Riggwelter #1 by Riggwelter

RIGGWELTER #1 SEPTEMBER 2017 ed. Amy Kinsman

The following works are copyrighted to their listed authors ÂŠ2017. Riggwelter Press is copyrighted to Amy Kinsman ÂŠ2017.

riggwelterpress.wordpress.com riggwelterpress.tumblr.com facebook.com/riggwelterpress twitter.com/riggwelterpress

Foreword

Across The Water

The Old Smithy

The Cadence

Ernie

The Death of King Tide

Banach–Tarski Paradox

The Estuary Turns, The Estuary Follows II

Eurydice and Cerberus

Sculpted Bones

antlers

Go-Go Boots

Quadratic Equation

Snitcher

Your Daughter is an Armadillo

Blessed is the Woman

And Lived to Tell the Tale

Spin

Battle of Fulford 1066

The living dead of Wharram Percy

A mermaid drowning

Untitled

Coast Road

St Mary Of The Lighthouse Pt 2

Sloth on Sociability

The Quiet Carriage

Foreign Policy

Care home

the promise

When You’re Down, You’re Up

Mid-afternoon

Contributors

Acknowledgements

Foreword

A question that comes up a lot in editing is How do you know when a piece is

right? This is an important distinction to make. When looking through submissions, I find pieces are rarely bad but frequently they’re just not quite right. It’s one of those questions where the answer is that dreadfully imprecise one: You’ll know. It’s the answer to nothing and everything. How do I know when it’s finished? How do I know

when it’s the right time? How do I know when I’m in love? When I find a piece of work that is right for Riggwelter, it’s that moment of realising you are in love. Not that you could be, not that you’d like to be, but that you are. Now this isn’t very useful to the would-be submitter but I find any words of advice about what I would like to see come up short. I don’t know what I would like to see – I haven’t seen it yet. Here are the pieces I have seen that have that strange quality that dizzies with its ineffability. I hope you see something in them, just as I have and their authors have. I hope they give you pause. On a less wishy-washy note, a few thankyous are in order before we commence with Riggwelter #1. Thank you to Kate Garrett, for getting me into editing in the first place by bringing me on board at her journal, Three Drops From A Cauldron. Thank you to my brother, Rory Kinsman, for going over the ins and outs of the quadratic equation me and for being a non-arty person voice of reason. Thank you to four cats of various ages and demeanours for their artful additions of hashtags, numbers, symbols of currency, meaningless strings of letters and for turning on sticky keys when I was trying to edit. Thank you to everyone who submitted, it was an absolute delight to see

so much work and to have the opportunity to be so fussy, please do submit again. Thank you to everyone that has promoted Riggwelter and let people know that weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re out here. And last, but best of all, thank you to you dear reader. Hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to many more.

Amy Kinsman (Founding Editor)

Across The Water (Cover image) Seth Crook

The Old Smithy I met a wordsmith once; he worked in our village. He nailed words onto the hooves of horses: Walk and Trot on the front feet, Canter and Gallop on the rear. His customers took their horses back to him, complaining the words didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t last long enough. He tried several variations using cardboard instead of paper and laminating the words. It was no good, the card lasted little longer than the paper and the laminations lead the horses to slip on grassy slopes. On roads and tracks, the grit pierced them like the paper. He had to retire, disappointed that his experimental work wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t appreciated by the wider public. In his later years he tried casting words on horseshoes, kept them in heavy notebooks. Simon Williams

The Cadence He embraces the sheep an ungainly bundle unusually tilted now leaning back against the man who bowed over, grasps with his knees and left hand, to perform. Like a cellist he knows how to play. Fingertips splayed to tension the skin right hand guiding across the bridge a gleam of blades to separate fleece – music from silence, wrapped up in wool. The animal listens accepting the prospect of resolution ahead, resigned to his practised hands, grip of the thighs the charm of the music and caressing of steel. He stretches his arm out to reach high notes in third position. Lanolined leather feet shift softly beneath. The sheep tips back more to enable the soar of melody heard only by them. He lets fall the burden accustomedly righting the sheep. He arises to bow for a moment as if in acknowledgement then straightens – the fleece being lifted and folded, like music. The performer resumes with no pause for applause. He turns to the next – there are more many more waiting. So the music continues – each movement to end in a cadence. Richard Westcott

Ernie It was then when the wicker-swing firefly-night cracked the darkness of March, its last winter light dropping soft in the pond. The trees at night had wept long like newborns, and riversong tolled like all summer’s flutes to me in my dungaree, hand-me-down, patch-me-up boots. But beyond stretched the darkness, the distance, you, and somewhere a church bell’s slick copper tongue always calling, calling one more day to your evening, one more day to your tomb. From the blackcurrant glow of the living room, I remember him too, years away in the giggling garden, counting the stars. Far, the blue face of moon dropped the years in his eyes. In the sighs of the wind came his history in time: me in my lavender afternoons, my shrill schoolbell laughter, his comrades’ cries on a broken frontline. His sweetheart died, and often I saw him dance in the kitchen light, the ghost of her bright in his eyes again, the northern star the same as that in Gallipoli’s mines. Sometimes he bagpiped it down in the drive. And bundled me up whenever I cried. Aye, they say he was bred on a wild rustic chant, that he came from the mire of low in this land, that he merited nothing, his forebears weren’t grand, but I still hear the pipes in the valleys. Laura Potts

The Death of King Tide

After the purpling rage of living has pulsed its last beat, the empty house will unmoor itself from the western edge of nowhere, a ghost ship riding waves of grain into a storm. It will tell its story to the silent invasion of stars, the way the Radinsky boys spoke to one another in hushed tones, in their own secret language on top of that roof, facing those stars in younger years, their bare backs pressed against shingles, dreaming of places where screaming was outlawed, where fathers had tame lions for hearts so mothers could wander away from time to time, to not always be treated with suspicion, to not always be lorded over like property. But those places did not exist in those parts. They were somewhere else, the Radinsky boys reasoned. Somewhere beyond the horizon, where histories and names disappeared like fog, and the light hit your skin at such an angle that you looked and felt like someone else. Mother Radinsky must have imagined the same place. One moment she was there, hanging out the wash, afternoon freight train making a Caesarean cut across the belly of the South Bend River, whimpering like a wolf anxious to run. And the next moment, she was gone: only the low thrum of sun and fleeing wings of leaves left as witnesses. Father Radinsky went stalking through the fields, talking to himself, a Midnight Special in his hand. The only thing he came back with after hours of searching were bloody hands and dozens of crows he had shot. He strung them up from the eaves to rot. When the wind caught dead wings just right the boys sometimes hoped the crows would carry them away.

