#Writecity 2016 by Learning Development

ABERDEEN CITY LIBRARIES

CREATIVE WRITING FESTIVAL

#WriteCity Creative Writing Festival Now in its third year, Aberdeen City Librariesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; #WriteCity Creative Writing Festival continues to support young people and adults across the city to discover their writing abilities thanks to funding from the Aberdeen City Council Creative Funding Programme. Building on the successes of previous years, a series of four-part courses were designed to help participants of all abilities develop their creative writing skills and receive guidance and advice from established authors and workshop leaders. This anthology showcases writing pieces created and developed as a result of these workshops. All those who attended our community and open workshops were invited to submit at least one piece of creative writing for publication which you will find in the following pages. These stories, poems and pieces of reflective writing cover a wealth of subjects and writing styles. We hope you enjoy them.

CONTENTS 4

Christine Dickson

The Watcher

Carol Hendry

The Haphazard Boxing of Memories

Derek Young

Smell Consciousness

Andrew Lamont

Severed Ties

Kevin Hutchens

Ever North

Sahar Abdulla

Chocolate Fingers

Andrew Lamont

My Brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Demise

Kevin Hutchens

Autumn Colours

Jane Alexander

Adult ONE

Ellie Hamilton

The Angriest I Have Ever Seen My Mother. (Except For That One Time)

Ellie Hamilton

June 2004

Ellie Hamilton

Fairytale

Kiara Gerrard

Memories

Rhiannon Walker

Sharpeners and Amadans

Helen Lynch

Male Solace

THE WATCHER

by Christine Dickson

An old man, wrapped up against the freezing air, sat waiting for the children to come out for their playtime. His fingers traced the grooves in the arm of the wooden bench, dirty nails following the tracks. Behind him the fog twisted above the river, snagging on the overhanging branches. The school bell rang and across the playfield he raised his eyes just a fraction looking through wiry grey eyebrows. They wouldn’t be long. They would be desperate. It had snowed last night and the field was covered in it. Mr Thomson, the headmaster, was a sensible man. He would let the children out to run off steam and play in the snow. One of the teachers had slipped on the slides the boys had made and broken her leg or hip or elbow or something last year, or the year before. The old man had watched as the ambulance people carted her off. All of a sudden the doors erupted. Boys spewed out and hurtled down the stone steps, flinging themselves as far as they could. They slid down the packed snow, leaping the kerb at the bottom onto where the grass was hidden. The old man knew the routine – countless children had done exactly the same, himself included he remembered with a dimple folding his grey whiskers. Then the girls came out, always more cautious as they teetered down their steps, only running with confidence when they reached the level playing field. Every year the old man would sit and watch the children. Try to pick one out. It looked like everybody from the school was outside and somebody had organised them to work as a team. That was who the old man would look for. They started where the grass flattened out and rolled a snowball and kept rolling and rolling. The noise of the children laughing and squealing cut the cold air into shards. The snowballs got so big by the time they got halfway across the playfield that the bigger boys had to run back to help the wee ones. They pushed and shoved the giant snowballs into a long line of headless snowmen. The old man watched from his bench, half concealed by the skeletal branches of the silver birch. He wondered what they were up to this year. Slowly he lifted his old gamekeeper’s bag up beside him and felt inside, searching for something. His fingers brushed on the smoothness he was looking for in amongst all his other treasures. Gently he pulled it out, rubbing softly with his thumb. His older brother Ranald had carved a waterhorse for him when he was a child. And he had always kept it close - for all these years. He watched the wee ones, who were too little to make bodies, make snowballs while others piled them up in batches along the inside of the wall. It was so cold they sparkled. Then the bell rang again rousing the old man and he watched as they all ran back across the playing field. Mr Thomson was standing at the top of the girls steps watching them come, then as the last one disappeared back into the old school he made his way across to the bench where the old man was gathering his belongings together, readying to leave. He hunched his shoulders further into his coat, wiping a drip from the end of his nose as he saw the headmaster coming. “Morning, Mr MacGregor. Cold the day,” the headmaster said as he reached him.

“Aye, it is that Mr Thomson,” he replied. The headmaster took a seat beside him on the cold bench and stretched his legs out in front pushing his hands deep into his pockets to keep warm. He tilted his head back, looking up into the branches. “Somebody’s burning leaves. Wee bit late for that.” “Aye, but it’s a fine smell.” The smoke had mingled with the fog and would linger there all day probably. “You for one?” Mr MacGregor glanced sharply at the headmaster wondering what he was meaning but saw that he was holding out a bag of sweeties. He’d remembered MacGregor’s liking for treacle toffees. “Many thanks,” he said taking two. He put one carefully in his big bag for later. “What are they up to d’you think?” Thomson asked looking out onto the playing field now almost stripped of snow. “I haven’t seen them all doing this before.” MacGregor slowly untwisted the wrapper from his toffee before answering. “I feel, Mr Thomson, that something will be happening at dinner time. They’re making a defence for something.” “Aye, but what? The High School ones? Not many of them’ll come down today in this weather.” “That’s what I was wondering about. There’s one of the big lads – he’s got them all to work together this morning. Like he’s getting them ready.” “Is he one of yours? This lad?” Thomson asked, looking at the old man. “I think he is you know, aye. Off Ranald’s side.” He drew out the R. The headmaster nodded, deep in thought. The story in the town where he’d grown up too was that the MacGregors went right back to the notorious Rob Roy MacGregor. Thomson wasn’t sure though that there were that many generations between Rob Roy and his Mr MacGregor sitting quietly beside him. There was the feeling that MacGregor had seen it all before and could feel what was going to happen – a seer perhaps. And if one of Mr Thomson’s pupils was of the family maybe he had the gift too without even knowing it yet. He straightened up, dusting off his backside and turned to MacGregor. “They’ll be alright for a while anyway. We’ll keep an eye on them at dinnertime.” He turned to go. “See you later?” MacGregor twitched his eyebrows, “aye,” and popped the big toffee in his mouth.

