Scrittura Magazine Issue 15 Spring 2019 by Scrittura Literary Magazine

Issue number 15 Spring 2019

Scrittura Magazine Â© Copyright 2019 All Rights Reserved. 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 SOCIAL MEDIA AND EDITORIAL ASSISTANT: Melis Anik WEB: www.scritturamagazine.tumblr.com EMAIL: scrittura.magazine@gmail.com TWITTER: @Scrittura_Mag FACEBOOK: scritturamag

In This Issue 06 08 10 11 12 14 15 16 17 18 21 22

Abel and Eve Gale Acuff Amira of Aleppo…Don’t Forget Me Geraldine Douglas Voices Johns Bucket Architects Andy Fletcher Plastic Bags Anthony McIntyre A Winter Tale Geraldine Douglas Sabbath Gale Acuff Home County Blues Andy Fletcher Flip it Baby Marc Carver Fishing with my Cousin Camilla Macpherson Lancelot’s Lament Geraldine Douglas Dementia Johns Bucket

23 24 26 27 28 30 31 32 37 38 40

North Eastern Wilderness Andy Fletcher Perhaps Tomorrow Anthony McIntyre Sweet Rhythms of Winter Geraldine Douglas Loneliness; a Palimpsest Ian C. Smith Under The Spring Moon Geraldine Douglas Negative Ed Blundell Changeling Annie Maclean Stirring Up The Past Camilla Macpherson Saviour Marc Carver As an African Child Amera Elwesef Wish I Was a Rose of Bliss Geraldine Douglas

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A Note From The Editors Welcome to the Spring issue of Scrittura Magazine! We say it every issue, but it still amazes us when we see the final range of wonderful pieces – from writers across the world – which make up each magazine, and this issue is certainly no exception to that. We’re extremely proud to be able to feature many thought-provoking and meaningful short stories and poems in this issue, starting with Abel and Eve (pg 6) which opens the magazine presenting a hard debate on the meaning of life from the perspective of a child. Voices (pg 10) follows, highlighting the important issue of mental health, while Dementia (pg 22) and Stirring up The Past (pg 32) depict the struggle of a devastating disease, and its effects on both the sufferer and their family. We have a couple of hard-hitting topical reads too, with Fishing with my Cousin (pg 18) telling the story of a refugee child making the dangerous journey to Europe, Amira of Aleppo…Don’t Forget Me (pg 8) and Home County Blues (pg 16) exploring different but equally harrowing experiences of war, and Plastic Bags (pg 12) depicting the sobering effects of climate change. Our cover art is inspired by Sabbath (pg 15), a fantastic poem in which a young boy discusses the ecistence of God with his dog. Thank you to all of our wonderful writers and contributors for sharing your work with us; we’re so proud to be able to provide this platform to showcase your work. If you’d like to submit work for consideration for our Summer issue, the current deadline is April 30th 2019. As always, big thanks go to both Catherine, our brilliant designer for another beautiful issue, and Melis, who has returned to us to take over our Social Media once more, and provide invaluable editorial support too. We hope you enjoy this issue as much as we enjoyed putting it together; let us know your thoughts via email or social media!

Valentina & Yasmin

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Abel and Eve Gale Acuff I’m home from school with the flu or a bug or a virus and lying in bed when Mother comes in to check on me. Why do people die, I ask. Just what is death for? She’s brought me soup and crackers but I’m not hungry and even feel like throwing up but I’m trying to talk my way to health. I’m not sure, she says. But if people lived forever it would get mighty crowded if no one ever died. That’s right, I say. I never thought about that. You’re pretty smart, aren’t you? I reach for a cracker. Hope that God is listening and taking notes. I don’t mean to be a smart-aleck but it must have been He Who created death. What a thing to dream up. At church they say you live and then die and then live again, in the Good Place or Bad-they mean Heaven or Hell. Wouldn’t it be simpler to live forever, without dying entering the picture? I ask Mother to explain. Well, let me think, she says, as she changes my pillow case. Let me think. I suppose that we die to make some room for others to have their time to live down here, on earth, I mean. Alright, I say. I understand.

