn’t matter. But then I chanced to walk behind two schoolaged girls. Two girls, no older than twelve, I reckoned, with rucksacks; Rucksacks with presents for friends and family, I thought. The two of them walked past a begging man. A sunburnt man of fifty, ragged beard around the chin, 71

Grey and pale from months of begging under the sun and moon, Asking for a penny on the floor, holding to his dog. ‘Spare a penny, spare a few pence, miss?’ No sooner had the words just parted the beggar’s tongue, That I could see a wince, knife-sharp, on the schoolgirl’s face Even from behind, even from a corner street behind, As if the desperate words reeked of manure, As if his shaking voice had robbed her, mugged her. There the man sat on the floor, with his dog, once more: ‘Spare a penny, spare a few pence, miss -’ ‘Ew’. The word stung the passers-by who heard it. ‘Don’t you dare come close to me - you smell like waste! Don’t you dare say a word to me - you’re good for nothing! I don’t even want to be near you. Goodbye. Merry Christmas.’ The two just walked, never looking back. Two who came, two who went - colder than frost. 72

Giving my twenty pence, I saw the man and his dog Now more ragged, more shattered than before, in tears. I bid the man farewell and carried on. The wind had gone, and yet the winter would not fade, And yet the winter only whined like a spoiled little child, Nagging at my frozen ears, my face and heart. As I turned away to a corner, past St. Maryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s church, The beggarâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice echoed with my footsteps, step by step, Word for word along the rain-drenched alley of cobblestones, And I tried to sing a faint song about a wonderful world.

Umbilical Cord to Motherland â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Lament of a Syrian Refugee By Marjorie Bahhaj & Dante Major

I sit by the river and watch the current flow move towards my country. I know that you track your way to my motherland I know that you flow close to my mother in our town I feel as if I could send a message in a bottle to you dear mother. This river is like an umbilical cord to my motherland And to my beloved mother that gave me life Sustained my life, was my life and is my life! But what of this life now? What has this life of mine become? I feel lost without you both, my motherland and my mother

I am as adrift as the leaf that I see now floating on the river. I am here in a foreign land, a land I never planned to be in now in this moment of my life. But I had to flee for my life Chased, harassed. threatened with death, a fugitive in my motherland and now this foreign land This was the neighbour land that opened its borders for us all. But my heart beats to the beat of my motherland I find it difficult to sever the ties I lay on the banks and reach down to the water. I take a handful of water and fill with kisses Kisses mixed with my tears Then release the water with my kisses.. Each kiss like a petal being carried on the river Each kiss for my mother to keep her safe 76

and to know that I am thinking of her and care for her But in my love for my motherland I remember the souls that fought for freedom This river is known to come from paradise Now they return to paradise their souls now free in the ultimate freedom I send kisses of respect kisses of thankfulness kisses of pain that they had to die die for what every man, woman and child has a right to have FREEDOM â&#x20AC;&#x201C; freedom to live their lives with hopes, dreams and desires. my kisses to the river are joined with chorus of kisses from the trees, the birds and with the sun

Even in the darkness of nightfall kisses are continued with the moonlight all creation is from love and with that love there is flurry of kisses to say nothing is lost only changed. love is a universal law to win over manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s darkness It is like the river talks to me to weeps at the pain The river banks are like arms that cradle the flow of my heart to my motherland I see in my mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye the broken bridge of Dier Ezzor and hear the screams Screams that seem to come from the river as it echoes the pain it has seen. Carried the blood of those that were murdered and martyred My mind is flooded with this pain Yes my heart truly beats to the rhythm of my motherland All my memories can you see are there. 78

The days of my childhood with my mother and my family The days of play and learning; of weaving future dreams Dreams now lost and overcast with nightmare scenes. I used to swim in this river by my home. Laugh, splash, dive, tease and play fight with my friends Those were happy days, memories that glisten and sparkle Like the sunshine on the gentle waves of the river now. I feel confused, my mind whirls like the whirlpool currents in the river With this is the agitated carousel of thoughts To run and go to yet another land of safety, no stay - wait, no move, start a new life let go, no I cannot let goâ&#x20AC;Ś my mind is with my 79

mother and father still trapped in Dier Ezzor There may be a chance for them to come to me I must wait and know they are safe. Then and only then can I feel I can let go of my motherland. A land ravaged, torn apart with hate and war, a sickening battleground of mans twisted mind In this land that opened it borders to me not all are welcoming It is difficult for me as some men will face me and ask â&#x20AC;&#x153;why you did not stay to fight?â&#x20AC;? But I do fight I answer with keyboard and pen as I write about the regime. The activist groups gather information that will destroy the regime. This is the fight we do. We may not hold another man in our arms and wrestle and break his neck. We may not hold a gun and shoot. Or launch a rocket to their bunker

But our words our revelations of the truth and the horror This will be our battle won as this evidences that horror And the crime against humanity. I can only hope that the battle will be won And Justice will be done.

From conversations with Dante Major adapted by Marjorie Bahhaj.

Am I Not Human Like You? By Aliraza Fazal

I see hate in your eyes when you look down on me, I see the fields of your thought take a hold of me. Do not underestimate me with your prejudice as it is I who holds the key to your enlightenment. Do not mistake my silence for weakness, for it is silence that is powerful in the face of chaotic noise.

I take wisdom from noble men and women who have empowered my spirit. Keeping a guard of armour to protect what I hold dear to me. The foolishness of empty ideology that teaches hatred amongst men is nothing but the destruction of our knowledge and empathy. Our words can be what brings us together but what could also divide us.

Your expressions may be cruel and unkind but do not become blind to your ignorance. I am your equal in humanity, however I may look, whatever creed or culture I belong to. Do not keep your eyes closed, because mine are wide open. Am I not human like you?

Mantle of Deeds By Gurpreet Singh Rai

In a cocoon of the mind the cave below denied access to supplies including tunnels to hide such potions in emotions stirred with a spoon made of bamboo shoots as they had bloomed beside a midnight lotus - she was unattached and unfocused yet she opened her gaze and her radiant beauty glistened with an eloquent yet distinctive potency so the moonlight admired silently looking on in awe not missing a moment becoming the owner of such delicate memoirs to reminisce for a lifetime following the freedom of an open kites line day after night as colours danced and merged over a white candle 85

transforming its heat into a mantle of deeds with a handful of seeds buried in the depths of a distant field as ancient beliefs continued to drip dry before empty glances witness the beauty of growth wide eyed looking up to the sky where once upon a time mere limits defined a reflection which was too early to shine outside a kingdom of lies in the hallway of space and the landscape of time

Quicksea By Matthias Asiedu-Yeboa

A Wave by Story (Hello) Today is the first day since a year and a day ago that it’s been hot in the otherwise bitter cold of uptown. All the up-townspeople were at the only beach about for miles around. The sea has unfrozen, before swallowing the civilians that were sitting and playing and bathing in and enjoying it, unaware of the sewage and of their own waste. The sea has to be terribly angry, because it has then stepped over the shore and swallowed the civilians that were sitting in the sand too. Why would the beach be so destructive? That’s what the civilian ghosts want to know, before they accept the rest that they did not ask for. But whom should they ask? The sun that has undoubtedly portended this doom would be the best revelator. The problem is, she can’t speak, and even if she could, her first appearance for a year and day is nearly done, and the bitter cold is soon to return. And besides, who’s to say that she should tell the up-

townspeople anything, or that they should ever see her again? If it were the sand that had swallowed the civilians, it would be rightly called quicksand. But it was the sea, so it is known among the ghosts as the quicksea, and these ghosts are always hungry and thirsty. When a ghost is a hungry and thirsty, there is naught but other ghosts to eat and to drink. Marilyn is one such ghost. She wanders in and out of up-townhouses, looking for someone. It is afternoon now, and the sun is frying her mind and her brunch-less stomach. Hopefully she will soon eat, and then at long last, she will be at peace, and then she can get her rest, and any blood she has left will be good oil and her skin will be good meat for the next ghost to eat. Marilyn is missing her best friend Timali. They had been to the beach, and the sea had not only swallowed them, but also separated them also when they awoke ghostly. Their severance was a catalyst for them each to court even more mortality than they had already seen, and there is no better way to court mortality than to enforce oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sense of being lonely. They reasoned that if they forced rest to come to them, then they would no longer have to weep at the destruction

of their vitality, and the bitter cold would keep them company. Marilyn was like this especially. At the beach, she wondered why Timali would tell her that she loved her when she knew that declaration was a lie, an apparition-scare, as mystifying as the quicksea. At least with the sea, the destruction was honest and quick. But Timali’s words were a worse kind of destruction: they were lies as common as wet sand on a beach, worse than the truthful quicksea, and they could not be washed away.

A Wave by Timali Timali’s back reclines against Marilyn’s chest. She says that she is beautiful, and artfully so, and that she would be even if all the sand on the beach were to burn her and the sea were to swallow her. She says that she is more than a story to know, but also a song to sing. Marilyn wants to tell Timali that her touch compels her to yell love-songs at her, despite living her whole life believing that ghosts neither shouted, nor had skin. But Marilyn instead tells her a story, and a morbid one; because for her, love as destruction - versus something more comfortable -is just too heavy. Marilyn tells Timali a story, entitled: Let Go Of Me Because I Don’t Want Anyone to Know this Side of Me Because I Fear That 91

It Is Not Truly Lovely And I Would Much Rather Pretend That All This is A Bottomless Pit of a Story Or At Least A Tool to Use and Not a Love to Believe Because I Do Not Believe That You Really Love Me Because Really I Am Unlovely. Or I Am Unlovely for short. Timali sings a song, entitled: As You Are, You Are Enough for Me. Marilyn tries to sing back, but all she can sing is: You’re swallowing me, and I can’t breeeatthhhheee…

A Wave by Marilyn Don’t let the sun shine on me, and tell me you like my body. You’re harassing me. I would rather you be cold to me. Don’t you say good things about me. What do you want from me? Nothing? I don’t believe you. Don’t use my desires against me. If you use them against me, then they’re no longer mine: they become yours, and I don’t want them to be, because if they’re yours and you don’t give them back to me, then there will be nothing left for me, and if there is nothing left for me, then there is nothing left of me to be. 92

The only sunlight I have seen is my sand-burnt skin, all ugly, no beauty. I want to believe in a God-given beauty No matter how deep my ugly. Please donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t eat me.

A Wave by Song (Goodbye) If the sea could swallow them again, and if the dawn of the sun could ever again be seen, Timali would tell Marilyn that despite the busybody she wanted to be, that she should just slow down, and try to believe. The truth of the matter is: the quicksea was pretty big and bombastic, but it was of no worth. Wet sand, while commonly at the beach and a pretty meek sight to see, it was of more value, infinitely.

Pillars By Michelle Stevens

It was almost a year ago When we heard it on the news, They said ISIS were coming And we’d be the ones to lose Our beloved architectural sites, The old and the new, ISIS were attacking them Since they had something to prove, Because they are relentless And delusional but strong, Because they are powerful But their morals are all wrong: With weapons at their sides, A machete about their waist, A balaclava on their heads Which do not dictate Their religion, their identity, This isn’t about Islam, The problem is psychological When you have the capacity to harm, When you attack your own people, When you attack others who are good, Just because you don’t believe They are behaving as they should.

What religion would justify You to disrespect othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; beliefs? What religion would allow you to Drop an old man to his knees, To interrogate him for a month Then behead him publically? Do you just want a reaction Like a naughty kid in school? Do your guns and weapons Make you feel powerful? But what are your principles? What am I doing wrong? What happens in the West to make You feel a hate this strong? I never hurt a fly, I dress conservatively, (Not that either of these matter When we have freedom to be free) So what have I done that would Justify killing me? His name was Khaled al-Asaad, He was 82 years old, They asked him where goods were buried But they were never told, For he remained silent, He stood up for what was right, Because sharing culture and history Is what makes us unite. So he refused to answer, 96

He refused to let them know Where artefacts from Palmyra Were hidden deep below, Deep beneath the earth, Deep beneath your skin, Dig deep until you reach An ounce of humility within. We respect each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beliefs, We share communities, We travel to new places To learn their histories, To learn about new worlds, To see monuments standing tall, So when you hung his body from that pillar, I clapped, I cheered, because- in being silent- that man said it all. Now we raise our pillars high In the streets of London that we share, We stand under the Arch of Triumph In our own Trafalgar Square.

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Eddie the Anvil By Andy Mydellton

Crack! Crack! Crack! The garden snail was jammed into the vice-like grip of the thrush’s beak and was being hammered onto the garden path which ‘Eddie’ used as an anvil. Whilst Eddie is no blacksmith, he uses the paving slabs as his tool to smash the snail’s protective shell, picking out the protein rich kernel inside. As ‘Eddie the Anvil’ forged his way to his goal I wondered if, and for how long he would carry on using the wildlife garden at Millstream Fork as part of his territory at a time when populations of thrushes were becoming less common throughout the country. If so, could Eddie’s mellifluous song echoing around Millstream Fork signal an exception to this general trend? I’m sure that Eddie the Anvil did not care about this question as he continued to use his powerful side neck muscles to swipe his prey with speedy blows to the left and right. As I studied his technique, I imagined that if I was Eddie, I would prefer to thrust my head backwards and forwards to smash the snail’s defensive housing, probably because this technique seems to be more natural for human beings. At other times inside his self-made workshop of broken shells, 101

he prized and stretched unsuspecting worms from the ground like elastic bands before carefully devouring his fare. A few days later I was in the Millstream Fork office working on the subject of how people with a garden or access to a local space could use it to reconnect with nature. I posed the question, How can a person easily use a common bird as an initial step to connect with all other animals and how they live in their daily lives? But I was interrupted when I heard a loud and dull thud. I looked out into the garden but could see nothing and thought that it may well have been another anti-social person throwing their rubbish at the window. Later in the afternoon, I was shocked to see a prostrate body of an adult thrush on the patio. I immediately knew that it was dead because I saw an ugly stream of yellow toothpaste like fluid that flowed from its head wound. I suspected that the poor bird had flown straight into the patio doors. I wondered if it could it have been Eddie the Anvil, because of his regular appearances here? I scraped up and buried the corpse with a heavy heart. Whilst I did so, I carried out my own informal â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;post mortemâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; and concluded that this was a mistle thrush, a species which is larger and has a louder and coarser call than other thrushes. 102

This evidence suggested that Eddie must be a smaller song thrush which, as its name suggests, has a beautiful song made with a fluty mellowness. Other members of the thrush family include two winter migrating species, fieldfare and redwing. They visit our shores from the icy north because they find food more easily here than in the frozen wastelands. This annual migratory habit could well be a collective memory inherited from their ancestors’ which evolved from the Ice Age, thousands of years ago. Because they prefer open fields during the harsh, cold months I have only occasionally seen Redwing and Fieldfare at Millstream Fork, a disappointing aspect which I would like to change. But as well as enticing these two migrating birds, I will also try to attract mistle and song thrushes throughout the warmer seasons. In recent weeks I have not seen or heard ‘Eddie the Anvil’ cracking snails in his workplace and believe he may have died or moved on to another territory. As a result I’ve created a plan to lure other thrushes to Millstream Fork. To succeed I must have a different mindset and agenda to horticulturalists whose main objective is to grow pretty flowers. Instead I must offer birds what 103

they need, which is usually food. So I have begun to plant berry bushes and shrubs such as blackberries and strawberries. However a more radical approach is to ‘farm’ snails in the wildlife garden so that song thrushes in particular can harvest the natural excess of such a colony. Even so whether or not this programme succeeds must remain a mystery of Millstream Fork for now…

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Alphabets By Shirley Anne Cook

His voice on the phone, the cadence of 'alifs, baas, taas,' and I am taken back to date-palmed paths beside the Nile. A first felucca trip him haggling with the boatman, fricative 'kh', pharyngeal 'ayn'. On board we eat a picnic of flat bread, cheese and fruit. I have my first Arabic lesson. 'Apple' - 'tif-a-har, tiffa-hah, too-fah-hah'. He and the boatman laughing at my English accent. Later that day we sit beneath temple pylons, shrouded in their ancient shadows. 'Can you hear the voices of the pharaohs?' His tongue a golden cartouche sparked with hieroglyphic charm.