The noise of children laughing and squealing in the sunshine drifted over the iron footbridge as MacGregor made his way back to the school at dinnertime. They were finished their dinner early today he thought. Mince and tatties it must have been – the wee ones could fairly manage that quick enough. The sun had burned through the fog but it wasn’t strong enough to melt the snow much and he saw that the snow-wall was still there, ready. Settled on his bench MacGregor took out a paper bag stained with grease marks from his gamebag and rolled down the edge. The savoury smell of the bridie made his mouth water. Campbells’ were good bakers although he would never say it out loud. He could see that Mr Thomson and the janitor, George, were out. They wandered along the edge of the grass, heads turned in, in deep conversation. To anyone passing they were taking no notice of the children playing at the end of the playfield but MacGregor saw that their eyes were everywhere. Gradually they made their way towards the wall. Miss Hunter, the gym teacher, was jogging round the field. Earplugs in and sturdy legs clad in warm running kit, she was coming from the opposite direction. MacGregor raised his head slightly, flecks of bridie caught at the edge of his mouth. He watched as a couple of strangers came into the school grounds through the little gate that the high school ones used as a shortcut. Thomson noticed MacGregor’s interest and swung his eyes round to see what he was looking at. The strangers paused and looked around at all the children too busy to take any notice of them. Rubbing their hands against the cold, they took black woolly hats out of their pockets and pulled them on. So engrossed were they in the children they didn’t notice the adults around the edges. MacGregor watched as one of the men seemed to see who he was looking for, saying something to his pal. They both looked over toward one of the wee boys running round in circles flapping his arms. The men casually wandered over then suddenly snatched at the boy, grabbing him up into the air and they turned to run back through the gate. MacGregor’s boy yelled out - and the playground erupted into chaos. Kids were yelling and screaming everywhere. White missiles were flying through the air like cricket balls. And the school had a good team! The little boy’s legs were kicking out frantically, trying to wriggle free. From one side came Thomson and George running in like rugby players chasing the men while ahead Miss Hunter was blocking their escape route. The man carrying the little boy threw him to the side and charged the gym teacher. But she stepped lightly to the side and brought her leg round catching him in the centre of his shoulders as he rushed past. The other man skidded to a halt, almost tripping over his fallen comrade and stared open mouthed at the little woman standing hands on hips, grinning at him. “C’mon on then. Jist try,” she shouted at him. As he twirled round to run the other way he was faced with Thomson charging up like a number 15. His escape way across the playing field was blocked with a wall of snow. Snowballs were crashing off him as he jerked, trying to dodge the assault. Casting around in all directions, he saw he was trapped and raising his hands high above his head turned around, ducking and flinching as the snowballs continued to connect. “All right! All right! You can all stop now!” shouted Mr Thomson to the kids. They all whooped and cheered as George came puffing up. He launched a tackle that only a forward can, bringing down the would-be kidnapper 6

face first into the churned up mud. Miss Hunter had plopped herself down onto the shoulders of the other, folding her arms with a wide grin spread across her face, keeping him firmly pinned to the ground. Mr Thomson picked up the little boy from the ground, brushing the mud and snow from his clothes. He gently wiped his face with a big, blue handkerchief, kneeling down to comfort the screaming youngster as his classmates swarmed in to check he was alright. The bigger children had surrounded the attackers, and one, a red-haired boy stood, fists balled ready for anything. From the corner of the school building came the sound of a police siren and everyone watched as the local bobby careered over the playfield, car bouncing on the old, uneven ground. “My grass!” roared George. “I’ll bloomin’ kill ‘im!” struggling to get back up, waving wildly for him to stop, he slipped and landed, with a thump, back in the mud. Mr Thomson was waiting by the school gates as the old man trudged up past. “Haven’t seen you for a wee while Mr MacGregor,” he said, forcing him to pause. “Aye well, job’s done I suppose,” he said turning to look at the headmaster with clear blue eyes. “Turns out they were sent by the boy’s father to get him. Parents have split up – sad. But he’s from Glasgow – well, you know.” “Aye, as long as the wee lad’s not touched.” “Aye. He’s safe with his mum now.” Thomson turned to MacGregor “And your boy – Calum – he says he had a feeling something was going to happen, but he thought it was just to do with the high school ones.” “Mmhmm. Might need a wee bit o’ guidance, that one, then,” MacGregor said thoughtfully. “Would he have a wee chat wi’ me d’ye think Mr Thomson?” “I’m sure he would Mr MacGregor. He’s needing some things explained to him I think. Family and dreams an’ that.” “Aye.” The old man said scuffing the loose gravel at the edge of the pavement, chin down in thought. There was a pause, where neither man said anything for a moment, each deep in their own thoughts of what might have been and what might be. “Right!” said Thomson, straightening his shoulders. “Mrs McEwan has saved some dinner for us in the canteen. Mince and tatties, then rhubarb crumble and custard. You for some?”

And the two unlikely friends made their way through the school gates together.

THE HAPHAZARD BOXING OF MEMORIES by Carol Hendry

Shiny and strong from the glue, paper patches of pink and blue Bohemian, almost. Frayed here and there, one or two squares lifting like scabs Dare to Dream on the inside, where only I see. Will tip out the Big Books, the scraps and the notebooks but there’s room (on the broom) for the first, pages ripples with scribbles, signed Julia, Best Wishes What else to put in? Photos: first smiles and steps; our wedding day, families, short and tall, met in the middle; weathered man and his lady, one down in his dungars, one up in her pinny then swop dungars up, pinny down and swop once more till my camera clicked, held them still in front of the pansies and purple door. The last biscuit wrapper from Grandma’s tin, a Trio of comic book colours and a ring, delicate sliver of diamond and gold I think of the last time he offered this ring and the woman he loved. The card, from my purse, furred at the edges, To the best mum and wife, don’t know why or what birthday, anniversary, basket or hand-tied? Silver bell, tiny teddy the size of a foetus, we called him Brutus The look he gave and the promise I made Her baby chatter, dancing and laughter. Grannie T and the twitch of her nose, Granda’s stories he told 8

The shiver and pop of Broom And champagne and never forget the music, lifting me higher, your blue eyed girl.

And last to go in The deer in our garden, dappled in sunlight, felt like a gift The sofa in Hong Kong looking over the harbour And the curve of your calf for my cold, cold feet as I fall asleep.

SMELL CONSCIOUSNESS

by Derek J.C. Young

I sit here writing, scribbling notes and free form prose on a varnished desk in Aberdeen City Library. An imposing edifice on the cityscape since 1892, built by generous subscription, 125 years of faithful service to collective enlightenment. A cathedral to the written word in books, education and entertainment for Aberdoniankind. I sniff in the musty and rich vibrant smell of words wishing to escape from books with the intent to inhabit the conscious minds of willing or unsuspecting souls. I just love the smell of books, libraries, bookshops, bookie people, anything to do with the written word. Transferring one’s consciousness to another’s. Even the e-word gets me high these days, maybe surprisingly, analogue to digital. Just like a drug addict getting their fix after the plunge of the hypodermic needle into the scarred vein. I will keep reading and writing obsessionally, it’s a healthy addiction. I love or fear I may go into cold turkey delirium tremens withdrawal pain, if I don’t satisfy my knowledge cravings to release the natural searching chemical endorphins into my cerebrum.

