Scrittura Magazine, Issue 1, Autumn 2015 by Scrittura Literary Magazine

Issue number 1 Autumn 2015

Scrittura Magazine is a UK-based online literary magazine, launched in 2015 by three Creative Writing graduates who wanted to provide a platform to showcase new and exciting writing from across the world. Scrittura Magazine is published quarterly, and is free for all. This means that we are unable to offer payment for publication. Submissions information can be found online at www.scritturamagazine.tumblr.com EDITOR: Valentina Terrinoni EDITOR: Yasmin Rahman DESIGNER / ILLUSTRATOR: Catherine Roe WEB: www.scritturamagazine.tumblr.com/ EMAIL: scrittura.magazine@gmail.com TWITTER: @Scrittura_Mag FACEBOOK: scritturamag

In This Issue 06 08 10 11 17 18 20 25 26 28 37 38 44 45 46 52 54 56 58 60 61

A Warm Feeling Meaghan Clohessy Dementia Stephanie Harrison-Barker Magic Destiny Aplin Mate In One Peter Flint Cut Me Rachana Hegde A Very Uni-Corny Verse Peter Flint Be Brave, Printer Old Friend Stuart Hardy Anxiety Laura Noakes Explore Rachana Hegde Mother's Day Alice Anthony The Circus Boy Who Kissed Me Helen Burke In The Mean Time Andrew Kirby Teenage Mum Peter Flint Long Meg and Her Daughters Duncan Chambers Looking for Monsters Jimmy Hartill Midas and Medusa Leonor Morrow Stitch Rachana Hegde British Summer Julia Barnard Second Chances Sarah Thorogood The Students Are Leaving Neil Clarkson Darling Patricia P.

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A Note From The Editors Welcome to the very first issue of Scrittura Magazine! It is so exciting to finally see our vision put together after months of hard work! Our goal with Scrittura was to create an outlet to showcase fantastic writing from across the world and we have been blown away with the amazing response we have had to our first call for submissions. One of our main aims was to reach everyone, and promote fantastic writing internationally, so we are incredibly proud to have received submissions from as far as the United States of America and Pakistan so far! We have some amazing pieces in this issue; from lyrical poetry and unicorns to talking printers, there’s something to entertain everyone. Our cover art is inspired by one of our short stories, Mate In One, a vivid tale packed with wonderful imagery. We really do appreciate writers taking that leap of bravery and sharing their work with us, and the excitement we felt when we received our very first submission reappears every time a new submission arrives in our inbox! One genre we really wanted to include in the magazine was dramatic scripts, as we know there aren’t many published outlets for this, so we are thrilled to be able to showcase a fantastic short script, Mother’s Day, in our first issue; the first of many we hope. Turn to page 28 for a brilliant, tension-filled read. As writers, we know the process of trying to get published can be incredibly daunting. Unlike some other literary magazines, we have no restrictions on age, genre, location or topic, and no pesky entry fees either! We just want to be able to provide a platform for writers to share their great writing with the world. So we want to say a huge thank you to all of the writers who submitted their brilliant writing to us. We had so much fun reading them and we really do hope you’ll submit again for our next issue! Finally, a humungous thanks to Catherine, our amazing designer. Thank you for putting up with our constant niggly requests and for creating such EPIC illustrations! We hope you enjoy reading this issue as much as we enjoyed putting it together.

Valentina & Yasmin

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6 06

A Warm Feeling Meaghan Clohessy There’s a rash on my leg. It’s necrotizing fasciitis. The rash is small, coral in color, and covered in scales of flaking flesh. It’s not bleeding—yet. Every time I run my finger over it, I get a tender sensation, like shaving bumps that appear under my armpit after I shower. I wonder if I press down hard enough, the advanced stage of my infection would cause my compromised flesh to completely corrode, forcing my finger to pierce through the rash and into my thigh. The circulating blood would try in vain—get it?—to escape the bacterial invader, but inevitably the bacteria will consume these healthy cells, disintegrating every major artery and nerve ending. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Just to be sure, I checked my symptoms online; Web MD is always a good source for diagnoses, despite Mom’s disapproval. Okay, so it’s at the bottom of the list. I am more likely to have thrombocytopenia (a cool name for a low platelet count) than necrotizing fasciitis. I’ll check again later. When my skin tears like notebook paper, the diagnosis will be more conclusive. There’s a rash on my leg. It could be necrotizing fasciitis. I discovered the rash when I went to the bathroom for a bi-hourly checkup. I checked blood pressure; I yanked my hair to see if it was falling out, I punched myself in the stomach to see if I was bruising too easily, I checked my breasts for lumps— cancer is inherited, you know. As I sat in the sterile toilet, judging whether or not I was experiencing a burning sensation in my urine, I noticed the infection peeking out of my mint green pajama shorts. Since then, I’ve been sitting in the middle of the plaid purple carpet in my bedroom, stroking the trauma site. My overhead light is on, providing a nice yellow glow—the shade of hepatitis—so I can watch the progression. Outside my cracked window, a dog howls into the chilled night. A car alarm blares from a carjacking in the dusty alley behind my apartment. In a few hours, a squad of policemen will trample up the metal staircase, race down the carpeted hallway, and bust my next-door neighbor for cocaine possession. I know because it happens every night. What would happen if they had to deal with me? Some concerned neighbor— ha!—complains about the stench of congealed blood. Or Mom sends them to check on me, since she refuses to come over. They would have no idea what to do!

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My flesh will be lying in tatters on the hardwood floor. Would they rush me to the hospital? Or would one brave officer pull out his .45, lay the black metal upon my forehead, apologizing with his eyes as he pulls the trigger? If anything, at least he would notice. There’s a rash on my leg. It has to be necrotizing fasciitis. This infection is taking its sweet time. No fever. No inflammation. My skin is still the same translucent color, not violet. I suppose I could call someone, but muscle atrophy keeps me glued to my carpet. Even if I could, only Mom’s up late enough to answer her phone. Not that I would need to hear her response: ‘This better not be another fake disease! Last time I drove to your shitty apartment, you called a migraine an aneurysm. Stop complaining and get a job.’ She’s one to complain. She had breast cancer for three years and had people swarm to her house bearing the obligatory gifts, attention, and screwed on smiles. Meanwhile, I waited in the corner of the crowd, playing with my Hot Wheels and wondering if the Make-a-Wish Foundation granted proxy wishes if your parents were ill. I’m too healthy to be noticed. I am relegated to an average existence because there is no deformity or illness that will make people feel oh-so sorry for me. I look in the mirror, see my long brown hair free of oil and meaty arms free of scars. It’s disgusting. I have a rash on my leg. It needs to be necrotizing fasciitis. Web MD won’t validate me. Mom will dismiss me. But this Bic razor won’t. I think I’ll wait for someone to walk in on me before I start screaming. It wouldn’t be necrotizing fasciitis without a witness.

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Dementia Stephanie Harrison-Barker Unforgettable, the moment I first saw her. Her hair teased into a bun, A red scarf wound around her neck, She had the most beautiful smile. After two or three sightings, I got up the courage to ask for her name. ‘Winnie,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Dennis,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m Dennis.’ As we waved goodbye, I knew I was in love. I started courting Winnie, And before no time we were married, And expecting our first child, Carol. And you know the rest, Kathy was born soon after. And we were happy. Happy as people can be.

I will never forget the moment I first saw her. Her hair teased into a bun? A scarf around her neck, She had the most beautiful smile. I asked for her name. ‘Winnie,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Dennis’, I mumbled. ‘I’m Dennis.’ As we said goodbye, I knew I was in love. I started courting Winnie, And some time later we were married, And expecting our child, Carol. And we know the rest. And we were happy. Happy as people can be.

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Unforgettable the moment I first saw her.

She had the most beautiful smile.

‘Winnie’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Dennis,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m Dennis.’ As we said goodbye, I knew I was in love. we were married,

And we were happy. Happy.

Unforgettable

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Magic Destiny Aplin

The moments pass, no - run away - as the clock on my wall begs them, ‘Stay!’ But they cannot, they must obey the Magic of a passing day. The glass is empty, I cannot thinktime altered by this lonely drink. Has it slowed? Yes - no, it hasn’t… Cantankerous & tricky, yet perfectly balanced. It cannot be stopped, it cannot be tamed, and so it is cursed, so it is blamed.

