ENGL:2012

ENGL

2012

Poetry, Prose and Drama from Students in the School of English, University of Leeds

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CONTENTS PAGE

Forward

4

Thomas Ellison

from The Conched Ear

5

Neil Ward

from Play Acting

9

Katerine Morgan

from Down the Garden

14

Sara Gonzalez

from Daisy Chain

20

Stephen Santoro

from In Memory

25

Sarah Handy

from Counting Elephants

26

James Thurley

from Apocalypse

27

Francesca Deane

from Postcodes

31

Gbemisola Orimolade from Ruminations on the Votary Nubile Josh Byworth from Exposure

32

Ben Styles

from A Flaw in the Colour Green:

43

Philippa Bailey

Batavia, 1740 from Die Wende

47

Sarah Johansson

from Double Exposure

50

Patrick Young

from People, Places and Objects

53

Elaine Cooper

from Six Degrees of Separation

55

Contributors‘ Notes

60

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Copyright remains with the authors. For permissions, please contact the School of English at the University of Leeds.

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The bullet is already in the brain; it won‘t be outrun forever, or charmed to a halt. In the end it will do its work and leave the troubled skull behind, dragging its comet‘s tail of memory and hope and talent and love into the hall of commerce. That can‘t be helped. But for now Anders can still make time. Time for the shadows to lengthen on the grass, time for the tethered dog to fly at the flying ball, time for the boy in right field to smack his sweatblackened brow and softly chant, They is, they is, they is.

—Tobias Wolff, from ‗Bullet in the Brain‘

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FORWARD The epigraph for this pamphlet is taken from a short story by Tobias Wolff, in which a jaded literary critic, Anders, is shot during a bank robbery. The bullet travels through his brain, triggering memories, and at the climax of this journey we arrive at the the instant Anders first fell in love with words, the formative moment in his childhood when he heard an irregular phrase and discovered the potential of language to ignite the imagination.

Students taking the 2012 Creative Writing modules will know how much I value this story. Wolff‘s skill with words and the resultant beauty is, in itself, a corroboration of Anders‘ belief in the power of language. I‘m also moved by Wolff‘s concern that we should remind ourselves continually of the moment we awakened to the possibilities afforded by art (or science, or sport). He asks that we appreciate both the unpolluted innocence of that flash and how it stimulated and galvanized all that followed. For many a critic and writer, this elemental experience is too dim a memory: Art has become simply a job, what puts the soon-to-be-dissected text on the table.

But all fifty-one students on ENGL32660 and ENGL350 are, like young Anders, just starting out: they‘re with him on that baseball field, listening to a boy‘s strange speech. What follows is work that enables us to stand beside them again, just for a time. And this is why the semester has been a joy. We is because they is.

Paul Maddern June 2012

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—THOMAS ELLISON— from THE CONCHED EAR

3 POEMS Islands I‘m bouncing off the walls so my mum smashes the glass of our pinball machine of a house.

The lawn‘s too pristine so I flow to the stream my father regarded a brook.

A springy branch of pine I shook, first to test its strength, then to climb a little and have a little look.

Your slippered feet shuffle closer.

The sun‘s heat: bread clasped in a toaster.

My squealing barks: you peeling off your clobber to the ocean.

The flotsam of your marriage, instead of drowning hovers then revolves – a washing motion – a mirage.

But all is muck. Your sight dissolves.

The sea becomes that little brook without a tree to hold.

Today you are a dodo dad: you flap your wings but not all feathers float, you say.

I‘m over and beyond the stream but not transversely, I‘m moving up a skeleton without before rehearsing.

If father‘s outspread arms, like bark surrounding, cushioned my collapse, if father‘s stocky trunk were here with head and limbs solidly attached,

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if father‘s knotty roots anchored my ascent I‘d open up my wings and climb with more intent.

Instead, I bumble into nests of eggs like hollow skulls, take a little rest, then leap through an unstable blue.

The jetty dips.

Buoys become balloons: clunking chains lift and trawl their wreckages as lagan starts to drift into stratum.

I see a blurry little kid drowning in the little brook at the bottom of our garden.

I jettison my hopes as schools of sharks confirm I‘m more than six feet over, at last I‘m with my son.

Mum is rocking in her chair, waiting on the lawn, she‘s not sure if she knows it yet but she will never mourn.

From the setting to the rising from the stem of the tree to the sea‘s horizon her conched ear might hear their knocking bones becoming beaches.

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Weavers and Coal-heavers In 1781 the weaver eats peas and beans, he enjoys a good barrel of humming ale.

A week-day suit of clothes is all he needs and a neat set for Sunday without fail.

He works from home, the Silas Marner, he owns his loom and weaves regardless of rain, like a golden-orb spinning silk he bobs his head and hums a lilt.

The century has over-turned King Louis‘s spinning in the earth as weavers cup their broad-brimmed hats and ladle out their beer in rags.

We‘re coal-heavers by trade – lobotomized, our nimble fingers cling to sacks in rusty barrels for nine miles, then home for nine with aching backs.

In 1832 your class is crafted and all that came before goes up in steam.

Your cloth-master‘s a small capitalist and you are just a current in the stream.

Now, cleaners and half-baked plumbers bodge their jobs and sneak off to the pub for liquid-dinners and vapours of beans and peas weave their way through synapses.

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The glade is a gleam of light there is a bright space between

the clouds like frith in fir lap up the golden fish that flourishes the stream.

Basking in the Sun-pool, the earth beneath the wheel sparks the green fuse in the petal from sleep the only orchid in the dark. — first published in Poetry & Audience, Winter 2011

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—NEIL WARD— from

PLAY ACTING

FAIRIES SPOTTED IN COTTINGLEY WOODS 'The photos were no hoax,' says former king of the ring.

NEARLY 90 years ago, two cousins claimed to have photographed fairies in Cottingley Woods, attracting interest from all over the world and an unlikely believer in Sherlock Homles‘ creator Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The photos have been much debated since - even the cousins came to disagree about their authenticity - and now there is another twist in this enduring tale.

'I was working in the Cottingley Woods on Tuesday morning. It was a sunny day, but there had been a light drizzle,‘ explains Ronnie Bennett, 62: ‗I saw three fairies by a rock. They were about 10 inches tall. They stared at me, fluttered their wings and disappeared.'

Bennett, who has worked as a forester in Cottingley since retiring from professional wrestling in the 1970s, is adamant that the fairies were ‗the same ones as in the photos‘.

Intriguingly, in a 1983 BBC documentary the eldest of the cousins, Elsie Wright, admitted the photos were a hoax; but up until her death in 1986, her cousin Frances Griffiths maintained that one of the photos was real. 'The photos were no hoax. I‘m now certain of that,' is Bennett's view.

But why are there so few sightings of fairies, as skeptics point out? 'Fairies will only appear to certain people. You must be very close to nature to see them,' Bennett explains. No doubt the skeptics will be willing to listen to former wrestling champ Bennett's claims with a little more patience than usual.

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JOIN THE BIG DEBATE Do you believe in fairies?

YES: 0845704308-1 NO: 0845704308-2 Call costs £1.50.

YESTERDAY WE ASKED: Should Peter Barlow forgive Carla?

43% SAID YES. 57% SAID NO.

A Fairy Tale I park at The Fisherman‘s Inn and go inside. I spot him immediately, sat down at a table. He has longish hair, a beard, and is wearing a checked plaid shirt. He must be 16-stone. ‗Ronnie.‘ He introduces himself and offers his hand. ‗Mike, from The Bradford Courier. Would you like a drink?‘ ‗I don‘t drink. Not alcohol.‘ I detect a hint of mistrust. It was an innocent question. After all, I‘ve been drunk hundreds of times, but I‘ve never seen fairies.

Nonetheless, I‘ve put him on the defensive already, so I decide to begin with some easy questions. ‗So, you‘ve lived in Cottingley since….‘ ‗Since the 1970s.‘ ‗And always working as a forester?‘ ‗Yep. Since I quit the ring.‘ ‗Quit wrestling?‘ ‗Yep.‘ ‗Do you still watch wrestling? I mean, the American stuff?‘ ‗No, no. That‘s not real wrestling. It‘s a soap opera. The wrestlers never wrestle. And there‘s all these women in bikinis. I wouldn‘t let my grandson watch it.‘ ‗Isn‘t all wrestling a soap opera in a way?‘ ‗What do you mean?‘ 10

‗Well, it‘s all … play acting.‘ ‗No, no. Coventry, 1974. I broke my arm in a match with Kendo Nagasaki. I spent weeks in hospital. Had a metal plate put in here.‘ He taps his left arm. ‗Do you think that‘s play acting?‘ ‗No, I meant … never mind.‘ I decide to change the subject. ‗Are you married? You mentioned a son then.‘ ‗Divorced, with one son and two grandchildren. I see my son‘s family once or twice a year.‘ ‗OK. Nice,‘ I say, unconvincingly. I check my notes. ‗Let‘s talk about what you saw on Tuesday morning.‘ ‗It was Wednesday morning.‘ ‗Sorry, Wednesday morning. Can you describe what happened?‘ ‗Well, it was a sunny day, but there‘d been a light drizzle. I was working in the woods, near the rock with marks on it. That‘s where I saw them. They were about 10 inches tall. They stared at me, fluttered their wings and disappeared.‘ I write down the details. ‗There‘s no way those photos were a hoax,‘ he adds.