SEVERED TIES

by Andrew Lamont

The eighteenth of December had started off just an ordinary day for him. He had woken up at half-past five in the morning, as usual. He got showered, brushed his teeth, had breakfast and drove to work, as usual. Everything about that day was as monotonous as everything about every other day. The day went as he expected it to: repetitively. He went to the same grey office. He sat in the same chair, at the same desk, in the same position as he always did: hunched over a laptop. The hours dragged on sluggishly. Every minute felt like ten minutes. Every ten minutes seemed like an hour. Every hour seemed like a day. Eventually, seven o’clock came. He left the office, ignoring the call of his secretary (who had urgent work that would have kept him at the office overnight). He drove home. As he turned off the road to drive down the little lane to his remote little house, there was an almighty clap of thunder. The heavens opened and the rain hammered down all around him. Picking up speed he shot down the little road: he wanted to get home before the worst of the storm. The closer to his home he got, the heavier the rain seemed to get. He arrived home. (It was dark, and so he did not notice the other car parked at the side of his house.) He ran through the perfectly kept garden (his wife was a very keen gardener who believed that a perfect garden led to happiness) and up the newly painted stairs. Just before he reached the door, he fell over something. He turned around to see what had tripped him up. He howled, “Alice?” His wife remained motionless. “Alice!” he shouted again, beginning to shake her. “ALICE! PLEASE!” His voice cracked as he said the last word. He shook her as hard he could. The realisation that she was not going to wake hit him like a hammer. Another enormous clap of thunder sounded with such fury he thought the ground shook. Following the thunder was the lightning that illuminated the scene just long enough for him to see two things. The first thing he noticed was the deep gash in the head of his wife with blood pouring out like a rapid river. The second was the shadow standing over him. *** He awoke, and the first thing he saw was the wall of his cellar. He made feeble attempts to speak but pathetically failed. Creak. The door opened sluggishly and eerily. Looking up, he saw a silhouette hiding most of the light. Despite the lack of light, he could distinctly see that the silhouette was holding a bladed weapon: an axe. A triumphant laugh sounded like a trumpet and echoed throughout the cellar. Slowly, very slowly, the silhouette walked down the wooden steps. It seemed to the man that the silhouette was making a conscious effort to make every step cry out in pain. A gust of wind. A slamming door. Nothingness was all that could be seen. He made a weak attempt to move, but couldn’t: something was restraining him. 10

Behind him, a light was switched on. It was inhumanely bright and temporarily blinded him. The silhouette walked to the other side of him and watched him. The silhouette was wearing nothing but black. Its face was covered with a mask. Once it had stared at him for several minutes without speaking, it put the axe down against the wall. “Great,” an eerie voice said gleefully. “I was so worried that I had killed you.” The man made a feeble attempt to move. Drip. Drip. Drip. Chris tried to ignore the dripping: he thought it was the pipe he was tied to. It always leaked during a thunderstorm. He was wrong. It was blood dripping nonchalantly off the axe. Below the medieval weapon was a pool of blood, getting bigger with every drop of blood. Drip. Drip. Drip. “Your wife is dead. I killed her,” the silhouette stated. Chris screamed. “Nothing has ever brought me as much joy as when I heard the axe crack her skull. See that?” the silhouette asked, pointing to the pool of blood. “That is her blood. And soon, your blood will mingle with that of your wife.” Chris felt his eyes fill with salty tears and fought to stop them. However, they poured down his face like a waterfall. He opened his mouth to speak but got a boot in the face. “No,” the silhouette yelled furiously. You do not get to speak.” The silhouette turned away to get the axe, and Chris took the opportunity to speak. “Why are you doing this?” The silhouette turned around and, although Chris could not see its face, he could feel the hatred. It filled the room like poison. “My parents killed themselves because of you!” Chris immediately remembered who the silhouette was and the remembrance brought the cruel fire of fury. “They deserved what they got. And so did you!” The silhouette laughed. “You will regret saying that.” With that, the masked man walked back up the steps and switched the light off. Immediately, Chris started trying to move. He twisted his body like a viper in the grass. He wriggled like a pathetic little worm. No matter what he tried, he could not get out.

The masked man was pacing and thinking of the twentieth of April from fifteen years ago: the day he came home to find his wonderfully kind, loving, caring parents hanging from the bannisters. He loved his parents and idolised them with every fibre of his being. They had always been there for him when he needed them. He would have done anything for them. He knew he could not have asked for better parents. Underneath their hanging corpses lay an envelope with his name written in his mother’s beautiful handwriting. As he bent down to retrieve the envelope, he understood what had happened. His heart beat increased so suddenly and to such a rapid pace he thought it was going to explode. He longed for it to explode: he did not want to live if his loving parents were not there with him. They were the people that always kept him from falling apart. With tears gushing out of his eyes he read the following letter: To our dearest son, We do not know how to start this letter other than to say we wish we had the motivation and the will to continue to fight this battle with that man and that woman. But we don’t. Suddenly all of the determination has left us. Please know that we love you more than anything and that our love has never faltered. By the time you find this letter, our love will have been eternalised. You are our greatest triumph. We are so proud of you and ourselves. Something we have done in the past must have been an amazing thing because we were blessed with you. We know that you will go on to be a wonderful man. You are too young to understand this; we know that. We are aware that you will be wondering why we have left you. The reason is simple: we know that you are stronger than us and that you will be able to get through this. We love you so much, and we are so sorry for everything that has happened. We thank God for you and for the fact that we can now go to sleep peacefully and painlessly. We pray that you will not grieve: be happy that we are now at peace and in Heaven, which is where we have wanted to be for a long time now. We love you very much. With love that cannot be put into words, Your loving parents Fury filled him. 11

It had all started when they were all on holiday. His parents said something that the demonic Chris disliked. The madness that had been hidden from the pacing man came flooding over him like a tsunami in a brutal attack that had left his mother cut and bruised. His father had insisted on calling the police but his mother refused every time. After all, his mother was a wonderful lady and did not believe in revenge: she was a firm believer in forgiving and forgetting. However, the viciousness of Chris did not subside and so they all returned home early, and all communication stopped. The next year, on the twenty-seventh of March, it all started again: his mother, his sweet mother, had told her parents about the holiday. The fact that she had told the truth, and that the truth showed Chris in a negative light, had caused the soulless behemoth and his parasitic wife to be displeased which led to another attack. Soon after, the letters started arriving. The threatening, horrendous, aggressive letters caused his parents to succumb to depression. The satanic letters had clearly come from his uncle and they led to the suicide of his parents. It is disgusting for a family to turn on one of its own. Unforgivable. Surrounded by red mist, he flung the cellar door open and stormed down the stairs. He decided there and then that he was not just going to kill Chris. He was going to make him suffer. “Your wife died frightened. She begged me for mercy. She cried your name. She tried to run. When she saw who y face, she knew she was going to die. She begged me not to. I buried the axe in her head. And guess what? I smiled whilst I did it. You were not able to save her. She died frightened and alone.” The masked man circled Chris, glaring at him through the eye slits in his mask. “Your parents deserved everything. As I said, they were a disgrace to parenting. No wonder you turned out the way you did. I tried my best to drum some discipline into you. Your parents let you run wild.” The masked man lifted his foot and kicked Chris as hard as he could in the stomach. “You tried to drum discipline into me? You beat me every day. If I spoke, you hit me. Even when my parents were alive, you beat me. The first time I was a kid of six years old! I used to be so scared of you. And now look at you.” Chris laughed. He pointed to the camera above their heads. He explained how they were surrounded by cameras. They had been ever since somebody broke into their house five years before. The masked man laughed. He paced back and forth in an almost compulsive manner. He had always been compulsive and obsessive. Even as a child he was obsessive about things. “Oh no!” the masked man cried. “How did I forget about the cameras?” He proceeded to giggle hysterically. Chris looked at him quizzically. “You knew about them? You have not lived here for seven years.” The masked man sat on the bottom step and continued to guffaw. He remembered all the evenings he spent standing outside the little house watching. The memory that reduced him to an almost giddy state was the one of Alice screaming from within the house when she saw him through an upstairs window. Chris had come running out with a gun. The masked man had run and hid underneath the car: it was getting dark so the odds of his shadow being seen were minuscule. He was right. He guffawed as he remembered how Chris had called his wife a ‘paranoid fool’. 12