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MATE IN ONE Peter Flint I first met John at the chess club. A pale, earnest-looking lad of about eleven; he sat staring in fierce concentration at the board in front of him. ‘Want a game?’ I asked. His head came up slowly, like a cow pausing from its grazing to contemplate a passer-by, but there was nothing gentle or pastoral in the scorching shaft of mistrust and contempt that came from the boy’s clear brown eyes. ‘Only play wi’ me mam and dad…don’t I?’ he snarled, his eyes dropping immediately to silent scrutiny of the chess pieces. I tried again. ‘They play chess do they…your mum and dad?’ At first I thought I was going to receive another laser-blast of scorn but his reply, when it came, was quiet…almost a whisper. ‘I’m goin’ to learn ‘em, aren’t I? When it’s finished, right? I’m goin’ to learn ‘em how to play…it’ll be great…and Julie…I’ll learn her an’ all…’ ‘When it’s finished…I don’t quite…?’ Again his gaze swept over me with a mixture of rage and pity. ‘Me chess-set…I’m goin’ to mek ‘em one aren’t I? Look!’ He thrust towards me a grubby notebook that had been partially concealed by the edge of the table. I realised that John had been drawing in this book when I made my ham-fisted attempt to break the ice. The first page showed a rough scrawled plan of a chessboard with some notes of the number of squares and dimensions, badly spelt and written in a crabbed childish script. It was only when I idly leafed through the other pages that I drew in my breath with a gasp of astonishment. On each page was a sketch of an individual chessman. Nothing like the set on the table, these made up an army of nightmarish figurines drawn from the depths of some tormented Norse legend or science-fiction netherworld. The designs lacked the gloss of maturity and technique but their lines had a powerful, almost arrogant confidence. The faces sneered back from the page with a terrifying evil vitality. Somewhat hurriedly I closed the book and handed it back to John. ‘Terrific! They’ll really like that…when it’s finished, I mean…’ At first it was as if he didn’t understand what I was talking about.

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‘What?’ he grunted. ‘Your mum and dad…the chess set…they’ll like it…I’m sure they’ll like it…’ He stared at the board in front of him, saying nothing. ‘You’ll have some great games…you…your mum and dad…and…er…Julie… when it’s finished…’ I tailed off lamely. ‘She’s too little,’ he said. ‘She’s too little to play yet but I’ll learn her…’ He paused and stared at me as if daring me to contradict this ambition. ‘I will, you know, right…I’ll learn her to play…when she’s big…’ An almost palpable tension had come between us and I hastened to lighten it. ‘They like games do they…your mum and dad?’ For an instant John’s tight little face relaxed: a smile flickered across his lips as brief as summer lightning. ‘Yeah,’ he breathed. ‘Snakes and Ladders, Cluedo, Mousetrap…it were brill! Every Sunday mornin’, right, they used to let me choose. Dad made us all a big mug of tea…Julie were still asleep. Then we’d all sit in Mam and Dad’s bed and play games. Dad went first but it were always Mam who got a six…she’s dead lucky our Mam…’ Suddenly animation drained out of his voice and it became a robotic monotone. ‘Until they came…’ ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘They had to come and spoil everything!’ his voice rose almost to a shout. I resisted the impulse to question and he continued in the same leaden nearwhisper. ‘Uncle Gary and Auntie Margaret…we were alright before they came and spoiled everything…Why did they have to come? We were alright…’ His mouth clamped into a thin line; he opened his notebook and began to draw a demonic troll of a pawn with a chilling intensity that made me shudder slightly. I looked at my watch. ‘Good grief…is that the time? I’ll be getting along. I’m sure your mum and dad will be thrilled to bits when you’ve finished your chess-set, John. I hope I get to see it before you take it home…’ His thin shoulders and dark head were bent over the notebook in a shadowy universe of goblins and warriors where I had no reality. I beckoned to the whitecoated attendant who unlocked the door and let me out of the recreation room. *** Five years later, my degree in Clinical Psychology not only completed but fast fading into nostalgia and irrelevance, I came to remember John…and the chess-set.

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My first post after getting my degree had been in a large hospital in the rain-swept granite canyons of a Scottish city. A promotion…and the rediscovered charms of a childhood sweetheart had dragged me back to more familiar territory. A few weeks after my arrival, my Department Manager sent me along to the nearby psychiatric hospital to pick up the records of a patient who was to be transferred to us. The Medical Director shook my hand and congratulated me on my new appointment. ‘Remember you as a student…it must be two or three years ago…’ ‘Five going on six,’ I smiled. ‘Good lord…as long as that? Yes, I suppose it must be…time certainly flies! Not sure if it’s all the changes in the job or the prospect of retirement…no sooner finished your summer holidays and, before you can turn round, you’re wrapping Christmas presents! Anyway, good to see you again…sit down…I’ll just buzz for some coffee.’ After his initial burst of bonhomie, the director seemed at a loss for further conversational gambits and one of those awkward silences began to stretch itself across the sunlit office. It was then I noticed the chess-set. The gleaming ranks of its opposing legions glowered at each other in ceramic malevolence across their polished killing-field. ‘Bloody hell…he did finish it after all! I thought it was just a kid’s fantasy.’ ‘Pardon?’ The director looked puzzled by my outburst. ‘John…the chess-set…when I was researching my thesis…he said he was going to make it…showed me the sketches…bloody good they were too, especially for a kid…a touch scary I thought at the time…’ ‘Oh, so you met our John did you? Yes he finished it…about the only thing he showed any interest in…other than his obsession with that damned chess-set he was an ideal patient.’ ‘May I?’ I asked and, as the director nodded his approval, picked up one of the figures and began to examine it. ‘My word, this is excellent work…I’ve seen a lot worse on sale at silly prices in shops and galleries. Not that I’m an expert but my girlfriend is…she’s a freelance artist and designer so I had to learn quickly.’ I grinned. ‘Self-preservation I suppose. But these are exceptional…I’ll bet his mum and dad are proud of him…’ The director frowned. ‘His mum and dad?’ ‘Yes, he said he was making them for his mum and dad…he was going to teach…‘learn ‘em’ to play when the set was finished. That’s right…and he was going to teach the little girl…what was her name…Jane?…Joanne?…Julia? No, I’ve got it… Julie! His baby sister I suppose…’ My voice dribbled to a halt as I saw the horror on

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the director’s face. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘You don’t know…do you?’ He told me John’s story. It was the smoke and screams early that Sunday morning that alerted the neighbours. They found the toddler first. She was lying sprawled in her cot; her limbs were totally relaxed as if in sleep. The corners of her mouth were turned up in a smile. They had to look more closely to see the slash…almost like a deep scratch along the tiny throat and the obscene reddening of the elves and bunnies that patterned the coverlet. Next they found Mum and Dad…and with them they found John. He sat in his parents’ bed, a Snakes and Ladders board on his knees. Coloured counters were placed at various points on the board and John, his eyes wild, continually rolled the dice and moved each of the counters in turn. John sat in the blood-soaked bed between the bodies of his parents from whose lacerated throats eddies of scarlet still oozed. ‘Go on Dad...your turn…cor, five…one, two, three, four, five! Bad luck, Dad…a snake…wheeee! Down you go…I’m winning! Now you Mam…go on…cool…a six! Dead jammy, Mam…you always were lucky…’ Uncle Gary and Auntie Margaret hadn’t been lucky. It had been their screams and the smoke from the locked bedroom, which John had dowsed in petrol before setting it alight, that had brought first the neighbours, then the police and fire brigade but far, far too late. The director had been talking for almost half an hour while I sat in stunned silence. ‘But why?’ I murmured. ‘I mean…he seemed so fond of them…his parents, I mean. It sounded such a happy family.’ ‘It was until they met up with Gary and Margaret…they weren’t uncle and auntie by the way. They’d moved up from the South. God…or the Devil…only knows how they got started…perhaps a bit of swapping around in bed among the four adults…then, when that got a bit tame, the drugs and the sex games until finally…’ ‘Christ! The children!’ ‘No one can imagine what those poor little souls must have gone through…the bewilderment, the fear, the pain. It doesn’t bear thinking about…especially the little girl.’ ‘Why didn’t John tell someone…his teacher…his friends…neighbours?’ ‘Come off it! Would you have told anyone? These were the people he looked