I‘m glad that he brings the famous photos up. Of course, one of the two cousins who took the photos admitted that they were a hoax. I decide I‘ll leave that detail for later. I‘ve brought with me a print out of the fourth photo the cousins took. It‘s called ‗Fairy Offering Posy of Harebells to Elsie‘ and it‘s the least convincing: the fairy is static and looks like a drawing from a nursery book. I reach for my bag and take it out. ‗So, the fairies you saw – they were like this?‘ ‗Yep.‘ ‗Just like this?‘ ‗A little taller.‘ ‗OK - but that‘s all? A little taller?‘ I bring the photo closer to him. ‗And more … spiritual.‘ ‗Spiritual?‘ ‗Yeah.‘ ‗The fairy in this photo has a very fashionable haircut – she looks like a debutante.‘ He doesn‘t detect my sarcasm or at least he pretends he doesn‘t. ‗Their hair was different. As I said, they were more spiritual.‘ ‗More spiritual.‘ 11

I pause and have a drink. I pretend to write something down, but just scribble. I think about the last 6 years: reporting about big cat sightings and stolen garden gnomes; interviewing people like this. I remember my old job in Birmingham, dealing with proper news. ‗Why don‘t we go to the woods?‘ I ask him. He looks surprised as I only came to get a few quotes. ‗OK. Alright.‘ ‗We might see them? Yes?‘ ‗Yep.‘ ‗Do you think we will see them?‘ ‗We could do.‘ ‗Have other people seen them? Or only you?‘ ‗Other people have seen them, but they don‘t like to talk about it.‘ ‗Can everyone see them? I mean, do they only appear to certain people?‘ He looks at me strangely. ‗Maybe they only appear to certain people. I‘m very close to nature. Maybe you need to be close to nature.‘ ‗OK. Right. Let‘s say you see them and I don‘t see them - will you describe them to me? Describe exactly what you see?‘ ‗Yep.‘ ‗I‘ll finish my drink.‘ ***** As we walk towards the woods, I notice Ronnie has a limp. We pass a group of schoolchildren playing headers and volleys who, when they see Ronnie, suppress smiles. He must be a laughing stock in this village. I feel sorry for him in a way. But I‘ve got to make him admit it – for his own benefit.

At the entrance to the woods, Ronnie stops. ‗I know a lot of people don‘t believe me. But I‘ve seen them. And hopefully you‘ll see them.

Then you can tell everyone who reads your paper there really are fairies in Cottingley.‘ ‗How far away is the place where you saw them?‘ I ask him. ‗Not far.‘ ***** It‘s hard to believe this place is so close to a shithole like Bradford.

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Ronnie starts to walk at a slower pace and I wonder if he‘s lost or having second thoughts. Then, he speeds up again. We reach a rock with old engravings of triangles on it. ‗This is it,‘ he says. ‗This is it.‘ We stand there for a moment. I look at him questioningly. ‗Let‘s wait and see if they appear,‘ he says.

He stares at the rock and his eyes glaze over. I watch him for about five minutes, wondering what he‘s thinking. How is he going to get out of this? Then he turns to me. ‗We won‘t see them today.‘ ‗Why?‘ ‗It‘s a feeling.‘ I raise my eyebrows. ‗You have to gain their trust first.‘ ‗I have to gain their trust.‘ ‗Yep.‘ We walk back. The schoolchildren are climbing trees now, too busy to notice us. ‗What about if I come back next week, then the week after? Will I see them?‘ I ask him. ‗You could do.‘ ‗I‘ll come here every week until I see them. Will you join me?‘ ‗Well, if….‘ ‗I don‘t want to get lost.‘ ‗I‘ll be here.‘ We reach my car. I have to say something else before I leave. ‗So, next week – you‘ll meet me and we‘ll go into the woods again? To see the fairies?‘ ‗Yep.‘ He sticks out his hand and we shake. ‗I‘ll see you next week – yes?‘ I repeat. ‗Yep. Yep.‘ I get in my car. In my rear view mirror, I see Ronnie walking in the direction of the woods. He walks past the schoolchildren from earlier, who kick their football to him. He kicks it back with his good leg, waves at them, and keeps on walking.

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—KATERINE MORGAN— from DOWN THE GARDEN

YOU ARE ENTERING ‘BEYOND HUMANITY’ (ALL SPECIES WELCOME) anon (guest) has joined the chat.

ApocalypseNow: and then he said it was my own fault, which isnt even true anon (guest): er...hi? ghostlygurl: ooooohhh noobie yay! hihihihi \.(^.^)./ Overlord: Hello anon. What brings you to our neck of the woods? anon (guest): yeh, hi. this chat room came up in a search 4 weird shit ApocalypseNow: ...dude this isnt a porn site anon (guest): wat no! anon (guest): i mean like fairies and shit anon (guest): this is bout magical stuff rite Overlord: Magical stuff is certainly included in our repertoire ApocalypseNow: how do you even know how to spell that?

Overlord: How do you not? ghostlygurl: wat does that mean? O.o anon (guest): so i need magic info ApocalypseNow: because I’m not french Overlord: What magical information would you like?

ApocalypseNow: are you actually physically incapable of typing something in shorthand?

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ghostlygurl: wiki says its means a list of dramas or operas or musical stuff but we weren’t talking about music??? (*_*) ApocalypseNow: its just a word it means stuff we can do anon (guest): a few nites ago lotza weird tings hapened in my village n grandpa sayz its fairies b/ dat makes no fking sense so im tryin 2 prov him rong ApocalypseNow: we have a rule where people type in something like english so the rest of us can understand what the fuck your saying anon (guest): GOD w/e Overlord: You are trying to prove there were no magical entities in your village by looking up information on magical entities? anon (guest): yeh so i can argue with him or w/e ghostlygurl: ur not a troll r u cuz thats mean!! >.> ApocalypseNow: hey remember when we got that troll that was actually a troll Overlord: He wasn’t a troll ApocalypseNow: totally was, I met him, he was huge!

Overlord: No, he wasn’t an internet troll. It’s just that his hands were too big to use the keyboard properly anon (guest): erm hello can u help me or not ApocalypseNow: what if your grandpa was right and there really were magic things in your village? anon (guest): quit jking magic isnt real ApocalypseNow: sounds like someones swimming in egypt ghostlygurl: wat?

ApocalypseNow: you know. swimming in denial de-nile like the nile that river in egypt 15

ghostlygurl: ???

ApocalypseNow: oh shut up ghostlygurl: >:P Overlord: Okay. What type of magical creatures were in your village? anon (guest): idk he just says little folk. but 1 of them was a unicorn ApocalypseNow: wait seriously you saw a unicorn? I’ve not seen a unicorn. why havent I seen a unicorn?

Overlord: If the legends are true it’s not like you’d be able to get close anon (guest): i didn’t see it ghostlygurl: i could though! i could touch the unicorn!!! \(^o^)/ ApocalypseNow: ...

Overlord: Er... ghostlygurl: if i could touch things i mean... :’-( anon (guest): and the others were like fairies or sumthing Overlord: Wait, fairies? As in not just fae creatures, but actual fairies: small people with wings. anon (guest): idk Overlord: This is very important. Were there actual fairies in your village? anon (guest): i don’t fking no i didnt see anything! grandpa just said little folk! ive asked round no1s said anything bout fairies. just cars being joyrided and homework done and games messed with and weird screaming. all totally normal stuff which is y grandpa is talking shit ghostlygurl: its ok it sounds v confusing but were gonna help!!

Overlord: No fairies then. That’s good. It sounds like general mischiefcausing fae. Brownies, imps, so on. Maybe a banshee with that screaming.

Was anyone hurt? anon (guest): nah 16

ApocalypseNow: we may need to check it out. fay things being attracted to one place may be because the faeries are into it anon (guest): the hell are u people on about ghostlygurl: oh faeries r bad news. like the fair folk? they send in fae creatures and little fairies in 1st as scouts, then they come and do bad stuff anon (guest): fairies r evil?

Overlord: Could you tell us your village’s name? We need to make sure this wasn’t a reconnaissance mission ApocalypseNow: what is it with you and french were you french in a past life or something ghostlygurl: sort of evil!!! D: lol anon (guest): im not telling u my personal info u fking pervert ApocalypseNow: hahaha lol Overlord: Excuse me? This isn’t a ploy to find you. How would that even work, I’d have to knock on the door of every house. anon (guest): u could track my ip ApocalypseNow: dude we really couldn’t. ghostlygurl: he isn’t a pervert its ok! liam is really really nice. hes just trying to help. he is like the last person ever to do something mean ApocalypseNow: wait what about me? ghostlygurl: you r 3rd person (^-^) ApocalypseNow: why third? ghostlygurl: i am 2nd of course!!!

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Overlord: I understand your reservation, and normally would encourage it, but it really is a serious matter. You and everyone else in your village could be in danger. anon (guest): no. no way. ghostlygurl: i have an idea! \o/ Overlord: What is it? ghostlygurl: well our noobie can keep an eye out to see if anything else happens, and he can keep talking to us. so we can tell him what to look for.