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So we can live forever still, she says, but in an afterlife, where there’s plenty of room. That’s good, I say. I can see that. But why will some of us go to Heaven and some of us won’t? She sits on the edge of the bed. Well, that’s another matter, she says. Maybe it’s two different issues. Maybe, I say. But it’s still my question. Don’t you talk about that in Sunday School, she asks. She’s trying to buy some time. Sure, I say, but it’s not quite the same as when we do it. Well, she says, I’ve got to do some ironing. But when I come back we’ll take it up again. Yes ma’am, I say. You need some sleep. Yes ma’am, I say. I close my eyes and I hear her leave and I open them again—it’s like she’s dead or I am, and there’s more room for me, or her. Still, it’s lonely. I slide out of bed and go downstairs to find her. There she is, ironing and smoking a Lucky Strike and it’s good to see her—I’d tell her so but I don’t want her to miss a wrinkle and I don’t want to give it all away. I’ll let her discover for herself when she comes to check on me again. I’ll pretend I’m asleep. It will pass for death.

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Blasts, hotter than a dragon’s kiss, cindered aromas of cinnamon and cumin, pomegranates hang like shrunken heads. I stand in muffled silence, humble I stare, encased in a world of grey.

Amira of Aleppo... Don’t Forget Me Geraldine Douglas

A child with liquid eyes scoops snow from shrapneled puddles, weeping punctures sob scarlet. No smiling spirits above a snarling sky. Skylark’s chorus crinkles under blood moon. Stars flutter dusted blinks, taking refuge from the Great Bear. Swarthy gnats soak in lead-whipped air. The Earth’s drapes draw together by corbie black sheets of despair, leaving scars of dun-brown, hanging... In cauldrons of clanking metal. Threads of pain cripple my frame, I walk into iced jaws of a vampire Winter. I am angry, the snow is heavy, but, I can’t argue with sleet. No Pistachios, no Satsumas... shops bombarded, corns flop their heads, disgusted. Leafless limes drop blackened harvest, a field of soot and corpsed olive trees, limp, lanky, it’s swollen fruit...septic tonsils. One day, one day, our harvest will flip, sigh and swank, display the purest peridot tongues. Tinctured streams will babble, clear, under tyrian blue veil, Bullfinches will fly free, when the last lash of the War-wind whips no more.

Dedicated to all the innocent people of Syria.

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Voices Johns Bucket Too frightened to come out of her room, She hid under the covers of her bed, Not wanting to talk to anyone, Her fear was always facing the day ahead, Another day of fighting with her mind, Voices in her head, that only she could hear, Shut up she shouted, repeatedly, her hands trying to cover her ears, She kept asking them to leave But they wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go away, No matter how many times she pleaded, The voices were here to stay, Her mind twisted and taunted, Her body shaking in pain, A period of silence passed, Then the voices started again.

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Architects Andy Fletcher

I know you want to be beautiful it isn’t a choice you can make and you could paint a canvas that hangs for centuries still won’t make up for the flesh that surrounds your bones Forget it Smile Walk home You can present yourself to the best of your ability and buy your clothes from independent vendors You could design their buildings and make the culture that they love It won’t be enough You’re the joints that move you the yellow in your iris the memories of long walks through lonely littered gardens these boxes made into houses are part of your demeanour they made pale your complexion you can’t escape your moorings you are what you are

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Plastic Bags Anthony McIntyre

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They have it wrong about climate change. They lay the blame with plastic bags, It’s all fake news the whole world blags. The earth’s getting warmer, bring it on, With summers that go on and on. Milder winters, where’s the crime, Insurance companies pay out each time, When tidal waters cross the line. Melting ice caps, that’s a shame, Plastic bags will take the blame. They have it right about climate change. By their admission, I’ve to cut greenhouse emission. With your permission, here’s what I’ll try. I’ve made a promise not to fly, In a vain hope to save the sky. I recycle brown, I recycle green, My carbon footprint can’t be seen. I have a compost heap out the back, It’s covered in volcanic black.

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A Winter Tale Geraldine Douglas

Rouge-chested Robin, his song a tonic, sweeps on ice threaded snails, mummified grasshoppers encased in frozen vaults. Terrified toads shuffle, imprisoned by icicles. Impatient Snowman limbo wonders, awaits children’s palmed pat and mould. Each crystal in his being darned perfection, synthesized, crafted by Boreas.* Muffled, silent breezes freeze… Morph to blizzard bullies, waltzing, zig-zag flakes sown into jigsawed dreams above aging acorns of Autumn. Lime grasses poke iced crust as yellow Crocus flash sherbet-lemon, firework fountains. Winter sun soaked Violas blue hues melt to liquid sapphire splashes. Scarlet berries, here! There! Squashed to sludge by sprite-like beings, sipping lychee flavoured liquor. Polar, Polo Mint bear, his cheeks papier-mache grey, chin…iceberg blue, obsidian nose, sharp as a glass arrow, saffron tongue licks glazed popsicles, dipped in orange-squash. Autumn’s empty room powdered with ghostly-strange snow. Twigged pendants coated with sprawling Arctic sleet. I taste copper from ice-boxed clouds as silent icicles are honoured by a silver-orbed moon… Its aluminium frame ripples Angel fire… Our imagination thrives on pearled wings.