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Footfall By Saira Arian

She looked out of the window and her mind began to wander. Outside the pink hibiscus flowers were falling onto a cat that lay stretched out in the searing heat. The conversation in the room melted into the sound of the revolving ceiling fan and chatter from the corridors. ‘So, Kulsum. We'll see you on Thursday,’ the corpulent doctor grinned as he sat in his wooden chair, poking a toothpick to loosen small bits of his lunch. Kulsum noticed her parents’ anxious faces. As they walked out, her mother kissed her forehead and assured her it would be all right. Kulsum’s father put his arm around his wife’s shoulder, ‘It's nothing. It's a small operation. She won't even feel the pain and she'll be running around soon’. He looked at Kulsum affectionately, ‘you'll run and catch me once your back’s healed, won’t you?’ Kulsum’s face brightened, ‘Haan Baba. But only if you get me those white sandals for Eid’. He laughed, ‘You’re my brave girl’. At night Kulsum’s parents found it difficult to rest in the heat with thirsty mosquitoes buzzing 109

in their ears, and deafening their worried mind. ‘Shall I sell my wedding bangle?’ ‘Hmm’, the father considered, ‘I was thinking if there's any other way. I don't have enough saved up. I was hoping the new construction work would start…’, he sat up to take a sip of water which pricked his dry throat as he swallowed . ‘I didn't want to use my saved money for this. I was hoping we’d use it for her wedding in a few years’, without realizing he began to mumble and rotate his hand in the air as if asking himself a question. Kulsum’s mother sat up, ‘God is very great. He will help us when that day arrives. But for now, I'll go to the jewelers and see what they say. It will all be fine, God willing. You should sleep now, it’s late.’ They turned to their sides, pretending to sleep but each watched the day grow pale and with it their eyes grew too tired to dream. The call of the morning prayer resonated in the air and the skies filled up with dust of hopelessness. * Thursday morning arrived with grey skies and sticky humid air. The atmosphere seemed choked and the plants were dull and parched. On the road, the polychromatic buses looked matted as they carried wistful eyes to their mundane realities. A milkman struggled to peddle with 110

two large milk drums dangling from each side of his bike and one can hanging from his handlebar, repeatedly slapping his leg. Kulsum saw him jump from his bike just in time, as he lost his balance when a Toyota speedily cut in front of him. The can of milk flew into the middle of the road attracting a swarm of gaunt cats. She smiled at the cats’ triumph. Kulsum picked up a yellow flower lying under a tree as she limped to the hospital. Her father every so often put his hand to his breast pocket and felt for his wallet. His already thin frame seemed weaker today as he absently stroked his mouse-like whiskers. Kulsum’s mother watched her daughter talking to the yellow flower as her ponytail bounced and eyes made animated expressions. Her eyes are just like her grandfathers, she thought. Her mother thoughtlessly slipped back a lose strand of hair that danced on her face while pulling the nonmatching head cloth higher. Kulsum looked at her mother as she tightened her grip when they came to the traffic crossing. She could never understand why her mother wore this blue flower head cloth while her shalwar kameez was a different print and colour. As per habit Kulsum reached for her mother’s wrist to play her with thin gold bangle. ‘Where is it?’ she gasped. ‘Mama, it’s gone!’ her eyes expanded. 111

Kulsum’s mother covered her wrist with her scarf and avoided looking at her husband. ‘It’s okay. I’ll find it later’, she assured Kulsum. Kulsum was still not sure what was happening to her today. The doctor demanded to settle his fee before the operation. Kulsum’s father apprehensively presented the envelope to the grinning doctor. He watched his life’s earnings being stuffed nonchalantly in to the doctor’s trouser pocket as he signaled the nurse to take Kulsum to the operating theatre. His heart felt empty as he sat down with his wife in the waiting room. He looked at his wife, signaling with both hands towards God to assure her that it’s all up to Him now. They sat murmuring prayers surrounded by hospital sounds crashing against them. The hospital bed was uninviting and didn’t look like it had been washed in a while. Kulsum knew that the right thing was to obey her doctor’s instructions because he had the knowledge that most of the people in the town lacked. She stared at the peeling ceiling wall as she lay on the bed. A lizard sat in the corner, motionless, but seemed likely to fall. He rapidly moved towards a shadow patch, convinced he had become invisible. Soon darkness spread into Kulsum’s eyes as she grew unconscious with the anesthetic.

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Unexpectedly (but not surprisingly) the lights went out in the hospital. Electricity was an unpredictable game, some used quranic verses to help the lights last, some went to soothsayers and hermits begging them to use their connections to talk to God, others prayed of being rich enough to afford a generator. But in any case, the lights came and went, uncaring and deaf to such pleas. ‘Shit!’ the doctor shouted as the room went dark. He blinked his eyes several times to adjust to the sudden darkness. As he squeezed his eyes, he ordered, ‘Pull the curtains as far back as possible’. The nurse looked at him nervously and remarked, ‘The light is too poor, doctor. This is a very delicate procedure’. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’ll kill her’, he snapped. Kulsum’s parents gasped as the lights went out. They looked around in panic to get the nurses’ attention. ‘Oh God. Why, did this have to happen right now?’ the mother wept. She prayed with all her might, promising God never to ask for anything more as long as she lived. The hospital seemed louder with cries and sighs of pain in the dark. A nurse came and put a candle next to their table. Kulsum’s father watched the tiny stump of candle drowning in a pool of wax.

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Soon the doctor rushed in to the waiting room, ‘It’s done. You can see her in a few hours’. Kulsum’s father got up to thank him and ask the details, but the doctor stormed out of the hospital leaving his words drifting into the corridor. As the lights returned, the uneven fan began to whirl and the parents smiled at each other with relief. They entered Kulsum’s overcrowded, fetid hospital room. They searched and found her lying on the corner bed. She looked at them with tears in her eyes. ‘We’re here. There’s no need to worry,’ Kulsum’s mother hugged her. She felt Kulsum crying bitterly. ‘What’s the matter, my child? It’s over now,’ assured her father. She continued to sob as she looked searchingly at them both. Her mother stroked her hair and face, ‘What, my darling? It’s all done’. They watched her struggling to move as their eyes suddenly filled with terror. ‘My legs’, Kulsum wept. ‘I can’t move my legs’.

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Paradise Frost By James Nadal

High on the horizon, There is an orange glow, While mountain peaks surrounding, Are blanketed in snow. The frost enslaves the soil top And sparkles under sun beams. The landscape marked in snowdrops, which shiver by the ice glazed stream. A deer walks slowly over, the hard and frozen ground, A scene so still and sober, here beauty can be found.

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ZEN and the Art of Being a Modern Muslim By Dr Rohail Ahmad

ZEN and the Art of Being a Modern Muslim Professor Hawa-Tauba-Maden-Musalmaan So there you are in West London: a modern man / woman / transgender. You have friends of all races, colours, creeds. You have black friends, white friends, brown friends. You even have gay friends! In fact, you love your gay friends: they’re so unusual and interesting, so hip and trendy and fashionable. And oh, can they dance! You wouldn’t dream of throwing them from a tall building. You also happen to be a Muslim. Sort of. You’ve never really thought about it much. Just something that was given to you at birth, like your name, the shape of your nose, the colour of your eyes. You look around: you see some fellow Muslims (so-called) blowing people up, cutting off strangers’ heads, honour-killing their daughters. Of course you know these are just a few psychos, a tiny minority. Most of your non-Muslim friends know this too.

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And yet… You can’t help wondering if there is something about your religion that condones this, justifies it, allows it in some way. So you do your research: you’re a reader (not novels, of course, astag-frulla — God forbid!). You learn about Islam, its early history, its Golden Age. You read about other religions too. You even reread the Quran — in English, I mean. Of course you read it in Arabic as a child, back swaying, finger moving, painful articulation. You learn of Muslims’ great contributions to art and science, to mathematics and philosophy. You learn that when Europe was a small, stinking backwater of the world, Islamic culture was blooming. You learn that all cultures go through their peaks and troughs; we just happen to be going through a period when Western culture is in the ascendancy (although perhaps for not much longer, from the way things are going). You learn about the Dark Ages, when the wonderful Westerners used to burn people alive, cut people’s heads off (even their own wives: you remember your history lessons in primary school and Henry VIII). This rings a bell! So it’s not just backward Muslims who do this sort of thing.

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So, finally, you note the theory that perhaps Islam is going through its own Dark Ages. The only problem is, it’s having to do it in the Age of Globalisation, in the glare of the whole world. You realise you can’t really wait a 1000 years to come to the point where, like most other people, you start to see your religion as only a wonderful metaphor, a really nice fairy tale for adults. You’re going to have to do a crash conversion course! Welcome to Zen Islam. * The word “zen” is difficult to define. Technically, according to Google, it means: “a Japanese school of Mahayana Buddhism emphasizing the value of meditation and intuition rather than ritual worship or study of scriptures.” More narrowly, it simply means meditation. Informally, in people’s minds, it has connotations of peace, of being relaxed, of not trying too hard or worrying too much. These last-mentioned informal connotations are the ones to aim for, but the technical definition is useful too. Note: “emphasizing the value of meditation and intuition rather than ritual worship or study of scriptures.” Okay, so the first step is to find out how much of a Muslim you really are. So here’s a checklist. 121

Tick the ones that apply and award yourself the matching number of points. No.

Item

Points

I am willing to recite the Shahada: “There is only one God, and Muhammad is his messenger.”

I pray five times a day. (Give yourself one point each.)

5 (max)

I fast during Ramadan.

I pay zakat (charity).

I have been to Hajj (or definitely intend to).

I do not drink alcohol.

I never had sex before marriage.

I do not eat pork.

TOTAL

(P.S. Deduct 5 points each if: ● You have a sense of humour. 122

● You read novels.) My prediction for most Muslims (see below): 9/28 or 14/28, i.e. 32% or 50%. In other words, not even a “Desmond”, a 2.2 class university degree. Most Muslims will tick 1, 3, 5, 8 (possibly 6); because, let’s face it: ● The Shahada (1) is easy. ● Praying five times a day (2) is bloody hard, and very few people do it. ● Fasting (3) is bloody hard as well but, strangely enough, most Muslims do it, and it’s interesting to consider why. Some people use it as a way of dieting. Others as a penance: a way of doing whatever they want for the rest of the year, and making up for it during Ramadan. These are the Ramadan Muslims (RM): i.e. something that looks hard to outsiders, from the RM’s point of view is actually the easier way of pretending to be a Muslim. ● Alcohol (6) is the easiest one to start your conversion course with, if you don´t drink already. ● I am not necessarily advocating sex before marriage (7) (see Step 2 below), but you must have done it, right? When you were young? At uni? Or if you didn’t, it wasn’t for lack of trying, was it?

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Be honest now — this questionnaire is totally confidential. Eating pork (8) is not really much of a sacrifice, and most Muslims don’t miss it. *

Now, if you’re happy as you are (no matter what your Muslim-ness score), that’s perfectly fine. Just carry on. But maybe you’re not totally happy? Possibly you have a sneaking suspicion that most Muslims (just like most other religious types) aren’t really Muslim: the moment they’re out of sight of the mosque they can’t wait to fling their headscarves and skullcaps aside, do all the things they’re not supposed to do? Perhaps there are a few things you’d like to change, those niggly bits that really stop you from joining in with all the fun? Maybe you’d like to have the odd drink? Or Ramadan is really becoming a drag, especially those long, ninteen hour fasts? Or you’d like to try before you buy? (Shh...we’re talking sex here.) If you’re a girl, you’ve always thought how much fun it would be to wear a short skirt, maybe even a bikini on the beach? You blush, just thinking about it. I won’t go through all of these in detail. I’ll just give a few examples and I’m sure you’ll get the idea: the basic principles are to take one step at a time and go slowly. 124

* Step 1: Integrating into Pub Culture (the core of Western Culture) So. The chances are you’re not really a Muslim to start with, if you scored less than 50%; so you might as well go the full hog (pun intended) since there really is no chance anyway of getting into Islamic heaven with those seventy tasty white raisins. The best one to start your conversion course with is alcohol. You’re going to have so much fun. No need to go overboard. No need to puke in the gutter (you didn’t miss much there, and there’s no need to be that modern!); and no need to have a hangover the next day (we don’t want you waking up in Bangkok being fucked by a Lady-Boy! For those of you who haven’t seen the film, this is a Western cultural reference to The Hangover-Part 2). Start with a small sip. Go on. Nothing will happen, I promise: there will be no thunder and lightning, the skies will not fall, the world will not end. There you go, well done. Now take another sip. And now, a mouthful. Keep going until you start to feel a very pleasant sensation. Okay, slow down! Whoa — easy, tiger! Oops, almost knocked the glass over. Right, stop! 125

There. Lie back, relax, smile. Isn’t this fun? Step 2: Let’s talk about sex Actually, this one’s quite important, especially for women — as always. It’s quite possible that you’re not just a Muslim, but also that you belong to some obscure sect or faction, which means that the odds of you finding a partner from your tribe are about the same as winning the National Lottery — which is about 1 in 14 million, in case you didn’t know. (Islam got this one right: I wouldn’t advise gambling to be part of your conversion course.) If you’re still quite young, and the prospect of marital action is on the horizon, by all means wait for it. This section is really aimed at those of you who may have reached the age of thirty or thirty-five with no such action in sight. Please don’t wait until you’re forty or even fifty, like some sad personal friends of mine, before you see the light. I don’t want you ending up a 40 year old virgin with cobwebs growing in your vagina. (A vajazzle is far more attractive - maybe a nice henna design? Maybe not — let’s leave that for the advanced course!) By the way, once you’re into this, you may end up trying to go too far. As with Step 1, just take it easy. Promiscuity is overrated and may have 126

severe emotional side-effects. Just one nice boy / girl / transgender friend is all you need. (But if you do want to make up for all the fun you’ve missed out on, before you settle down, just remember to use a condom — one of the simplest, greatest, unsung human inventions of all time! After all, what’s the point of wheels — Western slang for car — if you can’t have any fun in them?) And also note that if somebody asks you whether you want sex on the beach, before you dive in - it’s a cocktail! But by all means apply Step 1 of the course to this drink.