ApocalypseNow: shes got a point. i mean theyre not gonna attack straight away, they’ll send more scouts out first anon (guest): wait i didnt agree 2 this ghostlygurl: pleeeeeaasse? we can tell u all about magical creatures! its nice 2 make new friends. ^-^ Overlord: That’s a good idea, Lucy. anon (guest): i dont even believe in this magic shit ApocalypseNow: so? you can just come and mock us for believing in baby stuff. no belief necessary ghostlygurl: plzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz anon (guest): yeh fine its not like i have anything better 2 do ghostlygurl: yay! so wats ur name? ghostlygurl: i promise not 2 use it 2 stalk u lol anon (guest): rick ApocalypseNow: hey rick i’m david and she’s lucy Overlord: And I am Liam. It’s a pleasure to meet you anon (guest): u always talk like that?

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ApocalypseNow: he doesn’t talk like that at all. he types like 10 times snobbier than he talks. ghostlygurl: i think its cool like a gentleman (^-^) Overlord: Why thank you, milady. ghostlygurl: lol anon (guest): i gotta go 2 dinner. ill come back 2morow though ghostlygurl: ill be here im always here! david and liam are busy at uni, so they might not come, and there are other people that come here sometimes. but im always here anon (guest): youve got no life huh? ghostlygurl: lol anon (guest): cu 2moz anon (guest) has left the chat room

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—SARA GONZALEZ— from

DAISY CHAINS

FADE IN: 1. EXT. SCHOOL PLAYGROUND – MORNING BREAK TIME The playground is empty, not a soul in sight. The school bell rings and there is an explosion of noise and movement as children, dressed in bottle-green and white checked uniforms, pour into the yard. Last out is MARY. She is five years old and sombre. She walks across the playground, looking around her nervously. Across the yard, over a low wall, is a grassy bank on which ELLEN, DEB, LIBBY, and a dark-haired older girl FLORENCE sit in a small circle. Florence has her back to the school so her face cannot be seen. Mary sees them and makes her way over ignoring the shrieking children running and playing around her. Upon reaching the four girls Mary stands by Ellen and waits to be acknowledged before taking a seat. Ellen does not look up at her until Florence finishes talking. When she does Mary is surprised to find Ellen’s eyes red, swollen and full of tears.

ELLEN (lip trembling) Buster died! My cat Buster he got… he got… he got hit by a car!

Ellen begins to cry. Wordlessly, Mary sits down beside her friend, not quite in the circle, and begins to pick daisies around her. Libby, Deb and Florence try to comfort the wailing Ellen.

ELLEN Daddy buried him in the garden and Josh said that now he’s going to be eaten by worms!

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Libby and Deb turn in horror to Florence. Mary continues to pull up daisies silently and deposit them in her lap.

FLORENCE Yeah, they do bury you when you die. But that’s just your body, and when you die, your body doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is your soul.

ELLEN (hiccupping) Your… your soul?

FLORENCE Yeah, don’t you know about souls? Your soul lives inside you. I think it lives in your heart ... Yeah it does. And it makes you alive. My mum says it’s the most important part of you.

LIBBY What does it look like?

FLORENCE Um, well no one’s ever seen one. I think they’re invisible.

And when you die, they escape out your body through your nose.

DEB Where do they go?

FLORENCE Well they can either go up or down. They’re really light, so they float up through the air, over the clouds and everything.

And they keep going, up and up and up. And they get to top of 21

the highest cloud and they live there.

Having picked a sufficient amount of daisies Mary selects one and begins to make a daisy-chain.

2. EXT.

SUN-DRENCHED MEADOW – LATE AFTERNOON

FLASHBACK – MARY is sitting cross-legged amongst daisies, clumsily attempting to make a daisy chain by tying the stems of two flowers together.

MARY’S FATHER (early 40’s, grey haired with a kind face) approaches and stands a few feet away watching her before chuckling and seating himself next to her.

MARY’S FATHER No, no Kiddo, you’re not getting anywhere with those, are you? Come here.

He takes two daisies from the pile in Mary’s lap and shows her how to pierce the stalk of one with a thumbnail and thread the second through to form the beginning of a chain.

3. EXT.

SCHOOL PLAYGROUND – CONT’D

ELLEN, FLORENCE, LIBBY and DEB continue talking.

MARY continues to work on her daisy chain, hands moving mechanically so that the chain grows quickly.

ELLEN What’s it like up there?

FLORENCE It’s lovely, it’s all soft and bouncy and they’re allowed to eat all their favourite foods 22

and play all day long. Unless they go down, that is.

DEB Why do they go down?

LIBBY What’s down there?

FLORENCE Well, what makes your soul light is laughter, but not your own laughs. See when you’re alive, every time you make someone laugh your soul gets a little bit lighter. Even if you just make someone smile it gets lighter. So if you’ve made lots of people happy, your soul will be able to float up when you die. But when you make someone cry, your soul sucks up all the tears inside and it gets heavier. It’s kind of like a sponge. So if you make lots of people cry your soul will be all heavy from their tears and it will sink down.

Not interrupting making her chain, Mary glances at Florence and frowns.

4. EXT. SUN-DRENCHED MEADOW – CONTINUED MARY is smiling, having mastered the daisy-chain.

MARY’S FATHER sits by her side patiently making his own chain. Eyeing his progress, Mary begins to work more quickly.

Hey, it’s These we’ve

MARY’S FATHER Kiddo, slow down there, not a race. Be patient. daisies are delicate, got to treat them with 23

care. (BEAT) We’ve got all the time in the world.

Mary looks over at his perfect chain and down at her own slightly bedraggled looking one surrounded by broken flowers. She nods and resumes her work more slowly, with care.

5. EXT. SCHOOL PLAYGROUND – CONTINUED DEB And is down bad?

FLORENCE Yeah, it’s the worst. I think it’s where nightmares come from.

MARY finishes her daisy chain by looping it round to make it a full circle.

6. EXT. SUN-DRENCHED MEADOW – CONTINUED MARY’S FATHER finishes his chain, looping it round to make it a full circle. MARY watches and tries to imitate with her own wilting chain but it falls apart in her hands. Mary’s father smiles at her and places his chain on her head as a garland. Mary beams and he gathers her into his arms and kisses her.

7. EXT. SCHOOL PLAYGROUND – CONTINUED MARY stands. ELLEN, FLORENCE, LIBBY and DEB all look up at her in surprise, as though they had forgotten she was there. Mary looks only at Ellen and places the flower garland on Ellen’s head.

The bell rings. Mary turns and heads back in to school.

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—STEPHEN SANTORO— from IN MEMORY

Pathology Report Specimen identified: soft tissue mass, left axilla, 53 gram, solid, light tan, multilobated, glistening.

Small membranofatty tissue, the outer surface inked black.

Microscopic sections show lymph nodes expanded—bizarre cells are noted. There is brisk mitotic activity.

Irregular nuclei: malignant cells are present.

Final diagnosis: Metastatic Malignant Melanoma Prognosis: Fatal

—from William Santoro‘s Pathology Report (2011)

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—SARAH HANDY— from COUNTING ELEPHANTS

A Contingency Plan Say my appliance had stopped working, and inside my windows rain, a blaze of lazy yellows replace the crisp, blue flames.

I‘m teetering on the edge of consciousness, overcome by dizzy breathlessness, experiencing symptoms of tasteless, colourless, poisonous CO Gas Sickness.

Turn the gas off at the mains, open the doors and windows wide, and call the emergency helpline on 0800 triple 1, triple 9, 0800, triple 1, triple 9

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—JAMES THURLEY— from APOCALYPSE

Funeral He thanked them all for coming out, and told them that Sarah would have been so happy to have seen that this many people had shown up. As he shuffled towards the door he could feel their sympathetic and pitiable gaze on his back. They had wanted to walk him home, of course, but now that he had repeated his mantra of quiet suffering several times over, they knew better than to hassle him any further. By the time he left the pub it had stopped raining, and the saturated pavement ahead of him had become a gloomy reflection of the night sky above. He lit a Richmond Superking and started walking.

Is his mind‘s eye he could see their heads drooped over half-empty pint glasses with eyes all wet from melancholy and drink as further attempts were made to eulogise the deceased. He knew that they would all be talking about him as soon as he left, saying things like: ‗a wife and a daughter in three years, isn‘t it awful‘, ‗he shouldn‘t be living in that house all by himself‘, and worst of all, ‗he must be so brave going through all of this on his own.‘ That was the worst, when people called him brave.

There was nothing brave about what he had done or how he had acted. It wasn‘t he who had been forced to sleep through his last days in a mirrorless room, fat from steroids, bald from chemotherapy, unrecognizable as himself; it wasn‘t he who had been dragged from life by appalling circumstance, genderless, blue eyes turning grey in a matter of months; and it wasn‘t he who had to die without dignity, stupefied, pissing blood into a bedpan, at twenty-five.

Sometimes when he used to visit her, he would imagine how her body looked on the inside, torn apart and shredded from that worst of all illnesses, every organ distended and swollen from a cocktail of medicine and sickness that had drained the life from her both too soon and not soon enough.