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to for care and affection and they were doing these dreadful things to him…yes, and to his baby sister. It came out that the adults…all four of them…threatened him with the most diabolical punishments if he breathed a word. I suppose, in the end, John cracked and took matters into his own hands…’ The director paused before continuing. ‘Well, all that was ten years ago and now John is completely cured…total rehabilitation, as the jargon has it. Yes, John will be leaving us tomorrow and, no doubt, taking his splendid chess-set with him. In some ways I’d like to keep it but it has been a great help in his recovery…given him a sense of purpose. I agree it is a bit grotesque but, my word, what a time consuming process…nearly ten years’ work. You know, he only finished the last piece a week ago. That knight…yes, that’s the one…the hideous little dwarf riding a…what is it? Looks like some sort of lizard or dinosaur. Jesus, it makes your flesh creep!’ I picked up the piece the director had indicated and examined it carefully. ‘Beautifully made…what a pity the firing went wrong…’ ‘Went wrong? We’ve got the best equipment…here let me have a look. Where? I can’t see anything…’ I took the piece from his hand and pointed to the mark on the little figure’s throat. ‘Look, here the glaze has cracked in the kiln…wait a minute…it’s not a crack… it’s a cut! You say John finished this only a few days ago…which pieces did he make first?’ The director thought. ‘I’m not sure…I think…yes, now I remember…I mentioned it to a colleague at the time…the king and queen, then the bishops.’ One by one, I picked up the chessmen from the board. The smooth porcelain of the pawns was shining and unblemished. My hand trembled slightly as I picked up the power-pieces…each bore the same glazed slash I had pointed out on the ‘knight’. I looked at the director. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he growled. ‘But it’s nonsense. He’s cured… he’s been examined by the finest doctors and psychiatrists and they all say he is completely cured. No, the papers have been signed…at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, John walks out of that door…and with him goes his chess-set…’

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Cut Me Rachana Hegde

the first time i laughed was when you cut me; you pressed the knife against my skin, and explored me with impatient fingers – turned me inside out; so cut me now, let my blood trickle down your blade, tattoo my flesh with fear and hate; so cut me now, i’m addicted to the pain, you’re the high i can’t lose again; so cut me now, don’t wait until i’m moaning and gasping, begging you for more; just cut me.

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A VERY UNICORNY VERSE Peter Flint

T’was winter and the unicorn Was feeling very cold Put on slippers and his dressing-gown And thought, ‘I’m getting old! I should go on my holidays Travel to a warmer clime’ Tied his case with a skipping-rope ‘Cos he was short of time Rushed into the shower Washed and brushed his hair Booked on a budget airline To get a cheaper fare… On the beach he met a unicorness Love was born there by the sea She said she was going with a bull ‘But he ran out on me! He was cool and he was “with it” I prayed we’d soon be wed He cheated with that awful cow And then I wished him dead He fancied himself a babe-magnet He wore a lot of bling Even in his bloody nose He wore a diamond ring! He was shallow…just a show-off Two silver horns upon his head But when I saw your unique-horn I fell for you instead!’

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Be Brave, Printer Old Friend Stuart Hardy 2133: Electrical companies begin installing artificial consciousness in all of their products, so that the appliances will make customers feel bad if they don’t buy them, thereby slashing the advertising budget by 27%. Upon entering a shop, a customer will now be greeted with a chorus of: ‘Buy me! Please buy me!’ or, ‘I’ll feel sad!’ Unfortunately this initiative had a few knock on side effects when the appliances broke and needed to be thrown away... *** ‘Epson! Not again!’ ‘I’m sorry Gary, I just feel really sick today,’ said Epson the printer. He coughed as Gary took his cartridge out and put it back in again. ‘Ow! Don’t slam my door!’ ‘Sorry, sorry!’ Epson spat out a page of solid black ink. ‘I just can’t tell what’s wrong with you; you keep making your ink cartridges leak.’ ‘...You can be very hurtful sometimes, you know Gary?’

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‘Look, I know it’s not your fault!’ ‘Oh! Well I’m sorry if I feel bad! I guess that’s my fault!’ ‘Look, I know you’ve been feeling down lately, but we just don’t need colour cartridges. My boss just didn’t see a need to buy you a new one.’ ‘No... No, it’s not that,’ sighed Epson as Gary took out the ink cartridge and fiddled about with the chamber. ‘Maybe I’ve just got the winter blues; we don’t get enough light in here.’ ‘You’re a printer, you don’t need light.’ ‘Just because I’m a printer doesn’t mean I don’t have needs, Gary!’ ‘Oh dear, what’s going on here?’ Gary’s boss said, walking past his desk. ‘Printer still playing up?’ ‘Yeah, I can’t figure out what’s happened to it.’ ‘I’ll try harder Mr Higgins, really, I will!’ the printer chirped. ‘It’s okay Epson, calm down.’ ‘Gary! Don’t talk to the printer! That’s an amateur’s mistake!’ ‘Sorry sir.’ ‘Aww,’ Epson sulked. ‘Looks like you’re going to have to use my one to print those quarterly reports again,’ his boss said, sighing. ‘I’ll fix it sir; I’ve been trying for ages. I can’t seem to figure out what its problem is.’ ‘I am listening you know,’ the printer snapped. ‘Well...Gary I know you don’t want to, but maybe we should just get rid of it. I mean it’s...what? Seven years old now? I figure it’s time to get a new one.’ Epson gasped. How could Mr Higgins be so heartless? ‘Give me another chance; I’m sure I can get it working again,’ Gary protested. ‘Yeah! I’ll be right as rain soon,’ Epson coughed and then spat out another page of fuzzy jargon. ‘Well be that as it may, we can’t be wasting too many working hours when we could just get a new one. Best get rid of it Gary. Anyway, I’ve got to pop to a meeting–’ ‘But–’ ‘And don’t be listening to what it tells you, Gary! We might have to do another of those machine/public relations training sessions again, and you know how long those take!’ His boss strode off, oblivious to the effect of his dismissive comments on the printer’s feelings. Though he knew the printer’s feelings were synthesised, Gary couldn’t tell the difference and felt really sorry for Epson. He’d never understood how that training session about Conscio-Machine appliances was supposed to make him feel better.

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‘Please! Please don’t kick me out!’ Epson wailed as Gary put him on the floor by the rubbish bins. ‘Where am I supposed to go? What’s a printer like me supposed to do on the streets? I don’t even have legs! I can’t go anywhere!’ ‘I’m sorry Epson, but my boss said this is where you need to go now. We don’t have any use for you here anymore.’ ‘But...but...’ Epson fumbled for an excuse to stay. ‘But I thought we had a special bond!’ ‘Epson...you’re a printer. Printers print, and if you can’t print anymore–’ ‘But...but I want to stay!’ Epson started to sob, leaking ink. ‘Oh Epson! You’re getting ink all over yourself!’ ‘Oh, like you care!’ Epson snapped and fell onto its back. ‘You want me to just keel over and die, don’t you?’ ‘Epson...really, it’s no hard feelings, just...my boss said you’ve got to go. We can’t hang onto all our broken printers, you’d take up too much room in the office.’ ‘Oh, I see! So you’d just do this with anything once you had no use for it anymore? Oh yeah, I chatted to that shredder before he got carted away! He was distraught!’ ‘Epson, look, if I don’t do what my boss says, I get a disciplinary. If I get too many of those, I get fired. My hands are tied.’ ‘Judas! I see money’s more important than friendship!’ ‘You...you’re a printer!’ ‘And you’re my colleague!’ ‘You print things, and you can’t print anymore!’ ‘F...fine! Just leave me! I’ll be fine out here on the cold street! Unplugged and unwanted. I’m sure some friendly rats will nest in my chamber or something!’ ‘Don’t make this harder than it already is, Epson!’ ‘Oh I want to make it hard Gary!’ Gary noticed a couple of people at a window in an office opposite watching his argument with the printer. He knew what they were thinking: he was clearly an incompetent. This argument had to end now. ‘I’m sorry Epson,’ he said with the pretence of being devastated, but with a trickle of his genuine pity. He walked back up the steps to the office. ‘Gary! Gary!’ Epson called after him. ‘Come back here! I’m not finished! I... please....please! I don’t want to die out here!’ It wept to the silent courtyard as it began to rain. Gary sat in the office browsing the internet for new printers for the next hour or two. He couldn’t find any with the sort of twenty first century charm that Epson had had. All that was on the market nowadays were big grey hulking monoliths. He could immediately imagine what their voices would sound like: all business, no talk;