Step 3: From burkini to bikini Okay, at the moment you probably wear your normal clothes on the beach, whilst your friends (or husband and children) have their fun. The first move is to get into some sort of swimwear and get into that lovely blue sea. Get into that burkini! I know it looks ridiculous, but nobody cares. If Nigella Lawson can do it, so can you! Slowly, slowly move on to a modest swimsuit. And now, go for the plunge (pun intended)! Put on that bikini! You know you’ve always wanted to. I promise you, no one cares, no one will look. This is the one truly cool thing about Western culture: no one cares what you do!

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There. Well done. Doesn’t that feel nice? The sun on your skin, perhaps a nice, salty breeze flowing? As with previous steps, no need to go too far — no need to go to the nuddy beach: all you’ll find there are some wrinkly old prunes (almost as good a joke as the raisins). Important Note In case you’re feeling a bit queasy about all this, please remember that you can do all of these things and still call yourself a Muslim! You’ll be no more hypocritical than most Muslims or the average Westerner. You'll certainly be a long way from becoming an Arab Sheikh. To reach Arab Sheik level you would have to reach the orgy stage, which is overrated and not recommended by this conversion course. (By the way, sorry to disappoint you, but it is not true that whenever Westerners have a party, it always ends in an orgy!) (Also see our Reversion Course below.)

*Health Warning* There are disadvantages to becoming a Westerner. These are as follows: ● You may experience long and intense periods of loneliness. 128

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You may end up alone in a flat, eaten by alsatians. (This is a Western cultural reference to a novel called Bridget Jones by Helen Fielding; see The Advanced Course: How to read a novel.) You may end up in a care home, abandoned by your 2.2 children. You may develop an innate and foolish sense of superiority and condescension, and become blind to hypocrisy. You may develop grandiose ideas, that you are an armchair office general; in extreme cases, this may lead to the inexplicable urge to bomb countries in the Middle East.

*The organisers of this conversion course will accept no liability for any such outcomes. Strictly no refunds.*

The Advanced Course A look ahead: ● Vajazzling for Muslims ● How to develop a sense of humour ● How to read a novel And lots more…

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The Reversion Course Don’t worry. As you reach the age of fifty or sixty; or if your doctor tells you that you only have six months to live; or if you’re single now and are worried about what to do when you get married and have children of your own, fear not. Our ultra-quick Reversion Course will show you: ● How to revert quickly and efficiently. ● How to cover up your past, including all online records. ● How to keep a straight face when lecturing and controlling your children using religion as your referencing authority.

Courses for Westerners In case you’re a Westerner and are feeling left out, be lonely no more: we have courses for Westerners too: ● How to spot a hypocritical argument. ● How to stop interfering in other countries. ● How to stop exploiting poor continents

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The Witch's House By Andy J Lewis

Another stone hits the window with an angry punch, followed by the snickering of several children outside. My blood always boils at the sound, as if the maliciousness and cruelty of the children runs through my veins. This sound has followed me around for far too long. From having stones thrown at my bruised matchstick legs as a child in the playground, to seeing stones hit the stained windows and pelting the reflection of a frail, miserable hag who seems almost unfamiliar to me now. My bony yellow fingers shake as I remove the rusty chain latch. They want a reaction and if I don't give them one, they try their luck with bigger stones and louder taunts. They hear that there's an ugly old witch in the crooked, haunted house and they want to torment a reaction out of her. If I give them the right reaction, it sends them running for the hills and they don't come back. The door creaks as it opens and the moonlight invades my weak vision. I muster a roar in my chest and release it with all my strength. A shrill shriek rips through the space between me and them, and echoes through the ghostly night. The 133

shadow figures that face me are frozen for a few seconds as I look at them vacantly. As the echoes of my scream are cut off with a fierce silence, they retreat with muffled panic and fade into the horizon of dark fields. I pause in the doorway to appreciate the quiet. I look up at the moon in its full bloom, and look at the scattered skeleton of stars around it. They seem restless tonight. I slam the door shut and lean my back against it. A thick lump fills my throat, and a single hot salty tear tiptoes along the wrinkles and folds of my face. I push my fingers under my glasses to wipe away the tear and crush it in its course. I take a deep breath in and then exhale with a slight cough. They can't hurt me when I'm alone. They can't hurt me when I'm alone. They can't hurt me when I'm alone. The evening drags on after its disturbance, lingering in its tainted state. I settle down in front of the fire place with a book, draped in a mismatch of patchwork blankets. I hold the frayed pages dearly and slowly fade into a distant world of dragons, knights in shining armour, and justice for the good. Much of my life has been spent behind the pages of a book. As a child, the library was my sanctuary. It seemed a lifetime away from being laughed at in the playground or beaten at home. I would reread the happy endings over and over, feeling that 134

something great would save me eventually. As an adult, I came to realise that life isn't like a great story. I spent all my evenings reading alone because I had no one to share them with. I soon learnt that the uglier people think you are, the uglier your life becomes. The world of literature has always been more merciful to me. The evening disappears in the book with me, and I am only disturbed by the thick smell of burning food. I drop my book and untangle myself from my cocoon of blankets, and wander to the kitchen. I thrust the small oven door open and peer in to see a withering pie, bruised with black burn marks. I pull it out with a dirty tea towel and slap it on to a dirty plate from the stack by the sink. I hear a familiar squeal accompanied by a cold breeze and turn to see the door wide open, the light of moonbeams once again trespassing into my home. I jump over and slam it shut causing the kitchen to shake in disturbance. My stomach unsettles and I stand still for a second, allowing the wave of dread to pass. I walk over to the window and peer out. The moon lights the fields enough for me to see shadows and shapes, but not enough to make them out. It's just the trees. It's just the trees. It's just the trees. The dark violet landscape blur as my eyes focus on the translucent image of myself in the window. I reach out and touch the cold glass, 135

expecting to feel someone else. I remember my thick black eyebrows that I was teased so mercilessly about, now thin silver arches that go unnoticed on the leathery skin. My thoughts are interrupted by sudden tapping noises which fill the air above me and quickly stop again. I feel myself sinking inwards in fear. My eyes fixate on the ceiling, with its peeling ivory paint. I don't dare to look away from it, but I want my eyes to search every inch of space to reassure me. These walls have always protected me, they couldn't possibly betray me now. I must be imagining it, hearing noises. It could be the wind writhing in through an open window, dancing around and knocking things over. A small clunk and two more taps confirm to me that I should be worried. A series of faint noises, I listen as carefully as I can to hear everything. The more I concentrate, the more of these noises I hear. Tiny, miniscule noises that toy with me and tease me. There must be someone in my house. Have they not had enough from me? I think back to opening the door earlier that evening. The light of the moon sliding past me into the house. The breeze crawling over my skin and into the room behind me. The children standing in their black silhouettes, nameless and faceless. They retreated. They were noisy, reckless, stupid. They couldn't have got in without giggling, screaming or crying. I'm 136

supposed to be the monster of this village, I'm supposed to be the bogeyman. So if I'm the scary one, then who or what could be in my house? I hear more taps. Footsteps creaking on the floorboards above. How dare they. I worked hard for this, spent my whole life building myself a refuge from the outside world and they want to invade it. I rip open the wooden drawer beneath the window, allowing the cutlery to make a clattering chorus sound. I pick up a large meat knife, the handle cold against my dry skin. I slam the door shut but it fails to make the crashing noise I had hoped for. I want them to know my anger, to know that I resent that world outside that shunned me and that it will not be let in here. They called me hideous and they called me strange, and they made it their business to make my life miserable. This is not a place for people, this is a place for monsters like me. I creep up the stairs, sliding the blade of the knife against the crooked banister. Flakes of wood are grated off and flicked to the floor. Edging closer, I feel the air around me chill. The hairs on the back of my neck, and my shaking arm, raise as a ripple of dread crawls over me. I reach the last step and pause, my gut slowly twisting as my anger spirals into fear. I hear footsteps again. I shuffle towards the bedroom door, holding my breath as if the air around me is toxic. As I near 137

the doorframe, I lean closer and line up my eye with the crack in the door. My eyes draw focus but my vision is not strong enough to make anything out. I try and lean in closer but I slip forward and my face hits the door with a thud, pushing it wide open. A gasp escapes me as I fall, as if my spirit is trying to escape my body. I scramble quickly away from the floor, struggling to my feet as I crawl away. Whoever was in there can see me now. They are coming. My heartbeat begins to blast so loudly that I feel my ears throbbing and my vision starts pulsing. In my thoughts I pray for something to save me. But nothing can help me, I'm alone. I reach for the banister at the top of the hands and try to pull myself up. I feel a breeze behind me and I am certain they are there. Feeling the handle of the knife still in my hand I swing myself round violently, wincing my eyes shut with fear. Every sensation is heightened to a stage where I don't fully understand what is happening. My arms jerking around me. My feet edging backwards. A crying sob from my mouth. A hot liquid spilling down my leg. My arms jerking around me, swinging the knife. I can't feel them hitting anything. I edge a step backwards. My body starts slipping. Surfaces hitting me from all angles. My body is thrashing around. The ceiling steadies above me, as pain convulses through me in waves of sharp and dull. My body 138

feels twisted and contorted. I try to raise my head, pain shooting through as I move, forcing me into a silent scream. My head is raised just enough to see the stairs in front on me, with nothing or no one at the top. The intruder must be hiding from me, or maybe they escaped. My head smacks back onto the ground as I feel my strength eroding, my consciousness dwindling. The hair on the back of my head feels dripping wet. I picture the dark crimson blood seeping into the floorboards beneath me. My eyes roll around the limited view I have above me, scanning for help as if the ceiling has answers. There is no help, I'm alone. Just how I always liked to be. A tear begins to gather at the side of my eye, as everything seems to become more real. This is really happening. This is really happening. This is really happening. The world begins to feel heavy around me, as I begin feeling weaker. I shut my eyelids tightly and feel the tear caress my cheek. Why wouldn't they leave me alone?

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War of Words By Elenor Paul

Oh how I hate the way you stand there, taunting and threatening me. Rows of printed soldiers all uniform, standing at attention ready to launch an attack. You’ve invaded my life. hunting me everywhere I go. Your daily torture pummels fear into my heart. You’ve turned my classroom into a battlefield. I’ve learned to hide, I use my combat fatigues well. But sometimes, just sometimes I step on a mine and BOOM! The gas streams into my stinging eyes. Being on parade is such an embarrassment. What use is a soldier who can’t fight? Where’s the bravery in admitting defeat? Surely he who doesn’t dare can still win - can’t he?

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Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a prisoner of war. Shackled and manacled stifled and emaciated. Serving penance until I can get out. Enough of the darkness, the futility, the battle cries. How I long to be released to be able to live in peace. Someone free me from this life. Someone teach me how to read.

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Criquer By Thomas Hull

Screams rattled down the underground tunnel, piercing my eardrum like gull’s cries. I thought of clapping a hand over that ear, like swatting a fly, slapping my own face, but I knew that the noise would only rattle my skull instead then, ringing around my teeth and face. I couldn’t stop the train noises; have never been able to. The world shook, and the train was coming, and everyone there was going to work or to see a friend or to some other pressing social engagement, and I was stood there with a blue woollen scarf and my tinted heart sunglasses and my patterned leggings, handbag clutched in one fist, and nobody at that platform knew that I was there to die. At least – that’s not quite accurate – at least to think about dying. I am told a lot of people spend time contemplating oblivion. A lot of artists; Poe, van Gogh, all that crowd. When I say that I think about dying, however, I mean that I go to places and think about ways that I could die there, and then either I die or I don’t. So far it seems to be the latter.

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I am so afraid of train tunnels because I am so fascinated by them. That day was like many, where I stepped forward and peered around to look into the darkness, waiting for those lights to appear. Before the train comes, I think that the tunnel is something different, leads somewhere different. If I were to step down onto the tracks and just start walking before anyone could stop me, I would slip under that shadow and disappear into one of the holes of the earth, and when I came out on the other side who knows how I would have changed. I don’t want to do this, understand. I never want to do this. I just feel as though it is inevitable – the same with manholes and sewage pipes – that one day I will go in there. “Are you all right, love?” asked somebody in a fluorescent jacket. I blinked at him. I had been staring. Staring and staring at the darkness. “Yeah,” I gave a blithe chuckle. “Lost in thought. I’m fine. Thank you.” At once I was aware my tunnel dream would never come true. Instead, either somebody would pull me up, or a train would crush me. And immediately I tucked the idea away like I usually managed to. So the train came, screaming and screaming, and I didn’t cover my ears, and when the doors opened I stepped onto it like 146

everybody else, and I stood quietly and looked at my phone until I could get off. I was texting my friend. At victoria lol - this is taking so long sorry!! Order without me đ&#x;&#x2122;&#x2021; xx. I wrote it while thinking about train tunnels, and disappearing. * At dinner I was normal. I was my friendsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; friend, that me, who always makes the most perverted jokes and is a good listener, strongly opinionated, lover of mojitos, party girl. I never thought or said anything strange or weird in those three hours. How could I? Not with other people. Never with other people. Charlotte and I walked part of the way home together. Rain was battering us, and traffic screeching by, making it hard to hear. Instead of talking, we were mostly occupied with a strange dance of constantly turning our umbrellas at sudden angles, deflecting puddle water splashed by cars. I had music in my ears, but I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really listening. Something else was singing underneath, something I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really focus on. I took an earbud out. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Crickets in October,â&#x20AC;? I said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s weird. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d think theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be hiding.â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x153;Crickets?â&#x20AC;? said Charlotte. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I thought I heard chirping.â&#x20AC;? 147

She shrugged. “I couldn’t. Probably something else.” Then we were at the turning to the university, and she pulled me into a hug abruptly – “Get home safe! See you Monday!” – and turned to leave, our umbrellas letting go of each other. I couldn’t hear the crickets any more with my earphones out. Everything became more intense suddenly then – rain bouncing off my umbrella with a thud thud, the squelching of my trainers, the roar of traffic – but the crickets were gone. I couldn’t make them out. I put the earphones back in. The veil of music reformed over my awareness, and when I listened carefully, there they were. The little chirps, the squeaks from the grass. I walked rapidly, but they seemed to be following me. Earphones out. Crickets gone. Softly, softly. I had to be careful. They wouldn’t come out if I scared them. I wanted to see one – to see a little green or brown head in the damp October grass; know that they were real. But I couldn’t, and it made me a little afraid. There was nobody behind me and I dared to do it – to stop, stoop, and look at the long grass, peer at each flower, searching for them. It was exciting 148

and frightening and daring to do because there was absolutely no rational explanation for my behaviour. I even reached out my fingers and pulled back some of the leaves, but I couldn’t find the crickets. So I walked back home. Okay, now, I always say to myself. There will be a point where you will do something and the dam will break and you can say to yourself: ‘now I am truly crazy. Now I am a crazy person’. There will be no more hiding it. And they will lock you up somewhere you can’t hurt yourself and all your friends won’t know what to say, but you’ll sort of feel better that they know. But that moment never comes. The further down the tunnel I go, the quieter I stay about it. I am protecting myself from the world’s understanding. I am hiding in the grass, very quietly, under a leaf, sheltering from the rain, rubbing my legs together to make my strange song, hoping nobody can hear me.

