#Writecity 2015 by Learning Development

ABERDEEN CITY LIBRARIES

CREATIVE WRITING FESTIVAL

The #WriteCity Creative Writing Festival is now in its second year with the Festival funded in 2015 by an Aberdeen City Council Cultural Award. The Festival aims to open access to creative writing opportunities helping participants, young and old, to work with established authors to gain new skills and techniques in creating a piece of writing. This anthology brings together the writing pieces contributed by the Festivalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s participants alongside contributions from the authors who led the 2015 #WriteCity Creative Writing Festival workshops. These outstanding stories, poems and other pieces of writing cover a wealth of subjects and we hope you enjoy reading them.

CONTENTS Writers

Participants

Oppression by Moira McPartlin

Believe by Elena Koleva

Ut Umbra Sic Fugit Vita by Laura Lam

Phobophobia by Emma Reid

SARPOZKELEKH by Helen Lynch

Sapphire Eyed by Sara Nowaczyk

The Divine Comedy of Professor Henry Crabbe by Shane Strachan

The Counsellor Affair by Martin Carle

The Untold Stories by Meredith Brown

THREE HAIKU by Alan Spence

Some of the Best People by Eilidh Player

Script by Emma Malins

Rose Story by Kirsten Foreman

Michael by Jordan Foreman

More Human than Human by Meredith Brown

The other side of his mind by Reece Fraser

Waiting by Pat Lawrence

Woman on a bench by Alison Taylor

Haikus by Colin McIntosh and Alison Taylor

Seaweed by Russ Alexander

Life in the pebble by Min Bhatta

I Remember by F.E. Clark

OPPRESSION

by Moira McPartlin

Have you ever seen a butterfly left to suffer? I have. It happened one steamy September in Houston, Texas. I found myself out on the street, escaped from my hotel room at noon, while mum held one last meeting. Three hours to kill before the taxi’s due to take us to Bush International, then home. I walked alone across parched grassland in the University District of that sprawled city. The lot at the other side of the park smouldered with shimmering vehicles lined up side by side. Most were trucks or SUVs as the natives prefer to call them; great hunks of metal with staring headlamps and deadly bull bars. The butterfly pavilion perched on the corner of the parking lot tantalised me with a poster promising a look into nature. The stroll across the park had turned my crisp cotton dress into a damp dish cloth, and I reckoned the environment in the butterfly and reptile house may be preferable to the drenching sauna outside. Inside, a barricaded ramp herded me past a bored looking security guy who slumped over a low desk. Just ahead of me children squealed at the pavilion’s main attraction, a tame, resigned armadillo named something like Freddy, Arnie or Homer. ‘Make him move,’ a ten year old bratette ordered its handler. ‘Make him stick out his tongue,’ the mother said following her darling’s example. But Freddy, Arnie or Homer swivelled his eyes and continued to imitate the sedentary guard on the front desk. Further along the ramp, a Perspex panel separated me from a host of flirting, graceful balletics; a palette of exotic butterflies doing what they do best in the confines of their plastic palace. Crimson moths the size of my finger nail hovered around pampered hot house flowers. Purple splashes with Cyclops eye wings buzzed the potted palms and high above the spear of a fierce cactus there hovered a lemon sorbet beauty, queen of the cage. She fanned her transparent span to show me the intricate water silk of silver and caramel veins branching out to her manicure crimped tips. The wail of a child, further back on the ramp startled the queen; she dropped to the faux forest floor. I turned to move to the next display to escape the child’s din when a sharp movement caught my eye. A grey mouse scuttled in the cage, past the palms and hid under a rock. My throat closed behind the groan that escaped me. One perfect sorbet wing struggled alone to lift the queen. Her antennae shivered as her thread legs scrabbled to gain purchase on a trunk and hoist the deformed body out of danger. On the moss, out of her reach, withered the remains of the other wing; now a piece of tattered parchment, colours weeping as the life drained from it. I ran back down the ramp, jostled against the herd who tut tutted me like IKEA customers do when I walk against those bloody blue arrows. I grabbed the guard’s desk, panting, ‘You have to help.’

He raised his eyebrow a millimetre, but his down turned mouth remained fixed. When he looked into my face I was met with the same look of hostility I first encountered a week earlier from the sour immigration officer who, after an hour long queuing, welcomed me to Texas by collecting my figure prints and iris scan. The security guard’s shoulders wobbled as he shifted his bulk. Huge thighs hung over the side of the seat and his belly readjusted its rolls over his belt buckle. ‘Help miss?’ he said as if no one had ever dared ask such a thing before. ‘There’s a mouse in the butterfly display, it’s injured one of the big yellows.’ The down turned mouth sneered, the eyebrow never flinched. ‘Happens all the time miss.’ ‘But you must catch the mouse before it causes any more damage.’ A definite twitch occurred followed by a sigh. ‘He’ll be long gone.’ I gripped the desk harder. ‘No, you must help.’ The shoulders shrugged. ‘But what about the butterfly?’ Another shrug ‘It’ll die - eventually.’ ‘Put it out its misery.’ He narrowed his eyes and I remembered the government had my figure prints. ‘Is there anyone else who can help?’ ‘Nope, only me.’ And ‘only me’ was not budging off his big fat ass. I stumbled past him, barging OUT of the IN door. I almost puked in the flower bed when I heard the voice follow me into the torturing heat. ‘Ya’ll have a nice day now.’

UT UMBRA SIC FUGIT VITA (Life flies like a shadow)

by Laura Lam

On my citizenship ceremony in Aberdeen, September 2014 The granite tower of the Town House was the first thing I saw when he and I walked down Union Street that long-ago summer. Almost a decade. It’s the UK. We queue and we wait. Wait.

“I do solemnly and sincerely and truly declare and affirm that on becoming a British citizen, I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to her Majesty Queen

They see my passport & my letter. Above us, a wooden ceiling, dotted with names & their crests. Chandeliers shine on us, people from all walks of life, with their own stories. We wait. Wait.

Elizabeth the Second, her heirs and Successors, according to law.” We mumble the words, out of rhythm. One by one, we walk up, collecting our envelopes. We shake hands. “Look here,” Snap.

We go through to the room with the high peaked ceiling. Flags wave above us. United Kingdom. Scotland. Framed picture of the Queen. The lieutenant says his welcomes, and we stand up. Time to swear.

Our photo taken, we return to our seats. The ceremony is over. Tea, coffee, biscuits. The newest citizens mill in the Town House, the wait over. For we are Scottish now.

SARPOZKELEKH

by Helen Lynch

A version of this story will appear in my forthcoming short story collection, Tea for the Rent Boy. It grew out of a memory exercise which was part of a creative writing workshop. Auntie Golde says to pick up his blanket and be quick about it. Auntie Golde is quite fierce. Mummy says it’s called strick and once she says it’s old fashion, but I think it’s fierce like the lion picture in Ruthie’s book where the mouth and all the fangs is popped up. I’m not fraid of Auntie Golde either cause I’m the Eldest and so I don’t fall asleep in cars or be fraid of grownups or pictures. Once Ruthie was so fraid she tried to tear the lion picture out and put it in the toilet. Most grownups like it if you do a really big smile with all your teeth. They like if you do what they say and don’t ask questions. The question they specially don’t like is why, but that’s what a question is. Daddy specially doesn’t like are we nearly there, and Mummy doesn’t like is there anything to eat when she’s already told you. Auntie Golde says I’m standing there dreaming, but I’m not I’m just thinking, but she doesn’t wait for me to splain her and she has picked up BabyDaniel and his face is over her shoulder with big surprise eyes going to the stairs. BabyDaniel is my brother and he’s only one year old. Ruthie can only say bruvver cause she can’t speak as well as me. Most of the time she followsmeround and is quite noying, though she is good for characters in games. I’m the main character cause I’m the Eldest but Ruthie can be everyone else. Usually Ruthie doesn’t speak to grownups but I can do talking and she can say and me so that she gets everything the same as me. I’m the Eldest and I don’t need a carry on long walks and I have to look after her so she isn’t lost and leftbehind even if she’s very noying. BabyDaniel’s blanket is on the armchair so I grab it quick to take for Auntie Golde. I wish I could stay down in the kitchen where Auntie Renka is. Ruthie is on the big stool that BabyDaniel’s high chair goes on top of. Mummy says it’s her perch. I can see Ruthie through the doorway where the light is all yellow. Auntie Renka pops pieces of honeycake in your mouth when you don’t even ask her, and sour cream and berry jam on a spoon. BabyDaniel’s blankie is scritchy and yellow, though it used to be white onceuponatime and it has a smooth, shiny feeling along the edge and a pointy corner which BabyDaniel likes to suck. Mummy says that colour’s called cream, but cream is white like milk is. Ruthie and me call it his weewee blankie and we say it smells of wee-wee and is yellow like wee-wee and he’s a baby and wee-wees on everything, even up in the air, and he has nappies and it takes everyone a lot of time to look after him. Ruthie and me got cited and telled Auntie Renka bout the wee-wee and she laughed and we jumped up and down at the same time as the washing machine noise and shouted wee-wee blanket wee-wee blanket every time we jumped. Auntie Renka’s name is Auntie Renya and Auntie Iroosha and she calls wee-wees shoo-shoos. Auntie Renka even likes questions and makes long answers to splain us. Her voice is funny and goes up and down like hickory dickory dock and she says funny words like Hennchen and Malootka. Ruthie can’t say words like that cause she can’t say Le sounds. She says maootka and when she has to say lollipop she can only say o-i-pop and once she said oddiplop and we laughed like drains. Daddy said it was her first el even if it was in the wrong place and should be cedebrated. Then all the grownups and me laughed like drains. When Mummy and Daddy went away for a whole day and a night and a next day, I asked Auntie Renka why? But why? Why do they have to go out? She said Mamas and Papas need to rest sometimes. But they can rest here, I said, and Mummy can take a pill for her sore head. Auntie Renka gave us some honeycake which was very extra lishous. Ruthie says ishous. Auntie Golde did a big noise like a pig sneeze. Auntie Golde isn’t noyed by questions she just never answers them. She says things or goes away, but she always notices your haviour, specially the not talking kind. Even when she’s not looking. 8

Daddy says get that look off your face, my lady, but Auntie Golde says, what are you, a jug? I don’t know what kind of jug she means. Auntie Renka always makes a funny tishing noise at her with a bit of laughing. Auntie Renka has pretty white hair and it’s not a bun. Her hair is bouncy and she has paleblue glasses on a dangly golden chain, but Auntie Golde’s isn’t and her glasses are on her nose. Now Auntie Golde says over her shoulder – ‘Don’t stare. Bring that blanket. You help me a little, no?’ Mummy says that babies have wispy hair. I asked her why didn’t the Aunties have any children, but Mummy said not everyone has babies. Auntie Golde and Auntie Renka are Mummy’s aunties too but they’re not her real aunties asamatterofac. When Mummy was learning to be a teacher before we were everever born she lived in their house, which is called Swiss Cottage even though it’s a flat. Once when Mummy and the Aunties were discussion and I was staying very quiet so it wasn’t bed time for me, Auntie Golde said Poe lax in an almost shout, and she spitted like that, even onto the carpet. I had to go to bed allofasudden, but I asked Mummy what Poe lax is, and she did splain me bout it, but it was a funny reason. The War was long ago but Auntie Renka and Aunte Golde were children then but not so little like us. The War was very bad and there were soldiers and people shooting like in films. Our Nana calls them fillums and we always laugh like drains so she says it again and Ruthie says she’s funning us. Mummy says in The War it was very dangerous and the Aunties lived in a country far away called You Crane, though they weren’t friends then and didn’t know each other at all. Mummy says it was very dangerous in You Crane in The War and all the neighbours were called Poles. Auntie Golde’s family had to run away in a special bus, but the neighbours all stood in their front gardens. With flowers in? Yes, with flowers. What kind? I don’t know, sunflowers, and dahlias – she was starting to get cross so I said Auntie Golde was in the bus? Yes and the neighbours made a horrible sign with their fingers on their necks to show they thought Auntie Golde and all her family were going to... weren’t going to get away, and they were laughing. Even the children. I thought about the children laughing like drains in among the flowers. But Auntie Renka had nice neighbours and some of them hid her in their barn for two whole years, even though she had to eat potatoes all the time and the rest of her family went somewhere else on a big train. Some people were very brave, Mummy splained me, Polish people, and other people, they hid people away even though it was a big danger to do that, and some people, they... they didn’t. ‘They laughed in their gardens,’ I said. ‘Laughed like drains.’ ‘Yes.’ So only Auntie Renka but never Auntie Golde is doing chitchatting with Mrs Dobramilska in the shop where they have the curly sheep horn rolls. Auntie Renka says the Poles are a Proudandfearlessnation but I don’t know what that is. And Mummy says the Aunties have greed to disagree. She also says Nevverthetwain shall meet, but I don’t know who Nevverthetwain is. When we are at Auntie Golde’s and Auntie Renka’s I say to Ruthie let’s pretend we don’t live here, that we live at our house. Pretend the settee is our real house and we’re just visiting. Leopard’s visiting too, I tell her. Yes, and Old Ted. When Ruthie goes into a room she always holds Leopard up and shouts ‘Eppard’s here’ and everyone laughs. Daddy says he’s a faymus beast. Leopard has one green ear where something got spilled on him that wouldn’t come out. We give them some pills for a sore head cause they’re crying. Then they’re all outofsorts so we give them two spoonfuls of medasun instead. Leopard was gived to Ruthie when she was a teenybaby by Auntie Kathleen - Ruthie says Auntie Katheen and she’s a real auntie of ours. She always comes to visit us with our Nana on the big train from Liverpool but we don’t go there on the big train to visit them anymore since BabyDaniel 9