Some nights, when the hot sting of humiliation swelled one of the boys' throat shut tight, the other spoke for him, until murder left his brother's fists. The other reminded his brother that they could see their mother's reflection in the moon, looking back at them from her new place in the world, from her new skin. They would watch her, elegant, alone, wondering if it really was her or a stranger. One night, packed and determined, the Radinsky boys left under a flurry of Perseid meteorites falling through the sky like tears. With each new streak of light, the boys felt their mother was showing them the way. When they looked back to their house, they could not see it. Distance erased it from their view, and eventually time erased it from their memory. Overhead, the silent stars watch on, listening to the ghosts of fists punching through drywall, to the love that clawed away inside throats when no one was watching, to the ephemeral laughter reverberating up the scarred beams from when the family felt whole for a moment. The empty house rocks and shakes, pushed on by waves of grass, wind moaning through its dead corridors, following the old footsteps of the boys, following the flight of their mother, just before the house shatters into dust, along with the ashes of the father, settling at the bottom of the sun-baked wagon tracks where their ancestral dreams for a better life began.

Ron Gibson Jr.

Banachâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;Tarski Paradox Any adamant object will do. Say a stump in the middle of a field. You tie a rope to it, loop the other end around yourself & run till you feel a tug. Then, you run further. The moon must have been an inspiration for the shape. But the moon is just an assemblage of rocks, shaped by the tangential forces of Outer space. It did not have a centre to begin with. A centre to sustain, give it its meaning, the way it happens on earth. And there is nothing in Nature to draw a parallel. The best it can persevere for is a pebble. Only an adamant object will do. You tie a rope to it; loop the other end around your waist in a twin knot, & run: first forward, then traverse, your feet dipped in ochre. You leave a trace, a shape that consumes itself. You call it a line, but a line

can only abandon itself. This one aligns itself, your wife argues. You tether a horse to the stump & repeat the act. It runs the length of the rope, draws the same shape. A sign, you draw from the event. You dig the ground enclosed by the trace, disclose the underneath & deposit it upon the ground, well outside the trace; earth upon earth upon the earth. When the shovel hits the bedrock, you plant stones as placeholders alongside the trace, stones to be quarried from the hills nearby. Only an adamant object will do. An object as adamant as you were, right through your life, even at your deathbed, at the bedrock of your life, adamant that this shape is all there is. Over fifty blocks of stone stand, as per your wish, while you sleep underneath in hollow blocks of cinder bones, waiting... for someone along the blood-line to confess that their child resembles their great-great ancestor. You will then have traced a full circle. But a line can only abandon its beginning, not consume itself, the way the stones did when planted. In time, some fall, others moved to meet ends. But the surviving ones still trace the shape you had pondered, though there is no hearth at the centre, just a millennia worth of peat & bog land. Shriram Sivaramakrishnan

Reservoir

for Kristi I'm painting the light with one hand Tied to a moonlit fencepost at the Corner of this blurry field, where Shadows throw their voices like A hidden meaning hoping to stay Hidden. The other side is water, Still as an unmade wish, a surface For your song to carry over as you Sing to keep the time, to keep the Time from running out into the field & away from here, from my bound & restless hand, so far from yours. Tom Snarsky

The Estuary Turns, The Estuary Follows II Helena Astbury

Eurydice and Cerberus In the wind, in the scorching rain of scents, the cur desire crouches at your feet, whimpering, begging for another caress from the lashes of your eyes. You whisper, press your body, your vermillion neck, jewelled throat to the mirror, touch yourself, staring at the door, waiting, perhaps, for the ghost of Orpheus Robert Beveridge

Sculpted Bones

Rory put his two-seater through its paces on the empty roads. Wedged and low slung, it wasn’t bad for someone not yet thirty. A switch on the dashboard raised up the concealed headlights, slow and disdainful, like the eyes of a waking cat. They were hungover from the night before. They’d rinsed the wine; white then red. They’d ordered large brandies over coffee then slept badly after clumsy, lazy sex. She’d wanted to sleep but let him. Both of them on their sides, drowsy, his knees inside hers, like spoons. Mid Wales; agricultural villages and fallow towns. Pebble-dash chapels behind pegboard noticeboards. Battered family farms; fowl scratching amongst cabbages. Edgy sheepdogs patrolling gateways. Working men’s clubs with shit-spattered neon signs missing jigsaw pieces of glass. Pubs in palliative care advertising a quiz night or televised football. Battened down takeaways; The Bengal Tiger, Peking House. Rory told Naomi of the evening he’d spent in a similar country pub in Wales. The locals had broken into song - Welsh hymns. He’d tasted the strong brew of the hills and valleys, coalmines, chapels and rugby clubs fermented in that pub, but then some boozed up locals had balanced a metal bucket on top of the toilet door which had booby-trapped Rory, cutting the bridge of his nose. The heady liquor of song had been watered down with a feeling of ‘what was he doing in this shithole?’ “Sounds like you tasted the falling bucket part of our Welsh heritage,” Naomi said. Naomi told Rory of her days as a trainee solicitor in a Valleys town. A mining community falling apart. Of living in a bedsit above a fish and chip shop. No heating. A square of cardboard taped over a hole in the bedroom window. So cold in the winter

there were ice-crystals on the bedding where she’d exhaled during the night. The chip shop owner had an unerring sense of when she was going to dash from the bathroom back to her bedroom wrapped only in a towel. He’d be at the foot of the stairs, looking up. “Didn’t you give him a quick flash?” asked Rory. “He might have reduced the rent.” The only businesses that appeared to be open now were corner shop newsagents with meagre tokens of Christmas in the windows. Locals exiting with a newspaper and tobacco. The lottery checked for another week. The dog walked and its bowels moved on the pavement. On past visits they’d mooched in the small town antique shops that would have been called junk shops in the city; dusty mixtures of second hand tat and an occasional find. They’d taken home a half-decent oil painting last time. Rory pulled the car over. “That was an antique shop back there, wasn’t it?” “I’d rather find coffee,” Naomi said. Rory got out of the car into the drizzle. “More chance of finding a Picasso.” The painting on the earthenware statuette was crude but the modelling of the peasant boy was lifelike. Long, sensual legs in maroon leggings. A blue ballet dancer’s tunic covered a muscular torso. The blond-haired head turned arrogantly over its right shoulder and a tied bag on a stick over its left. “He looks like a statue of a Greek God,” Naomi said, “Adonis.” “He’s got sculpted bones,” the antique dealer said. The statuette stood on the floor in the back of the car like a child, wedged in with coats. “That was a steal,” Rory said.