*Boreas...Greek God of Winter.

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Sabbath Gale Acuff Do you believe in God, I ask my dog, lying on the edge of the bed while I rub his ears with my toes. It’s Saturday and tomorrow’s Sunday School and I can’t get through the lesson in our workbook, on Joseph and the crazy dreams of Pharoah. He wags his tail three times, my dog I mean, and opens his eyes but not wide enough to be taken for awake. Yes, I say, I know what you mean. I’m only 10 and may live another seventy before I’ll learn whether God is or isn’t what He seems to be for. Can I wait that long? I could lay out of Sunday School, go down by the river, watch my pal dog paddle and feel him shake himself dry all over me. Stop, boy, I’ll laugh. He’ll try to come over to be petted, even to jump on me. I’ll pretend to be mad. That will be fun. Then we’ll creep back in the house and I’ll put on my Sunday suit and we’ll sneak back out and around the house to the front and we’ll go inside and say hello to Mother, or I’ll say it. She’ll ask me how Church was and I’ll fib, Still there, ha ha, and Joseph and I will go to my attic bedroom and read comic books, or I will, and nap until lunch and maybe even dream dreams.

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Home County Blues Andy Fletcher

The half-beaten warrior has more lines in his face than his service is due Another day in the trenches Strains to listen to music Can’t keep his focus You should try silence Over the top and it’s madness and violence Doesn’t eat or sleep pulls on his garments Groans at the motion Could you be this young still showing your age He was a figurehead at once worn away A fragile conscience aflame and estranged He’s driving again but histories have changed and if he’d been a victor it’d all be the same so he reads the papers but doesn’t believe what they say

The curse of old tunes lost to despairing sights He’s been staying in all day barely walks a straight line at night And after hours He accosts the taxi rank and rants at the factories Hides under the arches They offer him money while he’s slumped by the roadside enjoying the quiet Ask, do you mistake me for earnest He shakes his head then spits at their feet Learned of a heartless rationale in men Fleshed out in a firing line Holding a rifle Walking through a furnace Authoring a slaughter or dragging a trough He knows now they offer him notes to tidy their streets

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Flip it Baby Marc Carver I have to feel sorry for you if you really think you have free will. All these people that come randomly into your life you think you choose them. You think you pick when you are happy and when you are sad. You think you can walk down the street and avoid that person you don’t want to see. You know they are out there waiting for you. Even if you stay indoors for a week they are still out there waiting for you. So why not accept it your choices are not yours to make. So pick up that coin and flip it

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Fishing with my Cousin Camilla Macpherson The boat is old and rusty. Looking at it makes me feel shaky in my tummy. The boys in the camp tell stories about people who leave on such boats and do not come back. ‘Don’t worry, little fig,’ says my mother. We are down at the harbour front, dangling our legs out high over the water and crunching pistachios. I hope my pink jelly sandals don’t fall off. I don’t have any others. ‘We don’t want to come back here. We are trying to get over there.’ She points towards the sea. There is nothing but water. Over there must be a long way. ‘That’s not what they mean,’ I want to say, but the words get stuck like they used to when my teacher asked me a question in class, even when I knew the answer. There was a big date-palm in the playground, just next to the classroom. I would lean my back against it during the morning break, and feel its rough trunk against my back. When I think about home, I think about that tree. I wonder who is sitting under my tree now. There are a lot of people wandering along the edge of the water. They are looking at the boat too. Their voices are loud. Mama must think so too, because she says to me, ‘You can’t blame them. Everyone is excited to be leaving.’ I’m excited too. I haven’t seen Daddy for a long time. He went first. He’s been working hard for more than a year, raising the money to send for us. ‘Do you think they will like me, in Europe?’ ‘Of course they will,’ says Mama, reaching out and tugging on my T-shirt. I am wearing my favourite one, with the cupcake on the front and the words in curly red writing that say Sweet Girl. ‘Who could not love you, hey?’ I nod. I am sure that in Europe they will love this T-shirt too. Sharifa comes and squats down beside us. She’s the old woman Mama knows from the bread queue. Usually she smiles a lot. When she smiles, you can see she’s missing a lot of her teeth. Today she is not smiling.