was born cause it would make a nightmare. At teatime Auntie Renka said bout Granma but we don’t have a Granma only a Nana. Auntie Renka said she didn’t mean our Nana but there’s a diffrunt other Nana too. I think this Other Nana lives more far away but Auntie Renka says this Other Nana lives in London so I say can we go and see her? Can we? And Ruthie says and me. Auntie Renka says I’m sorry, Hennchen. My name is Helen but Auntie Renka says I’m hennchen but it’s not a mistake, it means little hen. Auntie Renka says that the Other Nana is ever so Lishous. Auntie Golde makes the sneeze noise and says it’s a unforbiddable thing, but I don’t know what that is. In our house there is a picture of us with our Nana, Daddy and Auntie Kathleen at the seaside at More Come. We are eating sandwiches and I have a bucketandspade. Our hair is blowing into our mouths and our eyes are shut. There isn’t any sea, only sand. The sea is far far away. There isn’t any picture of this Other Nana. There’s a picture of Mummy and Daddy getting married in a place called Turkey, like the bird Ruthie calls gobblegobblers. Mummy has short hair and a summer dress and looks very pretty, and Daddy doesn’t have his glasses on. Mummy is writing in a book and Daddy is watching her. I can see from her mouth in the picture that Mummy has a concertration face on. Mummy and Daddy worked in a school in a town and the big children’s mummies and daddies gave them boxes of oranges for a present. Uncle Harry and Auntie Jean are Mummy and Daddy’s friends from the Turkey School. I like Uncle Harry cause he always swings us roundandround. He’s always funning us and he funs Daddy too. When he comes to our house Daddy says hello you Proddy Barster and Uncle Harry shouts hello you Feenya Get and Mummy always laughs. Auntie Renka calls Mummy Reevka and sometimes hennchen too though her name’s not even like Helen at all. It’s Becky same as the teacher in my Nursery School. The other one is called Golden Rain and she has long yellow hair and a big tummy with a baby in it that’s going to come out shortly. She says it will come out to play but it won’t. It’ll be too teenytiny and all outofsorts for that. Shortly means in a little while but not as soon as soon. When I go to Big School I’m going to make a steam engine all out of bits and bobs and learn to read and write. I’m nearly ready for Big School because I can touch my ear over my head. I already have piggytails and I have bobbles, yellow bobbles, and I’m old enough to have memries. I haven’t got any memries bout being a teenybaby bit I do have memries bout being three. I got a present and I was cited cause it was a big present in red paper and Aunty Kathleen said awww she thinks it’s Christmas but it was just cause the paper was red and I know bout Christmas and I didn’t think that. Auntie Golde comes back to see if I’m going to stand there all night. At teatime Auntie Golde said that Mummy was marriedout but I don’t think that’s the same as carriedaway. The grownups say not to get carriedaway when we’re all cited but that’s what we like and we don’t want to stop then and someone doesn’t get hurt. I follow Auntie Golde up the stairs. The stairs go round a corner two times and then it’s the top floor where the carpet all runs out and the Box Room is. I don’t know if this room is small like a box or for keeping boxes in. There are some boxes in it, big wooden ones with labels on and lots of dust. Daddy says sometimes I really am a gormlessgreateejit, but I know that he’s always funning at me, cept when I stracted him and he dropped a heavy box on his bare feet. That wasn’t funning but I was so scared I laughed anyway. It sounded silly and Daddy was fulloncross that time. I was little then and Ruthie was only a teenybaby. It’s chilly up here where there isn’t any more carpet, and Auntie Golde is going up the stairs really fast and pressing BabyDaniel really tight on his nappy. Auntie Golde’s legs are everso everso straight under her woolly skirt. Calves are baby cows but shins aren’t anything else. There are hands and feet and legs and eyes but there are other things like thighs and cuticles which I do know bout but I don’t always remember whichiswhich. BabyDaniel’s face is all wet and red and his spression looks horrorfied but he’s bouncing up and down so he can’t make any noise cept one that goes up and down with each stair. I can’t keep up with them and the blanket gets hooked on the corner of the wall. All I can see is his dangly legs wobbling with each bounce underneath Auntie Golde’s elbow. He looks like the puppet that sat on the edge of the stage once, the one that said ‘ooh, a egg!’ and tried to cross his legs but he couldn’t and everyone laughed. There’s a old cot here that I saw once before but I don’t know why cause the aunties don’t have any babies of their own. At our house his cot is yellow and has picture of a bunnyrabbit on the side. This cot is made of metal. Auntie Golde is so fierce I can’t tell if she’s cross or not. She puts 10

BabyDaniel in the cot. He doesn’t want to lie down but she makes him by squashing him with her hand, and asks me to pass his blanket. There are other baby blankets in there too already, a blue one and a big squishy one that’s red and golden. Auntie Golde pushes him inbetween and he starts to suck on the corner of his blanket. He doesn’t look sleepy to me. His eyes are stremely openwide and his face is wet. Auntie Golde says, ‘now, now, my little prince’, stroking his back. ‘And you,’ she says, ‘can make yourself useful.’ He’s not everso comfy but she keeps on stroking his back and she sings him a song in a funny language I never heard before. One bit is easy cause the words are just the same ya dada dai all the time, so she makes me join in that part and she sings the bits with words inbetween. I want to ask what the words mean but she hisses at me not to stop singing. It’s a nice tune but we sing it hundredsandhundreds of times before he falls asleep. We sing it so many times that I even know the funny words as well. They come back over and over. Little girls need to help their mamas, Auntie Golde says. While I sing the ya dada dai bit, Auntie Golde whispers me the story. It’s bout a man who loves a lady so much that he sings how he’ll sell his own boots and sell hankies at the railway station. I never saw anyone sell hankies at the station, but Auntie Golde says he has to do it because this lady is his favourite and he calls her his own little bird and if she doesn’t love him he will be like a door without a handle. That would be silly but praps he’s a gormlessgreateejit. It isn’t like any of the songs I know. Some of the words have a scrapey noise in them and Auntie Golde is making her voice go round a corner and up and down and all bendy and soft like it never is usually. I want to laugh at her diffrunt voice but I don’t. It’s a good thing for a girl like me to be able to do, she says, a useful thing, and it will help my poor mother who godknows needs all the help she can get. It makes me very sleepy to sing it and I want to do a big yawn but that would be silly cause I’m not a baby and it isn’t bedtime for me. ‘Come,’ she says, ‘soft soft, we go downstairs. The little Prince needs to sleep. Little boys need to grow big and strong.’ ‘I’m big and strong,’ I say. Auntie Golde makes a sneeze noise and she doesn’t say I’m the Eldest even though I am. I’m really cross allofasudden and I want to shout but I might wake him up and he’ll cry. ‘He’s not a Prince,’ I say it really quiet to Auntie Golde. ‘He’s not a Prince, he’s a Ruddy Nuisance.’

THE DIVINE COMEDY OF PROFESSOR HENRY CRABBE by Shane Strachan I’d found notes in library books before: doodles, to-do lists, confessions of love and cries for help. But it wasn’t until I was hidden away in a corner of Aberdeen Central Library, halfway through a wellthumbed copy of Stevenson’s The Master of Ballantrae, that I came across a note addressed specifically to me. In thick red pen, someone had written across a pale green post-it, ‘Hello Henry. About time you got some education.’ I peeled off the post-it and felt the adhesive strip on the back. It was still tacky against my wrinkled fingertips. Still fresh. After my initial unease at the sight of my name, a logical reason for the note came to mind: one of the book’s main characters shared my namesake – young Henry Durie, forever haunted by his elder brother. Someone had maybe been taking notes about the book? Whatever the case, the note had disrupted my reading. With the aid of my cane, I struggled up out of the low, padded seat and made my way to the issue desk. Jenny served me, a pale girl who’d slowly come out from behind her long black curls since her first shift a few weeks back. She’d even started taking an active interest in what I read, making simple comments like, ‘I like this one’ or ‘Oh, I’ve never heard of this’. ‘I didn’t know you studied Psychology as well,’ she remarked after scanning the Freud and R.D. Laing books amongst today’s selection. ‘Oh, but the study of literature is the study of everything, my dear. Maybe that was never made clear to you,’ I laughed. ‘It never ceases to amaze me how much modern schooling has failed your generation.’ She leant away at that, a dark vine of hair swinging down over her face. I tried not to smile as I bagged my books and made my way to the exit. Outside, I took my time heading down the wet granite steps. It required a certain skill to balance the heavy bag of books on one side, while propping oneself up with a cane on the other – the dance of the weighing scales. I continued up past the granite splendour of 12

St Mark’s Church and His Majesty’s Theatre and spotted a couple of familiar faces by the bus stop: two young men dressed in only shorts and t-shirts, not even caring to hide their bare limbs from the rain by standing under the shelter. They were two of the last students I’d had to endure teaching at the university a couple of years back. God knows what their names were, but I was sure to head on to the next bus stop to avoid being in their company. Once I was home and dry, I settled into my study. The sky had grown dark so I switched on all three of the dusty lamps that hung over my desk. Their light bore down onto the pages of the first book I’d pulled out of my bag: a collection of Freud’s essays. I skimmed through the contents and flicked towards the passages I’d need for the article I was working on. Where I expected to read Freud’s thoughts on Hoffman’s ‘The Sandman’, I came across another post-it. This time, it was just one word: ‘WILL’. I thought nothing of this note until later on in the night, when I came across another in Hogg’s Justified Sinner. It simply read, ‘YOU’. A question was forming, I surmised. When I found one final post-it wedged into the last pages of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, it did not have a question mark as expected. It just read, ‘PAY’. I reordered the three notes: YOU WILL PAY. At first, I thought it had something to do with a library fine or some other payment I’d maybe overlooked, but, as far as I could recollect, I had no outstanding debts. It could only mean that I was being threatened by some bibliophile via a combination of post-it notes and chance. The bones in my neck popped as I sat up laughing. Very well: I would pay! *

The next morning I made my way to St Mark’s Church for the Sunday service. It was one of the few churches left in the city that hadn’t been converted into some den of Dionysian worship packed with drunken students and oil workers.

I flinch as the woman next to me grabs onto my hand. She yanks me up onto my feet. Without much choice, I totter behind her with my cane as she drags me down the aisle. I try to resist, but she hoists me up a set of stairs over the band pit and into the middle of the stage.

As always, Reverend Fubar’s sermon was a complete let down. His analysis of scripture was never quite as thorough or nuanced as one would like, and the modern-day scenarios he supplied to this Sunday’s exploration of Matthew 7, verses 1-5 weren’t exactly befitting. Being the author of several monographs on the influence of the New Testament on Western literature, I was always going to be a tough critic, but the Reverend was yet to make it through one service without slipping up. Not that the congregation knew any better. You could tell from the finger fiddling, the sneaked glances at mobile telephones, and the few who actually drifted off to sleep, that the locks on the congregation’s doors read VACANT rather than ENGAGED. The least attentive were of course former students of mine – the types who couldn’t tell a sonnet from a sestina. Judy White, a gormless redhead now in her thirties, was the only one I ever remembered the name of from the church-going lot. She’d been of those students whose work took triple the time to mark than everyone else’s, each essay cut apart by my red pen until the pages looked like they’d been discovered at the scene of some crime.