“Now can we find coffee?” “Shout if you see a hotel,” said Rory. “I don’t fancy Taff’s Caff.” Naomi sunk down in her seat with her scarf pulled up to her nose. Closed her eyes. “Fucking English snob.” Rory always felt horny after a heavy night. He looked down at Naomi’s outstretched legs. He wanted to touch their litheness, like the tactile limbs of the statuette. He wanted to slide his hand up her short skirt, but he knew it wouldn’t travel far. For her it was in bed only. She tended towards the straight-laced. Something he’d have to work on. Rory pulled up outside a stone built cottage that had been converted to a catchall gift shop, restaurant, ice-cream parlour, B&B. “It’s not a hotel but it’ll have to do.” “As long as they sell coffee,” said Naomi A cow-bell chimed as Rory opened the door and ducked under a low lintel armoured with horse brasses. On every surface there were toby jugs, commemorative plates with 1980’s faces of the Prince of Wales and Diana, Welsh dragons made in China, dolls in black hats and tea-towel maps. “Textbook,” Rory said. “Just order.” A waitress came from behind a chest freezer of ice-creams. “We’ll have two double-shot expressos, with hot skimmed milk on the side,” Rory ordered. “Sorry, but we only do black or white normal coffee,” the waitress said. “Two white normals it is then.” The waitress exited through a rainfall of strung beads.

“Do you have to take the piss?” Naomi said. “We’ll both be drinking it soon.” Rory said. Rory paced the room, lifting plates and toby jugs, scanning the underside. Naomi took a compact from her bag and re-lipsticked. There was a rack of leaflets advertising things to do, places of interest. The coffees arrived. Rory took a leaflet to the table. “Apparently the village church has “the oldest Celtic stone font in Wales” and there are Celtic carvings on the stone alter. Shall we go and say our prayers?” Rory blew on his drink. “Will they be answered?” “Only if you’re a good girl.” Naomi put the compact back into her bag. “Unlikely then.” Rory waved at the waitress as though he was holding a pen, writing the tab. Naomi hated it when he did that. One down from clicking fingers. The churchyard was semi-derelict, drowning in vegetation. Bracken and ivy had consumed all but the tallest of headstones. Many had toppled or been knocked down. Saturday night sport for bored teenagers. The cobbles in the path leading to the church door, prized apart by dock weed. “There’s something about decomposing buildings. I try to see ghosts,” Rory said. “Not ghosts exactly, but photographs of the past. Black and white pictures of people, buried under the nettles now.” Inside, the church had been tended to like a grave. Flowers in mildewed jars, dusted and weeded pews, the grass of disuse mown by the dwindling few. They ran their fingers over the stone font.

“The stonemason who carved this is buried outside. I can feel it”, Rory said, “gives me vertigo.” Naomi was reading the mouldy handwritten requests for prayer, pinned on a cork board. “You might be standing on his bones. They planted the chosen few inside.” Rory was climbing a stone spiral staircase that went up from the nave. Narrow and unlit, his shoulders brushed both sides. “Come and see this.” At the top, a wooden floored platform overlooking a pit full of nothing but bird-shit and pigeon feathers. Some winged carcasses. Ribcages rising from scraps of putrefying meat. Two vertical arched slits letting in chilled winter light onto a rotting wooden frame. The bells gone. In the dark space Rory turned, held Naomi’s arms, and kissed her. She responded. Their mouths and tongues working each other’s. Rory again felt the urge to put his hand up between her legs. To have sex, there, against the damp wall. Naomi ended the kiss. “Can we get out of this bird’s graveyard? It stinks.” Back outside she led the way around the back of the church. There was a shed-sized stone vault with a gothic, scrolled iron gate just visible among the yew and holly. Blood red berries dropping on the emerald mossed slate roof. Rory pushed open the unlocked gate. On either side of the inner walls were thick stone shelves. On the shelves, decomposed wooden casks. Naomi backed out. “Jesus Christ, they’re coffins?” From the mire inside one of the coffins, its wooden side rotted away, the arm of a skeleton hung down. Rory viewed the arm like he’d viewed the statuette. His eyes close, moving up and down its anatomy. In the bell loft he’d felt a sexual urgency which

hadn’t dissipated. He felt it now, in his chest, in his shallow breathing. He felt a need to do something illicit, something carnal, to go all the way. To pull the bones into the ordure that pasted the floor. He found Naomi back in the car. “Can you take me home please?” she said. Rory opened a bottle of red. He put a glass into Naomi’s hand and filled it. He sat on the floor next to her legs. In the fireplace without a grate, the statuette stood with its head turned languidly across one shoulder, looking out into the room. “It’s Dick Whittington,” Naomi said, “streets paved with gold?” Rory moved his hands up Naomi’s thighs “I’ll stick with sculpted bones.”

Steven John

antlers he is horny to the point of it going straight to his head the set in steel of his mouth of his whole body opens to me in sun rays and leaves Laura McKee

Go-Go Boots You sat white-lipped, pearl-shimmer clouds below lightning bolted eyebrows. Twiggy thin, legs crossed in a provocative pretzel twist with a White Russian in your grip. Mod fringe, aloof & innocent, you had no idea who the man was sitting to your right.

I can’t think of his name now; was it Emile? You asked as if I’d know; you were an antelope in his eyes, fixed & hunted, but you wore the boots, black Go-Go boots, a follower of Zod, feminine mystique aplomb; your second-wave head turned to face the camera, undaunted. I can’t get over those boots; they reached your thighs. No wonder the guys sat neglected to your right. Oh! The parties you attended. I think the phrase

wearing a lampshade was conceived at this one when dad felt the mosquito sting off Cam Ranh Bay’s waterways, boots wet in Asian sand as black & formidable as the Go-Go in your boots, twisted by the man to your right; he read your letter & tore the photo. In 1971, it flew back with him in fragments & all that remains is a patched-up Kodak with your left boot missingthe man to your right was saved; my dad was a hero. Nancy Iannucci

Quadratic Equation There are always two answers. x squared minus three x plus two equals zero Break down the problem into its factors. x minus two times x minus one equals zero A solution exists where one of the factors is zero. x equals two or x equals one There are always two answers. Joe Williams

Snitcher

You might find the beginning of my report inappropriate first, but you will see the significance of all these details shortly. I have always been a fan of Magda Szabó’s novels, read everything written by her, much before she won France's Prix Femina Étranger in 2003. I especially liked the Jablonczays, her mother Lenke’s side of the family. They often appeared in Magda’s books: childlike poets, hedonists dancing the nights away, playful monsters, convincing cheaters, clumsy at anything practical, anything attached to routine. Generous fools who choke you with their kindness. Bunny huggers. Ever and anon I looked into the Jablonczays’ eyes, furtive, if eye contact with pale photo-heroes count, that is. I believe it does. Even before Dorina introduced herself, I recognized her as a Jablonczay. The bone structure, the beguiling look. She denied the relation, she said it was a common mistake. People, especially Hungarians, assumed, falsely, when bumping into her surname, that she was Magda’s niece or the for some reason never mentioned, keptsafe-from-the-one-of-a-dozen-name-Szabó daughter. Perhaps a love child. It might have been to cover this that Magda publicly fantasized about a son Virgil (yes, after the ancient Roman poet of the Augustan period), that she confused everyone from bookworm housewives to critics, going on and on about her possibly imaginary step-sister, Cili, her other self, her conscience, much more goluptious than herself, much more chatoyant. A loud puss to stroke. One always ready to recite poems in public, to devour adventures from ballet to scuba diving, to defend the innocent, and for the guilty, to clear tunnels.