“You are actually the most vicious and satanic man I have ever had the misfortune to meet,” the masked man hissed. The loathing in his tone caused Chris to shiver. “Even towards a child. How would you describe a child?” “A child like you?” Chris asked. The masked man nodded and Chris smirked immorally. “An ostentatious little brat.” The masked man sniggered, picked up the axe and walked slowly over to Chris. He shook his head and tried not to smile at Chris’s face which had turned ashen. As he walked closer, his face grew paler and paler. “Not so tough now, are you?” the masked man snapped. “You took my life and you ruined it. Now, I am going to take your life, and end it.” “Maybe we can work this out?” Chris whimpered pathetically. “You drove my parents to suicide. You only cared about yourself and your diabolical little wife. And you were not able to save her. Do you know how I would describe a child? Defenceless. Rather like you are now.” Chris did not respond. Droplets of sweat fell from Chris’s hair like a gushing tap. “Please!” he wept. “I have not told you the best part yet,” the masked man stated. “I am going to get away with this. I watched your house every night for a year. Your wife really did see someone that night. You never know who is watching you. You never know if the people you have maltreated are plotting revenge. However, you can be pretty sure they are. I know where you work, I know your security codes for everything. Nobody will come looking for you. I wrote a letter to your office rendering your resignation with immediate effect. It should have arrived by now. I turned your cameras off.” The masked man, once he had finished speaking, lifted his hand to his mask. Slowly, he removed it. “Henry, please!” Chris cried desperately. “We are family!” “We were happy once, Uncle. But you changed, into a vile, violent and aggressive man. You drove your own sister to suicide because you treated her so badly and made her feel terrible. You are not going to get another chance.” “Everyone deserves a second chance, Henry,” Chris cried. Fear was passing through him like an electric current. He found it difficult to breathe. His breathing increased to an incredible pace and he began to hyperventilate. Henry, completely uncaring about the state of his uncle, whispered into his ear, “You are not redeemable.” Those were the last words he ever heard. The last thing he heard was the swish of the axe as it cut into him. *** Henry, once he had killed his uncle and the wife of his uncle, walked up the stairs and out of the cellar. He could barely escape the smell of gas: he had left the gas on before he hit Chris with the bottle. He walked over to the cupboard and took the matches out. “Mum, Dad, I love you, and I am coming to be with you. God, forgive me.” He lit the match, and the house was engulfed in flames.

EVER NORTH And so dear Lord, What do I say, On this day on the way, Kinder Scout standing, Its bleak Grit stone challenging, The bog firm in the o so hard frost, The way ahead steady, Only an Outward Bound team welcoming, Showing the way ahead. Ever north, Ever north, My way continues, My Lord and friend, High Cup Knick plunging, Ravine like, Welcoming views, Bringing me ever nearer, My renewed and new love to find. Ever north, Ever north , You lead me, Hadrianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Wall, Clinging to the ridge, Searching always, The best views to find, The Roman sentry, Secretly loving, The view to the north, Scotlandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fine forests, Brave hills, Bringing pleasure to the eye. 14

by Kevin Hutchens Ever north, Ever north, My Lord, My Pennine Way does lead, Over the hidden border, Betrayed only by a silent sign, The stile leading over the drystone walls, Kirk Yetholm waiting the long distance walker, But no welcoming committee today, Only the sign, Pennine Way, End, And beginning.. So my Lord , Why this way, My love new, Scotland its bold mountains beckoning, Beautiful Burns poetry in the Inn, The Loch with its welcoming wildlife, The tales of Border Reivers, My love to be renewed in you, Brought back, Nature bringing power to the poetry, Back to your friendship, Your Love, Your gift of Salvation. Amen.

CHOCOLATE FINGERS IN THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED FATHER, A GREAT DREAMER by Sahar Abdulla On the morning of the 5th of February 1980, I was nearly six years old, a happy and content child it was the first time I saw my father, and it was going to change my life forever. I was walking to my primary school in my small village which was a few minutes away from my house when I heard gun shots and smelled the gun smoke, I turned my head and saw crowds of people rushing and gathering outside our house which was a small mud hut. My sister Maisam, who was two years older than me, and I ran back to find out what had happened? When we arrived I saw our neighbours shaking hands and kissing the cheeks of a man in his mid-fifties. The man looked at us and took us in his arms kissing us while the tears were coming down from his bright green eyes. Later he was introduced to us as my father. I will never forget the first image of him which has stayed in my head ever since he was wearing his grey waterproof jacket; still the most beautiful jacket I have ever seen and his white Koffyiah which added a touch of holiness to his looks. From that day, he became my hero. I used to listen to his stories about prison, his comrades, and their dreams. These dreams were wiped out due to their long imprisonment in the late seventies... My father spent four years without a trial in Mezzah Prison, one of the military prisons in Damascus, because he was a member of one of the left wing opposition organizations. He was with hundreds of his comrades who were well educated, mainly engineers and doctors, and belonged to the middle class across Syria. The first year of my father’s imprisonment was a mystery to my mother and the rest of prisoner’s wives, as the security officials denied having them in the state prisons. My mother, an uneducated farmer, could not bear it on her own and she had to take my older sisters out of school to help her with the work on the land and raising the rest of their younger siblings. After one year of my father’s imprisonment, my mother was helped by someone and got a visitors card to see my father. She had to travel day in advance and stay at one of our relatives rented rooms somewhere in the outskirts of Damascus. My father used to make fun of my mother’s first visit to the prison, as he asked her “how is it back there?” (He meant the village) She laughed in return and said everybody is madly happy because you are in prison! It was true because the majority of the village considered political opposition a big sin and shame. She used to take him food, cigarettes and clothes without realizing afterwards that a bribe had to be paid in advance to the prison guards to let the goods in. Four years of my father’s life and our lives were paid as an expensive cost; my older sister was forced into an arranged marriage to a man she did not love. She would return to our house in less than a year as a young widow full of misery and depression having lost a husband and given birth to a stillborn son. My other sister had to leave school for farming work and my older brother, who was supposed to help out, left us to make his own life in the capital. He would visit us often as a stranger, smoking Marlboro or, Pall Mall cigarettes, pretending he was a General or business man. He would throw me some coins which I would refuse to take, hearing my mother saying to him “Don’t mind her, she is stubborn and will never accept money from anyone.” I was too young to leave school, however I helped when asked, at least to carry my younger brother or feed the hens. 15