‘Welcome to the show, Professor.’ She turns and smiles at me, revealing big dopey eyes under a thick red fringe – that lobotomised wretch, Judy White!

For the second hymn of the service, we were asked to turn to number 66, ‘O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing’. Halfway through the song – my voice ably manoeuvring its full tenor range that morning – I turned the page to discover that someone had covered over the final verses with yet another post-it. I fell silent as I read its message: ‘EDUCATION. SALVATION....’ I remained silent throughout the rest of the service, a little more thrown this time, especially at the excess dot in the ellipsis. * If you want peace from the rabble, a Tuesday is the optimum night to head to His Majesty’s Theatre. However, tonight’s performance of Gounud’s Faust is unexpectedly packed to the rafters. I dare not look any of the other theatregoers in the eye in fear that they will strike up a conversation about opera. It’ll inevitably end in me lambasting their ignorance. The lights go down and the curtain lifts to reveal a stage completely devoid of a set or a cast. We, the audience, sit in silence for a good minute, waiting for someone or something to appear…

She slinks back off stage and down into her seat. ‘Hello…’ I shout out into the auditorium, ‘What’s going on?’ There’s no response. Shielding my eyes from the harsh stage lights, I squint at the folk sat in my row. Along from Judy are the boys from the bus stop and other intolerable dullards that have crossed my path over the years. Even that simple Jenny girl from the library sits smirking at the end of the row. Someone giggles high above and I look up. Spiralling down from the Gods, a paper aeroplane sails towards me. It twists and turns in the air before landing gently at my feet. I pick up the piece of paper: it’s an essay feedback form from several decades ago. Across my lengthy critical response, someone has scrawled: ‘...DAMNATION.’ Suddenly there is a lot more laughter: what must be over a thousand paper planes are thrown out at me. They swoop down towards me as one big wall of daggers. They stab at my face, slice open my clothes. My bare skin is lacerated all over by paper cuts. The theatre lights brighten to an unbearable glare. I feel my cut skin start to blister and burn in the heat. The pieces of paper surrounding me burst into flames, and the shredded remnants of my clothes catch fire. Over my shrieks of pain and the hiss of burning paper and flesh, I hear the audience’s raucous laughter. Burning bright, I stumble down towards them. At the edge of the stage, my fiery cane snaps and I fall forwards, sinking down into the dark pit below. My performance is met with rapturous applause. Encore! Encore!

THREE HAIKU sheer exhilaration three dolphins leaping out there in the bay autumn evening sign in the shop window: everything must go winter rain â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the road ahead goes on forever

by Alan Spence

BELIEVE

by Elena Koleva

As Sol was exiting his apartment, he got a text message. It was from Flaura – his beloved friend and current love interest. Flaura:

Want to hang out?

He smiled; he loved spending time with her. She was always so radiant and happy; she gave out happiness just with her presence in the room. She was so beautiful inside and out: the way her eyes would go wider and wider when she’s listening to something she’s interested in, or the way she would jump about when she gets excited; the way her heart is so big it can contain the whole universe and then some, if she could she would help everyone and everything and not ask for anything in return. Sol loved everything about her – but he couldn’t tell her that, no matter how much he wanted to. He didn’t want to risk his friendship with her for some stupid feelings. And, anyway, she probably didn’t feel the same about him. It was all a big mess. Sol went down the flight of stairs and opened the door. The cold Icelandic air assaulted his skin and he zipped up his jacket. He started walking and thought that he should reply to Flaura. Sol:

Of course I do. I hope that was a rhetorical question. I’m just on my way to the shop – I’ll be at home in about 30 minutes. Come by any time you want.

He plugged in his earphones and played “Believe” by Mumford & Sons. Sol remembered the first time he heard that song – he was sitting in a booth in his favourite café, in Reykjavik, with Flaura, Tom, Mila, Phoebe and Noah. They were drinking camomile tea and coffee and the song came on the radio. Flaura is a big Mumford & Sons fan, so she got on top of the booth and started singing along to the song as if there was no one else in the café. She kept looking down at her friends, smiling, as she was truly happy. Her eyes had that green sparkle that hypnotised you and you couldn’t look anywhere else. In that moment Sol realised he loved her. She was so carefree and confident. She was so loving and caring. She was so alluring with her smile and her eyes were so compelling. She was everything he ever wanted and the fact he couldn’t have her made him want her even more. Sol smiled at the memory – it was one he would treasure and look back on in hard times. The doors of the supermarket opened for him, and he began his shopping. Sol didn’t need to guess what Flaura would like – he knew already; they were very similar people. He picked up crisps – salted ones, we don’t want bad breath; cola – diet for Flaura and cherry for him; chocolate – with Oreos; and frozen pizza – extra cheesy. A perfectly healthy lifestyle they both were living. A quick work at the checkout and he was on his way back to the apartment. 15

As he was walking he looked at the sky and thought of Flaura, as it was something she would like – streaks of apricot orange upon amethyst purple. He could imagine Flaura taking a picture of the sky through her flower-covered window with a smile on her face.

Flaura was a bit hesitant answering. “I’m not sure. The third one maybe?” Flaura’s voice went to a higher note as she finished the sentence, which showed she wasn’t sure her answer was correct. Sol adored the little things that compiled all together and made one incredible human being, Flaura Olvirsson.

He reached his apartment building and saw Flaura waiting at the door. “Look at the sky Sol,” said Flaura, excitedly. Whenever there was a beautiful sky, there was a very happy Flaura. “Yes, I did. It’s stunning, isn’t it?”

Sol looked at her and decided he wanted to tell her everything; from his hate for his parents to the way his ex betrayed him. They had been friends for such a long time but, because he was constantly scared of being hurt, he never told her things from his past, or at least not the bad memories. He was scared of looking weak and weakness makes you vulnerable.

“Indeed”, agreed Flaura. Sol unlocked the door and let Flaura go first. As they were walking up the stairs Flaura was very excited about the gig that was happening at the pier at the weekend.

This time he decided to just do it. He trusted her and wanted her to know those things. He hoped dearly this doesn’t change anything between them. “My ex was, and still is, a bitch.”

“It’s going to be so cool. Everyone will be there, having a good time. It will be a good event to shoot for your portfolio.” Sol loved listening to her talk about something she is passionate about – music was one of those things. Another was his photography, surprisingly so. When they reached his apartment, he took out the things from the bag and started the oven so that he could prepare the pizza. Flaura was making herself at home and turned on the TV and started looking for something to watch, preferably a movie they haven’t seen before. “How about Lord of the Rings,” she asked. “Whatever you want.” Flaura smiled at Sol and turned her head back to the TV, concentrating on the movie. The ding of the oven was heard and in went the pizza. Sol took out the crisps and threw them at Flaura’s head but missed, so they ended up in her lap. She raised her hand up showing the peace sign, which was her way of saying thanks silently. He brought the chocolate and the coke to the table and sat down next to her. “Which movie is it,” asked Sol. 16

Flaura looked surprised at Sol’s sudden outburst. You could see it her eyes went that bit wider and her eyebrows were raised. However, she looked happy to listen as she always wondered why he was so secretive about his past. Sol took a deep breath and continued, “We were going out for just over a year and we decided to take it further by having sex. A week after that, I walk into my friend’s flat and see her there in his bed, naked, sucking the guy’s face off.” Sol was looking at Flaura’s face very intently trying to figure out what was happening in that crazy head of hers, but as always she was the queen of the poker face. Sol continued, “It was hard because I loved her, or at least I thought I did, and she cheated on me with my friend. What kind of a person does that? After that I didn’t want to see her, or have any sort of interaction with her. She disgusted me, but now, upon reflection, I know it was hurt I was feeling. “However, everything got better when they were no longer in my life. I moved on; I moved out of my parent’s house and out of the country and moved into my own flat here in Iceland and began to live for the first time.”

Flaura looked very surprised at this whole story, as she never thought Sol was the long-term-relationship type, as he had a trail of one night stands behind him. She had a question.

“Thank you for sharing that with me. I appreciate it,” said Flaura. “I told you because it’s a part of my life I want you to know about. And I hope this doesn’t change your perception of me.”

“What about your parents,” she asked. Sol always wondered how she knew what questions to ask. His parents were another tough subject to discuss but since it was let-itall-out hour, he thought he had nothing to lose, so he might as well share.

Flaura smiled. “Stop being silly. Nothing can change my opinion on you. You’re Sol, my best friend. I don’t care if you have a tail or psycho parents. You’re you and I love you for that.” Sol smiled and said he loved her too, more than she knew.

“They are dickheads.” Flaura looked sceptical as what he said contradicted what she knew. Sol always spoke of the good memories he had with them, but, perhaps, that wasn’t the whole story. “Care to expand,” said Flaura, in a questioning tone. Sol smiled and continued, “They never loved me, or at least it felt that way. They always seemed so in love with this image they had of me and wanted me to become it very desperately. It was always about education and money-filled future, rather than what I actually wanted. They pushed me so hard towards this future that they actually pushed me away. So when I turned eighteen I left. I left and never looked back. I only regret leaving my younger brother Tommy. Whenever we talk he always tells me about how my parents are pushing the same values onto him and he isn’t enjoying his life. But he should. This is why I’m encouraging him to leave as soon as he can, because it will ruin him, the same way it ruined me. “It’s not good what they’re doing. It fucks with your head. It disturbs your idea of life and brings it down to single piece of paper, which only has value as long as you have, You lose it and you have nothing. “Hence why I left and decided to live my life the way wanted, even it meant living in a foreign country by myself where I don’t know anyone.” Flaura had that expression on her face which showed she was feeling sympathy. She wanted to hug him. He had experienced so much pain and she wanted to tell him everything would be okay – probably something he’s heard too many times. 17

PHOBOPHOBIA

by Emma Reid

I stand at the door of my fear landscape, the simulation based test in which I am made to face my fears head on. I’m lifting myself on the balls of my feet. The sound of footsteps fills the room. It’s her, Zoe. I can tell she is trying to go unnoticed by the silence in her usually loud step. “Since you’re here you might as well come with me” I say distractedly. I don’t look at her; I’ll lose my concentration if I do. “What?!” she asks exquisitely. I sigh. “The simulation can be connected to you too, but the programme determines whose landscape you go through, it’s set up to go through mine” I can feel her come closer. The warmth of her body emanating through her soft skin. “You would let me see?”Zoe says softly. She is the only one I would let see this. “Why else do you think I would go in?” I’m still trying to not look at her. This is proof that I may be crazy, or that I like her a lot more than I should, but something feels right about exposing my fears to Zoe. After this she’ll know more about me than anyone .My name, my story, everything. I take out a box containing two syringes with the fear simulation serum inside. Pushing the needle into her neck; she winces as the tainted toxic green liquid travels through her veins and into her body. When I’m done I hand her the box with the other syringe, and she glances at me with wide eyes as if she is questioning my actions. I grin faintly and tap the spot on my neck where I’ve injected myself so many times before. Briefly I’m reminded of every time I’ve been through my fear landscape, how many times I’ve tried to fight them and how nothing has changed during all this time. A moment passes and I’m right back on earth when Zoe removes the needle from my skin. She takes my sweaty palm. I wonder if she can tell how uneasy I am about this. I am uneasy about her. “See if you can figure out why they call me G.” I say. I know she will. Together we walk into the room full of my fears, until we are consumed by the darkness. I feel Zoe press against me. I shiver slightly and prepare myself for the first simulation: Heights. “What’s your real name?” she asks. “See if you can figure that out too.”I say vaguely. I squeeze my eyes shut before the fear takes over. When I open them again, we are standing on top of a building in the middle of a warzone, in a building so high that the wind almost knocks us over. The drop is the size of an aircraft carrier to the wreckage below. I wrap my arms around Zoe’s 18

small shoulders; partly to shield her from the wind, but mostly because I need her to keep me on my feet. I look down at her, keeping my eyes from gazing over the side of the building. Her bright blue eyes are wide, but not with fear. She looks excited and filled with adrenaline; guessing by the peachy colour in her chubby cheeks. “We have to jump off, right?”she says breathlessly as if she has just ran a marathon.

It’s a struggle to hear what she’s saying over the sound of my beating heart, so I make a small hum to show that I was listening. “We can’t break out of here” she insists, this time I make an effort to be attentive. “It’s easier to face the fear head on, you need to make the space smaller. It has got to get worse before it gets better.”