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‘It wasn’t meant to be so crowded,’ she says to Mama. Mama looks down at me. ‘It’ll be fine. Nice and cosy for us. You can snuggle up close next to me, little fig.’ I am pleased. I like to keep close to Mama. Bad things happen when you let your family out of your sight, even if it’s only for a second. Look what happened to Uncle and baby Selima at the market. She hadn’t even learnt to walk. I was planning to teach her. A man with a beard is stamping up and down telling everyone to get on board. He uses an angry voice. Mama tells me he must be the captain because he’s wearing a special hat. ‘Do not worry,’ she says, as she leads me towards the boat. ‘Daddy will be waiting for us when we arrive. You just need to be brave one more time.’ My tummy feels funny again as I shuffle across the plank onto the boat. There is a metal chain on either side and I hold on to it tight, but the plank still wobbles. I look down. The sea is foamy and dirty, like water at the end of a bath. I want to cry or be sick, but not in front of all these people. So I am brave instead, just like Mama asked me. She can rely on me. That’s what she is always telling me. ‘Come over by the railings, baby,’ she says. Usually I get annoyed when she calls me that, because I’m a big girl now. Today I don’t get annoyed. I just follow Mama with tiny steps, then sit down quickly on the metal floor next to her. It is bumpy underneath my bottom. ‘This is a good place for us, hey?’ she says. I nod and put my thumb in my mouth. I pull it out straight away and wipe it on my T-shirt. ‘What is it?’ asks Mama. ‘It tastes of blood,’ I say. ‘It’s disgusting.’ ‘No, no,’ says Mama. She laughs, because people are looking. ‘It’s just the rust on your hands. You know, from the metal. It’ll come off.’ I put my thumb back in and suck hard till the bad taste goes away. It is starting to get very hot on this boat, because of all the other people climbing on. Mama and I have to make ourselves very small. I curl up into a little ball like my pet rabbit which Mama made me leave behind when we got out. I used to love stroking its ears. I push my face against the railings and feel the breeze. My lips taste of salt. ‘Good,’ says Mama, putting her arm around me. ‘Close your eyes, little fig. Think about all the happy things. I’ll do it too.’ We smile at each other. It’s a good trick for making you feel better. We learnt it together. I shut my eyes. When I open them a bit later, just peeking, I see that Mama is asleep. I wish I was asleep. When you are scared, being asleep is the very best way to get through it. That’s another trick Mama and I know. I take a look around. I can’t see the harbour any more. I guess that means we will be in Europe soon. I close my eyes again and try to find some happy thoughts in my head. I am good at this game, better than Mama. Here’s one. Now I think about it, the boat engine sounds a bit like the old generator in our house in the country. It’s a good, comforting sound. It’s the generator that makes the lights work. Sometimes it used to break when I was in bed and meant to be sleeping, and the noise would stop. Then my heart would do a scared flip, but only for a second because then I would hear Daddy or one of the Uncles laughing. ‘Whose turn is it to fix it?’ one of them would say. ‘Where is that old spanner? Someone go and give it a good bang.’ Then I would hear feet shuffling along the side of the house and down the path to the shed, and smell cigarette smoke coming in through my open window. By the time I counted in my head as far as