When my father was released people came to congratulate him from inside and outside the village bringing with them sweets and food. At that time in the late seventies a chocolate brand called Ya halla (means welcome in Arabic) was the top brand to buy or have. Long and thin dark chocolate bars used to be covered in golden paper and assembled in a nice coloured box. Such boxes filled our kitchen quickly and my older sister used to hide them in a metal cabinet so we could not reach them. I was craving for those chocolate bars when I approached the kitchen as the smell was so intense. I figured out a smart way of reaching the chocolate bars without any need to open the main door of the cabinet. One day I was about to hunt for some chocolate before heading to school when I heard the voice of one of my sisters, so I ran after moving my hand quickly cutting my first finger. I wrapped my fingers in tissues and ran to school. My teacher, who used to spoil me, as her smart and favourite pupil, wondered in sympathy, â&#x20AC;&#x153;what has happened to your finger??â&#x20AC;? I replied: I cut it with a knife as I was cutting cucumber for my younger brother. I lied to my teacher with the taste of chocolate bars still in my mouth, smooth, creamy and heavenly. The taste of the chocolate and the smell of bullets will remain in my mind as the remarkable memories of meeting my father whom I always tried to please and make him proud of me. Till this moment whenever I achieve anything in my life I remember him and tell him silently in my heart: my father I love you and hope that I am doing things in the right way, or at least the way you wished for me. My father watched the collapse of communism all over the world East and West, watched the defeat of the Arabs in 1967, the American invasion of Iraq and the collapse of Bagdad in 2003. He never lost his faith in socialism with strong hopes of a fair and equal world. These dreams, he will never see come true. My father passed away in July 2014 after a long and unbearable fight with cancer. I was not able to attend his funeral due to the situation in my country (Syria, which I left in 2004). I also feared arrest. I almost attended my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s funeral virtually, heard all the mourning and sad songs my sister told me on his departure from the house to the cemetery. I was hearing the bullets too and tasting the dark chocolate which will never taste the same. Bitterness will remain.

MY BROTHER’S DEMISE by Andrew Lamont I killed my brother when I was twenty-seven. Nobody knows why. Well, nobody apart from me. Of course, the reason is obvious and if the police had searched hard enough, they would know the reason. I am glad I did it. I always will be. In this life, and in the next. I am proud of myself. I sleep easier at night knowing that he is dead because of me. I remember the day vividly; it was meticulously planned. I laugh when I think of how easy it was. I am glad it worked. But, if it had not worked I would not have been able to kill him. The twentieth of June was the day I decided I decided to end his life. The twentieth of June was an arid, parched day on which the sun scorched the land. It was almost unbearably warm, I lived with my brother. I had no-one to talk to about the emotions that bubbled every time I thought of my brother and boiled every time I saw him. I remember him as a child; he was petulant and impetuous. His behaviour at school always reflected negatively on me. He was a disgrace to the family name: he was always in trouble at school for making opprobrious remarks about his teachers. He was a greatly obstreperous youngster. But he was misunderstood. No matter how hard he pushed me away I was always there for him. He broke so many hearts when he ran away from home and ended up in court for a crime he did not commit. He was misguided and always took the blame for people. He never was the most mentally gifted person: he always took the blame because he wanted people to like him. He wanted friends. He wanted to be accepted by society. We went to live with our cousins when Steven was ten and I was fifteen: our parents had just died in a car crash. Some drunk driver driving at a reckless speed lost control of the car and smashed into the side of them. The engine exploded instantly and killed them both – and the drunk driver, of course, survived. A warning is all that happened to him. There is no justice. I had a wonderful relationship with my brother. We never fell out and he trusted me more than anybody else. He always came to me when he had a problem at school and always listened to the advice I gave him. He was a wonderful person. I miss him. Nevertheless, I am glad of what I did. I promised him I would always do what I thought was best for him. And I did. I took care of him for fourteen years: I got a job as a reporter and we moved into an apartment. Nobody, other than I, understood him. You see, Steven was an amazing person, but living with him was difficult. If you only saw him for couple hours a day it was fine. But believe me; he was sometimes torturous to live with. However, it was a pleasure. It is too hard to explain. That is why I am not sad that I killed him. He was difficult to live with, yes, but, believe me, when I tell you that I know my brother did not mean to be a nuisance. It was ten o’clock on the twentieth of June when I killed him. I waited outside for six minutes trying to decide whether or not I should turn and go. It was a mercilessly difficult decision but I remembered I agreed to do this, and so I had no choice.

After all, I could not let my brother live with what he was living with any longer. I could not let him suffer. He had been begging me for months to help him do this and I had diligently refused. However, one day he told me the following heartbreaking truth: “If you do not help me, I will do it myself.” But could I let him die alone? No. I could not let him die on his own; I just did not have the heart to do that. He had always found life difficult. He fell into the dark depths of depression when our parents died and it held him tenaciously. No matter how many psychiatrists and counselling sessions he went to, his depression stuck with him. I decided to help him become the victor of Depression: he would not wait for it kill him. He would be victorious, not a victim. I loved my brother and wanted to make him happy and so I walked slowly into his bedroom. He let me in. “Are you sure about this?” I enquired, tears already filling my eyes. “Indubitably,” he replied with determination. “I cannot do this anymore. Promise me something.” “Anything,” I said. “Do not leave me alone,” he said. I nodded. We embraced. I did not tell him that I was going to call the police and tell them I had murdered him. Killing my brother was the hardest thing I have ever had to do, but it was the best thing I have ever done. I took his depression away and I made him happy. Therefore, I went down without a fight. I pleaded guilty. I have been here, in this cell, for thirteen months. Today is the day I am going to be executed as a murderer. I am filled with excitement because we are going to be a family again. We are all going to be together again. “Jackson Crowe, please step forward.” My last thought before I step forward is how it happened… He takes an overdose of sleeping tablets. I wait for him to fall asleep. I kiss his forehead. I mutter the words, “I love you.” Slowly, I lift the pillow. I hold it over his face. I push.

AUTUMN COLOURS by Kevin Hutchens And so the Autumn colours begin to fall, Bringing their richness, Their vibrancy, Red and Orange to the day. For we do not fear the Seasons Lord, Early or late For your Love binds all, Ever Present, All eternal, Loving us. So as the season ends, A new season begins, Bringing promise of rest, Restoration, Renewal, New life for all, A reminder of your Resurrection power, Lord Jesus Christ, Our Friend and Saviour, Amen.