Panic is building up in my chest, rising to my brain. I long to be at ground level.

No.

“On three,okay?”She shouts now because the wind levels have risen.

“We’ll have to crouch now, ready?” Zoe pulls me down.

How can she be so calm when my heart is threatening to explode?

The walls continue to creep slowly. She turns and curls against me; we’re entangled together in a white casket. I gasp as my lungs clutch on to the remaining oxygen left in my body. I can’t see her face anymore, and that leaves me completely focused on the utter lack of room.

“One...two...three!” she pulls me along as we run to the edge of the building, before our momentum can stop, my I feet leave the ground. I’m falling. Falling until I’m crouching on the floor of an entirely different scene. We’re in a room with four blank walls, an empty canvas. Zoe and I are the artwork. All I see is her pearly smile, she helps me to my feet.

“Ah,” I wheeze. “This is worse. This is definitely…” “Shhh” She consoles.

“What’s next?”she grins.

“The simulation measures your fear response so if you can calm your heartbeat down, we can move on.” she’s still using her calm voice.

“It’s-” I start to string together a reply, but the walls draw in, slamming her forward until she collides into my chest.

“Oh yeah? That easy, huh?” I say sarcastically against her ear. I smile on the inside.

Oh no. This fear is almost worse than the heights. I bend over to stop the ceiling from pressing into my neck, but it stalks me without a second of hesitation.

“You know, most boys would enjoy being trapped in close quarters with a girl.”She smirks. “Not ones that are claustrophobic, Zoe!” I wince.

“The fear of confinement” Zoe answers her own question. She looks at me. “Hey, it’s okay. Here-” she says. She wraps my arms around her tiny waist. It’s definitely not okay, I bury my face in the waves of dark brunette tresses. I try to control my heavy breathing. She smells like clean linen, like my bed sheets, like home. “This is the first time I’ve been glad to be small” she says with a laugh.

“Okay, okay” She takes my hand and places it on top of her chest. Her heart beats beneath my fingers. “Feel my heartbeat, feel how steady it is?” I raise an eyebrow, confused by her question. “It’s fast,” I challenge. “Yes well, that has nothing to do with the space. Every time you feel me breathe, you breathe. Got that?” She says hurriedly continuing on. 19

Her chest gradually rises and falls at the pace of someone sleeping, it’s not so difficult to match the pace after a while. The walls stop moving and we are stuck in another dark space, this time with a small slit of light leaking through. “Why don’t you tell me where this fear comes from? Maybe talking about it will help us…somehow” God Zoe, of all of the things you could ask. “Um...okay,” I clear my throat. “This one is from my “fantastic” childhood. The tiny cupboard upstairs.” Childhood punishments. I can still remember that cupboard. If my fear landscape really wanted to torture me, it would have put dusty boxes and umbrellas with pointy tips in this small space. My mother kept our winter coats in this cupboard, I hated the scent of dust that accumulated in the space over time. Like the cupboard from Narnia. “I really don’t want to talk about it” I mumble. I know I won’t have to explain my reluctance to her. “Your heart is racing, Zoe.” I say, trying to change the subject. I feel her cringe against me. “I barely know you and I’m crammed up against you in a box,G, what do you think?” I think she’s nervous. I grin. “If we were in your fear landscape, would I be in it?” I say sheepishly. “I’m not afraid of you.”She laughs. “Of course you’re not but that’s not what I meant.” The laugh escapes me, in time we escape the wooden box of doom. I let go of Zoe reluctantly, and rise to stretch my arms. While she recovers from the cupboard, I turn to face her. “You’re a terrible liar” I say cockily. “What are you trying to tell me?!” She’s trying to get in my head and I don’t like the way the conversation is headed. Before I can ward off her questions, a flash of movement catches my eye. My dear mother is pointing a silver hand gun at us. Out of all of my fears this is the one that is easiest to overcome. The has become familiar overtime, but not so familiar that it can be crossed of the list. I reach for my own gun which is in the back pocket of my jeans. The expression of sudden understanding fills Zoe’s face. “You have to kill her” She says. “Every single time” I breathe. “Are you sure she isn’t real? She looks real. It feels real.” I stare at her once more. 20

If she was real, she would have killed me already. I raise the gun over my left shoulder, take aim on the woman’s forehead. Inhale, exhale. I don’t look after I squeeze the trigger. I haven’t missed. I never miss.We stand in silence as Zoe pulls on my arm. There is a big elephant in the room, she wants to get out. “Let’s go, keep moving” I hesitate, knowing what’s coming next ,I know what Zoe will see. It’s him. “Here we go” I whisper. Be brave, G. In my childhood home my father looms ahead of me, his dark, modest clothes only bringing out the blackness of his eyes. I freeze, unable to look away. Zoe stays quiet for the first time. “Here’s the part where you figure out my name” I swallow. “Is he…” She looks back and forth, speechless, between me and the grey clothed monster that I call my father. She knows him. Her eyes widen. Then, with a disbelieving stare, she says my name. “Grady.” The simulation of my father moves, unwinding a worn brown leather belt on his fist. “This is for your own good” he says. His voice echoes against the cold walls, like they have done many times before. He lifts his arm swiftly, bringing the belt back like a whip; I raise my arm to help keep the unavoidable sting from reaching my face. But the blow never comes. I open my eyes to find Zoe, fearless and reckless, throwing her small body in front of me, shielding me. I watch in horror as my father strikes the belt around her arm, making her curl up in pain. She rips the belt from his grasp, causing it to hit him in the shoulder. My father growls, preparing to fight back. My lips curl into a snarl and anger rushes through my veins, cancelling out the fear. He can strike me with that belt as many times as he likes, but seeing him do anything to her turns my blood cold. I grab Zoe’s arms, pulling her quickly behind me. I’m ready for his attack, at the last minute the scene vanishes. Leaving us back in the room. Zoe looks around, unfazed by the last fifteen minutes. “That’s it?”She says. Those were your worst fears?” I realise I’ve been staring at her like an idiot for this entire time, but I can’t look away now. She meets my gaze with her own puzzled one. I’m in too deep, I just know it, my conscious slaps me in my face, screaming at me that if I let myself fall for Zoe, I’ll only lose her. I yank her into my arms, running my lips across her cheek, my breathing is still heavy. I feel her heart accelerate, she pauses for a second before winding her arms around me.

SAPPHIRE EYED

by Sara Nowaczyk

The silver lining of the gates glimmered under the sun, hiding the ancient secrets of the building it has been guarding for years and will continue doing so for centuries to come. The vines interlocked with each bar of the gate, covering the cold, bold metal, almost hugging it away from the pure white snow blanket that fell just a couple of days before, yet still managed to keep its blissful appearance. In the spring the vines will grow little buds, which will bloom into beautiful roses that will perfume the air with that fresh, sweet yet quite sickly scent. The golden rays reflected off the windows with that blinding manner, making the whole of the chapel glow with grace. The actual chapel wasn’t graceful and seemed abandoned, the occasional howling of the wind at night due to the cracked windows, the colour of the brick faded into an unpleasant brown that almost looked wet, the naked, dehydrated trees with their wrinkled branches stood like bodyguards of this ancient holy place. And a girl with black hair and the eyes that looked as crystal clear as the waters of the Maldives, so beautiful yet so foreign. She stood there in the snow in front of the entrance with her fingertips gripping the cold metal of the bars, her expression looked peaceful, but her eyes seemed concerned and unfocused, like she wasn’t sure about something. She must have been standing there for a while as there was no imprints in the snow and her lips were cracking and bruising from the low temperature. The smooth velvet sky was painted an array of pink, orange and yellow, the clouds stretched long across the horizon and the pale glow of the moon was beginning to show. At first glimpse everything about the scene seemed perfect. Not everyone would notice the tiny smudge of black; some would think that it was just the first signs of the night sky coming up from the horizon, but if you’d care to take another look, there was more to the black smudge than just nature. It was deeper and alienated just like the eyes of the girl… “I like this one.” I turned my head, leaning against the door frame was Sandra Parker, the woman who took care of me for as long as I can remember. “You’re painting again,” She nodded her head in the direction of the painting that stood in front of me, resting on the window frame. I smiled slightly and a chuckle left my lips, funnily enough I was never a good painter, at least I don’t think so. “Yeah, but I keep messing it up,” I sighed faintly, as I run my fingers lightly against the wet paint. “Why do you say that?” She must have made her way forward, as I could feel her warm breath on my neck, causing goose bumps on my already irritated skin. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right.” She giggled a bit and started to hum a song that I recognized but couldn’t place. Waking over to a sink, she took a cloth and turned the hot water tap on, she placed it under it, soaking the material a little. She was back at my side not even a minute later, with her cleaning my hands from the residue of the acrylic paint with the soft cotton cloth. “She seems to be in place,” I heard her say, she didn’t look up at me or the painting, she didn’t have to, I knew what she was referring to; the sapphire eyed girl.

Squinting my eyes I looked at the paintings that hung from the walls, they were all different; different locations, different times, different objects, but the only thing that remained the same was the sapphire eyed girl. I don’t know her name, I don’t even know if I ever met her before, she looks too young to be my mother and too old to be my daughter. Maybe she’s my sister? Friend? Lover?

“You’re telling me to calm down?! How can I? I don’t remember anything. I don’t even know my own name for Christ sake!” “I told you it takes time for a person’s memory to come back after a traumatic event.” “You keep saying traumatic event by no one knows what happened.”

The plain white walls were perfectly smooth, no wonder after all they were repainted just last month. The paintings decorated them giving more life to the otherwise plain room, in that sense I was lucky as normally you were not allowed to have any personal decorations or belongings that can be harmful to others in your room, but Sandra was kind enough to turn a blind eye on it in exchange of me cooperating with her and the rest of the team. “What are you thinking?” She asked I noticed that she was done with my hands and was closely inspecting the painting before her, as if she was in an art gallery and the painting belonged to a famous artist like Leonardo da Vinci. “Just how depressing this whole situations is!” “Don’t be so harsh on yourself, it takes time,” She replied with that soothing voice of hers, which over time I started to find more and more annoying to listen to. “How much time?” “It varies from person to person, but you’re doing very well.” “I bet you tell this to everyone who’s locked up in here, huh?” Come to think of It, I never got the chance to meet any of the other patients, so how am I supposed to believe that I am doing well when I don’t even have a comparison.

“We have suspicions.” What suspicions is she talking about? How can they even have any? I mean after the police put me in here I haven’t seen them once, they say they’re investigating the case, but one came to speak to me yet. “You think that just because you read a few psychological books you know a person? How do I know that you and that bunch of doctors with clipboards are not making everything up?” There was a click and a tall, slender man stepped into the room, he had a pointy nose with his circular glasses dancing back and forth on it. It was Dr McCrae, the director of this institute. I’ve only seen him once before, when I was administrated here. He looked both at me and then Sandra cleaning his throat awkwardly he spoke, “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I’m showing Miss Abell her new patient that she’ll be working with soon.” I spotted a girl standing behind Dr McCrae, she was about his shoulder height, dressed in a white white trench coat that contested with her jet black hair, but there was something familiar about her. I scanned her features and stopped at the most familiar sapphire eyes that I’d recognise anywhere. Dr McCrae stepped back and eager for the girl to step forward, “Sandra I would like you to meet our new psychologist Chantal Abell.”

“Calm down, we won’t get anywhere this way. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll…” She said trying to make me sit at the edge of the bed, but I refused to get touched. I wasn’t going to fall for it this time, they would just hook me up to an IV drip with some miracle drug that would make me groggy and subconscious so that I won’t ask any more uncomfortable questions.

THE COUNSELLOR AFFAIR by Martin Carle Clarissa is in her kitchen, making tea. She sits on her basic kitchen chair and stirs her tea.

Clarissa is now on the bus, leaning towards the window, squashed in the rush hour buzz.

I had an appointment on Tuesday morning. Not one of those pleasant “see how you are” check-ups, more an invasive “date” with a Counsellor. I’d been told by my Doctor that I had to go and see this lady. He said, “she’ll help you.” I said, “I don’t think she will, thank you very much.” He said, “she will, don’t worry.” In a reassuring manner. I said nothing more. I couldn’t say no.