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I could, it would usually be working again and the Aunties and Mama would be laughing in the kitchen and boiling water to make mint tea. Sometimes I would creep out of bed and watch them. It is loud on this boat. There is a lot of talking going on. The babies are starting to cry. I guess they’re hungry. But I can put up with the noise. I just need to keep playing this game. It’s like a big party. We had a party at the camp last week when Rashid and Leyla got married. All the men danced and we had special wedding food and Mama let me stay up till the very end. There, you see. I’m not a baby now, not me. I’m big enough to stay up as late as I want. It was only the babies that were put to bed. The singing and clapping woke them up and they cried and the mothers had to go and settle them down. Mama gave me a big tray of pastries to hand around. It was heavy and everyone was grabbing one as I went by, and pinching my cheeks. Leyla said I was a good, helpful girl. Mama said she was very proud of me. I was smiling so hard, my face hurt. The waves are splashing up against the side of the boat now. I expect it’s because we’re so far out at sea. My clothes have got very wet. I hope they are dry again by the time we get to Europe. I want to look my best. I make sure I am gripping Mama’s hand. She’s awake now. Both of our hands are slippery. I need to hold very tight. I feel her hold me tight too. A happy thought. I need another happy thought. OK, I’ve got one. The time my favourite cousin Ali, the one who was shot, took me fishing up in the hills. It was just me and him. The day was burning hot. Ali told me to stay at the edge of the river and watch. He went right into the middle with his fishing-rod. He said the fish were fattest there. For a long time he didn’t catch a thing. Then suddenly he slipped and fell down with a big splash. His head went right under the water. I laughed so loud when he came up. I couldn’t help it. And do you know what he did? He came right over to where I was sitting, picked me up under his arm, and dropped me into the water myself. At first I was screaming excited screams. Then I was screaming scared screams and gulping in the cold water and wishing I knew how to swim. It got very dark. The next thing, I felt Ali’s hands beneath my arms pulling me up, strong and firm, not like when he tickles me, but safe feeling. I felt the sun on my face and we were both laughing like crazy. Then we sat on the rocks and chewed dates while we dried out. I’m so happy thinking about that day. There’s no way I’m opening my eyes now. You know, I can’t hear the generator now. That’s OK. It’ll come back on. Daddy will have gone to fetch the spanner. ‘Give it a good bang,’ I can hear him saying. Hurry up, Daddy, I think. It’s getting cold here. The shouting is getting louder too. I guess that means the wedding is nearly over. Rashid will be carrying Leyla off to their new tent, the one he bought the rug and the dressing-table for. Then we can all go to bed at last. I didn’t want to tell Mama, but I was pretty tired that night. I tug at her hand, so I can tell her now. The water is much colder than I remember it in the river. But I’m fine. I’m not going to scream. I know I’ll feel Ali’s hands under my arms and pulling me up soon. I know I’ll look up and feel the sun. I still don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t have to. I can see Ali coming to help me right now. He’s got the same smile as ever. It’s just like that time at the river. Ali would never let me drown.

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Lancelot’s Lament Geraldine Douglas

Thou purest, deepest heart, death summons us to part. Sulphur pollen, once gold, now a bud-less story told. Crimson slashed lime-lands of grass, bosomed beats in desperation pass. A shattered spirit has left her space… She Heaven sleeps, her hair plaited lace. Carmine-red sunset scorches my heart, an ever-budding wish, we pledged not to part. I kissed your hands, Carnationed our bed, forever pink, I placed them on your pillows, red. Faint breezes give rise to silken seeds, your chiffon gown drips tears of ivory beads. Oh! I’ll miss you darling, for my lips grow sour… They kiss no more upon this hour. Remember this…My love will never fade as Lilac blossoms weep in mourning shade. I loved thee fair, through Chamomile fields, your budding womb answered lusty yield. I love no more, my heart too strained, from bodily touch I now refrain. Evermore my Queen, my devotion for thee deep, I weep till the blossoming of dawn’s sleep. The fairest flower amongst planets and stars, Heaven mirrors where ‘ere thou are. Soon I will lay thee in a tomb of Rosemary reeds, your soul will drown in mauve clover mead. I crave my death be swift and spirit pass away, I will find thee, my Queen, on God’s paradise way.

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Dementia Johns Bucket

Barbara visiting her husband, A trip she regularly makes, He is staying in a place of care, Whilst she has a well-earned break, Geoff her husband, Has had dementia, For nearly 10 years, Barbara loves him so much, So often leaves in tears, Is that our Margret, Or is it Jean, I have missed you, Where have you been, You’re late coming today, Where’s Mum? Is she busy cooking dinner? Is that why she’s not come? Hi Geoff it’s Barbara, how are you? Barbara? Barbara who? Your wife Geoff, Sorry love who are yer, How’s me Dad doing, Where’s me Mother, Bet he’s still in pub, Me dad likes a drink, Will me mum be coming, What do you think? Jean it is you Jean, It is Jean how’s dad? I’ve just finished work, It wah right bad, Last shift for the week, Are you listening Margret, Last shift…yes work done, Can’t wait, can’t wait, To see mum… Can’t wait!

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North Eastern Wilderness Andy Fletcher You are a statue in a north eastern wilderness Inside the city limits on a technicality A vista scratched and starched made for polaroid hair forever swept fans out behind suspended in stone Arms folded braced against the cold She sees ocean spray carried on a gust Doesn’t move a moss covered muscle Drops scatter on her skin She feels herself worn away with every rising wave Sea salt leaves marks that trouble artisans They look at this statue with a craftsman’s eye and see only imperfections they mean to plug with filler collected from the shore line Critics study her gather by the cliffs and draw measure her proportions and angles they stand by the edge in furs backs to the horizon only she sees the dawn and only she sees these sunsets fade

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Perhaps Tomorrow Anthony McIntyre