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devoid of personality. He’d never be able to talk about life, his career, girlfriends, the future or anything personal with such wretchedly inhuman machines. He glanced out of the window at the little printer. It was feeling sorry for itself and had cried out the last of the ink it had left. It sat dejectedly staring at the sky, unaware of the next step in its journey. Gary went out for a smoke break and squatted beside his printer for one last chat. ‘Hi Epson.’ ‘Hello,’ sniffed the little printer. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘I...no, but...but I think I’ve come to terms with it now.’ ‘Good. I just...I just want you to know, I’m really sorry about this, Epson. I don’t want to throw you out, but...y’know...you don’t work anymore.’ ‘I know, I know...’ There was an uncomfortable silence. ‘I’m going to miss you Gary, you know?’ ‘I’m going to miss you too, Epson.’ ‘Hey-hey remember when we were working late that one time and you pushed me around on your chair? That was fun!’ ‘I know, it was...’ ‘And-and when we were coming up with all those funny names for that TV presenter we hated at the time?’ ‘Yeah, that was great.’ There was an awkward silence between the two of them. ‘I’ll be okay,’ said Epson. ‘Maybe I’ll get picked up by a new owner who’ll have the time to fix me up a bit. A real computer nerd who collects old and broken printers.’ ‘Yeah,’ Gary smiled sadly. ‘Yeah I think there’s a guy in the office opposite who collects old appliances...I-I’m sure he’ll see you and pick you up and give you a good home.’ ‘Yeah...and, and I’ll email you all the time as well! Well, unless I’d bother you...’ ‘No, I’d love that Epson.’ ‘I hope my replacement’s nice. Maybe you could get one of those big nice shiny ones with a photocopier attachment and everything.’ ‘Oh, let’s not talk about that.’ ‘Well...just so long as you know...I want you to be happy.’ ‘I know, no hard feelings, eh?’ ‘No...Anyway, you’d better get on and do those quarterly reports while Mr Higgins’ printer is free.’ ‘Yeah...I know...goodbye Epson.’ ‘...Bye Gary...’

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Gary trudged back to the steps, glancing back at the old printer over his shoulder. ‘Ooh, hello!’ Epson said as a man in fluorescent orange overalls came over and picked him up. ‘Ooh, ooh I’m going somewhere! Oh, bye Gary! I’ll never forget you!’ Epson called out. ‘Bye Epson,’ Gary waved back. He was dreading what was about to happen, but he felt it would be disrespectful if he didn’t at least watch. He owed Epson this much. ‘Ooh, where am I going now?’ Epson asked as the man threw him into the jaws of death. Epson screeched in pain as the dump truck violently crushed his innards. His plastic casing was ripped apart and spilled his internal circuitry into the minced cavern of garbage. All he felt in that moment was pain and the knowledge that Gary had lied to him. And worse still, he could have stopped this. Gary could have saved him. He could’ve taken him home. They could have been friends forever. But he didn’t. He’d discarded him like the old broken piece of plastic and wires that he was. He was nothing more than another electrical appliance given an artificial consciousness as a sleazy marketing tactic before being mass produced by a factory. But neither he nor Gary had ever really believed that. And now he was gone. Parts of him were scattered all over the van, his entrails strewn across the rubbish were now indistinguishable from the slurry of discarded apple cores and soda cans. No one said anything. The man in orange just carried on as normal, chucking black bin liners and empty packaging into the dump truck. Gary went back inside. He sat at his desk in silence for a while before despondently opening up his web browser and looking at new printers on the internet again. His boss returned to the office, came up to him and tried to give him a task to do but Gary couldn’t respond. ‘Gary...Gary, is something the matter?’ ‘Nothing...nothing, I’ve just got something in my eye,’ stammered Gary. Then he burst into tears. *** Epson The best printer a desk monkey ever had. 2137-2144 R.I.P

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ANXIETY Laura Noakes Hold yourself together, if even by a thread. Even if you’d rather give up and go to bed. Force yourself to get up, and ready for the day. Don’t look in people’s eyes, you’ll give yourself away. Hide yourself completely, push it down into your gut. Never let them know, that you’re stuck inside this rut. Consume yourself with darkness, let it sink into your skin. How silly of you to ever think, that it would’ve let you win.

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Explore Rachana Hegde i. we wander – down footpaths and dingy alleys slipping and sliding on rain slicked streets; following street signs and twisting roads exploring dark pathways and sharp corners; ‘don’t cut yourself my love,’ you say but the fear eats at my courage. we kiss – surrounded by laughter and music; fingers and limbs entwined i don’t know where you end and i begin; but the kisses they fill my emptiness as our lips mash together teeth and tongue tangling, dancing; it’s enough to remind me that i am here and so are you. we sleep – or you sleep while i purge myself emptying the contents of an empty stomach; vomiting up silent promises and years worth of deals; but the sun rises eating away the guilt and pain destroying the doubt erasing the hurt; so i climb back into bed and huddle in empty sheets — to watch the sun rise over a city still sleeping.

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Mother's Day Alice Anthony

SC1: INTERIOR: LIVING ROOM Dennis is pacing back and forth in the living room. He looks distressed. His sister Sophie grabs a bottle of wine from the cupboard and fills herself a big glass. She takes two more and sets them on the coffee table. She fills up a second glass and hands it to Dennis. He gulps half the glass down in one go and slams it on the coffee table. They both sit down. DENNIS

What are we going to do?

SOPHIE

I don’t know.

DENNIS

We can’t, Sophie. It’s out of the question.

SOPHIE

I don’t–

DENNIS

It’s immoral.

SOPHIE

I don’t–

DENNIS

It’s insane. Soph, it’s murder.

SOPHIE

Yeah?

DENNIS

You can’t seriously think this is a good idea.

SOPHIE

I really don’t know.

DENNIS

Don’t get pulled into this...This madness. How fucking dare she?!

A moment passes in silence. They both drink their wine. Dennis fills himself another glass.

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Their other sister Anna walks in. She sits down next to Sophie and frowns at the wine. SOPHIE

And?

ANNA

She’s asleep.

SOPHIE

Did she say anything?

ANNA

No, she’s pretty out of it at the moment. I’ve made her more comfortable, increased her morphine drip.

DENNIS

This isn’t happening, right? We’re not going to actually discuss this.

ANNA

Maybe we should.

DENNIS

You’re out of your mind.

ANNA

Am I?

DENNIS

Yeah, you are. You’re actually completely out of your fucking mind batshit crazy if you think we’re going to discuss killing our mother.

SOPHIE

Yeah, Ann. She’s our mother.

ANNA

I know. That’s the point, isn’t it?

(silence) ANNA

Ok. I think we should at least vote on this.

DENNIS

I vote no.

ANNA

Sophie?

SOPHIE

Well…I don’t really know what to–

DENNIS

You have got to be kidding me. We’re talking about murder here.

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You do understand that, right? It’s murder.

ANNA

Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not–

DENNIS

Dramatic?! Anna, we could go to jail for even having this fucking conversation. I think we’re not nearly being dramatic enough!

SOPHIE

Is that true?

ANNA

I don’t–

DENNIS

Of course it’s fucking true. Have you two gone insane?!

ANNA

Right. Stop. Interrupting me. And calm down. It’s not really murder. (pause) We just can’t get caught.

DENNIS

Spoken like a true criminal.

ANNA

We should at least consider…

SOPHIE

That does sound criminal, Ann…

A moment passes in silence. Anna stares ahead, deep in thought. Dennis turns to Sophie. DENNIS She’s gone mad, Soph, she’s actually gone mad and now she’s dragging you down with her and you don’t even see it. I can’t fucking believe this is happening. What the actual fuck?! Dennis starts pacing around the room.

SOPHIE

I say we get her some fucking mental help. This kinda talk… We could get her committed. She’d never forgive us.

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DENNIS

Yeah? I’ll never forgive her for asking.

(Beat) ANNA

Let’s all just think about this for a minute. Really just…take a moment and consider what’s happening here. I mean…It’s gonna happen anyways, right? And she wants it. The cancer’s not going anywhere.

DENNIS

So let her sit it out.

ANNA

That’s a cruel fucking thing to say.

SOPHIE

Yeah, that’s a bit cruel, Dennis…

ANNA

We don’t know how long she’s got. Could be days, but could be months, a year.

DENNIS

It’s not going to be a year.

ANNA

It could be a year. And she’s just gonna get worse, you know. You saw it today, the coughing, the blood...I see it all the time. What’s it gonna be like in 2 weeks, 2 months?

SOPHIE

She’s already pretty bad, Dennis...

ANNA

She shouldn’t have to wait.

DENNIS

So, what? We just kill her? Put a pillow over her head? Squeeze the fucking life out of her?

ANNA

Stop overreacting. We’re not killing her. She’s asked us to help her–

DENNIS

She’s asked us to help kill her.

ANNA

She’s asked us to make her more comfortable.

DENNIS

You mean, dead.

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(pause) ANNA

This is all so fucking easy for you two to say, isn’t it? You’re never even here.

Sophie gasps as the remark hits to the core. DENNIS

I’ve got…There’s other responsibilities in my /life/

ANNA

/I’m always here. Feeding her, washing her, changing her.