He paced the street that led to her old primary school and finished his cigarette on the green opposite the front gate that he had never once walked her to. He sat on the wet grass and mumbled an awkward and recycled thought aloud, though its meaning was lost to the world through 27

a thick vapour of Guinness breath. After a while of sitting and remembering, he started to get tired. He raised himself and walked home.

Now he pauses at his front door. For a second, before he begins fumbling for his keys in the dark, his mind is silent, and there is nothing to consider, nothing is profound and nothing is ephemeral. Not knowing what to do with this feeling, he opens the door and heads inside.

Within the hour he is asleep on his reclining chair with the television on mute in the corner of the room. Onscreen, silent blurry bodies dance for no one, and whatever beautiful and terrible things he dreams of on this night he has forgotten by the next.

Horses I am woken by the sound of a horrible fanfare that never ceases. Before dressing myself, I sit at the end of my bed for a spell. Looking out of my window, I see nothing but burning wheat fields and dead birds. I say a silent prayer on account of the fact that I am certain today is the end.

I walk to my older brother Tip‘s bedroom at the far end of the landing. Last night Tip and I had a big argument about something we had seen on the TV and I stormed out of the living room on account of his calling me dense and oafish which are the two things I hate being called the most because of the fact that there is a kernel of truth to both of these insults because I am not a particularly smart man and I am very large.

I knock for him but considering the fact that he would not be able to hear my knocking and I would not I be able to hear his replying I just open the door which is indecent I know because he tells me all the time not to do it. His room is empty and his bed is made which is a rare thing.

The bible our Mother died holding is on his pillow.

I walk downstairs and I can hear Ali howling from the utility room she sleeps in. Now that she is full grown I don‘t believe that she ought to be kept in a room this small, and though I always tell Tip as much he says that dogs should not be the masters of the house and that our Father had done the same thing while he was alive and his decision was final. I let Ali out of her room and she runs outdoors at a faster pace than I‘ve ever seen her run before. I put my boots on and walk round to the back of the house. I try to call for Tip but as soon as I open my mouth I retch because 28

my throat is filled with the stench of death and the heavy dark smoke that keeps rolling in off the burning fields.

Walking outdoors and into the yard, I crush a dozen tiny bird skeletons with each step. I head towards an area of trees our Mother used to joke was called the orchard which was funny because none of the trees ever bore any produce. I see a wooden stepladder from the stables on its side which is curious. At this point I am certain of what I will see if I look up but I look up anyway and behold the greatly upsetting spectacle of Tip hanging from a sycamore with his favourite belt around his neck. His face is bloated and purple like an overripe Mediterranean fruit. He has voided his bowels and for a second I consider how it is not right for him to have died like this which makes me want to cry. I try to say a prayer for him but I gag when I open my mouth and within seconds I‘m coughing vomit everywhere. Locusts begin to gather around the apricot coloured bile at my feet.

I pace around the yard for a minute, trying to keep the devastation which surrounds me from entering my mind. Ali bounds over and pisses underneath Tip‘s hanging body before running toward me and chewing on a fat pheasant at my feet. I raise my boot and stamp it down hard on the back of her head and her skull caves in without a sound. Her head is flattened immediately and pieces of white bone and colourful brain are stuck to my heel. I am surprised by how quickly the life is taken from her.

Knowing what I must do next, I walk back into the house and down into our cellar. I pick up Tip‘s hunting rifle which he kept in a box with a few pairs of antlers, trophies from the biggest bucks he killed. In my youth, I wasn‘t allowed to hunt with our Father and Tip and Cousin Daniel. I never much wanted to anyway, so I stayed home with my Mother while she read scripture to me and talked to me. And sometimes we would just go and play with the horses together which she and I both loved very much. I cherish these memories just as I suppose Tip cherished the memories he had of hunting with our Father and Cousin Daniel.

With purpose in my stride and Tip‘s hunting rifle on my back I head over to the stable. I feed each of the horses oats for breakfast and stroke them and scratch their hair. I try to be fair to them all but I spend a little extra time with my favourite horse Blackie who is taller than the rest. Next, I cover each of their faces with the leather fly masks they wear 29

in the summertime to keep flies and mites from chewing on their eyes. I shoot each one of them in the middle of the head and they die a humane death that is quick and without pain. Blackie is the hardest one to do so I do her last, but I would rather say less about this because it was a dark and desperate event and it pains me to dwell on it. When I am done in the stable I go to the kitchen. I drink a whole bottle of milk from the fridge but the blood of the horses gets stains on everything and looking at these stains ruins the joy I had hoped to find in the milk.

I head upstairs and run a cold bath. I sit in it for a while and think about Tip and my Mother and our Father. I let the water baptise me before I wash the blood and dirt off of my hands and my hair and my body. I put on my Church clothes after the bath and walk out to the front of the house. I kneel underneath that blood sky and wait and wait and when the boiling rain finally begins to fall and blister my skin I want to scream out thank you God thank you Jesus.

As I wait for my death I try not to imagine how the earth will look after I have left it, but I cannot help picturing the ways in which all the bodies of all the horses in this world will so quickly be turned to soil.

30

—FRANCESCA DEANE— from POSTCODES

Postcards Phu Quoc Island in paradise, red dust lifts from an unmade road to find the palm trees Koh Phangan flaming skipping-rope breaks its rhythm, blackened soles run into the sea Cat Ba Island foot-shaped holes rupture the sand – evening waves arrive to restore peace Hoi An trees reflected in rippling water dance with the morning breeze Everest Base Camp warm breath meets thin air: clouds of white mist escape blue lips when we gasp Koh Tao just what are doctors like here? Thousand baht for one jab in the butt.

31

—GBEMISOLA ORIMOLADE— from RUMINATIONS ON THE VOTARY NUBILE Act 1: Scene 1.

The town hall in Osho-Igbo. There are three doors – two at opposite sides of the stage, and one at the rear. Carved wooden windows are at regular intervals on the back wall. Wood benches are arranged around a semi-circle of colourful mats. The women sitting on the benches are well dressed, while those on the mats are not as smartly dressed. Ajigun sits on a mat behind the women. Iyalode steps forward.

Iyalode: Good morning adorable women in their husbands‘ dynasty.

All (smiling): Thank you, our mother.

Iyalode: I‘m happy we all look good and healthy this evening. The gods of this land won‘t forsake us.

All: Amen.

Iyalode: I called for this meeting to ensure we get together as women in unison, discover if anyone has observations or reservations to share about daily activities in our community, and deliberate on the oncoming sacred festival.

Murmuring.

Before we proceed further in our meeting, if we look around, we will see a man in our midst....

A Woman (laughing): The captain of women.

Laughter.

Iyalode: He‘s not strange to us, even the unborn foetus in some of us knows him. He‘d address us now so that he can leave for other assignments. (She faces him.) Our father, Ajigun, we are eager to hear from you.

32

Ajigun steps forward.

Ajigun (with a bright smile): I bring greetings to you from the palace. The king and council of chiefs thank you, our mothers, for your support in the past, now, and your willingness to continue in the future.

Without usurping your time, the king and the council of chiefs told me to inform you of the fast approaching Osun-Oshogbo festival.

Everyone is excited.

A Woman (in a loud voice): Has the oracle revealed the votary nubile?

There is silence in the hall.

Ajigun: If the eyes are calm, they‘ll surely see the nose.

Iyalode (smiling and facing Ajigun): Every woman wants to be the lucky mother of the votary nubile.

Ajigun (facing Iyalode): You‘re right. It‘s a great honour for the gods to visit a family and pick their daughter. (He turns to the crowd.) The oracle has not chosen the votary nubile. The message the king and council of chiefs have for you is to welcome without contempt, whoever emerges. The oracle has revealed that it‘ll not cease to give us pleasant surprises. It says, we should prepare the mothers in the community to accept whoever is chosen. There are two things I‘d request of you, accept the votary nubile without harmful jealousy, and whoever the mother will be, please educate her of the importance and sacredness of the task. I wish you a successful meeting. I‘ll leave you before you re-affirm the Captain of Women title you gave me.

Everyone laughs.

Iyalode: We appreciate you, our father. Kindly extend our warm regards to the palace.

Ajigun bows and exits.

Iyalode: Our father Ajigun has tactfully handled an important part of 33

today‘s meeting. Please, let‘s keep those words in our left hand, so that when we eat with the right hand, we can still retain them.

A Woman (loudly): Some of us eat with the left hand, while some eat with both hands.

Laughter.

Iyalode: I‘m always happy whenever we gather together like this and make ourselves laugh but please, let‘s heed to the advice; it‘s for our good. The root of that message is love. Love is a subject that features on our agenda at every meeting. If a blacksmith hammers on a particular point, he wants a distinguishing mark there. From experience, I can say that the oracle honours a hardworking mother. The woman that will be the mother of the priestess must have laboured to keep water for the draught, such that when others are thirsty, she is satisfied. (Coughs.)

Several women sigh, one after another.

Does anyone have an issue to put before us?

Mama Segi stands up.