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Sun Waltz By Simi Abe

My grandmother had white eyes that never feared staring at the sun for too long; eyes that knew how to be more than veins and irises, pupils and lenses. They were magnifying glasses that called for the light to ignite her blood vessels - turned them to the colour of sunset or sunrise, whichever paints the sky a more daring colour. She spoke the Sun's language, a tongue that existed before there were men who walked the earth and were able to utter a word. She stretched her arms, absorbed cosmic fire into her bones that turned her marrow slick like golden syrup. That's how she summoned the morning star from the sky and into her embrace. Her skin, which had been loved and tested by the African heat, withstood the warmth from the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s core as she held it to her chest. Her chest, two staves made of bones and calcium, played songs akin to jazz and blues and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s this music they waltzed to in her tiny apartment. When she passed away, when she became a shadow; a product of the sun's light, the morning star returned to the sky where it would forever waltzed along the horizon looking for her.

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The Council of H&H By Jojo Chia

I had barely got into my seat when someone knocked on my door. I grumbled, threw my suitcase on the floor, and then adjusted myself comfortably on my chair. Working days started too early here at H&H, and I wasn’t used to it yet. I coughed a few times before inviting whomever it was in. A nervous-looking man walked in, his eyes darted around my office. I turned my computer on and nodded to the chair across my desk. He sat down, still looking around the room, which was painted black, the representative colour of my department, and also my favourite colour. The deep shade made the mornings and daylight more bearable. “Name?” I asked, opening up the client database on the computer. “E-Ernie Hardman.” “Where did it happen?” “A plane… on a plane. I-I had a heart attack. I think.” “How long ago?” 153

“I don’t know… just? I appeared here and the receptionist at the front said to see Dia Bloren… and that’s the name on the door.” Sudden death: Ernie Hardman, 32, got married two years ago to a lovely lady. They already have two young children. I looked under the LIFE OFFENCES tab. Stole a lollipop when he was a child, arrested for DUI when he was a teen, smoked marijuana in his room, and, of course, the usual offence listed in almost everyone’s tab. I never understood humans. What was the thrill of doing that in your parents’ bedroom? I leaned back against my chair and turned to face the fidgety man. I tore a red sheet off the sizable paper pad on my desk and wrote his name, then handed it to him. “You’re going to Hell. Have fun. It’s not all that bad, quite fun really.” “W-what? H-hell? It can’t be. I’m a good person. I… I can’t be dead!” “Yes, Hell, and yes, you are.” Denial. Every day we had at least twenty. I nudged the pen on my desk toward him. “Sign here, go down the hall and take the first left.” And of course what occurred in the next few minutes was what happened quite often. He pleaded for his life back, told me that it wasn’t fair (classic), said that he had so much ahead of 154

him. Sobbing turned into full-blown tears and frankly I was getting sick of it. “Please… please,” he cried. “I just want more time with my family… my wife, my children… I’ll give anything I have…” I could tell he wasn’t going to go anywhere. I clicked my tongue in annoyance and dug into my drawer full of time slips. I took one and wrote in his necessary details then shoved it in front of him. That piece of paper would give him back his life with one condition: whatever remained of his life will be folded in half. He would go straight to wherever he belongs after that. And this Ernie Hardman would go directly to hell. It is the condition of the ‘Time Slip’. Whichever department issued the slip got the soul of the person, and this one had the stamp of my department, the Hell Gateway. I wasn’t authorized to do this, but I wanted him out of my office as soon as possible. And it couldn’t hurt, it’s just one human after all… Ernie read the slip and signed it hastily, thanking me profusely and made to shake my hand with his tear-stained palm. I ignored it and pointed him to Reception and back to where he came from.

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The moment Ernie went out someone caught the door before it closed. “You were not supposed to do that.” Uh oh. Michal Seraff stood in my doorframe, glowering at me. I was immediately drawn to the iron-on patch on his neatly pressed white shirt; it was a clock held up by a trident and a pair of wings, with ‘H&H’ written in the middle with cursive font: the logo of the company. “Ugh, would you take that ridiculous thing off?” I rolled my eyes. He ignored me and made to step inside, but seemed to think better of it and retracted his foot. Michal was an intern like me, but he worked in the other department. His office was right across the hall from mine and he was a pansy. But then again, everyone in his department was. They all thought that because they were so good, so kind and so heavenly that they had the right to nitpick on every single thing we did. “He was my client.” I tutted and shook my finger, making a face of mock-disapproval. “Remember what we were told? We are one company, there is no yours or mine.” “You know he was.” 156

“He was not. He had a gazillion offences.” “Did you even look at the file? He was on the flight back from Serbia with UNICEF when he had the heart attack.” “So?” “So he was supposed to be my client. He built a school for go-- for goodness’ sake.” “It was a sudden death. He got sent to me. Get over it.” “And you were supposed to check his file properly to see if he got sent to the wrong person and he was, and now look what you’ve done! You’ve bent his life span and sent him permanently to Hell.” “So?” I continued to abstain eye contact, seemingly unperturbed but in actual fact entirely bemused by Michal’s outburst. The ‘angels’ from the other department hardly ever got riled so this was pure entertainment for me. Sure, I should have checked the files thoroughly, and sure, I may have been a little harsh on Ernie whats-his-name, but we’re just interns. It doesn’t matter that much. Without another word he stormed away from the door toward the end of the corridor and I 157

groaned. He was going to get Elder Heures, and the both of us in trouble. * Elder Heures sat at the end of the large table, a heavy look of disapproval on his face. He was the Time Keeper of H&H, approving time slips and making sure everything ran smoothly. He was also our manager and the person we report to whenever we have our little situations, which happened quite often. “You two. Again. What is the problem now?” Michal and I sat opposite one another between the Elder, our body language clear that we had no desire to be in the same room. The council room, where we are having this ‘meeting’, was meant for bigger groups to occupy. The mahogany walls were cleaned daily and there was an air of importance in the room. Being seated there made me feel small, and I didn’t like that at all. Usually the main council of H&H has their major discussions in this room. The interns were never allowed inside, so this felt foreign to me. “She gave a client his whole life back and in exchange he is to be sent straight to Hell when he dies. And she messed up his time span.” “He just wanted some extra time for his family, I didn’t see the harm.” 158

“Didn’t see the harm?!” Michal raised his hands up in the air, rather dramatically, in my opinion. “You broke the company policy! You were supposed to let me review him before issuing anything!” “There was no point, he had too many offences.” “He was building schools in Serbia!” “That doesn’t mean he’s going to Heaven.” “Yeah but there is a good chance of that isn’t it? You just wanted to steal our client!” “Steal?” I scoffed. “Do you know how many humans are in hell already?” “Which is why you shouldn’t have sent another there. All you she-devils are the same.” My chair toppled over as I jumped up, fully prepared to give o-heavenly-boy a punch in the face. He stayed seated, arms folded and lips pursed. “Enough!” Elder Heures slammed the table. “Ms Bloren, sit down. I have to remind the both of you that we are of the same company. There is no client poaching, they are all our clients. We work in harmony to assure that the humans have a fair afterlife, the one they deserve. Without Heaven, there is no Hell and vice versa. There comes a time—“ 159

Ha, time. I snorted back a giggle then looked at Michal. He ignored me, lapping up the Elder’s every word with his hand on the dumb iron-on logo. This is why we could never become friends. He had no sense of humour. Elder Heures glared at me before continuing. “—when you two will have to work hand in hand together. Harmony. Ms Bloren, I won’t tolerate any more unapproved time slips. I’ll be letting reception know so make sure you check the files properly and consult Mr Seraff if needed. Understood?” “But—“ “No buts. Mr Seraff, you will not come to me again with such a minor matter. Even as interns you should handle these situations yourself with fairness and dignity. I expect you to approach Ms Bloren and rectify whatever the problem is between yourselves, understood?” “But Eld—“ “No buts. As a consequence, this will be recorded on both your report cards.” I looked at the Elder in dismay, and so did Michal. “Adjourned. Go back to work.” * I slammed my office door right before Michal entered his, feeling a sense of satisfaction that I 160

did that before him. No remorse or shame from me, I could do whatever I liked. It was his entire fault we had red marks on our report cards in the first place. I heard him pause outside his door, then he walked in. A loud bang of his door surprised me before I reached my desk. I let out a small smirk. Things were going to get more interesting around here because it looks like there might just be a thorn among the pansies. I was just getting comfortable in my chair when a knock sounded on my door again. You couldn’t ever catch a break. “Come in.” In walked a familiar man, but in that moment he looked defeated. Ernie Hardman must have noticed my confusion because he sighed and collapsed on my chair. “Better make this quick, there is a long line behind me.” “Wha-?” “The plane crashed.” “Oh for go-“

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MOKSHA By Dev Aditya

Life has let go of me There is nothing more to lose. Is this Moksha? There was once a time when I roamed free, Across the streets and taverns of tranquillity. I sang by day and danced by night, Thinking there was nothing that could stop my might. My friends said Hai! But my mama said Nai! Be careful, she said, of what you live with glee. Life is full of ups and downs And the fallen arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the ones who are applauded. I scorned her speech and ignored her words And danced in the songs of my revellers awe, I soaked in all their jealous claps Until my reverence was there no more. It was that day when I had failed And all who said Hai! Now said Nai! And by now I had nothing else to lose Not even my mamaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s perturbed glare. For it was that she passed away 163

Amidst my celebrations of fame I listened not when she was there, I listened not when she left. But now I sit and stare in disdain The absurdities of my younger self, What is the point of binging on rum, When all that cheer is for your contempt. It is now that I realise that my wins Were really nothing more but tempting ploys, That pushed me beyond my sense of self. That push me beyond my own gratitude. I was a winner not only in craft But in speech and above all in life, But those wins never made me strong, Strong enough to survive. But it is now that I see truth As I have nothing to hold me back, Nothing even for me to lose That is when I see my present strength! Now I know the real Nai sayers And I know the bitterness of defeat, But all I have left is me and myself And all the world to conquer without anything to lose. Life has let go of me There is nothing more to lose but only my new found strength. Is this Moksha? 164

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Moving Forward or Travelling Back? By Dilinna Bernadette Aniebonam

January 18th 2010 [10:00 am] The therapist stared at Ariah from the brown leather armchair in the corner of the room, her emerald green eyes engaged in such strong focus like an animal watching its prey. Ariah had been told Mrs Mulderick, was the nicest one at Dawley, that she made you feel comfortable and tranquil. Now she stared back at the elderly woman. Ariah constantly held a blank expression, but within, she was as soft and damaged as every name the woman spent hours writing about in her navy blue bonded notebook. In their first session a month ago, Ariah had asked the woman why she decided on psychology, confident it was to discover what thoughts â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;depressedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; people had cruising around in their unusual minds. Why else would anyone spend hours listening to people like her, subjecting themselves to so much negativity? Mrs Mulderick simply smiled weakly and glanced down at the blank page in front of her. Before both women realised what was happening, she was scribbling, fast paced, words appearing in cursive writing as her hands moved horizontally across the page. Ariah had heard someone 167

speaking, discovering the woman had manipulated her and the only sound that filled the air-conditioned space between them was hers. In that session, she had wondered how the woman had broken down her barriers. More like torn them down in a brutal surge that left her feeling weak and vulnerable. She was supposed to be resilient. Now 4 weeks later, she was still here gawking at the same face every bloody Monday. Mrs Mulderick’s body remained stiff. The only movement that came from her physique were her wrinkled hands against the book and the occasional meeting of her veined eyelids. Ariah reckoned she enjoyed studying her thinking, ‘what a mess’. The woman would spend the time reliving all of Ariah’s life experiences, stopping and analysing the events that could have resulted in long term depression. Falling off her bike when she was 7, her grandparents’ messy divorce, the moving from house to house, school to school, Savannah leaving. Ariah on the other hand, spent their hour sessions talking about endless crap and observing the mood lamp on the desk behind her as it changed colour. If you’d asked her the sessions were always an hour too long. Ariah closed the office door behind her, this time remembering to check out with the receptionist. She pushed her round framed glasses further up her nose and wrapped herself in her jacket and 168

scarf, sticking her hands into her pockets, grateful to feel the warmth in them. Braving the cold, she opened the main door and left the secluded building on the edge of town. People didn’t come down to this area much. The red bricked buildings were attached to each other and stretched off far down the street in a never ending line with the occasional murky alley way. Each front door a different design for a different story. A thin layer of frost from the night had sprinkled on rooftops and the roads. The steam from pipes and chimneys vanishing into the white sky as they filtered out. This street really wasn’t far off from where all the shops, restaurant and bars were, but the building she emerged from in particular looked so desolate and despondent. The weathered archway and bleak windows reflected the misery enclosed behind the enormous wooden doors. Now, Ariah didn’t mind the sessions, but she didn’t need someone to tell her she was depressed. She didn’t want to talk about what was disturbing her because she had no idea what it was. She accepted the nightmares and constant tiredness as her body’s coping mechanism for stress. The only reason she went to the sessions was to convince her parents she was all right. The less concerned they were about her, the more tolerable she would be. Strolling down the quiet street, Ariah took advantage of the valuable 169

prospect of loneliness. After she graduated from Langham, she’d moved back in with her parents, something she really didn’t intend on doing but knew she had no choice. Her mother and father were distant now. They still loved each other no doubt, but stress and having two adult daughters forced them to put everything else before each other, resulting in constant bickering and weeks of silent treatments. With all the fees their youngest had to pay and leaving her job as a waitress back in the Midlands, they knew Ariah couldn’t afford paying rent even if she wanted to. Currently her independence was a luxury that would have to wait a little while longer. They could immediately sense the disdain in her moving back in with them. For years Ariah had been unhappy and as the months went by, she became quiet and more anxious, which became increasingly difficult to hide. Even more frustrating was the fact that Savannah had gotten away. Ariah would have said escaped, but that would be too harsh on her parents. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be around them, she just preferred being alone more. Savannah chose to leave. She managed to get at a fancy job in a firm in Pennsylvania and a rich doctor boyfriend. Savannah loved him, but the thoughts Ariah had of her big sister living happily would always be overshadowed by the image she had of her packing her bags and throwing them, so quickly, 170

so excitedly into her Honda and driving far away. She watched on as the car shrunk moving off in the distance. The trees along the road arching behind it like a sad ending from a film. The most important element of her childhood, the most comfortable aspect she had grown to know, disappeared in front of her. Ariah remembered the last thing she said to her sister after telling her she loved her. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do this, this is really stupidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. The noise in the city was loud, but not loud enough to overpower her thoughts. After a while, you became immune to the constant sounds though. All of them different but just as significant contributing to the atmosphere and constantly reminding her of where she was. Any other time Ariah would have said she hated the city and would have preferred to be in the Midlands. Then again, the busy streets and crowded shops and stations had a way of comforting her sometimes. Not to mention, it generously gifted her with the power of invisibility. Eventually the sounds around you became beneficial in knowing where you were and if there was danger around. One thing was undisputable, you were never bored. Right now, the loudest sound filling Ariah ears and echoing of her body was construction. Heavy drilling which grew louder draining out frequent car horns as she turned the corner onto Westley 171