Adam had nothing else to say to me before he left for his work: retail assistant. Fancy name for a shop floor busybody, stacking shelves, reducing stock. Only, he thinks of it differently, “It’s experience,” he says. It’s not really, it’s just helping pay off his student loans. Compared to him, I live the high life as a researcher. Good pay, decent people, and flexibility. I can fit my reading around me, finding out more about the motivations behind important politicians and their work throughout time. Adam thinks it’s boring. It is nothing compared to cleaning up baby sick on aisle four.

Before I could leave for the appointment, I had to find that little slip thing that they give you with the place and time of the appointment. Nobody ever keeps them, I fail to see how they still give them out, but they do. I’m single, but I live with Adam- my flat mate. We get on well with each other, but we’re complete opposites in every other respect. I asked him if he’d seen the piece of paper with my appointment on it. He said “Can’t you look after your own stuff?” I said “I could, if it held any value to me,” He said “Give it a try. You’ll be surprised!” You’ll be surprised- what does he know? I said, “why should I do something that I don’t want to do?” He replied, “go out of your comfort zone, she’s going to help you, not hinder you.” He’s too open minded, he is. It’s the point of his downfall in my view. There aren’t any counsellors in history. David Lloyd-George didn’t consult his before he went into war. Hitler didn’t get counselling before his death in 1945. However, I’m certainly sure that all historians needed counselling after Braveheart; it’s one exception to my theory. I always have it in my mind that I’ll be part of the school syllabus in one hundred years time- Clarissa Parr, the greatest historical analyst ever. Uses own passion to drive generation of history lovers. If I’m open with people, they’ll know more about me. I want people to know about me because of my work, not because of me. The thought of the day that I have to open up to people makes an odd chill go down my back. I don’t like it. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’ll almost certainly be on my deathbed. 24

This Counsellor’s office, is actually her house. People like her think that inviting people into her home will make them more likely to come back, give her more money. I found the piece of paper. “10.00am, Monday September 25th” that’s really all it says. I get charged if I miss my appointment. I don’t have the money to face a fine (on the wages of a part time history researcher), and so I’ve really got to go. It won’t help me. My relationship with my parents left lots to be desired. They wanted me to be a lawyer. I told them what I wanted to be on the first day of the job. “A Historian,” I said. Only, they said, “you’re a shame on the family,” and showed me the door. I never really liked them. I think my sister’s the same. “If they were open to their kids, it might be different,” she says. I’m not so sure about openness, I think it’s supportiveness that makes a good parent. Eight years later, I’m still here- financially stable. I must be doing something right. As the appointment my anxiety surrounding it grew, what if I get a second appointment? What if she wants to see me again? Ooh, this is my stop. Here goes nothing. Clarissa presses on the “Bus Stop” bell, and gets up to get off. Clarissa is sat on a chaise longue, uncomfortably.

The house was one of those Victorian detached properties; rustic, with Ivy growing up its side. It looked unkept, deteriorating, not inviting. It’s like one of those houses on “Homes Under the Hammer”, only- before it undergoes renovation. I felt like I was the estate agent- going to give it it’s value- Zero Pounds and Zero Pence The Counsellor summoned me into her “office”, an empty barren warfield. Lit only by a bay window and a skylight, it was hardly a hightech affair. Two Ercol chairs, one G-Plan desk and this velvety chaise longue- the only furniture in the room. The velvet was uncomfortable, the material of smut. The atmosphere chilly and war like. Totally wrong in my opinion.

She had her ways of pushing and prodding- talking towards my interests. “What period of history do you particularly enjoy?” She asked. I couldn’t resist a reply, it’s history! “The Zollverein and economic developments of Germanic States 1815-1850,” I said. “A bit pointless,” she muttered. Only just enough for me to make out. This gave her enough to maintain conversation. She said “Any interests?” I replied “Yes, history, reading and not being here.”

I’ve nothing to tell, I’ve no idea why I was given an appointment here. I could be watching Neil Oliver documentaries at home, or catching up on Time Team. I sat there for a moment, waiting. The counsellor had popped out on my arrival, “to go and get some tea and biccys,” she claimed. I heard commotion outside the door, she was on her way back.

I made her out to be the Daily Mail type- her approach was very staunch, quite old-fashioned; conservative. Adam was telling me of how counsellors aren’t just sit-and-talk people nowadays. “They engage in activity,” he says. I said, “still doesn’t make them any better.” Anyway, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about- he’s never used a counsellor before.

In she came again, big strides, and dipped in cheap perfume, and a big head with a shock of red hair. I was surprised that she could fit under the door. A slender figure, with shadows for facial features, she looked like my idea of the devil. She had a notebook, one of those fancy yellow-paged ones- executive. I’ve only ever seen the high up lecturers using them. Researchers should be lucky to have a notebook in the first place- even that’s going digital.

She said, “you may not want to be here. But I remind you that I’m obliged to service for your GP. Your Doctor.”

“Good morning,” she said. I said, “Is it?” She said, “Yes don’t you think so?” I didn’t reply. I just tried to get comfortable in the chaise longue.

I said, “my Doctor knows nothing about my life. He doesn’t know me as well as he thinks.”

“Eventful journey?” She asked. I said that I’d been on the bus, completely normal, nothing worth noting. She said, “I’ll be the judge of that.” Bitch.

The Counsellor sat there silent. Smiling, that smile people give to hide a bad smell.

I sat and thought about the word Doctor, an eery silence for her, but a moment contemplation for me. I could have a doctorate one day, I thought, “it’s entirely possible.” Imagine what I become with one of those.

“Parents?” She asked. She began to ask questions. “How Long have you been in your job? Do you enjoy your job? Are you single or in a relationship?” The relentless fire of the questions continued to fly towards me.

In that moment, I felt a single tear accumulating in my left eye. It never normally happens, but the thought of her knowing about the situation made me think about how bad it was. Helicopter parents- the pilots of my life, or so they think.

I said, “Why do you want to know?” She said, “It’s all part of my enquiries, general questions to get us going. To find out where you need help.” To find Help, who does she think she is?

The Counsellor crossed a line there. I said that she had no right to know. I said that she had disturbed me with that question. Problem was, I gave her a hook to ask more. She said, “did something 25

happen?” I remained silent. She said, “do you remember your parents? I said nothing. My fear was surfacing. She was going to find something out. Or maybe she already did. Maybe she knew my parents. Maybe… she was their friend. I said that I should be going, the next big historical discovery to be made. She said no. She wanted me to stay. I said, “I’m concerned for the money of the NHS lining your pockets for me sitting here silently. You’re never going to find anything out.” She said, “Don’t worry. I’m not here for the money.” Then what was she here for? By then, I imagine her emotions were like a brûlée, strong and sweet on the outside, but a volcano ready to erupt from the inside. She said, “give me your confidence. Just one chance to prove to you that I can find out what’s wrong.” What’s wrong? I’m alarmed at the thought. She told me how she needed to submit a report to my GP. I said she didn’t need to. She said she did. I said, “am I ill?” She said “no, not to my knowledge” I said “ then why am I here?” She said “your Doctor’s worried. He thinks you’re abnormally minded.” That explains it, I thought. I Said “I could be making the next significant historic discovery… There’s nothing wrong with me.” I tried to reason, I’m a nice person, I didn’t want her to get the wrong impression. She said, “it’s part of the treatment to assess you for a broad range of different possibilities.” It’s treatment. Treatment for what? Adam’s always joked about me being loopy; “You’re crazy,” he says. Or is he joking? She said, “well, there’s always time to do your hobby. Do you have a job? The cheek! I said “History is my job thank you very much. I’m dedicated to it.” She said “History is no real job you know, find something else? What else interests you? Law? Politics? Something has to be there for you?” Law- the scornful thought that my parents could be right flashed through my mind for a moment. Increasing was the thought that she had some relation with my parents. Or, she could have wanted me to say that I’d like to find a job in the sciences. In this world, people are either scientists or social scientists- there’s little go between. They’re a million miles apart: physics and politics, history and biology. Not related at all. Apart from the fact that politics sets the scientific goals. See? Social science always wins. History is always the most important subject. I said, “history is a job, and I’m dedicated to it thank you very much. You can’t make me leave my job.” She said, “please, this is no place or shouting. The neighbours will hear you.” She said, “we need to agree on some plan of action,” I said, “what is there to be agreed upon? It’s my life and I’ll live it how I want, thank you very much.” She said “If the doctor gets involved again, we’ll have to do something,” I said “I know, but, I couldn’t care less thank you.” 26

She said, “we’ll sort something out.” I said, “no we won’t thank you.” She said “Come back for another appointment and we can sort something out.” I said “ I’ll pass, thank you” she said “No you won’t, same time next week. Be here” and walked out of the room to another client, I presume. I’m not sure if she should have done that. Unprofessional. On reflection, it becomes clear how unprofessional she was: fiddling with her parker pen whilst I spoke, constantly moving in her chair. Perhaps even she finds them as uncomfortable as I do, or, perhaps, she didn’t care enough about me to pay attention. I have to go back for another appointment now. She gets off the chaise longue and walks out of the room Clarissa is back in her kitchen on her basic kitchen chair, with a cup of tea, and Neil Oliver’s “A History Of Scotland” in front of her. When I told Adam about the appointment, he said, “see? It’s not that bad.” I said, “that’s not half of it, it was worse than that.” She was pushy, you see, kept wanting to have the information dragged out of me. Utter torture. Stuck in an empty room, with a crazed mad woman who thought that I needed help, and she was the person for it. Who would want to go through that? Certainly not me. Inclusive to this, I must research whether she is related to my parents, she needs to be eliminated from my life. One thing the appointment did make me do, was reflect. A strange reflection- not pleasant. But it opened a few pathways. A new direction, even more dedication to history. I’m going to go full time on the history researcher side of things. It’ll take less time to analyse things that way. I’ll be ahead of the game. That’ll put the record straight- Clarissa Parr. Greatest Historian Ever. That’ll show them. I’ve got another appointment next week, but I’m not going to go. A fine is better than that. Besides, the seats are much too uncomfortable.

THE UNTOLD STORIES by Meredith Brown It grated on my hands as they clenched. That’s what I felt first as my fingers twitched back into life. Those tiny shards cutting deep into my soft palms and piercing my clothing as I began to shrivel up. The air, or what was left of it, rattled in my lungs and shook my broken ribcage as I wheezed painful breathes. In a tidal wave of agony every inch of me began to scream as I slowly woke myself up. I could hear nothing but buzzing in my head but I knew I had to get up and I had to leave. As I fidgeted my aching body around, trying to sit up, I could feel the crunching of glass beneath me. I could hardly keep myself upright as I tried to wedge my arms under me. My weak arms trembled as they gave what support my body needed to get into a sitting position. I began to flicker my eyes open, however with every blink it sent thumps into my pain filled head. I gazed around me. Everything was spinning or was that just my head? I couldn’t tell, nothing felt real, my body felt both light and heavy and the world seemed to be tilting in every direction as well as stay the right way round. From what I saw, I was surrounded by shards of glass and my hands were trickling with blood from where they pricked my skin. Everything was shadowy and dark and the only noise that I could hear was the high pitched ringing in my ears. I need to get up, I need to go find help. Fumbling like a child I tried to get onto my feet. It only made things worse. I felt sick and the pain, despite what I believed was possible, only got worse. I could see my surroundings get blurrier and my face began to seep warm salty drips of water. Was I crying? I could feel them, the never ending streams drip off the end of my chin and nose and fall to the ground. They were the only thing I could feel; I couldn’t feel any of my limbs. Nothing felt attached. When I finally got to my wobbly feet, if felt like everything was floating away in different directions. I stumbled forward, trying to look for some sort of person or figure. Anything would do as long as it was a sign of help. Every step seemed eternal as I wobbled from foot to foot. The first sign of help I caught was nothing but a shadowy figure in the distance. I tried to stagger faster to them and call out to them. “I need help! Something terrible has happened!” I yelled but they continued on. As I stumbled on more and more shadowy figures appeared. “Someone I need help!” I called again but they didn’t seem to hear me. I reached out to them trying to grab them but they brushed me off. More and more shadowy people began appearing, walking away and around me like I didn’t exist. “Help me!” I yelled. “SOMEONE” “WHY WON’T YOU HELP ME?” “I DO EXIST! DON’T FORGET ME!!” I fell to my knees, tears now flooding my face. Why won’t anyone help me? Why can’t they see me? What is wrong? What have I done? I tried to wipe the tears from my face but it made my hands sting until I eventually just gave up and sat there sobbing. “Please...” With a sudden jolt I sprung upright. My guitar, which my head was resting against, was nearly thrown down the flight of stairs as I snapped back into life. It clunked unhealthily as it collided with the step below its original resting place. Sweating and panting I quickly grasped and pulled it back 28