Mama Segi: My neighbour, Mama Wura, who‘s here today, has a child that steals from the vegetable bed I‘m raising at my backyard. I caught her son red handed and informed her. All she told me was sorry, and the theft continued.

Murmuring.

Iyalode: Please, allow this woman to express herself.

Mama Segi (raising her voice): As if that wasn‘t enough, her son ambushed my son and collected his school fees. Bade was sent out of the exam hall! (Lowers her voice.) Now the boy will wait a whole year to write the exam.

Iyalode: That‘s not fair!

34

Mama Segi: More like it, Segi washed her clothes and left them on the line for three days to dry. On the third day, she couldn‘t find her clothes.

Iyalode: Ah!

Murmuring.

Mama Segi: But after a week, she saw her blouse on Wura. Are they the only family in the neighbourhood?

Iyalode: Mama Wura, let‘s hear your side of the story.

Mama Wura gets up.

Mama Wura: She‘s right but...

Iyalode: But what? You just affirmed all the horrible statements made about you and your children and you want to continue with a ‗but‘.

Will a ‗but‘ change the situation or do you want to give excuses here?

Mama Wura: No, er... but....

Iyalode: But what? Anyway, wait behind after the meeting to see the women leaders. (She turns to Mama Segi.) Mama Segi, please pardon her.

Mama Segi: Pardon? Is that all I get for Bade‘s one year delay?

Iyalode: The women leaders will attend to the matter. If we think of the pleasantness of scratching the itch, we‘ll scratch to the bone.

Kindly forgive her and leave the rest to us.

Mama Segi (hands on her head): Life can be unfair.

Iyalode: Just expect changes for the better. However, if we warn the thief, it‘s good we warn the owner of the yam tuber by the door post.

Why are your children the only prey in the neighbourhood?

Murmuring s of approval.

35

Mama Segi (bursts into tears): But...

Iyalode: And to everyone, the essence of public hearing is to discourage bad acts. If you don‘t want your dirty linen to be washed in public, learn to act right and responsibly.

Murmurings.

Does anyone have another complaint, observation or reservation?

A woman stands up.

A Woman: My husband beats me. I‘ve done all I could to no avail. Maybe I will find a solution here.

Iyalode: The aeroplane has no business with a bad road. I would advise you to build your home and stop destroying your husband with your mouth.

A Woman: I am fed up!

Iyalode: Think about these few words of mine before ‗Had I Known‘ becomes your daily song. (She faces the crowd.) In the absence of any other issues to discuss, thank you all for coming.

The women stand and embrace one another warmly.

Iyalode (raises her voice): Queens and wives of chiefs should kindly wait.

Everyone leaves but those asked to wait.

Iyalode (smiling): Thanks for waiting.

Olori Adeola: I‘m grateful to God and my Lord, the King Ata-oja for making me worthy to be in this gathering. Only the crème de la crème are here.

The women look round and smile at one another.

Olori Salewa (looks at Mama Wura): Ah ha! What‘s Mama Wura waiting for?

36

Mama Wura trembles.

What business has a bald man in the barber‘s shop?

Iyalode: Have you forgotten that I told her to wait after Mama Segi‘s complaint?

Olori Salewa: Ah, okay...

Iyalode (facing Mama Wura): Please excuse us. I‘ll signal to you to come in at the appropriate time.

Mama Wura exits Olori Salewa, your reaction was too sharp.

Olori Salewa: Oh! Was that why she looked at me like a goat would look at a butcher and wish him dead?

Olori Adeola (facing Iyalode): My rival is always joking even when her words stings.

Iyalode: Mama Wura cannot sit in this gathering, but her husband is the only reliable herbalist in town. When we beat the gorilla, we are looking for the wrath of the baboon.

Olori Salewa (nonchalantly): Okay.

Iyalode: Back to the main matter, the cloth we picked is now available for all in my house as agreed.

Excitement amongst the women Also, I‘d like to reiterate the discussion on the votary nubile. Please let‘s accept whoever emerges.

Olori Salewa: The gods must be fair in selecting.

Everyone laughs.

Iyalode: The king specifically told me to plead with the Oloris to embrace love.

37

Olori Adeola: Strife will not cease when more than one woman is the boss under a roof.

Olori Salewa: Peace will only prevail on the day fire comes out of a water hole.

Olori Adeola (laughs sarcastically): It‘s not possible to hawk salt on a rainy day, neither is it possible to display shea-butter under a scorching sun. Having peace in a palace of eight wives is a tall order.

Iyalode: (Sighs.) A tall order indeed! Out of the eight, we have only two here and the two are excited about the discord.

Iyaloja (turns to Iyalode): It‘s better we postpone this meeting and devise a better means of talking to the Oloris.

Iyalode (nodding): Very good idea!

Iyaloja: We need to handle this matter with tact. (She turns to the Oloris.)

A plate you hold with care won‘t break. No-one but you can keep your home. There is no gain in animosity.

Iyalode: If home isn‘t peaceful, the society is like a jungle. I now understand what Ata-oja goes through under his roof.

Olori Salewa: Ata-oja....

Iyalode: It‘s better we end this meeting here. (She faces Iyaloja). Kindly attend to Mama Wura.

Iyaloja: I pray she yields to counsel.

Blackout.

38

—JOSHUA BYWORTH— from EXPOSURE

Remkear Freya was the one who planned the whole trip. She told how me much money we‘d need to save, what injections we‘d need to get and what stuff I‘d have to pack. Once I asked her why I needed a visa when I already had a MasterCard. She just laughed and pulled me to her.

In the weeks before we left, Freya never parted with Lonely Planet: Cambodia. I bought her the brand new, full colour edition especially.

After dropping out of university, she got a job in this American-style diner called Benny‘s – the kind of place that brings out cakes with sparklers in them and sings Happy Birthday to the customers. She told me that she used to bring the guidebook with her to read during fag breaks by the bins out back. When she stayed over, she would sit up in bed and flick through it, folding down certain pages. Occasionally, she‘d grab the remote to mute whatever programme I was watching so she could read bits out to me. I could never keep track of where she was talking about.

But that didn‘t matter as she twiddled her hair and scrunched her forehead, stumbling over the pronunciation of some must-see place.

Our flight was at twenty past five in the morning, which meant, according to Freya, that we had to be at Heathrow by two. Her mum, Caroline, insisted on dropping us off. The little blue Volkswagen pulled up just before midnight. Mum gave me one last hug, then pushed me from her and held me firmly at arm‘s length. ―Mind yer-self Matt,‖ she said. ―Course I will Mum,‖ I replied.

After giving her a quick peck on the forehead, I slung the backpack over my shoulder and hurried to the car. ―Hi Caroline, thanks for the lift,‖ I said as I chucked my bag in the backseat and jumped in after it. She looked back at me through the rear view mirror. Freya span round in her seat to look at me, beaming with excitement. She was wearing comfy clothes for the journey. Tracksuit bottoms and my old navy-blue hoodie. ―Got everything?‖ she asked as we pulled off down the street. ―Everything on your list,‖ I replied.

39

She blew me a kiss silently and wriggled back round to sit properly.

I looked up to catch Caroline‘s eyes darting away from the mirror and back onto the road.

The M40 was practically ours at that time of night. Just the odd long-haul lorry driver. But you wouldn‘t have guessed how late it was by the way Freya was chattering on. How long do you think the check in will be? I wonder what movies they‘ll have on the plane? What time of day will it be when we get there? It was nice to see her like this. After a while, I leaned up against my backpack. Freya‘s whiskey-coloured hair was all tied up into a bunch on top so I could see the downy strands at the top of her neck. Watching them, I dozed off. **** Freya looked out at the view as Matt scuffed his way up the steps of Wat Phnom. The temple was situated slap bang in the middle of the capital, surrounded by a typically chaotic southeast-Asian road. Mopeds carrying whole families performed white-knuckle stunts, weaving through the traffic. And the air was filled with the howling of horns.

Hundreds of people milled around the fringes of the temple grounds. At the entrance, women sold jasmine garlands and bunches of red, hairy fruit that Freya had never seen before. Further in there was a crowd of tourists, desperately waving bananas in the face of a disinterested looking elephant tethered to a nearby tree. Freya had read that it was a runt from the King‘s personal herd. To their right, a group of women squatted next to large wire cages bustling with small birds, promising good fortune to those who paid to release one. Gangs of macaques sat in the trees above them all, waiting to jump down and snatch any food that was momentarily left unguarded. The temple itself was perched atop the small hill in the centre of all this commotion. Freya looked up at the duck-egg blue stupa that pointed elegantly skyward.

Matt reached the top of the steps. Putting his hands on his hips, he squinted up at the temple and then back down the hill. ―Cool,‖ he said. ―Should we go then?‖ ―What?‖ Freya replied. ―Where to?‖ ―I don‘t know, get a drink or something. I think I can see a bar over the road there.‖ 40

Freya looked at Matt. He was as pink and shiny as he had been since they arrived a week ago. Without the gel that he used at home, his strawberry blonde hair flopped lifelessly across his face. He flicked his head back to un-stick it from his brow.