Avenue. She strode up the stairs of Assisi Court building, opening the door into the hallway that separated the madness outside from the sound of keyboards and pens violently striking pieces of paper. “Morning dear. Mr Leary left a file for you, I put it on your desk…!” Ariah mouthed the words to the receptionist’s voice. She watched the plump grandmotherly woman glance up from the screen of her computer and seeing the imitation, shot her a dazed look, her cheeks turning a ruddy colour. “I’m that predictable huh?” Her expression changed. “That’s what I get for working in this god forsaken place for 10 years, I haven’t had a fricking day off—“. “Since 1983? Good Morning Marie.” Ariah smiled keeping her pace as she entered the main room still in earshot of the giggles behind her. The open plan of offices were filled with reporters and editors, some of them speaking on phones, most of them looking drained but hungry for information. She had just got to her office and sat down when she noticed the folder on the desk, it was marked ‘COLD’. Ariah sighed loudly rolling her eyes and swirling full circle in her chair, accepting the long day it was going to be. If a feature or story had been marked cold, it almost certainly meant it was a dead end. Interest in the story was irrelevant, there was probably 172

something holding it back, most likely no cooperation with the press. At The Tide, they were used to cases like these, but it still made you shake your head in despair when you saw one. Ariah would much rather have been given a story about a beloved missing cat who’d found its way back to its concerned owner. Truth was, 70 percent of these ended in disaster and probably led you to either lose your mind or your job. At this point in her life, both of those things were necessary to Ariah. Today however, was not the day. She stood up preparing herself. She was going to march into Leary’s office and demand that she was not doing this case. Yet as she approached his door, Ariah was suddenly reminded that she had no idea what to say and that this man, was actually her boss. “Ariah, don’t just dawdle at the door pet, come in.” Crap, Ariah thought. The glass doors squealed slightly as she pushed them away from her. She wondered how long she had been standing there and gathering courage wedged herself by a bookshelf in the corner of the small crowded room. Leary pulled his glasses off his forehead and smirked. “I’m guessing by the look on your face you’ve seen the file on your desk.” “Yeah I did, Marie is a gem, isn’t she?” The bite in her tone was blunt and unmissable. Leary was quite a chubby man. Being short and stout, didn’t 173

benefit him, if anything it made his appearance resemble that of a cartoon character who belonged on a child’s television show. Even as they spoke and Ariah looked at the man in front of her, it was difficult to take him seriously. The stress lines on his forehead wiggled with the movements of his mouth, the start of his trousers always lost underneath his overflowing stomach. His tie was a bright shade of green and the silver stubble around his mouth rough and uneven highlighting the dark circles around his eyes. Despite his size, he was as good a man as anyone she had ever met, which wasn’t many. He cared about his employees and the name of journalism. He would never send any of his reporters out to do anything considered dangerous, or stupid. The word boring however, did not exist in his dictionary. To him anything and everything could be spiced up and made intriguing, ‘you’d just have to find the angle’. Leary laughed sensing the uneasiness in Ariah voice, he stretched his arms above his head revealing two sweat patches. “What can I do to help?” “I’d like for you to take the file and change it, please?” Ariah intended on sound adamant and confident, but when the words came out, she heard herself sound like a child asking for more food at the dinner table. 174

“Why is that?” “Leary, I’ve been working here for almost a year and I know that it’s an honour for a new graduate to be working the lead in cases, but I have just been noticing that the only stories you have me find and write are…old? Not that old is bad, it’s just that I’d rather write err...new stories?” She was glad to be leaning against the solid frame glancing all around the room at everything but Leary’s face. She caught sight of the red bus sculpture all of them had pitched in for his birthday present. Leary overextended back on his chair, his feet barely touching the floor. “Ariah, are you ever curious as to why I give you these cases?” “Because you hate me?” Ariah replied instantaneously fighting the urge to smile, it was worth a shot. “Close, but no. It’s because I know you and your team can handle it. Tell me, have you even read the file?” Leary looked at her, his head tilted to the side, hands crossed in front of him. The girl looked so anxious, he feared her legs may give way. Her stripped shirt was tucked neatly into her maroon trousers, her chocolate coloured hair slicked back barely fitting in a ponytail. Pearl 175

studded earrings shun from both sides of her head and she wore barely any make up. Out of all of the reporters, Leary liked her the most. She was quiet, but precarious in her work, determined and most importantly reliable. He frequently had the urge to protect her wary of her emotions and constant self-doubt. Those features didn’t get you far as a reporter. Ariah stood there desperate to lie but she already knew he would see right through it. “No I haven’t”. “Right, well then why don’t you have a read of it before you decide eh? I won’t force you to do it…” he paused. “But I trust you’ll do the right thing”. He murmured slyly. As Ariah strode out of his office, away from his condescending eyes returning to her desk, she attempted believing him. Her team was good, that he was accurate about. Sam was one of the best reporters she had met, the girl could get information out of anyone. And far too often she’d spend late nights watching Marlon and Cole work, thinking what geniuses they were with cameras and editing software. There was competition in other teams for recognition. They fought over contacts and would sneak into premiers just to one up on each other. Sam, Marlon and Cole decided they wanted Ariah to call the shots. Despite the fact 176

she started as a trainee shadowing them, and they had worked at The Tide for more than 2 years previously. They took a gamble with her, but she reassured them that she needed them and wasn’t prepared to do anything alone. Yes her team was skilled, nonetheless, there was only so far a distance they could be pushed. Ariah ripped off the pink post it taped to the file and turned it over. One of Leary’s friends in Manhattan had sent the details over as reparation for the many links and contacts he had given him. She slid the opening page out taking a deep breath and recited the first line quietly to herself. “The son of ex Irish drug trafficker Marlon Seymour, was spotted in Kingston after turning in his badge and leaving New York…” Ariah skimmed the rest of the first paragraph on the Irish father. After dozens of dead end stories, this one had her name and front page of The Tide written all over it. Tilting back she pulled out the second sheet with a photograph. Her body suddenly tensed, unable to believe the two words printed and picture glaring at her. Nathan Matthews. For the first time, her mind actually went blank.

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Lovesick By Vivien Brown I think Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m in love with the nurse in dark blue, with her glasses, her stockings and sensible shoes From my own little cubicle in the end bay, and with not much to do, I could watch her all day Consoling, cajoling, controlling the ward, so no patient gets hungry or angry or bored, she swishes the curtains and smoothes out the sheets, always charming, alarming, determined, discreet. Infections, injections and incinerations, pus-covered plasters and last weekâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s carnations. Dealing and healing, doing what she does best, while bouncing an upside-down watch from her chest. Dishing and dosing out dinners and pills, marking up specimens, mopping up spills. She passes the bedpans and empties the wee, then pinches a chocolate to have with her tea. Taking sprains and strains and all manner of pains in her stride, her pride in her calling remains. Yes, my thoughts may be private, but I have to confess that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m so glad I opted to go NHS. 179

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3 by Lia Harlin

I’m not scared because it’s late but because the white, wandering eyes of passing headlights seem to hold their stare for longer as they creep past. I breathe in and out for counts of eight while deciding whether to blast the music in my earphones so I won’t hear the unwanted, or to lower it to pinpoint the proximity of nearby footsteps. I click out the tension from my thumbs and knuckles, then set the volume to medium. The glow of my phone in my fingers acts as a stress ball. I consider calling someone but it’s only a short walk from here. Mum will be in bed now, can’t wake her. And I can’t call him anymore. Not that I want to. For a short while I exaggeratedly mime the lyrics and set my shoulders dancing, transforming my inwards hunch to a music-video-style strut. For a short while I lose the real world in the puddles of the patterned pavement. My hands get exploring each rain coated railing, strumming little tunes of their own, as my mouth starts to sing to the empty road. All the while my eyes search beyond the ozone for the great pearl in the sky, shining against her own glossy dark pavement. I admire

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how the stars shine with her, unlike the stars in this world who resort to stealing their light. My body jolts back into defence mode when two boys drift by on bikes. I pretend to be scrolling, texting, anything, until they are far off shadows. And when I see a man ahead I stuff the phone back into my outer pocket and smother it into the fabric until all is clear again. The worst awaits at the next bus stop where three hooded “lads” are waiting. One of them is showing off his motorbike on the pavement, while the other two are shuffling around suspiciously with their hands in their pockets. There’s no pavement on the other side of the street to cross to. My heart squirms and kicks against my breast as I’m forced to walk through them. They’re penetrating me with their eyes. It’s like being fresh meat in a prison or walking into a lion enclosure. Look straight. Don’t see them, I think. But that won’t help. I pin my coat closer tighter around my front. God, I hope they don’t say anything. I’ve been in a good mood. A fucking great mood. Don’t ruin it. Don’t be a stereotype. Please. Surprise me. Holding my breath I measure the steps it takes to cross them. One. Two. Three. Whistle. “Oi, oi, look at that. ‘Ere darling, nice ass.” The others fall in line like a chain of dominos. You have one of three cards to play. You could smile and take your ‘compliment’ like a gracious, 182

grateful, little lady you are, but feeling flattered and threatened don’t come hand in hand for me. Then I suppose you could keep your mouth shut, head down and walk on like society says and they’ll leave you alone. Or they might follow you anyway. Even if you are safe of course, you’ll have to live with those comments lingering on you for the rest of the day, week, or possibly even your life if you’ve got a shitty self-esteem. It’s like a rank taste in your mouth or the stink of sex that sticks to drunken disordered bed sheets, but it’s not sex, it’s not consensual. No, it’s worse than a smell. It’s an idea that hangs over your head like a swinging sword. That holds you back like a dog, no, a bitch, tied to a lamppost. It’s the grotesque reek of oppression. Oppression doesn’t take a bow and curtain close if nobody is there to clap. If you bend over and take it, unchallenged, ever silent, it won’t ever stop. Option two, you do what this hypocritical society also teaches you: to stand up for yourself. They don’t tolerate bullying in schools and at work it’s considered sexual harassment, so why does being in a public environment make this behaviour suddenly acceptable? If you actually want to end the almighty patriarchy you have to be either brave or stupid enough to fight back. I still don’t know the difference. Being the stubborn, unfortunately proud individual I am, I swear back at them. Sometimes I regret it. 183

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Anxiety Lower V Higher Self By Nicole ‘Zion’ Thomas I don’t want to use the term ‘suffering’, so I will replace it with ‘experiencing’ Anxiety. Experiencing Anxiety. I question myself who am I? What is this emotion trying to teach me? I want to become one with these feelings of Anxiety.  I want to not just understand, but innerstand the bigger lesson! Why am I not getting it? When will I get what I am being taught?  Will I ever get it?   Embarrassed to tell people that I go through this! Embarrassed, so I cover my face! So embarrassed that I feel as though I act out of place. Confidence where have you gone?  Heart beating fast, what am I doing wrong?  Embarrassed again!   Don’t want to talk about it coz you won’t get it. Don’t know what to say, coz I don’t get it! Why is this so hard to innerstand.  Trapped in my mind.  I don’t want to be trapped anymore! Over processing, my software has become so self absorbed.  Over thinking. And don’t tell me to stop, its not that I don’t want to but it’s easier said than done. Do you care?  Why am I feeling 185

this way?  Am I going mad! Shallow breathing.  Don’t want to breathe deep coz people will hear me! Don’t want to breathe coz they’ll stare at me.  Sleepless nights.  I Sleep less.  Insomnia strikes!  The thoughts come out at Night! Freaky right! Scared!  Afraid that you won’t love me once you find out this truth. Afraid that you will leave me. But we are in this together aren’t we? *Higher self*.  Self esteem won’t you visit me? Fear is really trying to get the best of me.  Don’t judge what you don’t understand.  I look completely fine,  but I panic inside.  I am human.  I am a sweetheart  really. Compassion! That’s all I want. Compassion. Don’t feel sorry for me! I won’t feel sorry for me. Or you,  because sorry doesn’t heal.  To innerstand and become free Is all that I want to feel.  Confidence why did you leave me?   When did you leave me? Will you ever come back to me? Numb!  I’m not mad,  I’m just human!  Judge if you like,  I really don’t care.  I do care about the way I feel though. Can anybody hear me? Is anybody there? In this present moment I question, Who Am I? Anxiety x 186

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Fleeting Encounter By Angela Narayn

Her voice, too high, rose into the space. The words had formed precariously, “good money, good money,” the sounds tripping off her tongue then lifted and circled above us. A girl with a sparing use of English had looked imploringly at the shop assistant. He had inspected the twenty pound note, his lips ajar, his arms outstretched as if was going to peg it to an invisible line. He said he would get the manager, but she did not understand and she threw her head back, her slender neck exposed, reaching for the note in his hand. He told her to wait but she snatched her money and ran straight into a man in the doorway. There was an awkward entanglement, a grotesque dance, their arms and heads caught in a series of asymmetric positions. “Sorry”, she had said and like a magician’s assistant, she was gone. I wondered why she had panicked. She had tried to slip away unnoticed but instead all eyes had been on her. I had noticed her slender fingers, deep brown eyes, fearful and mistrusting, and the large hooped earrings catching the light. She had worn a scruffy track suit, old plimsolls and her hair was brushed carefully into a pony tail, not a hair displaced. 189