It was spring and we were busy moving-in, piling suitably marked boxes into rooms that would become our home. The lady opposite stood in the bay of her window watching. Cheryl waved and she returned the gesture. We ate pizza that night and drank red wine and made plans for a lifetime. We hoped the neighbours would be nice. ‘I wonder who she is,’ I asked, referring to the lady opposite. ‘She looks like a black and white movie star, sexy, mysterious, elegant, our very own Lauren Bacall. We’ll call her Margot Margarita,’ laughed Cheryl as she bit into a slice of pizza. Cheryl had crazy names for everyone, her best friend was called Mim, after Mad Madam Mim. Her brother, Bonkers Bill. Margot Margarita, the name stuck. ‘Perhaps tomorrow I’ll go and say hello,’ said Cheryl. After we had unpacked and settled in, we had careers to carve, lawns that needed mowing and friends to entertain. There were parties, christenings, weddings and sadly funerals. There were holidays to take and cars that needed fixing and parents that came to stay. There were home improvements and lists to be ticked on paper that turned yellow with the years. Each time we left the house, we waved to Margot, even when she wasn’t there, standing in the bay. There was no Mr Margarita and visitors were seldom. I remember one summer, she was gardening in a flowery dress and a breeze teased around her knees. A floppy orange hat kept the sun from her eyes

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as she pulled up weeds. I waved, she didn’t see me. I was late for work, and too busy to go and say hello. Our children were born, schooled and went to build lives of their own. Decades rolled by as clouds do in an autumn sky. We’d pop an annual card through her door, which read, from all at 42. Margot started having visitors; a woman in a green uniform came each day, groceries from the local supermarket and a man that brought her medication. Cancer caught Cheryl, so I retreated behind secondary glazing and wrought iron gates. Ambition advanced and I couldn’t keep up, so I gave up, and now even the garden’s a chore. Invitations to celebrations, which once fluttered through our letterbox like wedding confetti, have blown away along with friends. The cars have gone and I take the bus everywhere, if I go anywhere. There are no lists to be ticked as papered walls turn yellow. I’m standing in the bay of my window and there’s a young couple with soap star looks moving into Margot’s house, carrying boxes suitably marked. I should go over and say hello, but I’ve been gardening all day, pulling up winter weeds. The young woman gives me a wave and I return the gesture. I wonder what names Cheryl would have given them. Jay and Faye. It’s late when their pizza arrives with red wine and plans for a lifetime. Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll say hello.

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Sweet Rhythms of Winter Geraldine Douglas Once proud Pine, King of the lounge, garden dumped, slumped, redundant Christmas tree, frozen arms, thumbs. Needled myrtle coat, thread-bared to russet. Clogged by flawed festive bulbs, whispering between themselves, teased by sleet soaked tinsel twirls, still breathing… Stung by freeze-mint air. A dolly, felt-tip tattooed, her body ached and throbbed. Mute of giggles, hair rag-tagged, deep garnet dress, faded thin, drab. Lost shoe, lost shawl, lost soul. Glass eyes, tears captured in time, snowflakes cling to lashes of copper. She looks like a Linda. White powder sizzles under ghost-grey Earth. Empty pockets decline, decay as baby blooms inhale first breaths. Mummified mushrooms, cinnamon, saffron, thread through crayoned grass, a patchwork mat. White Crocus flamingly flap open, their flared frocks bunch as one… A diamante disc. Freezing Breezes curl in flurried globs in Winter’s fairy-tale garden, as sweet rhythms cradle and swank a silhouetted twilight.

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Loneliness; a Palimpsest Ian C. Smith Jerked awake by the man’s voice, he sits up, its eerie echo ringing through his awareness, a sotto voce, well-spoken, intimate, ‘Hello?’ An intruder? In the room? Or just beyond the bedside window? Sidling from the sheets, nerves electric, his thoughts of both combat and escape, he steals past walls, wardrobe, open doors; softly picking up his old boots on the way, his hearing straining, photographs staring in the street lamps’ luminescence, that voice so close it had to be inside, his bedroom window shut. Yet, somehow, in this utter stillness he feels there is no-one. Easing the front door open he holds his breath. Empty footpaths. No different parked vehicles. Not a sound, nor a sob. No shadow shifts. Any crunching movement on the scoria around the side, front to back yard, would announce a visitor. Boots on, he opens the back door sensing he wastes his time, in short supply now, unlike when he walked on the wild side, I recall, loved to tango, beginnings never knowing endings. Middle of the day awake in the middle of the night, not unusual, he falls back on his study of logic, that voice, a creepy yet encouraging earworm, challenging him; checks emails, wishes with savage hope he could remember what prowled his mind, his dwindling company dream faces from the past, longs to see once more who was greeted when he said, ‘Hello?’