up beside me. Clinging tightly to it I frantically I looked around me. I was on the steps. Behind me was the graveyard. It was a large open field in the middle of the City filled with tombstones ranging from small and withered to large and extravagant. It was old and decrepit despite being relatively modern and, despite what season it was, it always had frost covered crisp green grass. In front of me lay the City and a beautiful view it was. Below me people wandered through the streets, wrapped up in thick jackets as they tried to fight off the bitter autumn wind. I had fallen asleep watching the city again. I wiped my face in disbelief, fear still pounding in my heart and my breath still catching in my chest, to find that my face was wet. I had been crying. I wiped my tearful face quickly still baffled and a little confused. The cold autumn air stung my wet cheeks and my damp eyes. I grabbed my guitar and my bag before contemplating whether or not to head back to my flat. “Are you having that dream again? Does it ever leave you alone?” The voice from behind me called causing my ears to prick up in surprise like I was a cat. I spun on my heels to see little Izzy standing two steps above me with her inquisitive eyes sparkling like they always did. Her golden blonde hair dusted her petite shoulders. Her smile lit up the city as she stood there in her neat little red dress and grey cardigan which was around two sizes too big. I tried to fumble out words but I couldn’t. My mind went completely blank when I saw her. “What’s the face for?” She giggled as she jumped down the two steps to stand beside me. Izzy was always so little she barely reached my shoulder for someone only two years younger than me. I couldn’t help but smile at her cheerful attitude. That part of her was the part I missed most. “Come on let me walk you home.” She continued to jump merrily down the steps until she got to the bottom. I watched her as she skipped like a child from step to step not without a single care in the world. When she reached the bottom she spun on her heels and waved at me. “What you waiting for, Christmas? Let’s go!” She yelled back up to me. With a smile filling my face I flung my bag over my shoulder, picked up my guitar and ran down the steps to her side. We walked silently down the busy streets as people of all ages sped past us. They carried an array of different styled take away coffee cups and shopping bags. Kids in their boots kicked at the leaves that gathered at the side of the streets while their parents tried desperately to pull them away. Izzy walked quietly beside me gazing around the street as if she was in a dream. “You aren’t saying much Izzy.” I commented after a while of walking in silence. “I don’t have to. Just being here with you makes you so happy. I mean, you’ve had that cute smile spread across your face like butter on toast, even your energy screams happy and contentment.” I couldn’t help but laugh at her words. She had a funny way with them. She used weird comparisons and had the most bizarre catch phrases. I could listen to her talk for hours and I have done in past. Izzy however thought differently and in fact hated the sound of her own voice. With that comment we talked non-stop about life and people, about things we didn’t understand and life beyond the stars. I had missed conversations like these more than I realised. We could have really deep conversations about absolutely anything and if Izzy could she would never end them. If she had just that bit more confidence she would debate with people for hours. Before I had even realised it we had walked up to my flat and were racing each other up the four flights of stairs to my floor. She always had so much energy and would run up all the stairs without ever stopping for a breath. I could never catch her. She waited patiently at the top still standing up and hardly out of breath as I came huffing and puffing from around the corner of the flight below her. “I still got it!” She laughed through a sigh of breath as I climbed the last step to her. 29

“You never lost it Izzy.” I smiled back. She looked a bit shocked by the complimented but she was never used to a compliment even though I would do it daily. After a moment though she grinned as she blushed a rosy red that never failed to make my heart skip a beat. The door to my flat was in front of the stairs and as I sunk my hand deep into my pockets to find my keys, Izzy remained at the top of the stairs picking at her fingers. After awhile of searching I found my keys and unlocked the door with a click. I turned back to Izzy and gestured her in with my hand as I opened the door but she shook her head. Her smile was now faint and she looked rather sad. “You know I can’t go in.” She said as she tugged at her cardigan sleeves. I looked away from her and down at my feet. I knew this would happen. This wasn’t real and for that brief moment she was with me I had forgotten that. I swallowed the sadness which overwhelmed me. I couldn’t say anything no matter how hard I tried and I could tell she knew that because she sighed. “Rowan” She said before walking over to me. I knew when she said my name I was in for a serious talk. Standing on her tip toes she cupped my cheek in her stone cold hands and turned my face gently to hers but I refused to look into her eyes. “Look at me” She said softly and with a sigh I did. My eyes caught her sparkling green orbs and they stared right into my soul. “You know why. If I go in there I’ll never be able to leave and you’ll never be able to let go and move on. Sweetie, none of this is your fault; the accident wasn’t your fault. Please stop blaming yourself for what happened. No one could have predicted what happened that night. Come on now, don’t worry. You’re not going to be forgotten. I’m never going to be able to forget you and I’m always going to be by your side. I’m always going to help guide you.” She removed her hand from my cheek and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She sighed again. “I’ve used up my chance now and I’ve said what was needed said. You’ve got important stories to share.” With that she leaned in and kissed my forehead. “Everything is going to be okay. Never give up.” She whispered to me her forehead resting against mine. She took a step back but before I could tell her my final goodbye she stopped me with a single finger to my lips. “Never say goodbye, because saying goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.” “Peter Pan?” I asked smiling as a tear trickled down my cheek. “Bingo! See you later Rowan” She smiled before turning and walking down the stairs for the last time. I watched her walk away. Even when she was out of sight I stood there waiting, hoping that maybe she’d come running back up those stairs and maybe, just maybe, everything that’s happened was a dream. With a disappointed sigh I went into my flat and shut the door behind me plunging the little hall I stood in into darkness. I dumped my guitar and my bag at the door and made my way into my living room. I threw my keys at the coffee table that sat in the middle of the living room and I greeted my cat who sat neatly on the arm of the sofa with a pat on the head. He meowed as I walked past him and went straight to the shelves and picked up the picture with the decaying daisy chain hanging on the top corner of the frame. It was a picture of me and Izzy standing in front of my new car with two suitcases by our sides. She was on my back, her hand outstretched forward in a peace sign and our faces both filled with smiles and glowing with happiness. We were away on an adventure, as she would say but we would never make it to our destination all because I had to swerve to avoid that one deer, unaware that that one action would cause me never to see her again.

SOME OF THE BEST PEOPLE by Eilidh Player “It is clearly outlined in your sheet what your supposed to do” said the lecturer

Helen smiled. “I haven’t any of the others either they ran out of them too” said Helen

Helen looked down at her worksheet in a scrambled mist of confuse meant. “The pages where you find the information are clearly labelled on the sheet” continued the lecturer “It’s easy peasy, straight forward” Helen looked down at her sheet. It didn’t look straight forward in fact it didn’t make any sense whatsoever but she was too afraid to ask anyone. Her friend Dawn saw her confusion and turned to help her. “It’s easy Helen, look” Dawn pointed to the numbers next to the big chucks of information “You just need to look at the numbers and find the pages in your book.” “What book” said Helen “The book you were supposed to buy?” Said Dawn “It was on the sheet”

“I’ll help you after class, we will go back to your dorm and find the list” said Dawn “Thank you” said Helen “I really appreciate it” Helen and Dawn were amongst a thousand odd other students who were studying biology with criminology. Helen was in her first proper week of studies and she was already struggling. She wasn’t organised enough, she struggled with writing and reading certain pieces of information and she kept losing things. Previously Helen had struggled big time with school and no one was aware how hard she had worked to get into university. She had to take the same subjects two years in a row just to stand a chance of getting in but she had made it in but university wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. After class Helen and Dawn went back to Helen’s dorm. It was a tip and Helen was quite embarrassed. She had kind of unpacked but everything was everywhere.

“What sheet” said Helen “No wonder you can’t find anything” said Dawn “Er the one we were given” “Yeah I know” said Helen going bright red. “Well I don’t have that sheet or the book” “Where is it” “Lost in my room somewhere and when I went to get the book they were all sold out” “They’re in stock now because Julie my roommate got one” Dawn turned to Helen and moved closer. “You can share mine till yours comes” she said

Dawn helped her rack though the stuff to find her list. The list entitled: - biology volume 3 - The studies of crimes volume 3 - The study of organisms and pond life by Maria Queens - Biology and crimes volume 3 - One white lab coat - Waterproof clothing - One science kit for practice exercises it should contain test tubes, one jar, three dishes, one measuring cylinder, one measuring jar, a dropper and an examination tray. 31

Students are reminded that they are not to supply their own chemicals.

“Helen” she said “Please open this door”

They are not to clean their equipment in anywhere but the labs and not in the halls kitchen sinks.

“No” said Helen “Please don’t make me face it”

Any extra equipment will be supplied by the university. Helen looked up at Dawn and laughed after reading the list. They made their way along to the shop to purchase the items. Helen with Dawn’s help got everything she needed and returned to her room which was still a tip but at least Helen knew that all the stuff she needed was now in the room... Somewhere. To thank Dawn for her help Helen attempted to cook dinner for her. However this escalated into chaos and almost fire. Dawn wasn’t sure how to react when Helen got upset. She turned to Helen and said “I’m your friend Helen, friends do things for each other” “I know” said Helen “it’s just I have never really had a proper friend before” Dawn hugged Helen and from then on Helen knew that no matter what Dawn would be her friend. After Helen cleared up the mess and chaos of the dinner she went and spent three whole hours on the stupid worksheet and then went to bed in tears. The following morning Helen set off to class forgetting both her biology book and her science kit. She had to rush back and get them. After her morning practical Helen had had enough. She went back to her room and hid and she didn’t go to their afternoon class. Everyone was wondering where she was and she was eventually found and dragged out of her room and told to go to class by a member of staff. Helen went reluctantly. She got more work to do which she spent more time working and trying to re write the notes from the class on micro organisms. When she went to bed she was in tears again. As the weeks went by, Helen continued to struggle until she couldn’t take it anymore. The following day she hid in her room and barraged the door. Her flat mates were kind of alarmed so they told the senior tutor who came to the door. 32

“Helen it’s Kailette Thompson, your senior tutor, can you please open this door” Helen opened the door, her tear stained face was the first thing to be noticed by Kailette. “What’s going on Helen” she said. “I’m struggling with everything” said Helen, more tears streaming down her face “It’s exactly like school and I hate it” “We need to get this sorted” Kailette said “What are you struggling with” “Everything” said Helen “Organisation, spelling, getting my brain to work, actually knowing what I’m supposed to be doing” “And how long has this been going on for, how long has this affected you” said Kailette “For as long as I can remember” said Helen “ I had trouble with it at school and I spoke to my parents about it but they said it was just making excuses because I wasn’t very smart” Helen went very quiet for a minute she remembered how her parents used to shout at her when she brought her test results home and how they shouted at her when she brought home her exam results. How they thought that she would never got into university and how she was constantly told how amazing her siblings were with their law degrees and doctor degrees and how even when she did get into university all they said was well done but they had lowered the grade entries and that Helen only got in because she got a B in biology. She also remembered how her twin sister was in Oxford and her older brother was in Cambridge and how her parents just pushed her aside. “I suggest you calm down in your room this morning and come and see me at twelve in my office when everyone is at lunch” said Kailette Helen spent the morning in her room having some time to herself. Her flat mates Rosie and Jeremy turned up at eleven after they had finished their classes in the morning.

“You ok Helen” Rosie asked “Yeah” said Helen Helen packed up her bag and set of the Kailette’s office but there was a problem Helen had no idea where Kailette’s office was. After walking around lost for a while she was found by Kailette and taken to her office. Kailette’s office was very cool. It was really big and it was a lime green colour with tree outlines on it. Helen really liked it. She had a few creatures in tanks along the back wall there were some multi coloured fish in one tank, a little turtle in another and there was a brown snake in another. Helen backed off shivering. “What’s wrong Helen” Kailette said

Helen went to her afternoon class, quite reluctantly however. She met Dawn before the class and she said that Kailette had spoken to her. Helen didn’t really say anything she was a bit embarrassed about the whole thing. The class was a practical one however so Dawn and Helen decided to work together. However within the space of half an hour had managed to break everything in her science kit, trip over the table behind her breaking items on that table and broken the wood lice dish so there was now wood lice crawling around the lab. The lecturer suggested Helen waited outside because things had got a little heated between Helen and the other girls behind them as they had accused Helen of “breaking their property” and they weren’t happy with Helen. The lab was now crawling with wood lice so the whole class was now doing the wood lice search. After everything was sorted Helen came back in and got her stuff. Before she left the lecturer handed her a pile of paper and described it as the stuff she had missed.