It reminded her of the night that he had driven all the way up to Leeds to pick her up. It had been chucking it down. She had just lain on the bed while he packed everything up. It had taken him six trips to get all the boxes to the car. By the time that he carried her out, his hair was wet through and drips trickled down his face. While they waited for the heating to de-fog the windscreen, she had reached back to grab a towel from one of the boxes and dried his forehead for him. ―Sure,‖ she said. Drawing her sarong tight across her shoulders, Freya brushed past Matt and headed back down the steps. The slap of his flip flops followed close behind her. **** Freya and Matt had spent three weeks travelling around Cambodia. They had done all those things that Freya had circled in the guidebook. They had ridden the bamboo train through the rice paddies just outside Battambang. They had eaten freshly caught crab in Kompong Som, sprinkled with lime and the local Kampot pepper. They had taken a boat trip to see the floating villages on the Tonle Sap. And, of course, they had seen the sun rise behind Angkor Wat. They were now back in Phnom Penh. At three o‘clock the following afternoon a tuk-tuk would arrive at their hotel to take them to Pochentong International Airport. At twenty past five they would get flight FD3617 to Suvarnibhumi Airport in Bangkok. After 2 hours in transit, they would board flight PG4014 and arrive back in Heathrow Terminal 2 at half past two in the morning. Local time.

For their final evening, Freya had persuaded Matt that they should go and see something cultural. After consulting the battered, dog-eared guidebook, they found a place not far from them that staged Khmer shadow puppetry. A quick change and a smear of mosquito repellent later, and they were off.

The Chatamouk Theatre was a grand name for the small building at 166 Sisovath Road. It was a detached, two-storey, former house and one 41

of the many remnants of French colonisation that were scattered across the city. A very long time ago, it had been the home of Jean-Francoise Adenot, a spice merchant who had made the epic voyage from his birthplace in Brittany after receiving a letter from a friend of his, who wrote of the beauty and luxury of life in the Orient. Jean-Francoise passed away from dengue hemorrhagic fever a year after he arrived. The building had passed through countless owners since then, until 1994, when an association of Khmer artisans who had just received an unexpectedly generous donation, bought it as the base for their performances. When they moved in, they had brightened up the place with a coat of dusky pink paint. But by the time Matt and Freya arrived it was faded, cracked and peeling.

The performance area had been created by knocking down a wall between the living and dining rooms. A tiered row of ten long, wooden benches descended toward a small stage and a large white screen was pulled tight across the stage, glowing from the light behind. It was pokier than Matt had imagined. But Freya was delighted, remarking on how intimate it felt. They shuffled their way to the end of one the benches and looked through the programme they had been given at the door.

The show that night was a performance of an ancient Sanskrit epic that the programme described as ―a tale of love and duty played out in the world of giants, monkeys, princes and princesses.‖ The lights dimmed. The warped silhouettes of figures hurrying into position flickered over the screen. The traditional Pin Peat orchestra began to play and the shadows of two delicately carved leather figures burst onto the screen. At that moment, neither Matt nor Freya dared to think of home. They just sat and watched as the shadow-lovers danced.

42

—BEN STYLES— from A FLAW IN THE COLOUR

GREEN: BATAVIA, 1740

3 POEMS Malacca Strait, 5 May, 1740 We round the Cape, a fair wind found, the wild, wide sea stretched out towards the East.

City of gold, city of spice I catch my name in the wavewash, Baert to the court, Baert to the court.

City of gold The white whale courts us for a week, just out of sight.

I cannot name him and the crew is meek in his presence.

City of gold Spanish frigates long forgotten, English frigates sunk.

(But in these straits their hullshadows linger.)

43

City of spice How would Lena take the air, the close, relentless Tropic sky, the close, vibrating night?

City of gold, city of spice Two weeks from Pegu to Malacca, from there to Batavia

Gold, Spice

44

At Dawn the last refuge crossed off my list a hanging hand a beating drum this shadow shot by wood or steel traces the doubts of men full-mad and guns half-cocked across the East a quiet creeps the echoed thought

we had no choice a cry escapes write it again

we had no choice

the crowd expands to swallow us the crowd expands to swallow us

45

Emergency Council, 25 July, 1740 Eagle-eyed in the tapestry room I spot a flaw in the colour green – the way the stitch breaks off or how the weft drops

––– I propose we close the city. Impose sanctions.

Rewrite the trade agreements. Gentlemen?

This close, a different design makes itself known. Red is not just red – a swarm of pinks and browns. Blue, not simply blue, but turquoise, yellowgreen

––– I propose a limit. I propose we impose an immigration cap, put a stop to it. Gentlemen?

My gaze drifts up the plasterwork.

My eyeballs swivel slowly up.

My breathing billows, sailcloth lungs beneath my blotting-paper skin

––– There will be retaliation. We must be prepared to commence deportation. Mr Baert? Mr Baert?

Her hands reach from the weft-face, the warp thread traces Lena, and I catch my name I catch my name in the weave

46

—PHILIPPA BAILEY— from DIE WENDE

Lena Berliners don‘t cope very well with rain. They make a beeline for the closest cafe and huddle inside, steaming up the windows, grumbling, until the worst has passed. I am one of the few that don‘t scurry for cover; instead I keep walking between the stalls, carrier bags knocking against my knees. I am joined by crowds of children, who chase each other shouting and jump in the puddles, not feeling their mothers‘ disparaging glares nor hearing their despairing shouts. The drizzle on my glasses is a slight irritation, but nothing more. In Geneva drizzle doesn‘t count as rain; it‘s more a neutral state of weather.

Digging my list out of the pocket of my jeans and scanning it quickly I walk up to a fruit and veg stall that isn‘t too crowded with rainphobic shoppers. ―Zwei Mark für ein pfund von äpfeln. Ein pfund von äpfeln - zwei Mark.‖ You‘d think they‘d get bored of their own voices, all that shouting, day in, day out. I ask for my shopping in halting German: seven apples, a pound of potatoes - or is it two? The rain has smudged my list - a bag of green beans and some garlic. I have to get the stall owner to help me count out the money. Slightly flustered and embarrassed, but otherwise none the worse for wear, I head to find some lunch.

Settling in a slightly wet plastic chair, I set about eating my Berliner sausage, and watch the rain drip off the canvas down into the gutter. Somehow the rain dulls even the brightest colours of the market – the red and white of the tablecloths, the blue of the canvas covers, the vast arrays of food and clothes and bric-a-brac – all seem to merge into different shades of grey.

She was arguing with a stall owner, limbs flailing and brow creased.

After a few minutes she gave up and turned away, and one of the flimsy plastic bags she was clutching caught on the corner of a table and tore, sending apples and pears flying. For the children it was a great game; they scattered, chasing after the rolling fruit, crawling under tables and running into people in their haste. In the middle of it all, the girl stood 47

red-faced and swearing under her breath, staring around as if looking for someone – anyone - to blame.

An apple had rolled in my direction and came to a halt when it hit one of the legs of my chair. I picked it up, dried it off on my jumper and, taking a bite, set about trying to decipher the German paper I‘d picked up on the U-Bahn. I was picking tiny bits of apple out from between my teeth when I became aware that someone was standing on the other side of the table. ―That‘s my apple,‖ she said, hands on hips. A cross schoolmistress.

I grinned. ―It‘s very nice.‖ She stared at me petulantly for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to be angry, before giving up and drawing the chair next to me.―I‘m Lena,‖ she announced. ―Bernhard,‖ I replied, and turned back to my paper. ―Bernhard? Are you French?‖ Realising she intended to stay, I folded my paper and placed it on the table in front of me. ―Swiss, actually. I‘m here to study.‖ ―Me too – the studying, not the Swiss part. Which university?‖ ―Humboldt. Biomedical Sciences.‖ She pulled a face – a rather grotesque face that wrinkled her little button nose and made her eyes disappear under her brows. ―I‘m doing Classics.‖ I pulled a face to mirror her own, and she laughed; a great, audacious laugh. Then she took my hand and began studying it, tracing the lines. Perhaps people don‘t have a sense of personal space in Berlin. ―You‘re going to have a wife, and one child,‖ she told me wisely, ―though not necessarily in that order. But you‘re going to die young. How old are you now?‖ ―Twenty,‖ I answered, humouring her. Perhaps it‘s not rude to ask people‘s age in Berlin either. ―You‘d better get a move on then.‖ I laughed, and picked up my paper again. Getting the message she stood up and collected her shopping. ―See you around,‖ I said, noncommittally. ―Ja, you will,‖ Lena said. And she walked away. Her yellow curls bounced on her shoulders as she weaved through the stalls, pausing only 48

to claim an apple from a small boy who was clutching it to his chest like it was his most prized possession. She seemed to have no regard for the way people saw her - but then that was Lena. She was larger than life.

49

—SARAH JOHANSSON— from DOUBLE EXPOSURE

Self Portrait Leonid looked at himself in the mirror, waiting for a stronger light to fall across his face. Outside, his children were playing a game of hide and seek. Having his back towards the big open window which overlooked the wild garden, their lean reflections played above each of his shoulders in the mirror. Somewhere next to his left ear, his son Vadim was hiding behind a rosebush and was visible to no one but Leonid. He thought about closing the shutters, but realised that he would still be trapped in this confrontation with himself. Besides, he needed the light.