There was a tutter of murmurings from the back; one voice mumbled “bloody migrants.” I noted the use of the word migrant, I felt sure he did not know her or her situation, but the word had come easily, full of stigma and condemnation. My skin prickled with indignation and more so because I did not challenge him or the others sniggering. I had remained quiet and in that I had felt complicit in their judgement. Not everyone, but mostly there seemed a general feeling of consensus. I walked home not sure why I had felt such a mix of emotions. I didn’t know her, not even her name but I had felt her vulnerability in a place strange to her with limited use of the language, falling under the easy finger of suspicion, and attracting the worst kind of attention. She was an outsider and I thought about how that might feel but it was almost impossible. I had grown up in this area, my mother almost a fixture in the local library, and a school governor, Dad was a swimming coach at the local pool and chaired the resident’s association and my older brother had his own plumbing business and was well known. We were connected; we had roots in the community. Pick me up and deposit me somewhere else far from here in a different cultural terrain, surround me with hostility or even just unfriendliness and I felt sure I would

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wither instantly in the shallow soil of displacement. In my busy schedule of university studies, exam revision had been intense and it was with great commitment that my friends and I partied for a solid week every night on their completion. I remember a purple bruised January sky, it was early morning, and I was sitting in the back of a mini cab, a bit drunk but mostly sober trying to sort out the nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s events. Why my boyfriend and I had quarrelled? How had I nearly landed up with his best friend? How I managed to meet up with my friends and get home? That was a mystery. That was when I saw her frail shape emerge from a side street through the shadows. It was definitely her, I recognised the shape of her body, outline of her features, she was coming out of a house, with two guys, one on each side. Their shoulders hunched against the cold, in black leather jackets, lightly built but wiry, one with collar up, the other with hands dug deep in his pockets. The two men were talking, their faces upturned as they looked across at each other. In contrast she looked small and fragile between them, with her head down. I noticed the skimpy top and mini skirt exposing a flash of slim thighs, and the strappy shoes that slid on the frozen pavement. One of the men stopped suddenly as if he had forgotten or lost something, and then he pulled her quite hard from behind and she came to an abrupt stop, 191

motionless like a doll. He said something, his body pressing up against her, his mouth brushing hers, and then he had laughed and they all moved on. I saw his face, for a moment, in a slice of streetlight, his lips twisted in laughter and I imagined it hollow and thin swimming through the air. I was transfixed as our car went passed, scrutinising the figures on the deserted street, noting the street name. It broke my previous chain of thoughts like a line of birds scattered in a storm. I wondered fleetingly where they were going and who the men were. They did not seem like family or friends but why else would she be with them? Stiff fingered I fumbled in the freezing cold for my key, trying not to disturb anyone. Too late, the hall light was on and it reflected through the glazed door, pooling in pale waves across the icy step. The first time we spoke she was in the Tube station enquiring about a ticket. The man had been abrupt, offhand as the line of her body curved towards him, her shoulders uneven. On turning she a carried a form in her hand. As soon as she could, she crushed it and threw it into the nearest bin. Without thinking I followed her, not knowing what I would do next. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hello,â&#x20AC;? I said twice and finally touched her lightly on the shoulder. I felt her body jerk in an instant recoil.

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“You threw it away.” Immediately I wished I hadn’t said that. Her eyes narrowed as if trying to ascertain the threat I posed. “I saw you the other night with two men. She did not reply. “Are you in any trouble?” “No,” she said, “I am fine. Leave me alone.” I asked her name, “my name, why you want my name?” I smiled, “I’m Kate” I felt sure she would not reply but then suddenly she uttered ‘Sophia’ softly as if she had imparted something precious. “Where are you from, Sophia?” She paused but the sound of her name seemed to embolden her. “Croatia.” Up close I noticed the pale translucent skin and the dark ringed eyes. “I can talk no more,” she said shaking her head. She looked around furtively. “Please” and quickly she proceeded towards the lights, crossed and walked under the bridge. The pigeons were flocked in uneven lines and they had tagged the walls with a mosaic of excrement. I could have followed but I decided against it. She was 193

obviously afraid. Questions swirled in my head as a train shrieked overhead and the sound amplified trapped between metal and concrete. The pavement spun out before me streaked in winter sunlight. The jarring sound of a car honking suddenly assailed my ears. James, my brother, beckoned me over. Inside the car music was blaring. “You still listening to them,” I said grinning. There was a pungent smell inside the car. It smelled like weed. I cracked opened the window and decided not to comment. Suddenly he lowered the sound and asked me who the girl was I had just been speaking to. I remember being a little surprised. I didn’t realise he had seen the fleeting encounter. “Look Kate, thing is ....she is not the sort of girl you want to go round with.” “What do you mean?” I turned towards him, the familiar birth mark on his neck rising from his collar, the light in his speckled eyes and the drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel. “I feel sorry for some of those girls but you can’t get involved.” “What are you trying to say?”

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“I have seen her several times hanging about late, walking up and down, looking for business.” “Are you serious?” “Look there’s no mistake, she’s mixed up in something.” “But........” “But nothing, just keep away from her,” he muttered uncompromisingly. I was annoyed by the way he spoke to me, the edge in his voice, the way he silenced me. I bit my lip and watched the row of houses, the sheen of the sloping roofs and the v formation of birds, dark against a watery sky. The next time I saw her she was in the newsagents and I was going to slip out without stopping but she almost leapt towards me knocking some packets down from the shelf. Instinctively I bent down to help her. As her face swung before me I noticed immediately the bruising on her left cheek, her gaunt face and her complexion sallow in the light. She thrust a ball of paper into my hand and went over to the counter. I didn’t look back and waited until I was far away, undisturbed before I opened it. The words leapt off the torn scrap of paper. I read it over and over. I carried it round all day. It had sent me spiralling into a sort of mental 195

malaise. Voices came and went, and a myriad of situations unfolded but it was if I was adrift, a bird floating wind tossed between sky, roof and tree. Had James been right the other day; it would explain a lot. Later that day I picked up my mobile phone and tapped in women’s refuge, Hillingdon. Numbers flashed up. My brother’s warning echoed inside me. In the privacy of my bedroom, looking past the clutter and shape of familiar objects, my eyes rested on the brooding darkness outside. It had been a direct appeal for help, I could not ignore it. I found the link and pressed the number. Can I help you? “Yes,” I said softly. “I need to speak to someone.” The next day I met Clare in a rather shabby office, she beckoned me to a chair, she was on the phone, and she mouthed that she would not be long. She played with a strand of her fair hair, twined it round a finger, as she leant into the receiver, enquiring about available beds for two nights for a mother and child. “Yes of course it is an emergency, she has sustained serious injuries. We are so under resourced,” she whispered to me, her voice laced with irritation. “I believe you have a concern about a young woman living in the area.” I nodded aware I had so little information to give her. After she had 196

finished noting the details she leant back in her chair and fixed her gaze on me. I am so pleased you took the trouble to come in. If only more people would do as much. Well I was warned off but when she thrust the note in my hand.... “What do you think is going on?” Clare tossed her hair almost nonchalantly at odds with her serious expression. “I don’t want to speculate too much without police confirmation but it does appear highly likely that she is one of the many thousands of young woman trafficked across Europe every year into the UK by criminal gangs, lured by a legitimate prospect of legal work then trapped in prostitution.” Despite everything it came as a blow as if I had been punched in the stomach. A fleeting image of Sophia danced across my mind, the dark mistrustful eyes and fragile body. “What can you do?” Suddenly a feeling of urgency swept over me, “she must be rescued, those men..... they could hurt her.” “Here,” she said, offering me a tissue, “take a moment; it is a lot to take in.” And she got up briefly and went towards the window. The bars outside splintered the light as it passed through the dirty glass, falling in blunt lines across the carpet. She stood silent and still except for the rise and fall of her chest through her thin blouse. Dust motes floated through the air, glistening in the light. I realised then tears were running down my cheeks. 197

“Yes, it is shocking. The numbers of women involved, some very young, the brutality and so many lives damaged and destroyed. It is hard to accept in today’s world that women could be subjected to such systematic abuse and exploitation but in fact numbers are only increasing.” When she returned to her desk she was smiling. “Let’s hope we can help her..... Sophia isn’t it?” As I got up her voice become more assertive. “Whatever you do, don’t speak to her again. If they suspect anything she will disappear and we may lose trace of her, perhaps for good.” I remember her words, turning over and over, like windblown leaves and my legs unsteady and hands clutching at the pale magnolia wall of the corridor. Years later, the memory of her still returns, the waif like girl, dark eyed, and the ring of her name as it sounded in the station. She was rescued by the police only days afterwards. A house and in fact a number of houses, were raided and several arrests made. Sophia was moved away to a secret address for safety. The police had been aware of a ring of criminals operating in the area for some time: trafficking and harbouring women for sexual exploitation, the supplying of illegal drugs and associative

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acts of violent crime. After a lengthy court case there were several successful prosecutions. I moved away from the area after graduating; as far away as I could get. I could not come to terms with the shocking revelations that ensued. My brother was arrested a week later involved with the incident. Unbeknown to us he had accrued debts resulting from a drug problem and then got involved with the men, as in handling money for them. He got two years which we were told was lenient in the circumstances. My whole squeaky clean life seemed to crumble after that as the details unravelled. I had wanted to write to Sophia, maintain some sort of communication but my brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s involvement put a stop to that. My mother said we all make mistakes; James got caught up with bad people and paid the price for it. She says I should put it behind me and move on. I often think of her. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t begin to understand the horror of her ordeal. I wondered if she could ever put it behind her and move on.

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Dear Dave By Stephen Powdrill 'Iain Duncan Smith resigns from cabinet over disability cuts' The Guardian, Saturday 19th March, 2016 Dear Dave, It pains me to tell you that this is my resignation. I didn't mean to shock you, we've always been friends Despite my change of heart - if you like, my revelation, I shall mail you Christmas cards until the very end. Let me be frank - the nursing home has just proved too much. Yes, I enjoyed pushing Ted on his weather-beaten chair I revelled in the challenge to tame Old Sue's night crying, The autistics were a joy to sooth and brush their hair, Although their short spans of attention were desperately trying. Down syndrome kids, yes, they can be naughty and a pain, Laughing one minute, then in hot tears â&#x20AC;&#x201C; what to do! 201

Dementia patients forgot a lot, never pulling the chain, But all those sweet fools need is a good talking to! I toiled on, like a disgruntled old mule nevertheless, Scrubbing vomit off the carpet and lugging wet washing Through that decrepit, sour little building â&#x20AC;&#x201C; but I digress; The ribbons pushed me to the edge, not lavatorial flushing. The ribbons were what kept those poor patients alive, Those happy mornings on which we doled them out They gave them a sense of purpose and meaning, Dave, And wasn't that what we promised our jobs were about? 9AM, I'd pass them around a circle they had tried to form, Their shrunken 'O' mouths drooping as if starving seals, And they would gleefully tie loops around their necks, gorm And sedately squeal with their gold, red, orange and teal. I admitted one night, over poached salmon for two 202

The powerful feeling of salvation this job gave me, My belief that the ribbons were creating change and you You wiped Hollandaise sauce off my chin tenderly; 'Hush, hush, dearest ', you reassured that despite pressures From our budget box, the ribbons would stay for sure. They were not expensive, nothing to you and I I remember chuckling at how cheap frivolity proved To be for the disabled and deranged in contrast to my Garaged Ferrari wheels and plasma screen under-roof. Alas, I should have known that frivolity was not possible For them, within your plans to scrimp and save and scrunch Bank notes away so that in troubled times they'd be accessible That was the excuse you fed me, 'It's just the credit crunch!' The board supported your later decision to take the ribbons away Yet when the families discovered your financial plans, It was me they took out their anger on, Dave! 'Its 203

the only way', I cringed to them - your decision had made me a hated man Within the public eye and you know how I like to be liked. So on that fateful Tuesday morning, golden ribbons glimmered In twisted, palsying claws and a couple cripples began to fight Over the prettiest blue bow that sparkled and shimmered, And I began to cry torrential tears, Dave, I wept! These pathetic humans had a grip on my heart; But I could not ignore your orders so sadly snipped At the cords that coloured my own wretched Noah's ark. My scissors gorged the gold, they ripped at the red, I snatched the silver out of my patient's shaking hands. I made those cuts, Dave, till my fingers bled I followed your instructions, precisely according to plan. The aftermath was painful to watch, some began to cry In the destruction, over the torn colours that covered the floor. I stonily piled the ribbons into a bin liner and tried 204

To remain calm, but inside I knew there was nothing more For me here, in this God awful job â&#x20AC;&#x201C; even with you By my side, the patient's families would be after my head. The ribbons were to be 'sold to buy essential food For our patients', that was what you surreptitiously plead For me to tell the families as you stroked my sweating neck Under your twisted silk sheets in which I'd discovered stone Hard lust, and your explosive, scorching sex - but I checked The bank details and no money has gone into that home! None! Therefore, I resign and before you ask, our affair is over! I regret ever accepting the job, you deplorable twig... and after you promised you had love for no other! That's right, David; I know all about that pig. Regretfully, Iain

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Asylum By Macaulay Cooper

Walk on through the hidden square Past where the cobbles slow and die. A velvet curtain hides the Faire: The Ringleader prepares to mystify. “Come one! Come all!” he cries aloud. He takes your ticket from your hand. It vanishes in a smoky cloud And he throws up a fistful of sand. “Enter, sir, and bring your friend.” The curtain shifts to show a door. “Take care, for sanity may bend. Just keep your feet upon the floor.” You stagger in – I’ve been before, I stride without a moment’s flutter. “The psychic? The doctor? Old Commodore?” But you stand and stare like a Bedlam nutter. I grab your hand, I’ll never leave. You slowly spin ’round and around. I get you moving with a mighty heave. Into the Faire we two friends bound. The Hypnotist, he takes your eye, Forces you to stand and gaze. 207

I stifle back a sullen sigh And watch a repeat of yesterday’s. “Drift now to sleep,” he drones to you. You struggle, but Christ knows why. Just let him do what he’s got to do. You think a professional would lie? Before you start to drift off proper You make us go to the next tent Where sleight artists vanish copper But I’m afraid I cannot relent. “I’ve been here before, will you ever Fucking trust me, and trust the workers? Resisting it all don’t make you clever! Just go on alone, I’ll join the lurkers.” I push you away, I’m sick of this shit And you wonder the Faire alone. You’re so desperate to come ’ere you pitch a fit. It’s easier to go the way I’ve shown. I watch you as you find the black-est tent this Faire can offer I slouch off away towards the back And take the smoke the old man proffers. I take my seat. Elsewhere you take yours And settle down for the final show. But before it starts, I ask you to pause: 208

Take the pills. These people know. At the corner of the Faire Hidden from the buzz and whirr Deep within the backstage lair Fingers and needles dance a-blur And you? One of the darker acts of the Faire Only for those audiences who dare Tragedy bringing them all to care For the Harlequin In black with a flair. “’Ello, dearie.” She pats my arm And hands me a candy bar. “The doctors don’t mean no ’arm. The mind is easier to scar.” He comes on slow and the clapping dies His outfit dark as the stormiest skies Walking so lightly he almost flies Like a Harlequin. A young woman cries. “I know. It’s just… I don’t know. How long do I have to do this for Before I’m the bad guy? It’s just so…” “Unfair?” “Right.” “Eat that. There’s plenty more.”