ADULT ONE

by Jane Alexander

She makes it onto the train just as the doors are closing. Takes a moment to check her reservation, then sways the length of three coaches to find her seat. Hoists her case onto the luggage rack and slides in next to the window, handbag plumped on the seat beside her. As the train gathers speed she concentrates on calming her breathing. Turns out, he was the timekeeper in their relationship as well as the one with the fear of commitment. But it’s okay – she made it, didn’t she? Late, but not too late. The man in the aisle seat opposite is broad, long-legged. She angles herself away from him, positions her knees so they won’t touch his. As always, she is window facing forward. Travelling the wrong way makes her sick; being forced to look backwards, watching the world speed away from her like something she can’t keep hold of. For a while the track runs parallel to the A1. They overtake a pick-up, a lorry, a motorbike. Beyond the road, the sea reveals itself in grey-blue flashes. At Berwick-upon-Tweed, she is lucky. The passenger who claims the seat opposite is a petite Japanese woman who keeps her legs neatly to herself and her eyes fixed on her phone. At Newcastle there is an influx of passengers; she shifts her handbag onto her lap, is relieved when nobody sits beside her. Lucky again. At York the platform is crowded, people pressing forward in a polite jostling for position. It takes several minutes for everyone to file onto the train. The luggage racks fill up, the spare seats are taken. All along the carriage it’s standing room only, but the seat next to hers stays empty. Beside it a woman stands clutching her bag, with no space to set it down. Waiting, perhaps, for permission to sit. She offers an almost-smile. The woman purses her lips. Looks away. Apologies for the overcrowding, says a disembodied voice. This is due to the cancellation of a previous service due to a problem with a signal. Due to this, tickets for the 10.59 service will be valid on this service, and all reservations are invalid. The train drones to itself as it sets off once more, holding a long low note. Somewhere further down the carriage, a child begins to cry. The fabric on the seat beside her is worn, slightly stained, but not actually dirty. She turns her face toward the man sitting opposite. Sniffs, warily. She can’t detect anything offensive. Discreetly, she inhales her own scents – clothes, armpits, breath – and judges herself acceptable. She showered this morning, brushed her teeth. Is wearing a clean shirt. The train jolts. The woman in the aisle sways and staggers, is steadied by a man who must be her husband. Both of them are grey-haired, wrinkled, somewhere between late middle and old age. She imagines they’re on their way to visit a grown-up son or daughter, spend a week with the grandkids. The woman looks like a grumpy grandma. She’s complaining now, a mutter that’s meant to be heard. Taking up space, she says. You’d think. Why can’t she… The husband is silent, smiling awkward sympathy till his wife’s grievances are interrupted by the ticket inspector easing his way through the crowded carriage. 20

A glance, a click; the inspector checks her ticket and returns it, and she slides it back into her purse. Stops. Pulls it out again. The price printed there is more than it ought to be. More than she remembers paying, when she bought it online. She reaches for her phone, meaning to check the email receipt. But the train has come to an unexplained halt, surrounded by drab, empty fields and a rain-smudged sky, and her screen shows the E of no network reception. Emergency calls only. She drops the phone back in her bag. If she wants her money back she will have to complain. The thought of a battle with railway bureaucracy makes her rub a hand across her eyes. Once more she checks the ticket, hoping she’s made a mistake.

Class STD

Ticket type ADVANCE

Adult ONE Child –

Here, the inspector’s ticket punch has nipped out a zero. The old biddy in the aisle is muttering again. Children used to be made to stand, she says, to herself or her husband or nobody in particular. She is eyeing the vacant seat, face creased with disapproval. What’s the woman waiting for – an invitation card? With the pad of her thumb she traces the edge of her ticket, traces its absent circle round and round. The train hauls back into motion, crawls past a tumbledown barn, a humpbacked bridge, a field full of sheep with their newborn lambs. Gradually, they pick up speed. She is going to be late, but it’s not the end of the world. Worse things have happened. As the train draws close to her station, she begins to edge her way into the aisle. Excuse me she says; has to say it again before the disapproving woman steps grudgingly aside, allowing her just enough room to manoeuvre her case down from the rack. On the platform, rain blows in under the canopy. She carves her way through a small crowd, drinking in the fresh cold air they’re so eager to escape. The walk toward the platform gate takes her back the length of the carriage: the old biddy is already settled in her seat, her husband easing into the aisle seat beside her. Through the rain-spattered glass the woman is glaring, censorious to the last. She slows, stares. Gives an irritated shrug. What? she mouths, all bold now there’s a pane of glass between them. Except, she realises, it’s not her the woman is watching. That glare is angled sideways and down, as if the thing that’s being judged is the little case that rumbles at her heels, or the empty space at her side.

THE ANGRIEST I HAVE EVER SEEN MY MOTHER. (EXCEPT FOR THAT ONE TIME) by Ellie Hamilton

“What did you do?” Mrs Walker asks angrily. “I pushed Declan into a puddle.” I say. I did. But he pushed me first so that makes it fair, right? I say that and Mrs Walker gets even more mad. I’m sitting in the office. Mum is there and she looks really angry, but not at me. “So you yell at my child because some brat pushed her in a puddle?” Mum doesn’t say brat. She says something that must be worse going by the look on Mrs Walker’s face. Mrs Walker looks very surprised. “Mrs Hamilton, your child pushed him.” Uh oh. Mum doesn’t like being called Mrs. She starts yelling and I pretend to lose interest. I’m let out of the office a few minutes later. Declan gets told to go in I don’t see him for the rest of the day.

JUNE 2004 by Ellie Hamilton Today Ama tells me she has a surprise. She says I have to wait until Mum gets home, I don’t like it when Mum goes away. It leaves me with Ama, Granddad and my weird hermit uncle Ben. I get really lonely then. Finally Mum comes home and she smells of that weird lemony smell. It’s not as bad or as thick as Ama’s perfume, but it’s still horrible. Mum says it’s because of the hospital. She goes and has a shower. Showers are still weird for me but Mum really likes them. I don’t know why. When she finally finishes she doesn’t smell of that weird lemon smell any more. Ama tells me to go and yell for Ben. I do, but all I get is a snore in response. ‘Just leave him,’ Mum says. When I look outside Granddad is pushing something big, black and heavy across the grass. It’s the barbecue! Soon we start cooking and Ben comes down. He sits at the table and doesn’t say much. I think he’s fallen asleep again. Ama and Granddad serve out the food and I start eating. It tastes really good!

FAIRYTALE by Ellie Hamilton Matt was missing his sister. Not in the sense that he liked her, he just felt a brotherly urge to find her. You heard right, folks. His sister was missing.

‘Oh – China.’

Upon making his decision, Matt decided to take his friend Ethan along.

It turned out that his sister had moved away without telling Matt. That was the day Matt started to deny he had siblings.

‘Of course I’ll help you! I swore to protect you ever since you helped me to get…’ ‘Yeah, yeah, enough of the character development – your mum’s dead, congrats!’ And off they went. After travelling for a good few weeks they encountered an old man. He told them that he had a potion that could show them where Matt’s sister was, but for a price. Matt punched and robbed him. ‘This could kill me so I want you to test it out,’ Matt told Ethan. Ethan agreed and drank the green liquid. ‘Well?’ ‘She’s in a flat.’ ‘Where?’ ‘What?’ ‘Where’s the flat?’ 24

‘What?’

MEMORIES by Kiara Gerrard SCIENTIST (Aged 5) I am a scientist. My blanket is my lab coat and the kitchen is my laboratory. I do experiments and they are very special and important. My favourite is the one where I put elastic bands in egg cups. My biggest discovery was when one snapped. I told my Mum but she wouldn’t phone the newspapers because she said they wouldn’t care. I think they would if they saw how far it went. Today I am experimenting with sharp pins. I have to be fast because I don’t know when Mum will be home and she doesn’t like my experiments. I put the pins on the floor. It will keep the mice from stealing my ideas. My mum says my ideas are silly but my Dad always laughs and says I’m a good scientist. I like my Dad more than my Mum. I walk over to get the treat box. My next experiment will be to eat chocolates and see if they taste better when I’m not allowed to have them. When I walk back to the cupboards my foot starts to really hurt. There is blood on the floor. I am crying and no one is there to hug me because my Dad is sleeping upstairs and my mum will never hug me again once she sees the mess. I don’t want to be a scientist anymore.