DENNIS

And who’s paying for everything??

Anna rolls her eyes at his remark. SOPHIE

You know I want to help, really, but we have families of our own and, and it’s just not that easy to juggle–

ANNA

How convenient. You don’t want to deal with it but you’re expecting me to.

DENNIS

You wanted to do this. You moved right in. Free living.

ANNA

Yeah, cos that’s why I’m here. Great for my savings. Never cared about Mum, really!

SOPHIE

Maybe I could come round more, I’ll have to check but I think I could maybe–

ANNA

Oh yes, Soph. I’d love to see you deal with mum’s bloody phlegm everywhere. (pause) You two are never here. You don’t know what’s best.

A moment of silence passes as Dennis crosses his arms defiantly and Sophie is visibly struck with guilt. ANNA

We did it for Johnny.

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(Beat) DENNIS

Our mother is not a dog.

SOPHIE

She’s not a dog, Ann…

ANNA

No, that’s exactly my point. She’s not. But we did it for him.

DENNIS

It’s not the same. Not in any way, shape or form the same, Anna. And I don’t appreciate you comparing Mum to our fucking childhood dog.

ANNA

I don’t see why it’s considered humane to put a dog out of its misery, but it’s murder when you try to do to the same for your own mother.

DENNIS

Cos she’s not just an animal to put down whenever we fucking please.

A moment of silence passes. ANNA

If we don’t help her, she’s just gonna do it herself.

DENNIS

She wouldn’t/

ANNA

No, seriously. What if one morning I wake up and find her, alone, lying in a pool of blood, wrists cut.

SOPHIE

Oh god…

ANNA

How would you feel then, huh?

DENNIS

She wouldn’t do/

ANNA

/And it would be your fault. Making her do it on her own.

DENNIS

Don’t you dare put that on me. Don’t you dare blame/

SOPHIE

/Dennis, we can’t let her do that!

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DENNIS

So keep the fucking knives away!

ANNA

Oh for fuck’s sake. Hanging by her bed sheets then.

SOPHIE

I’m starting to feel sick…

ANNA

Come on, Dennis. Should I take her bed sheets away too?

DENNIS

Don’t be ridiculous.

A moment passes in silence. They all drink their wine. SOPHIE

Can’t we just give her more pain meds? Just, not enough to actually… you know…

DENNIS

Finally some sense in this room.

ANNA

And drug our own mother senseless. Cos that’s morally correct?

DENNIS

Better than murder, Anna.

SOPHIE

Yeah, I mean…It’s better than–

ANNA

She’s already maxing out on her morphine drip. She keeps turning it up, it’s not–

SOPHIE

It’ll just make her sleep more, right? She’ll be more comfortable.

ANNA

I can’t believe you two. The fucking indignity you’re willing to put her through. And here I thought we loved/her/

DENNIS

/We’re increasing her fucking drip and that’s that.

SOPHIE

I’d really feel more comfortable that way, Ann.

DENNIS

It’s settled. I’m done talking about this now.

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ANNA

But–

SOPHIE

/I really think, I really believe that this is, you know, it’s best. Right?

DENNIS

And we’d actually help her. Instead of just, just throwing her away. (pause) This is our mother. She is more than just this, this disease.

ANNA

It’s eating her up from the inside out and–

DENNIS

/She’s still here. She’s still her.

SOPHIE

What would we do without Mum, Ann. Our mum.

ANNA

You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t…feel anything?

SOPHIE

Dad’s already…and Mum’s all we’ve got left.

ANNA

Soph/

SOPHIE

Do you remember how she used to take us shopping?

Dennis huffs. SOPHIE

She hated the crowds but she took us anyways.

ANNA

I don’t see how this/

SOPHIE

/And with my kids, she was always there. Nannie.

DENNIS

She looked after all of us.

ANNA

You think I don’t know? But now it’s our turn to look after her.

DENNIS

We have very different ideas of what that means.

(Beat)

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The three sit in silence, each remembering their mother. After a while, Anna pours herself another glass of wine and knocks it back in one go. She walks out of the room firmly, banging the door and locking it behind her. Sophie looks fearful. SOPHIE

Anna?

Dennis shakes his head, unwilling to take Anna’s bait. Sophie starts to panic. She gets up and starts knocking on the door, holding the door handle. SOPHIE

Anna! What are you doing? Let us in!

DENNIS

Anna! For fuck’s sake...

Dennis joins her at the door. He bangs loudly on the door, trying to get in. DENNIS

Anna! Open the fucking/

The door unlocks. Anna walks out, pale. ANNA

She’s…

Sophie runs into the other room. DENNIS

You didn’t?

ANNA

She was…She’d already…

Dennis stands by the door, hesitantly. Sophie walks back in, in tears. SOPHIE

She’s dead.

DENNIS

How?

ANNA

The drip, It’s…I didn’t/

DENNIS

/I’m not fucking asking you.

Dennis goes into the other room. A moment passes in silence whilst Sophie quietly sobs. END.

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THE BOY WHO KISSED ME Helen Burke The circus boy who kissed me (when Dad went for ice cream) set the trend for all kisses that were to follow. Or so I thought. I thought all kissers would have curly hair, a cheeky smile and laughing eyes... I thought they would know how to smile and handle tigers and would be kind to elephants and in their hearts, appreciate the tears of every clown. I thought each one would catch me as I fell from the high wire, or walked the midnight tightrope and reached out for the stars. But the circus boy who kissed me (and Dad no more the wiser) was the only one who did. After him, all kisses paled into the ordinariness of life. Under the big top...the circus boy who kissed me.

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IN THE MEAN TIME Andrew Kirby

The knife in his pocket has drawn blood, piercing the fleshy part of his thumb. And yet he looks on impassively, waits as an audience is cut and pasted into the theatre around him. Regards the curtain that masks the stage with mild interest. Pulls out a throat lozenge with his unbloodied left hand; pops it into his mouth. Waits. Kills time. Kills it dead. She is 28. Steve’s age. Nervous. Even from the cheap seats, he can see that one vein sticking out in her neck. Can almost see the thump of blood as it rushes through it. Her hair has been curled into tight ringlets. She’s buxom. Poured into a mould of a bodice that makes her even more so. It’s her big night, her debut. He wants her to fail. More than just schadenfreude: her failure is a biological necessity now. She reaches the edge of the stage. Opens her mouth and lets out the first in a long line of magnificent mature soprano notes. It feels as though she is dancing on his grave. He waits. At the back doors of the theatre, he waits in the cold and the wind. Every once in a while, the doors swing open and a minor cast member emerges. The people waiting with him crook their necks and try to work out whether each person is worth asking for an autograph. Everyone waiting has reserved the front page of the programme for the autograph of the 28-year-old star. He grimaces and runs his fingers across the edge of the blade. She exits last, milking it. Exits to the fizz and pop of cameras, the screaming, elbowing clamour of the audience. Makes a big thing of saying she’s only going to sign two

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autographs, then goes ahead and signs ten or so. Makes everyone think what a kindly, down-to-earth star she is. All the time she’s signing, he’s waiting, watching her neck. She moves through the crowd and he thinks she’s going to walk right past him in his dark corner, but somehow, perhaps because of the sheer fierceness of his gaze, she catches his eye. She waves, spins back round again and elegantly turns that wave into the hailing of a cab. Which is there for her even before she’s lowered her hand. He doesn’t wave back. He’ll see her again. He knows where she lives. He knows the code into her apartment block. He’s remembered it, as he remembers all such things, by singing the numbers. Her apartment is on the third floor. By the time he reaches it, he’s finished singing. He’s rather rotund now and the effort of the climb means he’s panting. He collects himself before knocking on her door. ‘Chrissie? Are you there? I need to speak to you.’ At the door, they talk. What’s unspoken are all the yawning years since singing school. Despite the fact that this is her night of triumph, she still feels guilt. It’s a weakness he doesn’t have. She reaches out a hand, touches his, thanks him for coming tonight. He didn’t have to. He picks up the bag at his feet, shows her the wine. A good vintage; well matured. She allows herself a knowing smile. No doubt the producer has told her to lay off the vino tonight, has told her that the adrenaline alone should be enough. But now he’s here with the wine and, what with all the adrenaline, she probably thinks she’ll get no sleep (ha! Nessun Dorma) without a glass. And so she invites him in. Like a vampire, he accepts. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ She is sitting on the sofa, close; tucking her sock-feet under her like a little girl. All the way through his life he’s been told that females are more mature than males. And yet look at her. If she didn’t still have the traces of stage make-up on, she could pass for twelve. ‘Mean Time stuff,’ he says. She eyes him over the rim of her huge wine glass. ‘What’s that then?’ ‘Waiting. You know how it is, Chris...’ ‘Chris-sie.’ It was never Chris-sie at the school. She’s drawing up imaginary dividing lines. He feels a tightening in his chest, a quickening in his blood. His watch hand