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The others performed to clapping and cheers But now all is silent, straining to hear Neck hair rippling with two dozen fears Of the Harlequin. She wipes away tears. “I never intended to leave his side.” My voice is hushed and full of shame. The old grandmother to whom I confide Said, “He’ll be happy to just know you came.” A single red rose pinned to his chest A shadowy suit and he looks his best His hands well practised, up to the test And the Harlequin Already confessed. “Why won’t he listen?” I shout and I sob And I bury myself into the old woman’s shoulder. She ain’t my gran and this isn’t her job But she learnt how to comfort as she slowly grew older. His hair is fair blond, almost too white His eight-year old head gathers no height And his dead eyes are blank, no soul there to fight So the Harlequin Gives her a fright. 210

“My daughter still in there?” she asks me so soft. I struggle to find words so I just nod my head. She’s crying, you know. Without you she’s lost. Can’t help but thinking you’re better off dead. Without saying a word the saddest boy takes From behind his back – he’s too proud to bring fakes – Gleaming white skulls. The audience shakes As the Harlequin Entertainment makes. “He’ll surely pull through.” She gave me a pat. “You said that last year. He’s not coming back.” “No, my dear, don’t think like that. You know how he is. He does have a knack—

He throws the right skull right over his head As it crests in its arc the left follows its stead The right goes again, the left hits its bed And the Harlequin Looks so underfed. —Of surprising us all when we think it’s done.” She put down her knitting and got to her feet. “Finish your chocolate. Moping’s no fun. You made it before, and my grandson didn’t retreat

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He juggles the skulls and nobody breathes The young woman cries, the young woman heaves The bravest of men gets up and leaves For the Harlequin Makes grown men grieve. So we can’t leave him when he’s in your place. Come now, dearie, let’s go see your friend, But first of all wipe those tears from your face.” And then she crouched down – ten layers of lace And whispered, “At least we can be there for the end.” He finishes his act and smiles once, pained. What progress have the doctors gained? Reaching out for help like a dancing bear trained He’s the Harlequin And he bows and leaves, drained.

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Charred By Rebecca Pizzey

I am the king of Kasilof depths by nature’s rule, a merciless killer of your kind. I heed no pity to your curious pets, your small children and dangerous ways, and I run by no school. I have three times as many vertebrae as you; my spine carves water while yours buckles under the weight of trophies. I despise your kind; where my currency with life is counter, yours relies on paper-thin sacs protected by a cage that I could crush beneath my three hundred pounds. You salivate in lipids and lethargy, obesely morbid yet somehow still superior. You catch us in nets and snatch us from our depths; you cast hooks that return us smelling of blood; your anchors crash through our homes. You’ve extended your land reach into our territory and stolen from us, colonial, imperial – and it’s for me to reclaim what’s been stolen. Imagine, then, my glee at the sight of you, a lick of colour pulsing through polarised waves against the undulating grey slate of Alaskan infinity above. Here I was, hunting for morsels 215

when there you are! – bony by all means, but there’s surely a bit of fat to suck. You’re stock still; this should be easy. I’m going in for the kill. My teeth are needles, my jaw a vice, my throat a gullet – and you, little more than a skeleton in a membrane sack. Like me, you’re alone but for your intrusive line that pervades the waters of my kingdom. I must be nimble, a trait permitted by my streamlined body, which slices giant ‘S’ shapes through the water; I pause near the surface, shielded by an outcrop of slimy rocks. A sigh escapes your teeth and envelopes my otoliths in a bubble of sound warped by the undercurrent. You say you wish he would stop. I steady my fins, which span your entire length, and a flick of my tail brings me closer to the surface. Your line skitters ‘V’s across the riverbed, sending crustaceans scattering for shelter. It’s then I realise you have no bait attached to the hook. This is most interesting: you, a human female, are not seeking to terrorise us, but to find solace in our company. Your line is slack, your flimsy hook unadorned by delicious morsels, and your melancholy is an enveloping sadness the likes of which I understand more than I care to admit.

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Your femininity is at risk, you say. The words brush past me like the polluted silt of my demesne. There’s a seed in your soul and it’s growing terrible things. Monsters haunt your bedroom with portals for eyes and fingers that split open your dreams. You don’t sleep anymore, haven’t eaten for days. Solace is seeking out the blood in your legs with things that turn you green. I could hear more, but I realise with a slash of panic that I’ve been still for far too long and the blood in my gills has become still; with a lightning flick of my tail I’m away again, allowing oxygen to gush through me and carving a space between us. I speed through the river cities of terrain and outcrops of rock, slicing metres, kilometres between your sadness and mine – but the further the gap, the closer you seem. I pause abruptly, sending a small carp reeling. I have never felt this before … this weight on my back. It’s as though I have taken something away from you – something invisible. Could I be carrying your pain? I am the king of Kasilof depths; my mind is the middle man to weapons of stealth and speed. I can swim faster than your kind can run, and when I go in for the kill, none escape. I have fled none, but you, the female lick of colour begging alien waters for answers to things you deem 217

unfair. You sought nothing in return, and asked only for ears to listen. I have no concept of ‘time’, and as such I do not know how long it has been since last you were here. All I know is that my alien concern has eclipsed my hunger, and I have remained here in waiting. The Alaskan infinity above brightens and fades in a never-ending cycle before you finally return, a despondent blur against the inaccessible eternity. I have not eaten, even finding myself with a heightened awareness of my isolation that I’ve not felt before. My kingdom, I realise with a lick of indignation, is no longer mine. You, who seek not to feed off its bounty, now share it with me – and I was the one to hand it to you. It has become a no-man’s-land between the polarities of our solitude and we are symbiotic. Your questions return, this time a blade. Words lash through the water – and though I cannot understand their meaning, their terrible weight is laced with fury, rejection and grief that makes me flinch. I am afraid of them; they burst around me with hellfire, demanding answers – and then! What’s this? A splash, a disturbance in my waters. I flounder for a moment, disorientated and rocked by the earth’s movements. Does it come from beneath, within or above? A higher power beyond comprehension or reason – or me? 218

No; it’s you, human female. Petal-white legs with strange markings like the irregular stripes of my counterparts crash through the waters from other parallels, stubby appendages stabilising your body on jagged shale. A dark cloud billows around you and becomes weighted with stony sobs in pocket-like compartments. Your feet catch on broken shell fragments and invisible rocks, sending tendrils of blood into the water. The smell is disgusting – metallic and somehow rotten at the same time, and I fear it might call the wrong sort of attention to these waters. Then you’re walking! Broken feet wading against the weight of the currents until I can see your torso too. Your arms are a balancing act against infinity and your skirt is no longer a billowing cloud, but a weight that propels you toward greater nadirs. I’m horrified to know that I fear you, but I cannot look away. Our shared destitution, the kingdom I gave freely to you, and from which you asked nothing, you are now going to give everything. My life, spent here snatching innocent lives, is now in the hands of someone I actively sought synergy with – or didn’t deny access to. This place of quiet solitude and mourning is now a graveyard of my own dignity.

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Your face breaks the surface, water rushing up to fill the empty space. Hair is your halo while blood is my poison. Your mouth opens and I watch in horror as currents of sediment stream into the gaping cavity with the toxic water â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and your eyes fly open. How strange to see the bubbles stream from every orifice, snatched centimetres of life on land returning to the water. If youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re shocked to see me, you remain passive. While this is not theatre, there is something excessively commanding about your imperialism. You are both relinquishing and reclaiming ownership of your own body, while mine, locked in a spell, returns to the hands of a human.

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Weaving the Warps and Weft of the Silk Road in the Twenty-first Century (Snapshots from a Multicultural Primary School)

by E. A. Taylor

Vignette 1

“Pakistan or England?” The brown-eyed boy looked quizzically at me, cocking his head to one side and creasing his brow. “Who will you play for? I expanded. “Pakistan!” It came without hesitation. Ahsan kicked off his muddy trainers and grass stained trousers, shoving them unceremoniously into his PE bag. My mind wandered to washing powder. “Changed me mind, innit Miss, England, definite England. See me n me dad…we was tawkin…last night.” He thrust a piece of paper under my nose. “Slow down!” “Yeah, no, but Miss… I wan’ed to tell yer…show yer. We tawked and rit down why…reasons, innit. Look…!” Sure enough, there on the piece of 223

paper the boy had spilled out his passion for cricket. I had posed the question; he wanted to answer. Now. Although the language on the paper appeared to be English, most of its content was alien to me. Of course I recognised words like bowler, batsman, even googly, and the odd famous name was familiar- Mark Ramprakash (a local boy) or Moeen Ali. I didn’t need to understand everything he’d written. It was his analysis, his dream, his future hanging in the balance, his cloud to cruise, his surf to ride. Any cognitive dissonance about his team strip had dissolved. The boy was on a mission. Shooting. Shooting for the stars. Sporting talent the ticket to transport his life. Like the sorting hat in Harry Potter, I knew this boy would fly. I just hoped Wendy would be there to reattach his shadow if ever he needed bringing home.

Vignette 2

“Boys…keep the noise down!” “Come and look what it says about the Spitfire, look…” “Looks tiny.” 224

“Looks like it’s made of paper mache.” The Messerschmitt fell like a tornado from the sky, billowing black smoke as if it had been hit with a torrent of imaginary machine gun bullets. Natsuko stayed close as the boys ran around making aeroplane noises, narrowly missing her. As we made our way down to the lunchroom to join the others in the basement of the Imperial War Museum, talk was of death and destruction and World of Warcraft. Somehow we managed to reunite the thirty or so lunches with their owners, supervise numerous trips to the bathroom, all before contemplating our own thirst and hunger. I glanced across at Natsuko to offer a reassuring smile, but she was caught up in the theatre of her own lunch, surrounded by friends. I watched as she carefully unpacked her portfolio picnic from a Hello Kitty box; the napkin- an origami bird, then sweet peas of sushi and forget-me-not, fragrant fruit. I pondered the hour mother must have risen in order to craft such delicacies, such ephemeral gems. Natsuko’s neat blue-black bob shone as it swung in the artificial lights, while she orchestrated her now habitual bring and share lunch. Smiles, sushi and celebrity status exchanged for English equivalents.

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In her element, she mixed the rainbow of palates before her. After lunch, the tour of the museum marched on without much happening, military manoeuvres, municipal work and weekly rations were dutifully marked on worksheets. Following ‘enemy attack’, we were summoned to the air raid shelter. We piled inside, the door slammed shut. The light flickered. The bench rocked. I felt a small hand slip into mine. “Don’t like war,” she said. “Me neither.” “…Family…they die.” My thoughts drifted to stories of my great aunt Mill, her lifelong melancholia. I pictured her lowering the union Jack bunting (along with her spirits) from the street door when her husband failed to return home following V.J. day. She mourned, while others celebrated. She never truly recovered. “…Yes. You’re right war is bad, Natsuko.” Natsuko squeezed and patted my hand gently, studying my watery eyes .Then she smiled. “Friends,” she said. “You and me,” she 226

whispered pointing to the both of us and then her classmates.”…friends. Is good!” “ ’Hi’…. ‘Hi’ Natsuko. Friends is good.” Vignette 3

Can you grab that please, Aminah? I called, juggling to keep hold of the resources in my hands. “This?” “Yep.” As they jostled for position around the small hexagon shaped table, which they had clearly outgrown, I considered the group in front of me. I could think of many names to describe them, but their unofficial name, ‘the Misfits’ was not one I liked. ‘Travellers,’ perhaps more appropriate, had other connotations. No, these were survivors, serendipity survivors. I wondered how many languages they spoke between the six of them. Clive alone spoke three. At eleven years of age he spoke three languages! Fluently! Several times his age, I speak English with a smattering of school French. Which language did he dream in? …Use over the breakfast table? …To cuss? I had seen (first-hand) bilingual children deliberately insult their 227

classmates in another language so that the powers that be, were in fact powerless to intervene. I wondered… did children’s behaviour chop and change according to the language they spoke as well as the company and culture they kept? Were memories and ideas, created in one language cemented permanently in that time and place, or were they carried organically on the breath of children and used to cross pollinate ideas, creating new cultures? “Right guys…Today we are looking at autobiography. Who can tell me what an autobiography is?” “…Story of yer life Miss” “My life?” “Well… mine…ours…” “One what you write about yerself, Miss…” “Ok... So how do we start?...Aminah…have you got any suggestions?” Aminah stopped spinning the plastic globe on its axis and looked up.

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Contributors In order of appearance:

Alex Noir Alex is a poet and writer of both long and short fiction. The primary themes of his work are mental health, satire, and the human condition in the 21 st Century. Greatly inspired by the writing of Anthony Burgess, Will Self, and Edgar Allan Poe, some of his most recent work was published by /TheRules in their Seeing Wetiko campaign. Originally from Devon, he now lives in Greater London and studies Creative Writing at Brunel University. Sade Johnson Sade is twenty-one and has always had a great love for poetry and creative writing. Despite winning several competition, such as the limerick competition she won when eleven, she was still surprised when she won a poetry competition in sixth form at school. Sade went to school in the Borough, and now commutes in and out of the Borough numerously! Aimée White Aimée is a student currently studying Game Design and Creative Writing at Brunel University London, a course combination that either gets an awed gasp or a raised eyebrow. However Aimée will always affirm that it is fantastic to be able to study her hobbies. When not immersed in words or polygons, Aimée enjoys practicing archery and playing the guitar. 230

Iris Mauricio Originally from the Philippines, Iris is a student currently pursuing a Creative Writing degree at Brunel University London, and while not particularly devout herself, most of her writing bears strong influences of her Roman Catholic upbringing, along with themes of history, mythology, pop culture and the artsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;things from which she draws much inspiration. When she isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t busy wrestling with her muses and challenging her creativity, Iris can be found spending her time living a sedentary life similar to that of a feline: eating, limited socializing, succumbing to bouts of lethargy when caught in warm patches of sunlight, and bingewatching shows and films. Patrick Awuru Ikwu Patrick, now twenty years of age, has been writing poetry for many years. After going on something of a hiatus, he is back now with some new work available! Patrick is a second year student of Business Computing at Brunel university London, and describes himself as Nigerian by both birth and culture. He has a strong will for justice and is also a massive Anime and Manga fan.