PRIMARK (Aged 7) Me and my mum are in Primark. The lights are too bright and I’m scared I’m going to get stamped on by all the people. She’s pulling my hand and it really hurts. She’s looking at boring adult clothes. I stand beside a mannequin and copy it. A man laughs. My mum doesn’t. She pulls my hand again to drag me to another bit and says I’m embarrassing. She’s way more embarrassing than me. She always tries to sort my hair on the bus and sometimes she spits on a hanky and wipes my face. She says she doesn’t like walking around with a mucky pup. I like being a mucky pup because it’s more fun. It doesn’t matter what I want though. We finally get to the kids’ bit. I’m really excited. “Five minutes,” she says. “That is SO unfair!” I shout. “You got loads of time to look!” She doesn’t say anything else, she just looks at me angrily. I go through the tops super fast but they’re all rubbish. I like clothes with writing on or skulls because I’m really cool. “What about this?” She is holding up a disgusting yellow dress.

“Mum, I’m seven! That’s for little girls!” I turn away and look at the jeans. There are nice ones but they are long and I am short. I pick up a pair of joggers. “You have loads of joggers!” says my mum. “But none of them have writing on them.” These ones do, they say “1969” which is centuries ago. “You don’t even go jogging!” “Neither do you, Fattie!” People in the shop are staring. I feel happy in a weird way, but I’m also a bit scared because my mum has gone all red. She tries to pull my hand again, but I take it back. The whole bus journey home she says nothing. It gets really busy later on, but I’m not scared of crowds anymore, or my mum. I didn’t get any clothes with writing on, but I’ve got plenty words of my own.

WATER FIGHT (Aged 8) On Sundays I organise Water Wars outside my back garden. I got a set of water guns for Christmas so all the kids have decided they like me. I always win because I control the hose. I count the seconds quicker when other people are filling up so they can’t fill it all the way. I am on top of the volcano. It is actually a tree stump but I call it the volcano because it is tall and black and sometimes it goes on fire when the teenagers are around. My friends are hiding. My water gun is full, so I can understand why they’re scared. I shoot them even when they’re wet and cold and tell me to stop. My Dad says I will be a villain like the green goblin when I grow up. I hope so because then people will listen to me. I see Ali. She is lying on the ground behind the weird wood houses. I run over. I am a really fast runner but I’m not as fast as the bus yet so I’m late for school a lot. Ali hasn’t seen me. She isn’t moving. I shoot my water gun at her until it is half empty. She still doesn’t move. She must be really tough. The other kids always scream when I shoot them and I laugh. Bailey jumps out from behind the bushes. I only gave her a water pistol because I don’t like her very much. She is shouting “Boo!” I step back so the water doesn’t hit me and shoot her in the face. She is soaked and I am dry. She looks annoyed but then scared. “Is Ali okay?” “I don’t know,” I say. I kick her and she still doesn’t move. “Has she taken her medicine?” “What medicine?” “Needle medicine. She needs it.”

“I don’t know, we should ask her mum.” “Where does she live?” “I thought you knew.” Ali is older than us. She is nine. She has grown-up trainers with no flashy bits and wears a cardigan without being told to. She lives ages away and walks here by herself. Bailey sits down beside her. She takes her phone out of the pocket of her cardigan but it won’t work. The screen is very black. “It’s because you made it wet!” she shouts. “She’ll die!” I feel really strange. My feet are light but my head is heavy and hot. My heart is wrong too. Ali is opening her eyes now and she’s shivering and crying but then she closes them again. Bailey shouts at me to get my mum. I can’t move either. I’m just staring at Ali. Maybe I’m already a villain.

PORTA VENTURA (Aged 11) Me and Alexis are in a big theme park called “Porta Ventura” in Spain. I met Alexis two days ago. She is my best friend. She has curly ginger hair and freckles all over and weird teeth. She got sad when I said that so I look at them secretly now. It is really hot but we have ice cream so it’s okay. I was very brave and got it for both of us because she is shy around adults. My dad gave me the money and my mum shouted at him for spoiling me. He winked at me after. Alexis winked at me after too because she had stolen loads of lollies while the ice cream man was talking to me. There’s a big fountain in front of us that you can walk through. I want to but Alexis isn’t sure. “Come on,” I say, “it’ll be fun!” “What about the ice cream?” She speaks funny too. She has a BBC voice. “I’ve finished mine. It’s not my fault you’re a slow eater.” “But we’ll get wet!” “That’s the point!” “I think we’re too clever to do that.” “Oh yeah, we’re geniuses.” I look at the people in the fountain. “Silly!”

Alexis is super smart. When we were waiting in the queue for the ship thing she was telling me about a man called Einstein. I wanted to speak about dogs, but she told me that once I knew about Einstein I’d be a genius too. I said I was a genius scientist already. She said I’d be a genius times two. I don’t know my times tables yet but she does, so she must be a proper genius. She told me and now we are geniuses together. My mum said we were exaggerating but I don’t care what she thinks because I’m a genius and she works in Boots. We are in the Wild West bit now and there’s a rollercoaster made out of wood called the “Wacky Wagon”. I ask Alexis if she wants to go on it. “It’s very high,” she says. “Exactly,” I say back. “That’s for silly people. We should stand here and watch people be sick.” She is into gross stuff like making slime and crushing flies. She is also into blaming her mess on me. My parents catch up with us. Their faces are red and sweaty. Alexis suddenly gets all shy. I ask her if she wants to go on the rollercoaster again even though it’s silly but she is too busy looking at the pavement. My mum says Alexis’s dad is asking for her. Alexis walks away without even looking at me. I am sad because now I’m a lonely genius. My mum tries to pull my hand but I never let her do that anymore. “Alexis!” People walk in front of her and then I can’t see her anymore. “Thank god she’s flying home tomorrow. That girl’s a bad influence,” my mum says quietly. Alexis lives in England so I might never see her again. I’m so sad, but then I have an idea. I pull my mum’s hand into the queue for the “Wacky Wagon”. She looks very surprised when I start skipping in front of people. “I taught you better than that!” Alexis taught me more in two days than she has in my whole life. Mum is following me and apologising. We’re sitting in the ride now, waiting for it to go. My mum is still moaning about me being a rude little madam but I don’t care because I have my idea. It finally starts and we go up and up for ages. I look all around for Alexis so I can shout goodbye but all the people are too small and the sun is in my eyes. When we go down I’m too busy screaming to look. Me and my mum are the last ones to get off. My legs are shaking and my head hurts and I’m sad because my idea of going on the rollercoaster to spot Alexis from the top didn’t work. The way out is a wooden tunnel that goes to a gift shop. Mum is sighing something about being out of the sun. I am about to shout at her for being stupid when I see a plank of wood. There are loads of them but this one is special because it has little splodges 28

on them that remind me of Alexis’ s freckles. Even if I don’t see her again, we’ll still be geniuses. Everyone else will still be silly, especially my mum. We’re in the gift shop now. Mum is screwing up her nose at something glittery. I start laughing. She pulls a big frown. “What’s so funny?” “You.” I see all the little people from the rollercoaster through the glass. “All of you.”