We, Dorina and I, left Hungary for Lubesten on the same day, and started to work for the same firm two days later, sharing an office. Two kites having found solace in distance, altitude, and wind thinning away to breeze. I did my best to become close to her, did favours, invited her out, asked her to catsit for me while I was away, in Medellín, in Camagüey, in San Fernando de Atabapo. She didn’t have to pretend she enjoyed the company of my purring-like-a-hoover Bentley. She bought him goose liver and other treats I didn’t even know existed. We often wandered in the nearby Solarosa Park, around the lake, listening to the ducks’ quack, quack, according to the locals ‘tak-tak,’ in the rose garden, trying to avoid a crash with a segway. She often made me throw sticks for her to fetch. Why not a frisbee or a ball to chase normal people would want? She was a beast. A no-too-fluffy goddess at that, and, in parallel, a squabashed slave. She ran like a cheetah. ‘Again, again, again,’ an obedient mutt-tyrant. I hoped we wouldn’t meet any acquaintance to witness this twisted game Dorina never got bored with. It gave me though the opportunity to ask her if she was after a new job. No, she wasn’t, she said, it paid the bills all right, and left enough time for her hobbies. “It’s not a prison. It’s a secure frame, a cocoon to uncocoon from every evening and weekend, never mind holidays. Wellconstructed, sophisticated rules to comply with, a certain intimacy and boredom that doesn’t let you be locked inside your head. Even Chekhov had a day job.” She hushed off my quest whenever I delicately interrogated her about her writing skills and literary ambitions, but from her calendar, while she had her lunch breaks, I managed to dig out proofs: she had submitted to lit mags and publishers big time. It took some months to put two and two together: Dorina has a pseudonym, she is writing as Heather Lavinia Rigmount. Heather Fucking Lavinia Rigmount! Winner of

the fiercest comps, star chick of masterclasses and festivals (with amethyst and deep blue hues woven into her shoulder-length wig, clownish makeup and clothes very unlike the ones our dress code would approve: revealing, in an orgy of colours: vermilion, gamboge, cinquavasiaviolett, razzmatazz), pal to the chosen few. Now I understood what her Dorina-self had to say about the day job. Her Heather-self would have never called writing a hobby, no writer does ever, it’s an insult if anyone does, I read quite a few authors’ complaints about it. People can be tactless and ignorant. During the holidays when other ex-pats visited their mums and nephews, got pissed in grammar school reunions and stag parties, she was off for residencies, from Westfjorden to La Macina di San Cresci in Tuscany, from Longyearbyen to Tbilisi, to scribble day and night, in bliss. When back, she entertained me with detailed descriptions of her mundane activities at home in Budaörs, with some highlights: a cooking course with a worldchampion chef to learn how to create amuse-bouches; excursions to the local wildlife park and Zoo to check out on the Cebu warty pigs; drinking elderflower lemonade at the new cat café. Sometimes she confided in me. I was never sure whether the men she jabbered about were real, but her frown had an air of being genuine. My attempts to catch her Heather side might have annoyed or amused her. Chances are, both. As you demanded, I’ve brought together as much info I could (this dossier is full of my lists and photocopies) until something extraordinary happened. Then I was to contact you with an alert.

For some weeks Dorina kept surprising me with thoughtful presents. She heard I was looking forward to watching the latest Sofia Coppola movie, the one about a Yankee deceiving each and every female who helped him survive. I would have stepped in his trap myself. Dorina gifted me a DVD, the 1970 adaptation of the same book by Thomas Cullinan, featuring Clint Eastwood. She offered me a dinner in a snitzel-restaurant so that we could pamper our taste buds with almost-blanked-out delicacies of the past. In spite of the carpal tunnel syndrome she was suffering from, she knitted me a scarf with animal figures: dollypoll storks, unguligrade legs and salubrious hares, all full of energy, at daypeep. Then yesterday I found a newspaper clipping on my desk. R.I.P. Heather Lavinia Rigmount. Sudden death. Suicide or not? Success too difficult to digest? Some illness she hadn’t talked about? It’s in the file. You can clinch if there’s anything you can do. Why not disappearance? Surely they hadn’t found a body! They can’t have. I haven’t mentioned it to Dorina, expecting she would turn it up. So far she hasn’t. She blubbered about being promoted the following month. Now she could afford travelling to the Valley of a Thousand Hills! She promised she would nest a stone for me from the Msunduzi River. We went to the canteen arm in arm. Oblivious. Or a great actress. I’m worried. What are you going to do to her? It’s not that she committed murder. Am I a moron? Serving her to you on a silver tray with a whole, maggot-infested lemon in her mouth? She is the closest to a friend I got.

Did she shy away from the rivalda, did she need some space? Trees do, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s called canopy shyness. The crowns of adult trees do not touch each other, forming a canopy with channel-like gaps. Did she sense my betrayal and fancy to punish me? Did she part with her diva self so she would seem dumb enough to you, not worth spying on? Or she simply decided to transform: to observe how we grasp this and to reappear with the story of it under a name like Florida Fizgig or Haboob Susurrus?

Hoping you, humgruffins wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need my services anymore.

Best regards, Firenze Dalos

Agnes Marton

Your Daughter is an Armadillo

You meet your cousin’s wife on the sidewalk in front of your house to take your children to the park. Your cousin’s daughter has a purple bow in her hair and a plush toy that wheezes when it is pressed hard enough. Your daughter is an armadillo. You remember the doctor plucking your daughter out of you. It felt like a plucking; unlike your cousin’s wife, who opted for a water birth, streams of warm water pulsating against her skin, you chose an epidural shot. The doctor said to you: Push. And you said: I am, aren’t I? Your cousin’s wife had her baby three weeks later. You and your baby went to the shower. Your aunt tickled your baby’s chin. Your cousin’s wife thanked you for your presents. It was two sets of booties, like the ones on your daughter’s feet.

They’re the only ones sturdy enough for her claws, you said. But I’m sure they’d be fine for a baby without claws too. You had been worried, then, that your daughter would scratch herself. All the books said that babies sometimes did. Since your daughter’s birth, you have been reading up on babies, and on armadillos. Your cousin’s wife has been teaching her daughter signing.