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Sarah Simons Following an HND in Design, Sarah achieved worked for a design company in London. In 1986 she joined London Borough of Hillingdon working for Social Services and since 2007 has worked for Hillingdon Libraries. In addition to currently pursuing a qualification in British Sign Language, Sarahâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s interests include history, art & design, reading non-fiction and listening to music. Julia Underwood Although her degree is in science â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Physiology and Zoology, from London University - Julia has been writing since childhood and has been a member of a local writing group for more than twenty years. She has two self-published novels and three murder mystery novellas and has been a runner-up in several national competitions. Julia has been a resident of Ruislip for ten years, having also lived in Germany, Austria, Jamaica, France, and near Northolt aerodrome during the war. Taiwo Oyenola Taiwo is twenty-three from Nigeria and born and raised in London. He has recently graduated from Brunel University London with and just begun a PGCE course in primary education. His goal is to excel in academia, his profession, and try and inspire people to help others who are suffering and to empower people to reach their full potential. He writes poetry as a means to raise awareness of issues and hopefully bring change. 232

Ali May Ali is a writer and broadcaster. He was born and grew up in Iran, studied English Literature in Tehran and later did his MA in Creative Writing at Brunel University London. One of the themes he follows in his writing is the Iran-Iraq war of 1980-88 and the devastation that it left behind, the tragedies that every family grappled with. Jin Wei Wong Jin Wei Wong, from Kuala Lumpur, has a great passion for poetry, short prose and theatre and is an undergraduate studying Creative Writing at Brunel University London. His other interests include ancient and modern history, international politics and philosophy. He describes the Uxbridge area as â&#x20AC;&#x153;a small but colourful town in the London Borough of Hillingdon, whose many facets of suburbia have oftentimes been inspirational to my writing. The richness of the suburb is wide-ranging from the historic to the modern, from the diversity of cultures to the traditions of Britishness.â&#x20AC;? Marjorie Bahhaj in collaboration with Dante Major The submission by Marjorie Bahhaj, from Hayes, is in collaboration with a Syrian Refugee, Dante Major inspired by a reluctance to leave the border of Turkey and Syria for a safer environment because of his attachment to both his mother and motherland. Majorie and Dante have been in contact for over a 233

year, having visited him twice and also visiting his sister in the Athens refugee camp. Marjorie has started a project - Syrian Family Link Up - to link brothers and sisters now scattered between Turkey, Greece and Germany. Aliraza Fazal Aliraza is a fourth year computer science student studying at Brunel University London. An avid writer of poetry who enjoys being expressive in his writing, he likes to explore different subject areas and also delves into his own personal experiences in life. Aliraza is very much interested in listening to and engaging in various ideological debates and enjoys broadening his knowledge of history and cultures through travel. Gurpreet Singh Rai Gurpreet lives in the area and has been writing on and off for the last few years whilst balancing his day job and other commitments. He enjoys art, design, music and literature from all around the world and gets inspiration from the intricacies in his daily routine alongside the occasional moment of mindfulness and appreciation for his surroundings. Matthias Asiedu-Yeboa Matthias Asiedu-Yeboa is a 21 year-old writer living, loving and working in Uxbridge. As an undergraduate, he studied English and Creative Writing at Brunel University London. He is currently undertaking his postgraduate studies at Brunel, in 234

Creative Writing: the Novel. Matthias enjoys experimenting with the interplay between prose and poetry, as he sees both creative avenues converging at a crossroads to create compassionate responses to art and life. He also likes purple prose, a lot of alliteration, struggling to write author profiles, and referring to himself in the third person. Michelle Stevens Michelle is twenty-three years old, an aspiring English teacher with a passion for poetry, who who having grown up in Hillingdon is back in the area following a job at a new school. She wrote this poem last year after being affected by the story of Khaled al-Asaad who was killed by ISIS because he refused to give them information about artefacts in Palmyra. The anniversary of his death is soon approaching and, with the newly built Arch of Triumph in London, she feels that it is a subject and moral message of unity in the face of terrorism which resonates with everyone in London during these turbulent times. Andy Mydellton Andy works (part-time) at the Yiewsley Cancer Centre running the ‘Men’s MOT’ Group and is also a member of four writing groups in the area. Uxbridge Writers, Phrase Writers, Southland’s Poets and Yeading Library Writing Group. He publishes gne Widlife Zone Newsletter and write monthly articles for many magazinges throughout the country concerning wildlife and the environment. He also runs the Quills Writing Group and is writing books for UNESCO and the Foundation for Endangered Species. 235

Shirley Anne Cook Shirley works in and around Hillingdon, is a poet and an author of children's books. Her poems have been published in a wide range of magazines and anthologies, and have won or been placed in a number of competitions. She also teaches English and poetry to children.

Saira Arian Saira Arian is a British Pakistani who writes short stories, poetry and plays. She writes in English and Urdu and her stories are mostly set in Pakistan. Her writing is based on stories about life in Pakistan that show the common man’s struggle as well as their determination to remain optimistic. Having lived there while growing up, the people and their stories lie very close to her heart. The Rules.org recently published her poem, ‘Thirsty’ for the ‘Seeing Wetiko’ campaign.

James Nadal James was born in Hillingdon Hospital in 1982 and has lived in the Borough all his life, bar four years living away part time, studying for his degree in History and an MA in TV Production, during which time he still resided with the family. Having lived in Ickenham all through that time and attended Glebe primary and Vyners secondary schools, he also now works in Ickenham.

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Dr Rohail Ahmad Rohail has an MA (2010) and PhD (2013) in Creative Writing from Brunel University, where he has also taught part time. He previously worked at Uxbridge College for two years, and currently works at the Global Academy in Hayes. His MA novella won the Curtis Brown Prize and was also longlisted for the Paris Literary Prize. Rohail has also had pieces published in various outlets, such as Media Diversified, Voice Newspaper, and Open Democracy. Andy J Lewis Andy is a 20 year old writer who was born in Hillingdon and has lived there throughout his life. He currently works writing film and TV articles for the website Screenrant, but in his spare time writes short stories and poetry. He has previously had two poems of his published in anthologies, the first of which was 'Into Darkness' which featured in 'Candlelit Thoughts: A Collection Of Poetry'. His other published poem was 'Teenage Sweethearts' which featured in 'Everlasting Love: A Collection Of Poetry'. Keen to develop his writing career, he has begun studying a degree in Creative Writing at the University of Roehampton. Elenor Paul Elenor is a primary school teacher who has been teaching at a junior school in Hayes since 2008. This competition inspired her to write for the first time, choosing to write about a subject she is hugely passionate about. Her poem gives the reader a brief glimpse into the mind of a child who is struggling at 237

school. It was inspired by a colleague who worked at a PRU. In her recount of her most memorable pupil, she recalled his expulsion from school, because he threw a chair across a room. She discovered in conversation with him, that he was petrified when the teacher demanded he read aloud in front of the class. Rather than admit his shortcomings, he knew violence would get him out of the room and allow him to save face in front of his peers. The boy was fourteen years old, and illiterate. Thomas Hull Thomas is a twenty-one-year-old Oxford native and a third year Creative Writing student at Brunel University London. An avid reader and writer from a young age, he is interested in how prose and poetry can delve into the more unexplored parts of the psyche, and aims to use writing to express sentiments that are difficult to understand, particularly with regards to mental illness and complex relationships. When not writing, he enjoys video games, naps, and looking at pictures of dogs on the internet. Simi Abe Simi Abe, Nigerian born and Kent based, currently studies Creative Writing at Brunel University London. Simi has previous experience as a creative writing intern which entailed working on an award winning business blog for a luxury jeweller. Although well versed in blog writing, Simiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s primary interest is writing fiction. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll often find Simi writing late at night, experiment and exploring the conventions of perspective, surrealism and prose poetry. Inspired by her love of outer space, her cultural background and 238

the visual arts such as film and television, Simi writes in order to create pieces that excite the readerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s senses and evokes emotion. Jojo Chia Jojo is an aspiring writer who has a penchant for the weird and wonderful. Infected with dreams, she decided to venture out into the world, which brought her to England. After 3 years she graduated from Brunel University London with a bachelors in Creative Writing. She is one of the authors published in the Brunel Short Story Anthology in 2015 and her love for literature and the arts lead her to volunteer for the Hillingdon Literary Festival on the same year. Jojo is an aggressive list maker who loves tattoos, waxing lyrical about video games, and bad puns. Sometimes she can be found writing short stories or drawing on her tablet. Other times she is trying to make sense of the organised chaos in her mind. Dev Aditya Dev is an avid reader and literature fanatic. Ever since childhood he loved literature and creative writing. Since school he won various accolades for his writing until he joined Brunel University London where he took up Law and finally gave up on his attachment to formal academic literature. During the first three years of University he did not write anything that was not related to his academics. However, recently he started to write again; mainly poetry. He is also extremely interested in creating new ideas and businesses and believes that more than purely literature, his true love is for creating new things. 239

Dilinna Bernadette Aniebonam Dilinna is a twenty-year-old journalism studentat Brunel University London hoping to become a lifestyle writer and author. She has always loved to read, and says that “in school, the library was my safe place where I could let my imagination run wild”. At secondary school she had the opportunity to meet various authors who inspired her. At the age of twelve that was Jacqueline Wilson and Meg Cabot. Talking to these women who had captured the minds of so many people - Dilinna included - with words and ideas, inspired her to start writing her own stories. Vivien Brown Vivien is sixty-two, married, with twin daughters. She retired in 2013 after many years working with preschool children in children’s centres and libraries, introducing them and their parents to the wonders of sharing books and rhymes. Vivien has had stories and articles published in magazines, enjoys writing poetry, and belong to the local writing group: ‘Phrase Writers’. She loves reading, TV soaps, cryptic crosswords, chocolate and cats, as well as spending time with her little granddaughter, Penny. Vivien is also a social member of Ruislip Bowls Club, enjoys holidays in the UK and abroad, and is currently working on writing a novel. Lia Harlin Lia is a twenty-year-old Theatre and Creative Writing student at Brunel University London. In her spare time she runs the Musical Theatre Society and participates 240

in university musicals, choirs, dance classes as well as writing her ten year novel. Other than being a student who is addicted to coffee and pasta, she identifies as “a feminist, Gryffindor, with a peculiar talent for remembering things, including the entire script of the Lion King”. Lia hopes to get into musical theatre after university. Nicole ‘Zion’ Thomas Nicole is a twenty-four-year-old poet and creative writer, studying Occupational Therapy at Brunel University London. She started writing short stories and poems in primary school, when her passion for writing dramatically grew during the six-week school holiday. Nicole explains that “I would have to choose to write a creative story or share my summer holiday experience to be handed in as a summer assignment. Since then, writing has been my passion and forever will be.” Angela Narayn Angela rekindled an interest in English Literature in later life and has attended a succession of creative writing courses at the City Lit, in Harrow, Hayes and currently in Ruislip over the past nine years. Other than a brief few years in Brighton, she has live and raised a family in the Borough and worked part time as a learning assistant. In her writing, Angela has explored her Irish ancestry and childhood memories, and finds writing to be “a powerful tool of selfexpression and quite revelatory concerning what we choose to remember and what we choose to forget.” 241

Stephen Powdrill Leicester-born Steve Powdrill, twenty, is in the middle of his Creative Writing and Theatre BA Honours at Brunel University London. Carol Ann Duffy, Jeffrey Eugenides and Kate Tempest are all writers he admires, but his true influence is his dog, Curly, who is forever cheerful. Acting and performance poetry are both things that really blow his trumpet and he has recently performed in a theatrically adapted version of Kate Tempest's poem, 'Hold Your Own'. Some of his work has been published by The Rules website as part of their Seeing Wetiko project and is available to read at http://www.seeingwetiko.com/poetry-pamphlet-two Macaulay Cooper Macauley Cooper is a student of Creative Writing at Brunel University London whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been writing for fun since before he realised it was a job! He has received an award for a novella in sixth form and has a passion for fantasy. Macauley can usually be found behind the covers of a thick book; when not reading or writing, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most likely juggling. Macauley has a keen interest in volunteering - in the Scout Association, primary schools and through the university - and is cultivating a fountain pen collection.

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Rebecca Pizzey Rebecca Pizzey is a London-based writer, currently working in publishing and writing her debut novel. She graduated from Brunel University’s Creative Writing: The Novel MA programme with distinction in 2015, following a first class honours on the undergraduate Creative Writing course. Her academic career is still unsated and she is in the process of applying for a PhD, “against the wishes of her bank balance”. Rebecca is especially interested in surrealist feminism and satirical commentary.

E. A. Taylor E A Taylor has one of the more glorious biographic profile offerings we’ve ever read, which demands to be left in its original. “Born in London (sometime in the last century) I live with a two year old springer spaniel called Bonzo, who has far too much energy, along with a family who does not. My garden is an eclectic mix of plants that remind me of people I’ve met and places I’ve been. My idea of a good time is afternoon tea with friends. There has to be cake. Our house is far too small to accommodate the number of books we have along with Bonzo’s tennis ball collection. How many does a dog need? Oh and I graduated from the Royal College of Art (a long time ago) when Quentin Blake was head honcho.”

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Jacqueline Chesta Jacqueline Chesta graduated in English at La Sorbonne Paris IV and got a diploma in International Relations from Sciences Po Paris before obtaining a Fulbright scholarship to study Newspaper journalism at Syracuse University, New York. Throughout Jacqueline Chesta’s varied career in journalism, arts and cultural management she has also enjoyed a selection of acting roles in stage and cinema, and has cultivated a parallel career as an award winning painter. In 2006 she started drawing sketches of people on the Metro and the RER in Paris. Croquis sur Toile (sketches on canvas) is a series of oil paintings on nonprimed canvas. In May 2010 a selection of 36 sketches was published under the title: La Ligne B. Through vigorously brushed sketches, Jacqueline Chesta magnifies the daily routine of all sorts of underground characters in a in a cheerful and celebratory manner. Since 2013, still sketching on the metro, she has now been drawing people everywhere in cities. That started another series entitled “Cities’soul”, oil paintings with collages, mixing art, poetry and literature. Jacqueline attended the inaugural Hillingdon Literary Festival in 2015, sketching numerous sessions and fast becoming a hit with our community. We feel her work perfectly encapsulates the celebration of multiplicity and the diversity of brilliant voices in community, and are thrilled that she has kindly allowed her work to be reproduced in this publication. www.JacquelineChesta.wordpress.com 244

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