The large house at Vammelsuu, forty miles west of St. Petersburg, had at first been an escape, then an only option. After his Aleksandra died, he had quickly taken a new wife and moved out of the city. And there, in the country, no longer as inspired to write, he had taken up photography. His study was drowning in boxes and chests that held his photographic plates, and there was not a corner in the house which had not been photographed at least twice.

This morning he had lined Vadim, Nina and Savva up on the beach while he set up his camera. The tripod was pressed hard into the rough sand and they were forced to stand completely still until he had focused on them in front of the Finnish Gulf. The children had on colourful garments which were closer to costumes than day-wear. Vadim wore a white silk shirt with blue vertical lines and matching shorts. The collar had two broad, dark blue lines running along its edges and was gathered in a carefully tied cravat. He hated it and refused to look at the camera, something his father would notice only when he carefully examined the processed plate a few weeks later.

Now, the sun hung low in the sky and it was about to sink behind the trees. It threw deep shadows into the study, and the light finally illuminated only the right side of his face. The ridge of his nose and the middle of his upper lip presented a distinct split with his left side, cast in gloomy darkness.

Having set up the camera two hours earlier, he had paced back and forth between his desk and the mirror, looking at himself. He accepted 50

having his own photo taken, but never felt more uncomfortable. When his friends visited from St. Petersburg, they did not know which Leonid would greet them. They said he had dozens of different masks, some far from pleasant. Yet photographing himself was an experiment he revelled in, lingering over the possibilities of introspection.

Which mask Leonid saw today, he could not tell. To him, they were all genuine. He examined his wild, brown hair and thick beard and moustache, the loose off-white shirt peeping out of the arms of his dark grey jacket. The mirror hung too high for him to see his legs, or the polished boots beneath, or the feet of the tripod. He lit a cigarette, held it in his left hand and grabbed the shutter control with his right. Staring into the mirror, he pressed the control hard. The exposure lasted for a second.

With Anna Leonid and Anna sat by the Black River, the sun burning their hands. It was a quiet day; they had no visitors and the children were with Leonid‘s brother Andrei. They were on the little bench in front of the changingcabin that Leonid had built two summers before, their feet resting on the fence.

It was hot and humid but the alders provided them with shade.

The rays that managed to break through the leaves lit up Anna‘s face in patches, and danced across the wooden tiles of the cabin. Long shadows divided the floor into diagonal lines, reaching from the fence to the wall.

The air was still.

Anna suggested that they should sit in the garden instead, and so they walked up the steep hill from the river. While she waited by the children‘s swings, Leonid went inside to fetch his Stereax, which had arrived from Germany one week earlier. When he came back, he took her hand and led her to the north side of the house, up to the hill which separated their land from the rest of the Vammelsuu village.

They leaned back into a field of daisies, watching the clouds crash into each other, unite and then push each other away again. He told her about his latest play, Thought, and she told him how she had decorated the whole ground floor with roses and azaleas from St. Petersburg. He smiled and stroked the lilac flowers which lined the sleeves of her sea51

green silk dress. Around them, the whole field was humming with bees and flies and the high grass moved along with the sound.

Anna‘s skin was glowing white, and tied to her pale-coloured straw hat was an apricot bow. Her long hair was collected into two buns on each side of her face, covering her ears. ‗My Ears‘, he would call her. His every thought and feeling had to pass through her, and if it did not, it soared into oblivion and was worthless. He would talk to her of everything he could not write. They discussed every emotion with seriousness and gave importance to each moment.

He got up and planted the tripod into the soft ground. Looking at his wife through the viewfinder, he thought of the many times he had set up the camera and then stepped into the image himself, asking her to press the button. He would then look at his photographs as a joint venture; another project to share. Today, however, he wanted her beside him. He lit a cigarette and turned on the self timer.

He leaned back with his right elbow against the hill. His left leg was propped up to support his wife‘s left hand and he put his arm around her, holding onto the cigarette with the same hand. The white buttons on his white, striped suit shone in the sun and the end of his trousers were folded up once. His hair, combed and parted to the side, landed in a wave on his forehead. To the right of him was his straw hat and behind them, up the hill, the sky was only partially visible through the high grass and flowers.

While the timer was ticking, they looked at each other and then back to the stereoscopic camera. The two shutters would act at the same time, taking two almost identical pictures. When seen through a stereoscopic viewer, the left eye would look at one picture and the right eye at the other. That way, they would blend together and give an impression of depth, a view in three dimensions.

The shutters closed and captured Leonid and Anna, sitting side by side surrounded by summer. They were happy, but their eyes were not fully there. Instead of looking into the lenses, one for him and one for her, they both stared at the few centimetres in between. Their looks met halfway in the air and removed time.

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—PATRICK YOUNG— from

PEOPLE, PLACES AND OBJECTS

Waiting ‗Lisa‘ in the dark rose duffel jacket, fur lining, leaning on a lamppost directly opposite, waiting for a class. ‗Charlotte‘ in the thick maroon cardigan, freshly cut hair, sitting perfectly still on the ice encrusted cigarette-littered steps below, waiting for a friend. ‗Jennifer‘ in the deep crimson tracksuit, coral bomber jacket. Rich ruby jewellery, smoking sternly by the cold concrete ledge on the left, waiting to reach the filter.

A white van, with its windows frozen-opaque to an outside world, waiting for a black cab to pull out in front.

A watch reads thirty past ten. ‗Gina‘ in the apricot coat, clasping the bright tangerine folder tightly, sitting at the empty bus stop, waiting for the ninety-six bus. ‗Danielle‘ in the soft-marigold ski-Mac, amber earrings, peach coloured drainpipe jeans, and standing silently at the fog-engulfed end of the road, waiting for the red light to turn green. ‗Wendy‘ in the pumpkin patterned jumper – two horses on the front frozen at the uppermost point of their leap – standing at the counter in the small bakery across the road, waiting to be served.

A number three bus still at the empty bus stop, its windows frozenopaque to an outside world, waiting for its turn.

A phone reads thirty past ten.

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‗Martha‘ in the pine parka covering the light lime miniskirt, in the hazel woollen hat covering the curled hair, shivering on the frozen grass to the right, extended hand clutching pamphlets, waiting for someone to walk by. ‗Harriet‘ in the peppermint earmuffs, holding the turquoise handbag, the soles of the large chartreuse boots layered in crushed ice and mud, queuing for the bank in a stationary line to the right, waiting for frosted-opaque windows and frosted-opaque doors to open.

The embers of a discarded Marlboro cigarette burn quickly into the thawing grass below.

A clock tower reads thirty-one past ten.

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—ELAINE COOPER— from SIX DEGREE OF SEPARATION

Jessica Jessica Middleton hurried through the cathedral gate and into the Butter Market. She checked her watch. Choir practise had overrun but if she was quick she‘d catch the 5.20 from outside Nason‘s. She broke into a jog.

Turning right onto the High Street she saw the 49 pulling up at the bus stop. There was a queue of people waiting to get on so she slowed down.

The bus was packed and she had to stand, but at least she‘d be home now in good time to change for tonight.

Steam was rising from the duffel coat of the boy next to her, and his close proximity was making her claustrophobic. She gripped the handrail tighter and planted her feet wide to balance herself against the jerking motion as the bus inched its way down St. Peter‘s Street. Her mobile vibrated in her blazer pocket but it would have to wait. She hoped people would get off at the next stop so she could sit down.

The bus veered round Westgate Towers and stopped outside Amman‘s. She had to press herself against duffel-coat boy to let people off, but at least there were free seats now. She sat and rubbed the steamed-up window with her blazer sleeve so she could see out. She could smell wet felt as the duffel boy sat next to her. The bus gathered speed along North Lane then slowed in the rush-hour traffic at the approach to Kingsmead roundabout. The journey home took forty minutes at this time of day. She could walk it in twenty but it was raining, and the short cut through St Stephen‘s field was spooky in the dark.

She checked her text message. U dun singing? Soz but can‘t make tonite will ring u l8r Matt xxxx. Jess replied, That‘s twice this week! And u said ud ring yesterday. She added a sad face. ―Would you like some gum?‖ Duffel boy proffered some Juicy Fruit.

Jessica shook her head and he put the gum packet into his pocket, elbowing her in the process. ―Sorry.‖ ―It‘s okay.‖ She shifted slightly. ―It‘s warm on here, too many steamy bodies.‖ He loosened his scarf, careful not to elbow her again, and revealed his King‘s School wing collar.

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―Good rehearsal by the way. Your solo was lovely.‖ ―You were there? Why?‖ ―King‘s have their carol concert there, too, so I thought I‘d check out the acoustics. Did you know Thomas Becket was murdered in there?‖ ―Yes, it‘s well known.‖ ―Sorry, of course it is. I‘m an enthusiastic Yank historian.‖ ―I guessed from your accent. Not the historian bit. I didn‘t guess that.‖ ―I bet you get sick of loud Americans ‗gee-whizzing‘ over Becket and Chaucer.‖ ―Actually it‘s the French school kids day-tripping from Calais I can‘t stand.‖ ―Hmm, hardly culture-loving pilgrims are they?‖ ―And you are?‖ ―Well I like to think I appreciate art and literature. And music.