All the books say it’s the best way for them to communicate. You say: I know. You say: I’ve read the books too. Your cousin’s wife smiles. Your cousin’s wife used to be a cheerleader, and smiles all the time.

Her daughter presses the sides of the plush toy and it wheezes.

Hoooo, it says. The park is only a couple of blocks from your house. The wheels on your daughter’s stroller creak-creak-creak on the way there. Your cousin’s wife and her stroller glide along smoothly.

It’s such a lovely day, says your cousin’s wife. She’s always saying things like that. There are other children at the park with their mothers. There are some fathers too, but the fathers hardly count. The mothers look up at the creak-creak-creak of your stroller wheels. Your cousin’s wife knows one of them. They chat together for a few moments. Your cousin’s wife forgets to introduce you.

Oh, she says. I thought you already knew each other. Her daughter is playing with some other children in the sand. The stack piles of sand higher and higher. You put your daughter on the slide. Her claws scrabble on the hot metal surface. You had hoped she would like the park. You had hoped she would make friends. You worry that she’ll be unpopular in school. That she’ll never kiss a boy. That she’ll never kiss a girl. That she’ll never dance at prom, that no one will ask. Your cousin’s wife says: I’m sure she’ll be fine. Your cousin’s wife pats you on the shoulder, and smiles. She says: Everything will be

fine.

Cathy Ulrich

after Blessed is the Man by Marianne Moore

Blessed is the Woman who does not pretend gentleness –

the woman who does not dissemble, disguise, devalue, who is not characteristically deferent, who does not run herself down, become invisible. [Ah, Leonora Carrington! She would ride her rocking horse with wild hair, defiant, strong yet un-regarded as she slapped and smeared the paint on canvas, creating herself, for herself. Not for Max. Earnest lover though he might be. Yet if Leonora’s name had remained unmarked; the white prancing horse, the bitch with milk-full udders, both would still take my fancy in that wooded field. Blessed be the goddesses who know that self-deprecation is not a duty.] Understanding, self-sacrifice, good nature — in that sacred place, the home – we have a refuge that ought to keep us safe but at what cost? Blessed is the woman who takes the risk to fill the space — asks herself the question, Why must I be invisible? Is it right to become smaller than I am? Will this serve our daughters? Alas. Feminist sisters are distracted, (Your Country Needs You in this time of austerity).

Sky News on the Hour tells skewed truths bent by market values to seduce viewers, ‘Grow up, realpolitik is healthy.’ In our era of sham equality, compliance is fetishised

over resistance.

Propaganda boxes women’s ears until, appalled, their voice-wave breaks. They will be heard. Enraged by acquiescence and apathy blessed is Batley’s MP who urged action for justice, scorned the élite who self-seek.

Blessed, the unaccommodating woman, Jo.

Blessed the woman who dances to her own music different from gyrating to earn favours — who knows the pulse of her blood —

who will not shrink to avoid nudging another in the street, or apologise for being, whose undiminished self has shone and lit her womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s watchtower and her deep and sacred well. Ceinwen Haydon

And Lived to Tell the Tale When my mother died We all gathered at my aunt’s the night before the funeral and had rather a lot to drink. Then someone said

We need some papers from at your mama’s house. Jessie offered to drive me there. She was legally blind, but nonetheless drove a Karman Ghia sports car. I must have been a few sheets to the wind and in the car I jumped. We took off. Shrubbery whizzed by on either side As we drove catacorner through people’s gardens. I gripped the edge of the seat Jessie,

I have small children, am too young to die! To this, my aunt retorted, That’s all right, darlin’.

I’m the best drunk driver in town. Susan Castillo

Spin Seth Crook

Battle of Fulford 1066

Daniel and Sarah walked hopefully up the path to the attractive bungalow with the ‘For Sale’ sign, admiring the neat rows of bedding plants and recently trimmed lawn. “Come in,” said Mrs. Phillips and started to show them round. “What a charming house,” said Sarah, inspecting the immaculate kitchen and the fresh paintwork in the lounge. “We imagined the place might need lots of work doing to it, in view of the reasonable price. Fulford tends to be too expensive for us.” Before Mrs. Phillips could answer, the doorbell rang and she opened it to reveal a burly man with a bushy red beard, clad in chain mail armour. In his left hand, he carried a smashed shield, his right hand was missing as his arm had been hacked off above the elbow. Blood gushed from the stump and from a long gash across the man’s face. He staggered past Mrs. Phillips into the lounge and collapsed on the cream Chinese rug, howling in agony. “I use the next room as a dining room but it could be an office or even an extra bedroom,” said Mrs. Phillips, moving into the room as if nothing had happened. The bell rang again. This time a tall warrior in an iron helmet carrying a heavy battle axe in his hands stumbled over the threshold and crawled along the hall, a great spear sticking in his side. He stopped at Daniel’s feet and groaned piteously. Daniel stared in horror then pulled himself together sufficiently to speak. “Shouldn’t we, er, try to help them? Ring for an ambulance or something?” “Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Phillips. “They’ll disappear in a few minutes and they never leave any mess. You don’t notice it after a while. They usually stop around teatime; I think the Norsemen soon proved victorious.” At the end of the hallway, she

opened another door. “The two bedrooms each have their own ensuite shower room and out the back you can see a small greenhouse which grows splendid tomatoes.” Slightly dazed, Daniel and Sarah walked back to their car. “What do you think?” asked Sarah. “I loved the kitchen.” “The insurance might cost an arm and a leg, being so close to the river. But it didn’t feel damp, did it? Hopefully it won’t flood,” Daniel said. “Shall we put in an offer?”

Teffy Wrightson

The living dead of Wharram Percy The small ones are the worst: slinking into corners, soot and shadow silent, ribcage still without the rise and fall of breathing – they wait. If you break necks, burn bones, the dead can’t find you. That’s your warning, my only advice: never assume your kindness keeps you safe. Listen— the pitter-patter of plump toddling feet brings the tap of cold little hands in the night, brings dirt-caked faces to kiss your skin, blue as moonlight. Kate Garrett

*In the abandoned village Wharram Percy in Yorkshire, the remains of bodies deliberately dismembered and mutilated after death – including small children – were recently discovered by archaeologists, indicating a medieval English belief in revenants, or reanimated corpses.