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flexes, clamps. For a moment, he fears it will move of his own accord but finally he manages to regain control. He gulps. That was close. So close he could almost feel her neck - gelatinously pliant - giving way to the blade. ‘You all right?’ He smoothes over the cracks in his voice, lubricates the old vocal cords with some wine. Wants to make sure she hears him at his rich, honeyed best one more time before biological determinism kicks in, before he can wait no more. ‘They told me to come back when my voice had matured…Told me what I did in the meantime was my own business, but they suggested I maintain my training, set about establishing good singing habits, that sort of thing…Maybe work on my acting skills in case I want to do operas.’ He shrugs. ‘But really, in the Mean Time, until I get my voice, I’m just waiting.’ ‘But you’re still singing, yeah?’ ‘Mean Time singing,’ he moans. Because Mean Time singing is cash-in-hand pub and club stuff: amateur stuff. Can’t cross into the big league until biology says so. She doesn’t even bother stifling a yawn. Still, though she looks like she doesn’t want to, she offers him the last of his good bottle. And he accepts greedily, the wine an excuse for what he is talking himself up to do. Or simply a tool to aid the waiting, to make the Mean Time just that little less mean. ‘One more won’t hurt,’ she observes. No, the wine is the least of her worries. She hands him a refilled glass. A small bowl of wasabi peas. He wrinkles his nose at the peas. He’s not supposed to eat spicy food. It plays havoc with the vocal cords. She should know. He puts the glass down, hard. She flinches. She is cautious of him. Perhaps she’s heard about the other two 28-year-old starlets. How they died of a rather exaggerated form of first-night nerves. He watches her neck. The voice box is the final organ of the body to mature. It’s lazy, does things in its own time, no matter how much you build the muscles. Whilst the voice changes in puberty, for both sexes, this is only the first step. From 14, 15, the larynx undergoes a great deal of change. It’s a bedding-in period that can’t be hurried or artificially mutated. In women, this developmental period closes at around 28. Then, their voice is officially classed as mature and they can be trusted to play lead roles in operas and musicals. For men, the wait lasts until 35, and then, finally the voice settles. It’s biological. Genetic. Nothing to be done about it. Women don’t have to kill time like he does. Women don’t know about in the Mean Time.

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He’s light-headed now. Can feel the anger pulsing in the veins at his temples. Which is good. He convinces himself that what he is about to do will be a crime of passion and hence not really his fault at all. ‘Can you not get a job while you wait? I’m sure they’d let you work in the ticket office or something?’ She sighs. ‘You know, sometimes I envy you. The time you have. The lack of pressure…I mean, you could have a whole ‘nother life before you even start in on the singing proper.’ He can’t resist mimicking her girly twang. ‘A whole ‘nother life.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Don’t be like that. I just reckon this Mean Time you’re talking about… It doesn’t have to just involve waiting. The world’s your oyster. You could do anything you please.’ He sneers. ‘What makes you think I’m not doing as I please?’ Too late, he realises he’s shouting. He lowers his voice. ‘Just because I’ve not headlined a show, doesn’t mean…’ She holds up her hands. A surrender gesture. ‘I get the message. So you’re happy, then?’ ‘I’ve found something that… fills time,’ he says carefully. ‘Another passion.’ She claps her hands together. ‘That’s wonderful! Maybe you won’t even have to sing for your supper at all. Maybe your other passion will– ’ ‘When my Mean Time stops, so will my other thing,’ he says quietly. ‘It has to.’ He avoids her gaze, looks out the big balcony windows. It has started to rain. ‘What did you think of my little performance tonight then?’ It is the question she’s been wanting to ask all night, he can tell. And he knows she already knows what he thinks. That her performance was mesmeric, magical, momentous. ‘In Vissi d’Arte, you grasped for the high and didn’t quite reach. The encores were more out of a sense of duty than because you’d given a show-stopper of a performance… or else the applause was for Scarpia.’ She exhales loudly. ‘Christ, you’re not jealous are you?’ He snorts. He’s bored now. Just wants this over with. Absently, he pulls his hand out of his pocket; checks his watch. Too late realises his mistake. She’s seen the blood on his hand. ‘What have you done to yourself?’ He hears the note of fear in her voice. He studies his hand as though it’s the first time he’s seen it. The blood has dried. Looks black. Smells coppery. He wonders what hers will smell like. Success, no doubt. She’s up, off the sofa. Saying something about getting him a bandage from the bathroom. He stops her by showing her the knife.

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‘Con Te Partiro,’ he says, offering her a wide smile. ‘Time to say goodbye.’ She looks as though she is about to faint. But it is not enough. He wants her pleading so much her voice breaks. He sees her eyes flick to the balcony doors. ‘Ha! How apt. Tosca threw herself off the city walls at the end. That’s how she died.’ She looks as though she wants to scream. Unleash the power of her mature vocal cords. He raises a finger to his lips. ‘Hush, Tosca. We don’t want an audience now, do we?’ ‘I’m not Tosca.’ A fat tear dribbles down her cheek. He barks a laugh. She sinks to her knees. ‘Please!’ ‘This will be fun,’ he says. She screws up her eyes. Like a child: if I can’t see you, you can’t see me. But he won’t apply the final coup de grace. Not yet. First he requires music. Just in case she does scream. There is a music system in the corner. He fiddles with a few buttons and eventually music pours out. He’s rather surprised to learn she’s not been listening to herself. It’s Turandot, always his least favourite Puccini. Trumpets sound at the palace; they could be within the room. The sound quality on the Bang and Olufsen is excellent. Chrissie crumbles at the sound. He moves to her and she instinctively wraps her arms around her breasts. He steps closer, makes a grab for her curly hair; yanks her head back. ‘Are you going to hurt me?’ she whimpers. It’s not the question he wants her to ask. He wants her to ask him why. He wants her to ask because then he could tell her his own theory. It is only in the Mean Time that a person really finds out about themselves; the depths they can plumb and the heights they can soar. He draws back the knife. Allows himself a sigh of pleasure as he plunges it forward because this is right, this is true, this is what he is meant to do. This is how the Mean Time hours quicken and become spiced with meaning. She flops down at his feet. Arterial spray Jackson Pollocks the wall. Turandot sings her riddles to her suitor on the music system and at the same time, Cassie chokes her last breath. And immediately he feels post-coital. The moment of relief has passed and now he feels lazy, unfulfilled. She’s gone and he’s still hungry for more. He remembers reading an interview with a famous tenor. Man said he only got that performance-high for a few seconds now at the end of each show. And even as

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he milked the audience’s applause, even as he basked in their admiration, he was already thinking about the next night and the night after that. Steve feels like that now. He starts his clean up. Turns off the music system so he can concentrate. Sings the things he has to do in a rousing chorus. Clean and put away the second wine glass, scrub his blood off the sofa. Bust the chain on the front door so it looks like a random attack, not like she invited in her killer. Find all the loose fibres that may have come off his charcoal trousers. Pocket the knife. When he’s done, he returns to her body. Her eyes are still open. They are a remarkable, piercing blue. He’d forgotten that about her. All that time watching her neck… He thinks about closing them, but then decides that would seem too much like he is ashamed of what he’s done. And he’s not ashamed. He reaches down, clasps her hand one last time. Che Gelida Manina. ‘Your tiny hand is frozen,’ he whispers. Then he leaves. Outside the streets are slick with early morning rain. The streetlights underscore everything with their percussion buzz. Car horns honk like palace trumpets, the wind flutes around buildings, a TV is on somewhere and it could be the string section. The world is an orchestra in need of a singer. He crosses the road, heading for the phone box. Clambers inside. Breathes in the sickly scent of urine, cigarettes and booze. His breath fugs up the glass. He polishes it away; looks out. He can see her apartment on the corner. Houselights still blazing. He can picture her lying on the floor. He pictures her asleep though, not dead. Not sans larynx. He pictures her dreaming of the next night of triumph. He closes his eyes, shakes his head. No. No matter what he does, he can’t seem to feel guilty. He picks up the receiver, sure he won’t hear the bass of a dial tone, but he does. Calls the familiar number. Detective Halloran’s direct line. An answerphone message kicks in. He massages his throat with his fingers and then, in a falsetto voice, says, ‘It’s the Mean Time. I’ve done it again. I couldn’t help it.’ He gives the address. Then he pops a throat lozenge into his mouth, slips out the phone box and is away into the night. Into the Mean Time streets.