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Under The Spring Moon Geraldine Douglas

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One in a million-ivory moon, her strange and secret smile stoops, kissing youthful dew from a virgin dawn. Shadows of yesterday recall winter Jasmine. Spring’s buried treasure sings a song of love, as Sparrow twizzles sunbeams gold. An unconscious process inspiring awe, a workroom for artists, poetry for scholars, petals flap like pages from a breeze-kissed book. White Camelia’s oriental headdress enchants, Buttercups blaze saffron fireworks as Clover gulps laced air and Bluebells bubble scent. Bugle call awakens Springtide spirits… Dandelions respond, jingling amber-blond. Late Crocus droop as sleepy scarecrows, spits of rain wobble Wisteria buds, hanging emerald necklaces. Foxglove’s pigmented blooms froth puce pink, faithful Sweet Peas riddle as rampant Asps. Phantom Snowdrops morph paper-chain pendants. Sweet blows lick pinkness from infant Roses, as adolescent gusts twine prickly leaves to a magical Maypole. Under lilac skies clouds of heated opals swell brightness, stirring syrup air. Apple-blossoms close their eyes, calm, till pips embed their onyx once again.

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Negative Ed Blundell A snapshot from a different time, Our student days when we were young. We knew each other for a while, So close we still send Christmas cards, Although we haven’t met for years. The place, I can’t remember now, Somewhere in Wales, a wet weekend. I’ve heard that maybe John is dead Sue’s had three husbands, Kate five kids And Jennifer now lives in Spain. It was so very long ago Yet sometimes seems like yesterday. A snapshot from a distant time. We thought we knew each other then.

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Changeling Annie Maclean My Indigo Girl appeared through a magick when one morning had darkened after a storm. I had woken alone, white hair on my pillow. I lay back, unmarried with no knowledge of men. I’d foretold the thunder on the scent of the dust before I looked down. She lay in my slipper, all ready to enchant me; already she was smiling. Her tiny head, ancient, the size of a walnut. Her razor teeth had settled and I cuddled her mewlings. She reached out for my hair and mirrored my grey eyes. Her sharp nails were so tiny. When I touched her palm’s lifelines, she bit me and screamed. Her hot mouth, wide open, was a cavern. And ravenous. She lapped up my milk. I called her my kitten.

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Stirring Up The Past Camilla Macpherson

Emma sat on the well-worn sofa, the one that had been in the living-room for as long as she could remember and now sagged in the middle. There were two mugs of tea on the table in front of her, neither of them drunk. The carer, Joan, had made them, as she always did, with too much milk. Her mother had never liked more than a drop of milk in her tea. Emma was just the same. Still, it wasn’t worth making a fuss. Emma needed Joan, and who really knew how Mum liked her tea these days anyway? ‘Hi Mum. How have you been?’ she said at last. Her mother was standing at the window, following the steady course of a ladybird across the pane. She glanced up as she processed the words, not towards Emma but over to Joan. ‘Why’s she calling me Mum?’ she asked, her voice anxious. ‘It’s Emma, love,’ Joan replied. ‘Your daughter. Come to visit.’ Her mother shrugged her shoulders and turned back to the ladybird. Emma started again. ‘How are you, Penny?’ Sometimes it helped to use her mother’s actual name instead. It was less confusing. Less confusing for Mum, but not for Emma. ‘Fine, thank you dear,’ she replied. ‘And you? Are you well?’ The words were pulled from a place of remembered politeness. They were spoken in the same tone her mother would once have used on an unwanted visitor. Sometimes that was exactly what Emma felt she had become. ‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘So are the children.’ Two children. Christopher and Sarah. She no longer used their names. They didn’t mean a thing to Mum. ‘That’s good.’ A silence fell between them.