A mermaid drowning what you can’t see is the circlet of coquina shells crowning her 3am temples, frame for a third eye she opens on nights like this, an eye that watched her fingers brush the bottom of the mariana trench with her skull intact. / this north american puddle is not worth getting her feet wet. / even so, she tells them she was thinking of living here—saving face— as they take in her webbed toes, dew-dropped skin. / she explains who she is, but not where she’s from, only how she came out of the water. / they give her a blanket; the lake is still chilled in the springtime, but not as cold as the ocean, the sky, the road she walked at sundown. Kate Garrett

Untitled Jim Zola

Coast Road Back-handed gusts of wind come off the water, side-slam the car. I’m thinking of the poem by Heaney: the heart caught off guard. I’ll trade that for sharpened driving skills, on-point response to the switchbacks and gradients of a road supplemented with escape lanes – last-ditch slow-downs for the brake-failed, the wheel-locked. Earlier, the shoreline was a photo-opportunity: a silver medal for the play of light on water; crofters’ cottages, open land; the railway line daring itself closer to the edge than the road. Now: snow. Great driving flakes of it from a grey-white sky. Push on? Turn back? I’m thinking there’s no real difference. Neil Fulwood

St Mary Of The Lighthouse Pt 2 Unwanted, your eyes lie in a museum where they weep for a sea who bowed to your shadow four hundred miles away. But we sons and daughters who still stride your rocks know a saint when we see one; we touch the hem of your skirt as it swirls in the surf. And the spitfires that flew from 72 Squadron tip their noses towards you in the first morning light of Acklington airfield. But machine guns and bullets were never your fancy, too busy saving the souls of crabskinned seafarers, fingers straining at the riggingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s remains. Now stripped you stand, dumbstruck and blinded, but a lady is a lady. Graceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s darling sentry for boys who wander astray. Harry Gallagher

Sloth on Sociability (and his New Year’s Exercise Regime)

Sloth considers himself gregarious. His comfort zone a cushioned barstool beneath the overhanging mahogany, bottles, optics. Often surrounded by others, Sloth is no slouch – it’s no idle thing being selective in whom to sup with and to whom grumblecunt fuck off. Yet Sloth loves no-one more than those who pour and serve his drinks - despite their over exerting his loose-change work. But changes need to be made and Sloth regrets beneficial opportunities missed. So should Sloth decide to morph into bark and leaf, mattress or couch, to snooze a calendar day or two away, even Jehovah’s, Mormons, Conservative candidates, cold callers ignoring the No Cold Callers sign are more than welcome. Diatribes to be exercised can only burn off a fuck-load of calories. Brett Evans

The Quiet Carriage

We’d like to welcome you aboard this Great Western service to London Paddington, calling at Didcot Parkway, Reading, and London Paddington. First class is at the rear of the train. Standard class is at the front and middle of the train. Bicycle spaces are at the very front of the train.

The quiet carriage is situated at the front of the train: Coach A. We ask that you keep noise to a minimum and refrain from using mobile devices. That means you, Graeme. If you need to make a phone call, please vacate the carriage. Alternatively, as you knew you'd be making phone calls during your journey, you could’ve sat in one of the other six standard-class carriages, or upgrade to first class. Contrary to your belief, the big deal you landed is not a big deal to other passengers. If you'd like to pleasure your ego, please do so in your own time.

Hey! Hey, Linda! You okay, Hun? Yes, I’m whispering, and you can still hear me. I’m glad you noticed. No-one else on the quiet carriage wants to hear about your toenail polish. You think you’re whispering but, like me, everyone can hear you.

The tables in the quiet carriage are no different from the other tables in other carriages. The tables in the quiet carriage are not, therefore, appropriate for you to hold your business meetings. We do not supply complementary coffees, Richard, you have to pay for it. It’s a shock, we know, but you’re not as important as you think. Take your profit

and loss reports and bitching about Karen from finance into cyberspace so we need not overhear. Karen may not file her reports on time, but she knows train decorum. Speak less, listen more. Learn something, honey. Don’t you even think about it, Chantelle. The quiet carriage is quiet because there are no children, not because it is filled with sleeping children. Now, we don’t mind children—honest—but we could hear yours before you even reached the station. The quiet carriage is not the place for your noisy children (and, remarkably, if you SHOUT at them, they will SHOUT back).

The passengers in this carriage are trying to escape the cacophony of youth (of days that have passed) they want to ruffle newspapers shake up the world (quietly,) read books playing at being somebody else because they miss the days when they knew who they were (when they were someone else,) or they want to close their eyes and sit they want to close their eye imagine themselves away from here

to some place new (somewhere else,) somewhere where they can simply be away from all your fucking noise (and happy.)

We hope you enjoy your journey with Great Western Railway today!

Santino Prinzi

Foreign Policy The European grandmother looked imposing, flexing muscles in Brussels, smiling with steel teeth and blancmange cheeks (for consumption and sweet, sweet caress.) She took pity on the proud little girl, isolated in her chariot. ‘I will cure your cold and stop these bitter winds; I will make your choices, feed you humbug to coat your eager taste-buds.’ ‘Humbug is shit,’ said the proud little girl. ‘True but we’ll never let you say those words from your doctored cherry-red lips.’ Ronnie Goodyer

Care home (sometime around your birthday)

Once

I made you into soup

it was much easier

to digest

the garbling and strange requests you gave

turn mirrors upside down and pour salt on occult wounds that couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be

found

in your work-shoes or wasted bones. It started last March when you asked if I could put a flea collar on the child

next door

you were afraid she was making you itch and that the mother had an

orphic iris

that held your milky gaze in bed. The soup had to

heavily seasoned of course but

there was plenty to go around

thinned with

crushed sonnets

black paint and a smeared reflection of youth I gathered the family to

one last time

taste how you had grown without them.

Charlotte Begg

the promise lives start in pain, pass in contentment briefer than a laugh in the dark but do not end there they end where they begin ego overprotection inculcates a belief in external terror or internal weakness if you can turn pain into pleasure via a magical act of despair then, perhaps, frustration becomes unbearable. the riotous carnival of inner senses driven on by an unimaginable engine of imagination whose spectacular illusion is the hallucination - reality itself pop-sicko analysis and Just-so psychology the middle class luxury of indignation no more than mere collaged allusions and multiple verbal analogues a promise of total satisfaction is the promise of catastrophic disillusionment the discovery of the all-powerful other, and subsequent fall into fallibility no-one recovers from the sado-masochism of childhood when i believe i am who i think myself to be, i am not merely in denial but deluded as there are no untested limits, definitionally, to self as in all lives start in pain, pass in contentment briefer than a laugh in the dark but do not end there they end where they began Bo Meson