Especially choral. Oh shoot, this is my stop. I gotta go. Nice to meet you …?‖ He offered his hand. She took it. ―Jess.‖ ―David.‖ He held onto her hand. She let go slowly. ―Well, hope to see you around Jess.‖ She watched him jump off the bus and he turned and waved as it pulled away. Her phone buzzed. She ignored it and watched David flip his hood up against the rain and turn onto St Stephen‘s Road.

The bus picked up speed along Broad Oak before turning left onto the flyover. If she got off at the next stop she could be home in a couple of minutes, but it would mean cutting along the alley and the streetlight was broken so it would be pitch black. She stayed on the bus and checked her phone again. Don‘t get moody on me babe x. He‘d added a cross face.

Jess stared out of the window.

The bus turned right onto Long Meadow Way and circled the estate, finally pulling onto Tenterden Drive where the route terminated.

She was the last to get off and the doors sucked shut behind her, making her jump. She sidestepped down the slope and onto the mud track that cut through the copse at the end of her road. There was an old chapel in the copse surrounded by rust-covered railings. Jess shivered and hurried past. Cobnuts crunched under her shoes. She bent down and scooped up a handful for Trojan. She would go to the stables after dinner, now she 56

wasn‘t seeing Matt. She hummed the first bars of ‗Come Thou Redeemer‘ as she turned into her drive, trying to recall the acoustics in the nave. Mr Everhart had told her to over-enunciate so her words didn‘t get lost in the space.

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Cello A rosined pernambuco bow hovers over strings tuned to perfect fifths.

The ebony head-scroll rests against his temple, the smooth maple belly pressed to his body.

Sunlight traces the delicate lines of purfling, warming the grain-freckled ribs.

As he draws the bow, the b-dorian melody of Kodaly‘s Sonata floats con abbandono, an intimate cantilena rising in a slow crescendo of glissando-smooth minims.

Strings quaver beneath his fingertips, drawing each phrase to a legato end.

As the exposition fades to the codetta a breeze snatches the sheet music, tumbling the notes into an inharmonious heap.

A wolf tone timbre severs the cadence and the melody falters to a double-stop.

He winces at his discordant technique, closes his eyes to regain the rhythm.

The breeze slows a niente as he eases the bow into the recapitulation, picking up the cadenza on the down-stroke.

The tempo pulses faster into the final czardas, The notes fall until the phrase drops away, lentissimo, pianissimo, to the sweet end-note.

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CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES: PHILIPPA BAILEY (ENGL32660) was born and raised in Kingston, South West London, and now lives in Leeds where she‘s finished the second year of her undergraduate degree in English and History. Her plans after graduation are thin on the ground, but she will maintain her creative writing in one way or another. ‗Lena‘ is taken from a collection of short stories that trace the lives of seven characters through the political turmoil of Berlin, 1960 – 1990.

JOSHUA BYWORTH (ENGL32660) was born in Northampton but was brought up in Cambodia until the age of 10, when the family moved to Eynsham, near Oxford. He is entering the third year of his English Language and Literature degree. This piece is taken from a portfolio of short stories connected by their relationship to Cambodia. His plans after graduation are predictably uncertain.

However, he‘s hoping to pursue his interest in writing, perhaps moving into the world of TV and film.

ELAINE COOPER (ENGL32660) was born 1963, in Wales. She moved to Germany, then Canterbury, where she attended Kent College. Married in 1984, she worked in catering and then the Royal Navy. She has two children; Katherine (20) and Stephen (18). Stephen has complex special needs so she became a fulltime mum in 1994. Retrained as a nursery nurse, she worked in a primary school in Leeds until 2010, when she fulfilled her ambition to study for an English degree. She has just completed her second year and she is considering an MA in Creative Writing.

FRANCESCA DEANE (ENGL32660) was born in Lewisham, London and has just completed her English Literature and Philosophy degree. She now plans a TEFL course that will be put to use on her travels through India and South America, during which time she plans to continue with her creative writing. Her portfolio centers on ―tensions between home and away, and feelings of belonging and displacement.‖

THOMAS J.C. ELLISON (ENGL32660) is from Harrogate, North Yorkshire. A final year undergraduate in English Language and Literature, he plans to read for an MPhil in Romanticism at the University of Bristol, and will work towards a first collection of poems. He describes his portfolio, from which these three pieces come, as: ―concerned with familial dissolution, the limits and ambiguities of language, and the making of the English working class.‖

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SARA GONZALEZ (ENGL5350) was born and raised in Brighton. She has completed the second year of an English and Philosophy degree and hopes to become a children‘s author. Her portfolio spans a twelve year period, over which a family deals with the death of the father. This screenplay establishes the tender relationship between father and daughter, Mary, and it is the intensity of the love between them that allows her to eventually move on.

SARAH HANDY (ENGL32660) is from Wakefield and she is currently in the second year of an English Literature and Language degree. ‗A Contingency Plan‘ is a found poem, taken from words and phrases found on the HSE and Gas Safety Register websites. It is from a portfolio of work that has OCD as its subject, telling the story of how the sufferer, Clare Denver, along with her son and her partner, cope with the illness.

SARAH JOHANSSON (ENGL5350) hails from Sweden and is currently finishing a Masters in Postcolonial Literary and Cultural Studies. She plans to live in London and move into publishing. The two pieces here are from a sequence reimagining colour-plates by Russian writer and photographer Leonid Andreev, housed in the Special Collections of Brotherton Library.

KATERINE MORGAN (ENGL32660) was born in Nottingham and lives in Newark.

She completed her undergraduate degree at Leeds and is undertaking a Masters in History at Edinburgh University, then a PGCE. She plans to continue with her Creative Writing, with an eye to publication. This chat-room extract is from a supernatural story in which creatures from fantasy and folklore exist in modern day society.

GBEMISOLA ORIMOLADE (ENGL5350) is from Supare, Ondo State, Nigeria. She is studying for an MA in English Literature and hopes to begin a PhD in Creative Writing. After writing many successful plays and books, she would like to found a vocational centre. Ruminations on the Votary Nubile, in a humorous way, examines cultural and gender issues in the selection of the Votary Nubile for the Osun-Osogbo Festival in the Western Nigeria.

STEPHEN SANTORO (ENGL5350) was born in Smithtown, New York, but raised in Riverside, California. He was enrolled in the MA in Victorian Literature and intends to become an English Literature and Language instructor after a second degree at the University of Southern California in 2013. After his father‘s death in April 2012, Stephen wrote a collection of work that helped to work through his loss and the abundance of questions that arose after his father‘s passing.

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BEN STYLES (ENGL5350) is from the Chiltern Hills and is an MA student in English Literature. He hopes to make the transition into publishing and arts promotion in the coming months, while continuing to write poetry. These poems are from a series that traces the journey of a Dutch merchant as he makes his way east to the Dutch colonial capital of Batavia in 1740, leaving behind his wife, Lena.

JAMES THURLEY (ENGL32660) lives in Bishop‘s Stortford and will be entering his third year of an English and Classical Literature degree. He hopes to undertake a Masters degree and will continue with the Creative Writing. ‗Funeral‘ and ‗Horses‘ are the final short stories in his portfolio, and reflect the overall theme of the desolate and fragmentary nature of modern living.

NEIL WARD (ENGL5350) is from the York area and is completing a Masters in English Renaissance Literature. After his degree, he will teach English in South East Asia, while completing a book of short stories set in his hometown. ‗A Fairy Tale‘, is based on a report of man's claim to have seen the Cottingley fairies. The invented newspaper article provides the context, while the short story imagines the initial encounter between the journalist and the man.

PATRICK YOUNG (ENGL32660) was born in Walthamstow, East London. He is studying for Classical and English Literature degree, and is moving to Munich this October for a year abroad. He contributes to the student newspaper and aims to combine this interest with creative writing when he graduates. In that vein, ‗Waiting‘ is from a portfolio that combines non-fictional, journalistic descriptions, observations and perceptions of people, places and events encountered in and around Leeds.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: If it has become something of a cliché to acknowledge how much teachers learn from students, it nonetheless remains true. So, sincere thanks are due all of the students in ENGL32660 and ENGL5350, not only those whose work is included here. Indeed, this pamphlet could easily have been novella-length.

Thanks are also due Professor John Whale for his advice and encouragement, and to Sarah Prescott (Brotherton Library Special Collections), Alex McMillen (Templar Poetry) and writer Jane Weir for their contributions to seminars on research methodologies for Creative Writers. And special thanks to: Aysha Baig, Fiona Becket, Max Brody, Delyth Burch, Lindsey English, Hannah Copley, Jon Glover, Elaine Glover, Alaric Hall, Tracy Hargreaves, Hannah Linnekamp, Louise Powell, Pamela Rhodes, David Tait, Nicola Wildman, and Anna Woodhouse.

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THE SCHOOL OF ENGLISH THE UNIVERSITY OF LEEDS WOODHOUSE LANE LEEDS, LS2 9JT YORKSHIRE ENGLAND http://www.leeds.ac.uk/arts/info/20040/school_of_english

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