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Teenage Mum Peter Flint

She must have been tired Struggling onto the bus. Buggy, huge, heavy A kiddie-cart H.G.V. Age? Eighteen? Nineteen? Dressed in a bright clinging top Designed for someone much slimmer Sat slumped, pudden-faced… As the bus juddered into motion She began worshipping the device Wired into her being… What stimulation…inspiration Sparked beneath her twitching fingers Music? Messages from friends or family? I would never know or understand… I watched the toddler Face bright and clear as sunrise. To him everything was magic He radiated excitement, curiosity Pushing and stroking a plastic bag A discovery…a novelty…a wonder… ‘How long,’ I thought ‘Before that joy of exploration Fades into finger-twitching tedium?’ Again I looked at her world-weary face How does one shape a life When one’s own is still a mystery?

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Long Meg and Her Daughters Duncan Chambers When I pressed my face against Long Meg, I did not hear Englandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heartbeat or the voices of the Druids. She felt like a piece of worn-out sandpaper. I wanted to believe in Albion for the sake of your butterfly tongueâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; a promised land where after all the jousting we could just fall into bed as if the grey dust on my forehead made me your one true knight; as if there were no Arthur to your Guinevere; as if I could put up a tent, let alone a silk pavilion.

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Looking For Monsters Jimmy Hartill

Looking For Monsters IIRC Active Users: <Missile78> <SkullnCrossBone> <PHDragon> MOD Today’s topic: Recent sightings of the cryptid Pale Jack <Guest01> Joined the Chat <SkullnCrossBone> Hey there <Guest01> changed their name to <Gyrodope> <Gyrodope> Hi everyone, how’s it going? <Missile78> Gyrooooooo <3 <SkullnCrossbone> All good man, we were just talking about the new sighting in Detroit <Gyrodope> Oh yeah, that’s right! Isn’t that where Dragon lives? <PHDragon> Yeah, but it’s the other side of town to me <Missile78> The footage is unreal, it looks like Slender Jack is gonna hit the mainstream <Gyrodope> Are you still calling him that? <Missile78> Slender Jack sounds better than Pale Jack <Gyrodope> It sounds like you’re cribbing off Slenderman <PHDragon> Guys, we still haven’t picked a name officially, but I think Pale Jack has the most votes <SkullnCrossbone> Yeah sorry Miss, we’re definitely doing Pale Jack <Missile78> You guys have no taste

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<Guest01> Joined the Chat <SkullnCrossBone> Hey there <Guest01> Hi <PHDragon> Hi guest, you need to type /nick and then the name you want to choose a nickname <Guest01> Ahhh, cool, thanks <Gyrodope> ... you uhh, gonna do it? <Guest01> I’m just thinking what name to use. You mind if I tell you guys a story while I think? <PHDragon> Guest, it’s important to set your name, it’s how we keep the trolls out <Guest01> I will do it, I just thought you guys would want to hear this, it’s about the thing in Detroit <SkullnCrossBone>...Think we can make an exception, Dragon? <PHDragon> Let’s hear what they have to say <Guest01> Thanks. So, you guys know that weird spindly looking guy that killed all those cops? <Missile78> We call it Slender Jack <SkullnCrossBone> DUDE! <SkullnCrossBone> Pale Jack, we call it Pale Jack <Guest01> Huh. Pretty committed to the Jack part then. Well, anyway, I heard a really interesting story about it. It’s from about 9 years ago <Missile78> Pfft, no way, that’d be the first sighting by almost 2 years <Guest01> Exactly <PHDragon> We’d take your word for it easier if you’d choose a nickname <Guest01> Sorry, still deciding. You want to hear the story though? <SkullnCrossBone> Hell yeah! <Guest01> Well, OK then <Guest01> About 9 years ago there was that big industrial fire that wiped out a town, remember it? The town was called Ashford <Gyrodope> Oh yeah, my aunt wrote an article on it. The corporation behind it had a massive lawsuit on their hands but managed to settle out of court with all the

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plaintiffs. Was unreal! <Guest01> Yup, Hyde Chemical. Well, the town just over from there? Oakdale? Anyone hear about the triple homicide there? <SkullnCrossBone> ???? Anyone? <Gyrodope> I had to google it but he’s right, there was a triple homicide almost three weeks after the fire <Gyrodope> Oh, uhh, you are a he right? <Guest01> Yup <Missile78> I’m a she :3 <Guest01> Good for you! So, this triple homicide. All three victims were bounty hunters from out of state, hunting for an unknown person. But they were all found sliced to ribbons across a hotel room in downtown Oakdale <SkullnCrossBone> The same M.O as Pale Jack’s other appearances! <Guest01> Yeah, but no-one saw ‘Pale Jack’ the only witness was a 13 year old boy who’d been staying in the room and said he’d found it like that <Gyrodope> Why was a 13 year old renting a room by himself? <SkullnCrossBone> Hey, yeah! Come on Guest, any response to that? <Guest01> You’re sharp, Gyrodope. The boy, as it turned out, was an orphan and had a suitcase full of cash. He got taken into protective custody afterwards and his name wasn’t mentioned in the papers to protect his identity, they called him Boy A. You know, come to think of it <Guest01> changed their name to <Boy A> <Boy A> That seems like as good a name as any <SkullnCrossBone> Dude, that’s kinda messed up <Boy A> It’s only a name <Gyrodope> So you’re telling us that that was the first murder by Pale Jack? <Boy A> Oh no, not at all. Those three were the 22nd, 23rd and 24th <Gyrodope> Ugh, you’re so full of crap, are you seriously telling me no-one found 21 different bodies that looked

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like they were killed in an industrial accident? <Gyrodope> Dragon, kick this loser <Boy A> Pretty sure Dragon’s not going to do that. They’re far too interested in how much I know <SkullnCrossBone> What’s he talking about Dragon? <PHDragon> Boy A, this is your first warning, we are a non-fiction community and are not welcoming to amateur attempts at creepypasta <Boy A> Hahaha! Oh man, you are really doing your best to keep a straight face aren’t you? <Missile78> Guys...I’m scared... <Boy A> Don’t worry, I’m nowhere near YOU <Boy A> So want to hear why no-one found those first 21? <Gyrodope> Go on, enlighten me, It’ll be fun to tear your stupid story apart <Boy A> They were cremated. VERY cremated. <Gyrodope> Wait <Boy A> Yes <Gyrodope> But why? Why there? <Boy A> Now, for that you need a science lesson. Dragon? Are you willing to help educate your friends? <Boy A> was kicked by PHDragon MOD <PHDragon> He was talking nonsense, and I gave him a warning, you guys all saw. Let’s get back to talking about the recent sighting. <Guest01> Joined the Chat <Guest01> Nice try, Dragon old sport! I guess I’ll have to be the one to tell them about mitochondria <SkullnCrossBone> Mitochondria? The powerhouse of the cell? <Missile78> It’s bacteria that merged with early life in a symbiotic relationship. It’s why life evolved the way it did <Guest01> Unexpected but accurate! You’re smarter than you act, Missile78 <Guest01> So, what would happen if someone created

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a biological agent that altered the structure of Mitochondria? Made it say...spikier? <Missile78> That’s meant to be a metaphor right? <Guest01> That it is. If you change a cell’s mitochondria what happens to the cells? Can they change back? What would happen to a HUMAN if all their cells suddenly warped and mutated? Would it be possible to make a super soldier like militaries the world over have been after since the dawn of time? <Missile78> That’s impossible. Even if you found a way, it’d take so many experiments to get the method right so the body didn’t just shut down <Guest01> That’s right. Or, say, an entire town’s worth <SkullnCrossBone> Woah, woah, woah, woah, are you for real??? <Gyrodope> But the bodies...Surely they weren’t burned that badly? <Missile78> They probably were. Total cremation to hide the evidence <Guest01> Yup. You all remember Boy A? How would you feel if I told you he was from Ashford? <SkullnCrossBone> No way... <Guest01> Yes way. And what if, during said ‘experiment’ they accidentally managed to perfect it. And create a perfect killing machine. And if you stop and think, maybe you’d wonder how many other cryptids are just experiments that broke free <Gyrodope> Are you expecting us to believe this? That Pale Jack is a monster created by a corporation that got loose? <Guest01> Bingo <Gyrodope> But how would you know this? You can’t BE Pale Jack because his fingers are those incredibly sharp claws. Are you typing with your nose? <Guest01> No, my thumb. I’m using a phone to message you all. What good would a super soldier be if they couldn’t hide in plain sight? I can turn into a normal looking person whenever I like. <Gyrodope> Wait, does that mean what I think it does? <Guest01> Yup, I’m in Detroit.