When You’re Down, You’re Up

I said I would give anything to be a writer. And I guess I did. At first, it hadn’t gone well. I thought my short story “Circus” ticked all the boxes: story arc - a family’s trip to the circus; drama – lost tickets, spilled drinks; and humour – clowns. Yeah, well the clowns in the writing workshop weren’t buying it. “Laughing about lost tickets? C’mon she would’ve ripped him a new one.” “Boring and trite.” “I’m not sure about the clown, unless, were you going for post-modern?” We aren’t allowed to talk when our writing is being critiqued. And I admit I’ve struggled with that rule. Still, I think our tutor, Clive, over-reacted when he shoved his handkerchief in my mouth. I just wanted to stand up for my story: to explain that it really happened, just like I wrote it. But, it was straight on to the next piece- incest, self-mutilation, and satanic worship. Talk about inability to suspend disbelief. But everyone else raved about it, especially Clive. After class, I waited for Beth to ask where she got her inspiration. “I don’t know Nick. It just comes. Sometimes I take childhood experiences and big them up, but mostly it’s just me making shit up.” See, that was my problem. No childhood trauma. My parents did laugh about those lost tickets. My mother baked brownies and Dad and I did woodworking. I had a happy childhood – so sue me. Last month I found this flyer stuffed in my mailbox. “Unhappy childhood? Nightmares bringing you down? Replace your unhappy memories - cheaper and quicker than therapy.” Replace your memories? Brilliant! I drove straight over to the

address on the flyer. It was a small shop at the end of the high street. A girl with multiple piercings and a big grin was working the cash. Behind her were rows of gleaming glass jars filled with crazy shit - seashells, ribbons, bubbles… One looked like it held a rainbow, another fireflies. I grabbed an order form: “Choose your memories - 3 for a fiver.” There was a list with stuff like pets (pony, puppy, and kitten); orthodontics; financial stability; and siblings (please specify number and gender). The guy in front of me was ticking boxes like a clerk on speed. When he reached the cash, he handed over the form and a credit card. The girl filled a small box with bits from different jars and handed it over. Then it was my turn. I handed her my blank form. She smiled. “Hi, I’m sorry but you have to tick what you want.” She leaned over to show me the list and I swear she smelled of freshly baked bread. Wait,” I said. “You don’t understand. I HAD a happy childhood.” She looked at me again. “Then what are you doing here?” “I want to buy some unhappy memories.” “Uh, we don’t really have those.” “Please! I’m willing to pay extra.” She tilted her head, looking me up and down. Then she pushed a buzzer and a door behind her, on the left, opened. She jerked her thumb at it. “Go see Pete in the back.”

“You’re telling me you want bad memories so you can write better? That is seriously fucked up.” Pete stroked his beard. “I dunno. I’m trying to help people here – it’s kind of my personal mission.” “You would be helping me. I really need this. Please.” “All right, I’ll see what I can do.” He walked me over to the door. “Come back tomorrow morning.” When I went back the next day, Sophie buzzed me straight through. Pete met me at the door and led me into a small lab. “Okay,” he said. “What exactly did you have in mind?” “I don’t know. Just random bad times.” “Look, this is kinda new territory for me,” he said. “So let’s take it slowly. Why don’t we start with benign neglect?” I thought about Clive and how much he liked the dark stuff. “No, that won’t do it. I need more than that.” “Okay, I’ll throw in some minor bullying at school, maybe a bit of bedwetting…” He began reaching for some vials on the lab table.

** Things improved. Clive said my next piece was the most promising yet. He spared me the handkerchief from then on. Beth started waited for me after class. I paid another visit to Pete. The next day my story rocked the workshop and I scored with Beth. I was on a roll. I phoned Pete. “I need something really hardcore.” “Nope. I can’t do that. Too risky.”

“I’ll pay you three grand.” It was all I had left of my savings. In the end he agreed and told me to give him a few days. When I walked into his lab six days ago, I nearly puked. ”Jesus what’s that smell?” Pete rubbed his hands together.” I’ve really outdone myself. I’ve captured the smell of fear.” He handed me a small vial. “Good luck mate, you’ll need it.” That night I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, and then someone screaming. I sat up, panting and sweat-soaked, and switched on the light - there was blood everywhere. I spent the rest of the night at the kitchen table –baseball bat leaned against my chair. As soon as it was light I went down to the shop and waited for Pete. When he finally arrived, he said, “Jesus, you look like shit.” “Yeah, bad night. Listen, I need you to erase the latest memories.” He shook his head. “Didn’t you read the fine print? I can’t. They’re permanent.” I haven’t been back to my bedroom since – I nap on the couch when I can, but mostly I just lie there waiting for the nightmares to come. Oh, the good news? I’ve just had a story accepted for publication.

Damhnait Monaghan

Mid-afternoon Mid-afternoon. I'm hunkered in the Winter Garden with half a plan. I could nurse A languid coffee, people-watch, walk back into Commonside, sup pints and scribble verse 'Til I'm half cut. I'm halfway through my life With one-point-nought children, a difficult First album, a semi with no hall. I repeat a halfArsed vow to turn the failures to art And recollect the frothing sixth-form teacher Who unearthed my page of furtive poetry And pinched it aloft, like some squirming creature Found in undergrowth and threatening injury.

What is the meaning of this? he actually said. There were so many ways I could have answered. Pete Green

Contributors Helena Astbury is an artist and maker working across video, photography, performance and text. Upon return to her home of Deeside, North Wales after 12 years in London, Helena's practice has extended to include poetry, influenced in particular by the Dee Estuary and its possible narratives, be they actual, fantastical or folkloric. https://vimeo.com/HelenaAstbury Charlotte Begg is a mother to four and a mature student living on the Isle of Wight. She is a writer and abstract artist, with many of her works inspiring another form. She hopes to complete her first pamphlet of poetry next year. Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Neologism, In Between

Hangovers, and Clementine Unbound, among others. Susan Castillo Street is an international woman of mystery. She has published three collections of poems, The Candlewoman's Trade (2003), Abiding Chemistry (2015), and Constellations (2016), as well as in several leading journals and anthologies. She is owned by two cats. Seth Crook loves puffins, has taught philosophy at various universities and lives on the Isle of Mull. His poems appear in such places as The Rialto, Magma, Envoi, The

Interpreter's House, Gutter, Northwords Now, Poetry Scotland, The Journal, Southlight, Antiphon, Snakeskin, various anthologies from Three Drops Press. His photographs have appeared in the Scottish Islands Explorer and The Projectionist's Playground. Brett Evans lives, writes, and drinks in his native north Wales. Brett is co-editor at Prole and his debut pamphlet, The Devil's Tattoo, was published by Indigo Dreams in 2015 Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham in 1972, son of truck driver, grandson of a miner. Nobodyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s quite been able to figure out where the whole poetry thing comes from. His debut collection No Avoiding It is available from Shoestring Press. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s married, holds down a day job and divides his spare time between the pub and the cinema. Harry Gallagher's new collection, Northern Lights, is out now from Stairwell Books. He has been published widely, both in the UK and abroad, and performs live up and down the UK. www.harrygallagherpoet.wordpress.com Kate Garrett is managing editor of Three Drops from a Cauldron, Picaroon Poetry, and Lonesome October Lit. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Hobo Camp