“I don’t like snakes” said Helen Kailette smiled. “Not many people do” she replied Kailette offered her some water and Helen sat down keeping one eye on the snake in the tank. “I have spoken to Dawn” said Kailette “she said you were struggling. Helen didn’t say anything. She didn’t want anyone to know she was struggling. “I have signed you up to get tested” Kailette continued “Tested!” Helen suddenly burst out “There’s something wrong with me!” “No, no of course not” said Kailette “I just think that you may have dyslexia” Helen went very quiet. She wasn’t sure how to react. Kailette then said that she would set up a test for later in the week since there was someone coming later in the week to test some other people and there was some spaces. Kailette suggested that Helen should go back to her class in the afternoon.

Helen returned to her room which had exalted into more mess then originally. There was a letter for her however that had been slipped under her door. It had when she had to go for her test. The time was 9.30 am on Friday. The rest of the week seemed to wash by for Helen and by Friday Helen felt more relaxed. Depending on the length of the test it also meant that Helen would probably miss more of the biology drawing graphs and mental mathematics lecture but Helen could put care less she hated maths. After the test Helen got to go back to her room because she had no other classes. As she was walking back to her room and thinking about the test. Certain areas she had kind of enjoyed especially when you had to make the pictures with the blocks but other parts such as doing maths and spelling weren’t so enjoyable. Helen returned to her room and surprise surprise it was still a mess. Helen couldn’t even find her phone or anything she needed. She got herself so wound up about losing everything that she just sat on the floor and had a little cry. A little while later there was a knock at Helen’s door. It was Kailette again. “Mind if we come in Helen” said Kailette. She was standing with another lady. 33

Helen nodded. “Helen this is Katie, she’s the head of the support centre here” said Kailette “we have identified you as being dyslexic but it’s nothing to worry about lots of student here are.” Helen still didn’t say anything. She started ramming though stuff to try and find her phone. Kailette picked up her phone from the box it was sitting in. Helen smiled and relief came over her face.

But Helen put the phone down. She couldn’t care less what her parents thought. She was dyslexic and she was going to live being a dyslexic. Helen picked up the keys for her Volkswagen Campervan ran out of her room and down the stairs to the car park where it was parked. Helen put the keys in the ignition and started driving. She drove out onto the road and rolled down the windows the street light flicked past her. Helen stuck her head out so the wind blow in her hair and on her face and she yelled “I’m free”

“There will be an official report written up about your dyslexia but for now we will get in touch with your parents” said Kailette “Katie has planned to see you at 4.00 as well” Kailette and Katie then both left and Helen sat shaken not knowing what to do with herself. She now knew what was wrong with her, all those years of struggle and she finally knew what was wrong with her. In a way she left relived, in a way she felt free. At 4.00 Helen went to go see Katie. She was a lovely person who was very helpful and they discussed things that were going to help Helen including getting Helen a laptop, recording her lectures and having regular sessions to make sure she was organised and on top of things. Helen felt better after this she now felt as if she could actually achieve things. Helen returned to her room later that evening and tidied it. She got different coloured folders and put all her notes in them. She got different coloured ring binders and put all the sheets and other bits of paper from each subject in a different folder. She tidied the rest of her stuff up and organised her drawers and for once in her life she felt organised. Helen felt a lot better until her mum phoned. “What’s this about you being dyslexic Helen” she asked “I went for a test mum and I now can be identified as having it” said Helen “Well I told the school when they said you had dyslexia to ignore it and I expect the university to do the same” continued her mum “All this silly nonsense about it there just no... 34

SCRIPT by Emma Malins Open to shot of a girl walking up a hill we see her from behind. She’s very plain in the way she’s dressed. As she gets nearer to the top of the hill the camera slowly pans round and we see her face. She looks upset. She turns to look out over the city. She puts her hands in her pockets and looks out in sad thoughtful silence. Then a voice from behind her says… Janie 2 – You can’t stay here anymore. You just can’t do it.

A girl has now appeared next to him and they’re holding hands.

Janie 1 – ….but this is home.

Janie 1 – she’s crying she turns slowly looking sadly out at the sky line again

Janie 2 – is it though…what makes it home? Janie 1 – Can I really just leave? Janie 1 – long silence…it’s just always been home, it’s where I first walked, where I first talked, where I grew. I had my first kiss, somewhere over there, I…I…I… went to school that way, I study over there.

Janie 2 – You have to. You need to without him its not home anymore. Its time to be your own person Cut back to Janie 1 still looking out over the city

Janie 2 – your real friends left a long time ago they all managed to leave, they managed to go somewhere else to live. Even Mum, Dad and Ollie managed to leave.

Janie 1 – ….It’s time to be stronger.

Camera cuts to 3 people now standing next to Janie 1

She turns back in the direction of the Janie (who has now disappeared) she then walks away slowly down the hill.

(Keeps talking) their happy away from here why can’t you be too.

End Scene

Janie 1 – doesn’t say anything she just looks at them. Then quietly turns in the direction of Janie 2. What about Tom? Turns back Tom is now standing there looking off into the distance. My beautiful beautiful Tom. She puts her hand up to his face looking at his eyes Janie 2 – He doesn’t love you anymore, you know he doesn’t he stopped loving you back a long time ago. Janie 1 – still looking at him tears in her eyes she turns away. Janie 2 – He’s trapped you here. There’s nothing for you here anymore he doesn’t love you anymore he loves her now

ROSE STORY by Kirsten Foreman Once upon a time there was a girl who was called rose. She has got long black hair, she wears a black dress with a white blouse underneath it. Rose is a bright young girl who is 19 years old. As she sits on her own at a park as she sit’s and waits for a phone call with either good or bad news for her. At this park she meets a friend of hers but she doesn’t speak very much. Her friend try’s to speak to get her mind off things but it doesn’t wok everything is going through her head. She can’t handle it anymore, she just wants to explode about everything. Half an hour later when she gets home rose meets the person to get information from. The person explains everything in detail so she understands it all. After that person leaves all she does is hide in her room with the front door locked. She gets a letter though her door the next day when she opens it she finds that it has all the important information about the next day. The day comes and it was just comes to find herself standing amongst strangers. Everyone dressed in black but with flowers in their hands. Once it’s over she walks out to her best friends which were there to help her. She cries in their arms just hoping for a miracle to happen. She keeps finding herself locked in crying just because there is nobody left. She hears a voices coming from the bedroom as she goes and explore it she finds there’s nothing there. She only comes out when she knows she is with someone but is that really only it. There is an odd day when she is really happy and nobody could ruin it but it could be ruined only by birthdays, Christmas and other really special occasions which she finds really heard. She gets a letter which reads” look rose I really love you. Which is killing me not knowing if I can be with you. I miss hanging with you but tell me now would you care if I turned up at your door begging on my knees for you back in my life. Rose I’ve not heard from you do you remember me?” She doesn’t know who this is or anything. She speaks to her friends to see what they would do because she doesn’t remember or know who sent her this letter. 4 years ago she was involved in an accident and she had ended up with memory loss so she doesn’t remember anyone who would write that. Things come back by bits by bits of what had happened around 4 years ago. She now writes down what happens though out the day in her note book 36

which she keeps hidden away. She looks at old photographs which are hanging on her bedroom wall she sees some guy and just looks at him because he is almost in every one of the pictures but she can’t remember his name. Her friend comes in with someone she needs to meet. Rose ends up really confused about everything just now so her friend explains it to her carefully. They all go out for the day but rose feels unsafe. Her friend goes in to the shop but she sits outside waiting for her. Suddenly someone attacks her out of nowhere just then her friend comes out and gets the creep away from her. Once her friend sees her face she takes her to get cleaned up at her house. Rose refused but she doesn’t see how bad it is. Rose looks round and asks her friend f she seen the persons face but unfortunately no one seen his face. They all want to go to the police about what has happed but rose doesn’t want to she is stubborn just like her mother everyone sees that about her. Rose then picks up her phone to answer a phone call it was the same person who had written the letter who was asking the same questions as the letter did so she freaked out and hung up on him. He kept on phoning her so she didn’t answer. Three days later while her and her friends was out in the car something bad happened to them and it ended yup really scary to rose. It was like that day had ruined her life, from the back of the car she was screaming and trying to get out but she couldn’t move, her friends were not able to move but they were trying to get out so they could get her out. Just then they all heard noises it was people coming to help them, her friends was speaking to her but she wasn’t answering.

MICHAEL by Jordan Foreman My name is Michael, I am 12 years old. I live in a small village which has a secret, which is unknown. I grew up in this village but the weird thing is when I walk past this old mansion I hear a whisper. The odd thing about the whisper I hear my name. One night at ten oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock I went into the mansion. The mansion was dark, damp with water dripping from the ceiling. Each time I come to the mansion I hear my name getting louder Michael, Michael, MICHAEL. I always had to leave the mansion each day, but I always get closer to where this is coming from. One night I stopped and the sound was gone with only a blue light coming from a room. I stepped in and there it was, a blue crystal orb, as blue as a tropical sea, with a stand so I took it but I never knew what was going to happen.

MORE HUMAN THAN HUMAN by Meredith Brown The ash incrusted snow began to fall a season too early. They weren’t wrong when they said it would be the harshest winter to ever hit Traveller Town. So many people are going to suffer this winter. I pulled the long rainbow scarf closer to my face as I trudged through the grey sludge on the side of the road. The streets were surprisingly busy tonight, with merchants hanging by their shop doors blowing smoke clouds into the sky from their cigars. As well as this the casual shopper wandered around from window to window gazing in at all the different trinkets and treasures that each shop held. Although not my intention to window shop I couldn’t help but stare at some of the inventions and wonders that lined the shelves. Above all the colours that everyone radiated an aura unlike any I had seen caught my eye in one of the shops. It sat tucked on a shelf and it glowed. I got the strong impression however that nobody seemed to notice. I had one myself although it was smaller than that one and pink and on a less fancy stand but it still had that same glow. Orbs like them come from the old world and the one I had had been passed down through my family for generations until it finally rests with me. Unlike the one that sat on the shelf the one I had wasn’t clear but a solid crystal and although cold to the touch it made your hands tingle with the untouched power seeping from it. The old world had no idea what unlocked potential those orbs had and even today a lot of the power remains unknown. In some sense power like that was restricted unless the correct documents or gold was shown and yet they claim magic can’t be bought. With a deep breath I pushed the door open and stepped into the shop. I kicked the snow off my boats before exploring the shop a little. The man, in his thick coat, stopped reading his book and glance up at me, peering at me over the top of his glasses. His dog much did the same, sitting up from its sleeping position and looked at me curiously. I smiled politely; acting like it was a normal occurrence that girls with simple hairdos and less extravagant clothing entered shops like this one. He twiddled his moustache and went back to his books but I knew he wasn’t reading it. He watched as I wondered around the shop until I mustered up the courage to go to the counter. “The green orb, how much is it?” I asked, pretending my status was not what he may have perceived it to be. “To much for you” He replied peering down at me. “You assume too much” I replied as confidently as possible although I felt like at any moment he would catch on and through me out. “How much is it?” “Well then, two gold coins.” He grinned twiddling his moustache again triumphantly. He is trying to outwit me. “What an extortionate price for a mere bobble! Says a lot about this place, I should of know.” His face reddened at my words and as I turned to leave he grunted in annoyance. I may have gotten a sale. “Now wait a minute! What are you implying?” “Well, it means you have bad business, which matches the initial front of this place. Now you could have bad business because of two things, one you are in a bad business part of town and we both know that isn’t the case. Or, more likely, the business itself is bad, which looks bad on your part sir as you have an array of fascinating items. Pity, my friends would’ve loved a shop like this.” His faced reddened even more. He took a deep breath. “And what would you offer?”