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<Gyrodope> OK, so ignoring the fact I’m almost positive you’re mentally ill, I have to ask why? Why contact us? What do you gain? <Guest01> Honestly? From you guys, I don’t gain anything, I’m just enjoying not lying to people for a change. It’s all about your mod. <SkullnCrossBone> Wait, Dragon? Why do you want to talk to Dragon? <Guest01> That PHD isn’t an affectation, he’s a scientist. Tony Harris. He’s a genius, really. Came up with all kinds of ingenious ways to treat mitochondria and the aftermath of his ‘special’ gene therapy. <Missile78> No... <Guest01> Yeah. I’m not his biggest fan. Not. at. all. <Gyrodope> Where are you now? <Guest01> Gosh, he has been quiet hasn’t he. <Gyrodope> WHERE ARE YOU NOW? <Guest01> You’ll probably want to check the news tomorrow. They might even have pictures. <Guest01> has logged off <Gyrodope> Dragon? Dragon are you there? <SkullnCrossBone> DRAGON!? <Missile78> Dragon please respond <PHDragon> Oh, I almost forgot <Gyrodope> DRAGON! <SkullnCrossBone> Oh you scared the crap out of me, man, you gotta get out of there that Guest guy is a psychopath he’s looking for you <PHDragon> I’d better log him off in case anyone looks at the transcript when they investigate the scene. I’ll just take the keyboard so there’s no prints. See you everyone. You might want to find a new mod. <PHDragon> Mod has logged off

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Midas and Medusa Leonor Morrow

When he touched me, every one of my cells turned gold for once, I felt wealthy like I was no longer a hollow body but something to be opened his kiss was fire whiskey on Sunday morning his lips were twin suns fuelling my neck his affluent hands shaped me into a treasure box but now I think itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s killing me When I look at him, I am afraid of staring too long because I know that he is too much fossil and not enough diamond and it will not be quick; he will petrify like an hourglass if I let him he will turn paleolithic as I toss him like stone over water he is becoming all too comfortable with being heavy and maybe itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my fault

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Stitch Rachana Hegde • turn around, take off your shirt darling, it’s okay i have done this more times than i count on my fingers and toes darling, don’t worry i have stitched wings before you will be both beautiful and deadly • ii. there is no time so hurry and show me your back don’t be shy help me find swathes of color: midnight black, sky blue, lemon yellow, ruby red. • darling, i know it hurts but don’t cry out stop screaming in pain this too will subside; lie still my dear and let me stitch. • i am almost done now you can stop stifling your moans and whimpers let them escape you will feel better; remember what i said — you will be both beautiful and deadly but pain is the price you have to pay.

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British Summer Julia Barnard

Cold, wet and windy began the year in earnest. Seemed like forever. Unexpected sun results in red skin and rushed barbecue parties. Work week promises, but fails to deliver heat during leisure time. One beautiful day; clouds part to reveal our land in all its glory. Even rain is warm -ish! But doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop us from enjoying ourselves. Plans come together. The mundane replaced by joy, fun, and adventure. It all ends too soon. Appreciate what you can. Winter is coming.

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Second Chances Sarah Thorogood I stared out of the window as the raindrops splashed on the glass and watched the world go by as normal; the children running through the puddles, groups of teenagers huddled under umbrellas, laughing and joking. It was like nothing had happened. Didn’t they understand? Just a few months ago, I was one of those people. Going about my everyday life without a care. It still shocks me how quickly things can change and send the world you thought you knew crashing down around you. It was a clear day when the accident happened; the sun was shining and I was on my way home from school. I’d just said goodbye to my best friend, Chloe; we only lived a street away from each other. Just as I caught a glimpse of the large Ash tree that stood in our front garden, I heard the roar of the car from behind me. I turned as the noise got louder and the last thing I remember is a loud screech and bang - a flash of metal as the car struck me and then it all went black. They say that the driver was drunk, that he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. He didn’t even see me as the car mounted the kerb. His bed was in the ward next to mine in the hospital. The police had to wait for him to wake up before they could talk to him. I was relieved when he finally woke up. He ruined my life so I didn’t see why he should get the easy way out and not be punished. I’ve been punished for something that wasn’t my fault; I was just in the way. I’m only fourteen and I feel like my life has ended. The doctors tell me I’m lucky to be alive, after numerous operations trying to repair my shattered body. I’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, with parts of me now a shadow of what I was before. I am labelled as a ‘T12’ with legs that no longer work. I’ve had hours and months of rehabilitation to build up the muscle tone and strength in my arms and upper body getting used to wheeling myself around. Dad had to adapt things at home so I can get around the house and reach things. There’s a ramp to the front door and my bedroom was moved downstairs so that I don’t have to rely on anyone to carry me. The house is so familiar but doesn’t bring any comfort, just more painful reminders of what I now am. He’s taken everything away from me. Gone are my dreams of playing hockey or swimming professionally one day. Being in the hydrotherapy pool and gym at the hospital is just not the same. I’m so frustrated and angry at being stuck in this stupid

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chair. People stare at you as if you’re an alien, or with that sad, feeling sorry for you look in their eyes. I feel like a freak. Most of my so-called friends don’t seem to want to know me now, all too scared to see me - say the wrong thing. I’ve been hiding in my room for the last three months since I left hospital, only going out for physio and counselling sessions. I wish I’d died instead of ending up like this. How do you come back from that? *** A few weeks ago, at my counselling session, they mentioned that I could be eligible for an assistance dog. For the first time in months, something I could get excited about. Me and Mum went online as soon as we got home and filled out the application. My acceptance letter came back two days later. I had to attend a two week training course at the Dogs for Disabled centre in Banbury, where we were paired with the dog best suited to us. Mine is called Holly and she is a long haired golden retriever. This was my first time away from home, so I was a little scared but excited at the same time. This was my chance to get my confidence and independence back, even go back to school and I never thought I would be saying that! Being in hospital on the rehabilitation ward opened my eyes to how ‘lucky’ I was. There were others around me with a higher classification of paralysation, such as a C6, which means that you can’t move anything from the collarbone down, with limited use of your hands and arms - just eating can be a challenge. I may not have the use of my lower body, but I still have my hands and upper body, I just need to learn what I can do with what I have been left with. The drunk driver got sentenced last week: three years in prison as well as a lifetime ban from driving. The fines he incurred have gone towards the cost of my rehabilitation. I still can’t forgive him. I am a paraplegic. Unfortunately, I can’t change what’s happened to me, only make the best out of it, but it’s going to be a long journey. Admitting the truth to myself is at least a start. I woke up following yet another nightmare. I’ve been having them regularly since the accident. But this morning felt different. As the sun started to peep through the curtains, creating a pattern on the opposite wall, I finally knew things had to change. I don’t want to miss out on growing up, doing all the things that others my age are doing. I have to stop pretending and face the truth and my future, with Holly by my side. I want more than anything to find ‘me’ again.

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THE STUDENTS ARE LEAVING Neil Clarkson

1. Rampant buddleias bound by barbed wire. A ragged bra sags under the weight of cooked pot noodles. Textbooks, bought in the first flush of enthusiasm, curl and tear. Knowledge dies. And bulbous bedding everywhere; greedy for the bin’s fought-for space. 2. Vinny is here, two crutches, teeth lost in countless battles, warns me off the student booty. His eyes follow mine to his Irish Wolf Hound, legs like hairy stilts. He points to ‘your patch, near the shops,’ warns ‘I know who you are.’ It’s more than I do, who has enough, who could ignore these bins, who has a dog waiting at home, in whom I have every confidence.

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Darling Patricia P.

Darling, do not look down at your feet when you talk to me; look into my eyes. Drive your pupils into mine, so I may take a peek into the soul you hide so cleverly beneath your layers of insecurities. Do not cover up your eyes behind dark shades, do not bottle up your secrets and throw them into the ocean, only to be recovered years later. Darling, open your lips and expel the locks that have been stopping you, restricting your spiritâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; hold your throat by its back and keep it upright as you speak of what bothers you late at night. There are lies stuck in your throat, open it and let the truth flutter through. Darling, give me your hands and I swear, I will never let you go or leave you hanging. Intertwined, our fingers tangle into a mess, overwhelming with touch. Squeeze when you feel your stomach churning and I will clutch your palms tighter than how your mother held you as a baby. Darling, give me your everything and I will return it within a second because darling, you are my everythingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; You do not need to give up who you are for anyone to be theirs.

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