THE WORKS (Aged 19) A Nordic mythology themed pencil set, four copies of “My Demons and How I Overcame Them” by Mr Blobby, a “Make your own Bernard Manning in five easy steps” kit – everything but an axe! You never know what you’ll find in The Works, but it’s never anything you need. With a quick and devilishly attractive scoff, I descend upon the high street once more. The sun’s rays only strike my side of the pavement (but of course) for I am the light in the dark; a gold shaving amongst a writhing mass of maggots. I can see them now, the fetid cretins, clutching at their poxy bags as if that’ll save them from damnation, mooing at each other like it means anything other than status as yet another over-commentator, funding the degeneracy with their corroded currency. I would spit if it weren’t such a waste. There is no virtue here, only acres of syphilitic flesh squeezing itself in and out of doorways. Others would say they deserve a break. I agree – preferably to the legs. I move on. To choose to stay in such bad company would be masochism, and masochism would be idiotic, and idiotic would be them. I am NOT them. The only trouble with being god-tier is that I can never dwell. I haven’t even a kettle to my name. No matter, I’ll leave all that tasteless hot slop for the masses, it might go some of the way to burning off those pesky vocal chords of theirs. The only redeemable ones amongst them are my backers – it is their kind donations that keep me alive and killing. I wonder if any of them are here; if there are beacons amongst the rocks. I wonder if they’d buy me a kettle. I always spend my weekends hunting for new supplies – rest is for the weak. The itch to work outweighs anything gained from leisure. I’m itchy now in fact, what with being around so many potential targets, to the point where my Doctor Martins lead a charge up and down the length of the bus shelter. My kill rate has been slipping of late. In my head I blame my blunt axe, but immediately chastise myself, for it is not becoming for one to blame his tools. I won’t find any new tools here, of that I am sure. Indeed, there is nothing of use to be found. My transport draws near. It groans along with heavy heart, almost as despairing as myself, nowhere near as important. I extract my bus ticket from the pocket of my leather gown, imagining it to be a different heart altogether, imagining one of my many nemeses slumped with open rib cage and shut eye. Its quivering is not that of the wind, it is that of their cowardice! I crush it in my fist, smiling widely. One of the normies - a sour-souled pleb with a paunch big enough to play rugby on - has the nerve to give me an odd look. I would end them all if it wasn’t so critical to hide my power level. I will be crowned one of these days, then they can look, for a small fee. That’ll make the pigs cower. I can hear the clack of their trotters wringing now, or perhaps it’s the bus’s dodgy brakes. In any case, my time will come, they’ll see.

SHARPENERS AND AMADANS by Rhiannon Walker The sharpener sits on the desk waiting patiently, doing its work like the rest of the class. My eyes stare in bafflement: how are people not using this magical device? The teacher looks at me like I am prey then points with her middle finger to the board where the task for the day is presented. My eyes drift to the words but, just like the writing in the books we read, the lines blur and the letters dance. The teacher roars furiously when my eyebrows knit so I look at the sharpener - that will help me. That will help me write what the teacher wants me to write. Sharpeners fix pencils and make them work. I’ll be able to work after it helps me.

classroom. My face floods with tears. The last thing I hear before my head deletes memory is one final word: “AMADAN!” ... Ten years later. “Oh my god, throwback!”

Unhappy broken pencils go in then they come out all fixed and new. The teacher never told me how but I know why. I trot my little legs over to the teacher’s desk. She scowls at me and asks what i want.

Myself and Louie howl as we repeat the phrases we grew up with. I take a stab, using the little memory I have from primary school and say another line. Louie looks at me with sticking sarcasm. He gasps, “Amandan,” breathing it out with a sassy tone. Once again my eyebrows knit with a quizzical look.

“An-uh- sharpener.”

Without the question even being posed he repeats in English: “Idiot.”

She shakes her head so fast I think it almost fell off then corrects me. I should have known the Gaelic for sharpener. It doesn’t matter though, the sharpeners going to help me, sharpeners fix the broken, then help pencils do the work. I bet you there’s another world! Like in Doctor Who, it can take me to where all that treasure and leprachauns are. It’ll cheer me up and fix me to write. Then I won’t make the teacher angry. Then I won’t pretend to be sick so I don’t have to go to school. Then I’ll be able to read like all the other kids! The sharpener will fix me. I put my finger into the sharpener. I smile as a last farewell then twist. “Aaaaahhhhh!” Why am I bleeding? This hurts! Ouch, stop it! This isn’t funny! Whats going on? The teacher bellow like a lion, screams in the language I’m only just learning - but it’s different from the one at home, echoes around the 30

MALE SOLACE by Helen Lynch I carry my styrofoam container of chilli and chips out through the door of bakeshop-cum-takeaway, across the cobbles, holding it level. It was all they had left, and I was ravenous, so I took it. Contrary to all my resolutions to reverse my recent weight gain, fight the effects of my sedentary job, get fit, eat healthy, blah blah blah, battle the middle-age spread. Fell at the first hurdle. Can resist everything but temptation, me. I negotiate the cracked paving stones and the steps down into the courtyard. The tea seeps through the press-on lid of the recyclable cup with every slight tilt or wobble, so I concentrate, determined not to spill a drop.

‘Yeah, that’s the worst.’

Behind me, fresh from the bookshop along the street, the two young men are comparing the purchases for their new courses this term, arms full of crisp paperbacks.

The sliding doors to the foyer part to admit me with practised ease. Two splotches of tea drip onto the carpet.

‘Your place or mine? [Laughs.] Definitely yours.’ ‘Yeah, suck ‘em in with my poetry – then they’ll meet the ex and run a mile.’ ‘Don’t bear thinkin about.’ ‘Most def, no.’

‘3 for 2 Neruda. Result.’ ‘Just got me a bundle. Transformations of Romance course. Wasn’t my first pick, like, but looks quite cool. Knights and shit. Where you headed now, man?’ ‘Not home. Broke up with my girlfriend two weeks ago – ‘ ‘Man, that’s tough.’ ‘Yeah, but still living in the same flat till March.’ ‘Not the easiest. We get along, but it’s not the easiest.’ Her swollen face, I think. Her tortured eyes as she sits chatting to your flatmates, pizza boxes on the coffee table, hugging her knees in the farthest armchair. Your own pangs as she sings that song in the shower. Or doesn’t sing it. Not any more. Her purple toothbrush in the bathroom, her perfume in the hallway as you close the door, your pillow that still smells ever so faintly of her warm skin, her hair. ‘Must be awkward bringing back girls.’

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