“A gold piece should be more than enough.” I said sliding a gold coin onto the counter. It was more than I hoped to pay since I had just earned that money but if that was the unfortunate case of bargaining, if I went too low in price I wouldn’t get a sale and something was drawing me to that orb. Reluctantly he accepted and handed me the orb. With a smile I thanked him and quickly left the shop before he changed his mind. I stood outside and looked at it. It was remarkable. It glowed with a brightness I had never seen. I admired it as I walked down the busy street towards home. Its power tingled through my hands and up my arms. What secrets did this orb hold? I stuck it into my pocket and continued the rest of the way home. It was a long and cold walk home and I tugged and pulled at my scarf and jacket in an attempt to keep myself warm. By the time I reached my street the shops had began to close and the owners had retreated back inside for the night. However one did not. Down the street from my home was a flower shop run by a boy with purple eyes. He sat on his balcony most the time and watched people. Tonight he did the same watching me with his enchanting eyes as I passed. He was a creepy sort of soul. Never understood why he would watch. It sent chills up my spine. Not once have I heard the purple eyed boy speak. He was a mysterious one that one. It wasn’t until I was half way down the street; home was merely a house away, that I was stopped. “You’re the girl with the crimson legs! You must have bought the orb!” I turned around to see who shouted but nobody was there. “I’m up here!” The voice shouted again. I looked up to the balcony to see the purple eyed boy looking down at me. I have always been weary of people but something about him always unsettled me. “You haven’t been following me have you?” I challenged him angrily. He scoffed in response. “I never would have thought that you would be so blind to what you really were, considering that you and I have similar eyes.” He grinned. He wasn’t wrong. We both had weird eyes, mine were two different colours and his were unnaturally purple but I always hid my eyes. He should of never have known that. “That is not my point however; I foresaw something. I saw that a girl with crimson legs will buy a green orb. That wasn’t all though. You are wearing crimson leggings. I assume you have bought a green orb recently? If this is the case, you are going to be hunted.” “You are babbling nonsense! Trying to scare a poor girl on her way home!” I angrily yelled at him before storming off. “Maybe I am maybe I’m not! I only foresee things. They may be real they may be real in a different future. When or if they start coming for you, find me! I know what to do! Bring the orb; it is the cause of all these problems!” He yelled back at me. I froze at that sentence but shook it off and quickly made my way into my house. I don’t want to believe him but he knew things that I never told anyone. I pulled the orb out of my pocket and looked at it. People made silly accusations all the time. They made up stories and tried to con people. That was what the world was like. However he said things that he shouldn’t have known. Is it possible for it to be true? “What are you hiding, if you are the cause of these problems?”

THE OTHER SIDE OF HIS MIND by Reece Fraser (First part) Daniel looked down at the slip of paper in his hand, studying what was written on it with care. “Number twenty four Fairvue Drive, OK.” Clutching his jacket he made his way to the door. “Curse Aberdeen’s random weather streak” he thought as his shivering hand rang the doorbell. Daniel looked down as he took his phone from his pocket. “Mum, Dad, Jack, Steven there we go.” Jack had been Daniel’s best friend since they were ten, they both had aspirations to join the police force. Daniel preferred forensics and Jack had chosen standard police work and was now a lieutenant. Daniel brought the phone to his ear, it rang for about three seconds before the recipient picked up. “Hello” a friendly voice said. “Hi Dr Connors, it was today you said I should come and see you, right?” “Yes I just nipped out for some messages, I apologise, I’ll be back in about five minutes.” Daniel hung up the phone and stuck it back in his pocket. He wasn’t too tall or too broad, he was a very average looking person, easily lost in a crowd. A few minutes later Dr Connors returned from his shop, opened his front door and they both stepped inside.

(Second Part) “It’s been three weeks since the nightmares began….” “You say you, just, blackout and they start?” “Yes”

“Not too bad Jack, yourself?” Daniel said studying a particularly beaten cadaver. “That the work of our resident serial killer?” “Seems to be, can you help me turn him over?”

“What do these nightmares entail?” Dr Connors said, taking notes. “Sure” “It’s always a similar situation” he said leaning forward and twiddling his thumbs. “A person, running or hiding, stricken with fear then he appears” “Who appears, Daniel?” “The man who kills them, I never get a look at his face, it’s always so violent and horrible and I deal with cadavers all the time.” “Daniel” his voice was stern but soft. “Please calm down, panicking into a stupor does nothing but add to your troubles”.

The second the body’s back was exposed Daniel’s eyes widened in horror. “My God” Daniel took a moment to compose himself. Written on the back of the corpse, the letters carved into the flesh was TAKE A LOOK AT YOUR OWN MASTERPIECE. A few seconds later Daniel felt his mind go blank as he fell to the ground unconscious.

“Ok” he sniffed drying his tears. “I’m going to ask some personal questions, to try to find the root of your problem, Ok?” “Yea, go ahead.” “What is your family like? Parents, siblings, that sort of thing.” “I’m adopted, no contact with my real parents, no siblings either. I was raised an only child. Nothing out of the ordinary.” “Any bad experiences or rough times during your life?” “I can’t really remember much of my early childhood, from the age of nine downwards. I used to have nightmares during my early teens, almost like bits of memory coming back to me.” “Oh it looks like we’ve ran out of time, give me a call if you want to schedule another appointment.” “Will do, bye.” “Hey Danny boy, how’s it going?” 41

(Third Part) “You’re bored! Get out of my head! It hurts!” Daniel awoke to find himself in his bed, wondering if the previous events were another one of his dreams, until he heard a voice in his head saying…..

“No, you will not get rid of me now, I will take control!”

“You’re not dreaming, this is real and it’s happening, go to the location on the wall and I’ll tell you about the nightmares.”

“Of what? He said, crying profusely as his mind slowly broke and then all of the pain left him as be began laughing. He got up, walked out, shut the door and started limbering up. He moved his lips for the first time since he was eight.

“What location? Who are…” Daniel was cut off by seeing the location the voice told him, written in blood. “Twenty three Pineview Drive, I know I shouldn’t but I need answers” and with that he made his way to the address. Daniel arrived at his destination, got out of his car and upon seeing the house, felt a feeling of familiarity and a piece of his childhood memory returned to him for the first time in years. He saw a younger version of himself, judging by the likeness of their looks, playing in the garden. “Daniel! Come here you little Sh**!” The memory subsides. “Jesus no wonder I got put in foster care” Daniel opened the door, his memory coming to life once again seeing a slightly older version of himself being shouted at profusely, crying in the corner, the door to the living room closes and screams can be heard from within. “No!” tears streaming from his eyes, Daniel pushes open the door to see himself stabbing his father repeatedly, laughing all the while, his mother lay dead beside him. “Aaah, such fond memories eh?” The voice in his head mused as he fell to his knees, sobbing. “What are you” Daniel shouted, slowly breaking down due to the mental stress put on him by this mysterious voice. “I’m the part of you that was born on the day you killed your parents, the part of you that finds fun in slaughtering innocents, the part of you that you repressed and hid so well that even you forgot I existed.” “Why are you doing this?” “Because I’m bored” 42

“You, now sit back, relax and enjoy the carnage” He said smiling wryly as he got in his car. “This is gonna be fun”

WAITING by Pat Lawrence Yesterday was a very long day. I could not settle down to any of the things I normally do, wandering from room to room, looking out of the window not really seeing what was there in front of me. By afternoon I could not stand to be in the house any longer. The supermarket is not very far away so I decided to make my way there. Anything to help the time pass quicker. Ready to go out, I found it had started to rain. I grabbed a brolly and bag. It did not take long to get there. Wandering round not knowing what I needed passed some time but my mind still could not stop thinking about what was bothering me. I could not stay in the store any longer, so leaving, I found it was still raining. Not put off, I set off home knowing the house would still be empty. The bags were heavier than I thought, all the things I had bought without realising. There is a bench about half way to my home. Even though it was raining I sat down. Across from the bench there was a row of houses, the door of one opened and w woman stepped out, she stood on the path looking up to the sky for a few minutes. I could see a smile on her face, and then she put up her brolly and left walking up the street in a happy, jaunty manner. I had a feeling that she had had some good news. I was happy for her, I could use some good news myself. I had put off going long enough, it was time to go. Opening the door I went into a silent house, none of the usual noise, TV chattering away in the sitting room. No sound of the kettle clicking off in the kitchen. Only silence. Making some tea, I kept looking at the clock. Time was passing so slowly. The phone ringing made me jump. I was afraid to go and answer it. What was I going to hear? I couldn’t move but the phone kept ringing, I had no choice. Picking up the phone I listened, it was what I wanted to hear. My husband of thirty years has had his operation. Major surgery and he has come through it very well. Still clutching the phone I heaved a sigh of relief, I suddenly realised that I felt the same way as the woman coming out of her house. Smiling, I knew that soon the house would no longer be quiet…I just couldn’t wait.

WOMAN ON A BENCH by Alison Taylor It was a cold grey morning with dark clouds all around. It started to rain very hard but my dog, his name was sherry, wanted to play as we went into the park. I noticed a woman just sitting on a bench seat all alone even without an umbrella. She was very sad looking. I noticed my dog went over to her; she started clapping him so I went over to her to comfort her. I let her talk to me. She said that her husband had died with cancer so she said she had no one to comfort her. I asked her if she would like to come home with me for a cup of tea as my house was not very far. After she started petting the dog it seemed to cheer her up a bit. I felt so sorry for her. I told her Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d had breast cancer, she had a shock, she said that I looked healthy as we chatted on. I told her I had a breast taken off and I got radiotherapy and chemotherapy. I knew her love of her life was away. We talked for a long time we comforted each other. We started meeting each other in the park. In the meantime my little dog had three puppies so my friend asked for one and I gave her one, a little boy, she was over the moon and we are the best of friends, we do everything together now.

CUMMINGS PARK COMMUNITY FLAT HAIKUS by Colin McIntosh and Alison Taylor The beach is lovely It’s nice seeing the water, The boats coming in. There are many drives In Aberdeen city So many steep slopes It must be another Club gone bust in Aberdeen Let’s find another one

SEAWEED by Russ Alexander Washed up on a stormy beach

now discarded to float the sea

some seaweed on the shore line

until broken down

long jade green fronds

by the motion of the waves

of Mermaid’s hair

it returns it’s atoms to nature

picked up in a curious hand

and it’s elements to the sea

from what depths was it torn? and with what force of the tides? brought to the nose the smell of the sea a rusty aroma of salty iodine a mermaid’s purse shiny and black empty now of the life it once held 45

LIFE IN THE PEBBLE by Min Bhatta My four year old daughter is out for a walk

She is pleased with it now

With great curiosity, she picks up a pebble from the footpath;

She holds it very carefully and gently

shows it to me and tells, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beautiful

Takes it to her room,

I want to keep it.

She washes, wipes and makes it shiny

I smile,

Covers up with her own blanket

I nod my head

Puts it on the sofa

She keeps telling me about it

She murmurs

I want to keep it

My lovely pebble, you need warm and comfort

She sometimes keeps it in her pocket

She offers drinks in her cup, food in her bowl!

And sometimes, plays with it. The rock is small and white It does not look much hard and with a craggy shape Smiles in her soft palm She gives me it to play with Unfortunately, I drop it onto the street It breaks into pieces She starts crying, give me my pebble back Give me my pebble back I want my pebble back No way, I can get it back, So I find and offer one from the street, Slightly different from the previous one She likes it. It looks harder And smooth in shape than the previous one

I REMEMBER by F. E. Clark I remember sitting on the bus, looking through the drips and licks of water running down through the condensation. Rain driech day. On the cold side of the road. Mould and fallen leaves. Damp creeping. Ivy. Childminders with prams bump and jostle. “Are we there yet?” CCTV cameras, Wi-Fi, unwired electro charged. Greyness. I remember the lick of salt on my skin. Lemon poppy-seed cake. A clear, clean, endless beach. Cold sparkling. I remember the dark coming down and the mist gathering on the hill as we walked. Too far to turn back. Not far enough to be there yet. I remember the song he sang as he sat on his own at the back of the bus. I remember the coconut scented gorse and the larks in the impossible blue. I remember the slide down, skewwhiff and juddering. No end in sight. Into the black. I remember the quiet place. I wish for it now. Some carry theirs with them. Too heavy for me to manage with all I have with me. Carry it through, set it down lightly, there on the sideboard in the front room. Too fragile to look at. If you drop it you’re done for. I remember, I forgot something important. Scry and scrape, but it’s illusive and gone. Will you help me find it?

Aberdeen Central Library Rosemount Viaduct Aberdeen AB25 1GW Tel: O1224 6525OO Email: exploremore@aberdeencity.gov.uk Visit www.aberdeencity.gov.uk/Library for opening times and further information on our libraries.

@silvercitylibs

Aberdeen City Libraries