Review, The Lake, Dying Dahlia Review, and Words Dance, among others. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and longlisted for a Saboteur Award, and her latest pamphlet, You've never seen a doomsday like it, was published by Indigo Dreams in 2017. She lives in Sheffield. Ron Gibson Jr. has previously appeared in Identity Theory, Midwestern Gothic, Cold

Creek Review, L'Ephemere Review, Moonsick Magazine, Fiction Pool, Real Story UK, Easy Street Magazine, Rabble Lit, (b)oink, Mannequin Haus, Stockholm Review of Literature, Cheap Pop, New South Journal, Jellyfish Review, Whiskeypaper, Unbroken Journal, Crack the Spine, Gone Lawn, etc... forthcoming at Occulum, Lost Balloon & Ellipsis Zine. @sirabsurd Ronnie Goodyer’s poetry has been widely published and he has 6 solo collections. Ronnie was on the BBC Judging Panel for their Off By Heart poetry competition (BBC2) and Cornwall County Council’s poetry representative for Writing Doctor’s Surgery at Cornwall Book Festival. Ronnie runs award-winning Indigo Dreams with partner Dawn. They live with rescue collie Mist in an ex-forester’s house in rural Devon. Pete Green is a poet and singer/songwriter whose subject matter includes islands, coastlines and edgelands, railways, walking, getting lost, lower-division football, whisky, underachievement and impossible things. He grew up in Grimsby and lives in Sheffield. Pete’s most recent album We’re Never Going Home was released in 2016 and his pamphlet Sheffield Almanac is published by Longbarrow Press. Visit petegreensolo.com and follow @petenothing. Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon worked as a Probation Officer, a Mental Health Social Worker and a Practice Educator in the NHS. She now lives in Newcastle upon Tyne and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published on curated internet sites and in print anthologies. She is due to complete her MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University in Autumn 2017. Nancy Iannucci is a historian who teaches history and lives poetry in Troy, NY. Her work is published/forthcoming in numerous publications including Bop Dead City,

Allegro Poetry Magazine, Star 82 Review (*82), Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Amaryllis, Rose Red Review, Picaroon Poetry, Three Drops from a Cauldron to name a few. Steven John lives in The Cotswolds near Cheltenham. He has been writing poetry and short fiction for thirty years and has had work published in various pamphlets and short fiction websites. He has also read some of his work at the Cheltenham Poetry Festival and Stroud Short Stories. He is a regular at The Ale House writing group in

Stroud. Currently the short stories of Annie Proulx, Mark Haddon and Tennessee Williams are on his bedside table. Agnes Marton is a Hungarian-born poet, writer, librettist, Reviews Editor of The Ofi

Press, Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, founding member of Phoneme Media. Recent publications include award-winning Estuary: A Confluence of Art and Poetry, her poetry collection Captain Fly’s Bucket List and two chapbooks with Moria Books. Laura McKee's poems have appeared in journals including The Interpreter's House,

Butcher's Dog, Prole, The Rialto, in anthologies, including Mildly Erotic Verse (Emma Press) and Troubadour (Picaroon Poetry), and even on a bus, as a winner of the Guernsey International Poetry Competition. Bo Meson is an ambidelic post-folk prog-bebop meta-physicist who raises more chillies than sardonic smiles and lives in Sheffield, mainly performing at gallery openings and Gorilla Poetry. Damhnait Monaghan is a Canadian now living in the UK. A long suffering namesplainer, her short stories and flash fiction are published in places like The

Fiction Pool, Spelk Fiction, Still Point Arts Quarterly, The Incubator and EllipsisZine. Laura Potts is twenty-one years old and lives in West Yorkshire. She has twice been named a London Foyle Young Poet of the Year and Young Writer. In 2013 she became an Arts Council Northern Voices poet and Lieder Poet at the University of Leeds. Her poems have appeared in Seamus Heaney’s Agenda, Poetry Salzburg Review and The

Interpreter’s House. Having studied at The University of Cape Town and worked at The Dylan Thomas Birthplace in Swansea, Laura has recently become Agenda’s Young TS Eliot Poet and been shortlisted for a Charter-Oak Award for Best Historical Fiction in Colorado. This year Laura received a Shadow Award in America, was named one of The Poetry Business’ New Poets, and became a BBC New Voice for 2017. Her first BBC radio drama Sweet The Mourning Dew will air in 2018. You can follow Laura on Twitter @thelauratheory_ Santino Prinzi is the Co-Director of National Flash Fiction Day in the UK, a Senior Editor for New Flash Fiction Review, an Associate Editor for Vestal Review, and the Flash Fiction Editor of Firefly Magazine. His debut flash fiction collection, Dots and

other flashes of perception, is available from The Nottingham Review Press. To find out more follow him on Twitter (@tinoprinzi) or visit his website: https://tinoprinzi.wordpress.com

Shriram Sivaramakrishnan recently completed his MA in Poetry from Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry, UK. His have appeared in Allegro, Vayavya, Bird's Thumb, Uut Poetry and so on. He tweets at @shriiram. Tom Snarsky teaches mathematics at Malden High School in Malden, Massachusetts, USA. His chapbook Number Among is free to read and download at Epigraph

Magazine and his long poem Centurion is updated every month at aglimpseof. He lives in Braintree, Massachusetts, and tweets @TomSnarsky. Cathy Ulrich is a writer from Montana. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Newfound, Menacing Hedge and Jellyfish Review. After hanging up his stethoscope a few years back, Richard Westcott now listens to himself talking, rather than others. And animals too, living as he does on the edge of Exmoor and spending a lot of time outdoors. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s won a prize or two here and there, and his poems can be found in various places including the Mary Evans Picture Library poetry blog, Lighten Up Online and Sentinel Literary Quarterly. Joe Williams is a writer and performing poet from Leeds. He appears regularly at events in Yorkshire and beyond. He has been published in anthologies by OWF Press,

Stairwell Books, Picaroon Poetry and Beautiful Dragons Collaborations, and in magazines online and in print. His debut pamphlet, Killing the Piano, will be published by Half Moon Books in September 2017. www.joewilliams.co.uk Simon Williams has seven published collections. He latest pamphlet, Spotting

Capybaras in the Work of Marc Chagall and his latest full collection, Inti, both published in 2016. He has a new co-authored pamphlet with Susan Taylor, The Weather House, due out soon from Indigo Dreams. Simon was elected The Bard of Exeter in 2013 and founded the large-format magazine, The Broadsheet. Teffy Wrightson is an elderly Yorkshire writer with an interest in many subjects including history and sheep. Given to strong views on politics, human rights and the environment. Twitter @belledujour208 Jim Zola is a poet and photographer living in North Carolina.

Acknowledgements

`Go-Go Bootsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; by Nancy Iannucci was first published in Typehouse Literary Magazine, September 2016

ISSUE #2 COMING OCTOBER 1ST 2017