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‘Fancy a biscuit, Emma?’ Joan said. ‘I’ve got a nice bit of shortbread in the kitchen.’ ‘No, I’m fine,’ she replied, brusquely because she was jealous of Joan. Joan could prattle away all day without caring whether Mum responded or not. She could play endless board games without seeming to notice that Mum no longer remembered the rules. She saw Mum as the person she was now, at this very moment. She didn’t waste time grieving for the person she had once been. ‘We’ve been having some lovely times, the two of us, pottering about in the garden,’ said Joan. ‘Who would have thought the weather would hold as long as this? I’ve been thinking we might do a bit of digging if the rain keeps off. Plant some bulbs or something. I’ll need the key to the shed if you’ve got it, to get the spades out. I’ve looked for it everywhere.’ ‘I’ll have a spare at home. I’ll bring it next time.’ A key. That’s what Emma was looking for too. The doctor had said right at the beginning that dementia would slowly lock all the doors in her mother’s mind. One or two might open up again from time to time, but only if she could find the key. The doctor made it sound simple, but it wasn’t. She was still looking. Emma drifted over to the piano, where the family photographs were displayed. ‘We used to keep this as a memory day when we were younger,’ she said. ‘A bit like an anniversary. That’s why I came today. I always remember the date.’ Joan was clattering around with the white, institutional impedimenta that accompanied Penny’s various ailments. She was a solid person, incapable of doing anything quietly. Now she stopped and looked up. ‘What, today? And why was that?’ ‘It’s the day her sister Claire died. She was only fifteen. Not that it matters so much now.’ She glanced over at Mum, who was still watching the ladybird. ‘I mean, to me at least.’ Joan had stopped in her tracks. ‘Well I never knew that. What happened?’ ‘She fell off her horse. It was a birthday present from her parents. It was actually on her birthday that she died. She tried to go over a jump and the horse refused. She came off over its head and hit one of the poles. That was it. She was knocked out and she never woke up.’ Emma picked up a photo and took it over to Joan. Two pretty girls, both in long plaits, short-sleeved shirts and skirts, smiling out at the camera. Penny sitting on the top bar of a fence. Claire standing alongside her, an arm around her waist to keep her balanced. Emma blew the dust away from the frame. ‘Mum’s around nine here I should think,’ she said. ‘It’s the last picture she had of them both together. Claire was five years older than her. She would have been eighty today.’ If she’d lived. The words lay unspoken between them. ‘I bet she looked up to her big sister alright,’ said Joan. ‘What a dreadful thing. Awful for the family. What’s the date today? I lose track. I’m as bad as your Mum sometimes. Twelfth of February, isn’t it?’ Mum’s voice came from behind them, so clear that they both jumped. ‘It’s the twelfth of February? Why didn’t you say so before, Cookie? It’s time to make Claire’s cake.’ She grabbed Joan round the waist. ‘Please, Cookie. Please, pretty please.’ Joan laughed and hugged her back. Then Mum looked straight at Emma. ‘You’ll help, won’t you Claire? We always make your cake together, don’t we?’ ‘What?’ said Emma. ‘Make a cake? But I’m not – ’ Not Claire, she was going to say, but she looked up and saw Joan, still with Mum’s thin arms wrapped around her, giving her a warning look. ‘I don’t see why not,’ Joan said with a wink. ‘But don’t you two go messing up my kitchen.’

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Mum released Joan now and stood in front of her, her hands on her hips like an angry child. ‘Oh don’t be such an old stick, Cookie. It’s only once a year.’ ‘Go on then, off you go, the pair of you. I’ll put my feet up for a bit.’ Then Emma felt Joan’s hand firmly at her back, propelling her towards the kitchen, and realised that Mum was reaching out for her hand. She took it. It was cold and the veins stuck out, blue and thick. She hadn’t held Mum’s hand for a long time, probably not since they were at the hospital together, when the diagnosis was first made, and she felt her mother shuddering in the plastic seat beside her. ‘Come on then, Mum,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘Penny I mean. Why not?’ ‘Can I fetch the eggs, Claire? Can I? Can I?’ ‘Of course you can,’ said Emma. ‘There’ll be some in the pantry. Fetch the flour and the sugar while you’re in there. I’ll put the oven on.’ While she was gone, Emma searched for a recipe amongst the old cook books with the spines coming off them. They hadn’t been opened for a while. It was a long time since Mum had managed to make more than a boiled egg and toast, or something out of a can, for herself. When Mum came back, she was balancing all the ingredients in a madly, teetering heap. Emma rushed forward to take them from her before they fell and set them out carefully on the worn, wooden table. Then Mum was off again, this time to a low cupboard next to the oven. She knelt on the floor and pulled out a heavy china mixing bowl that hadn’t been used in years, a wooden spoon and a metal whisk that was rusty around the top. She picked up the spoon and banged it against the bottom of the bowl like it was a drum, just like Christopher and Sarah used to when they were young. Emma smiled, and almost laughed. Suddenly the kitchen, which had grown cold and tired since Mum got ill, was full of clatter – just like it used to be. ‘Come on you,’ she said, as she would have to her own children. ‘Let’s get started or it won’t be ready in time for tea.’ ‘Tie my apron for me, will you Claire? Let me crack the eggs. I’m old enough now. I promise I won’t make a mess.’ Mum cracked the eggs with studied care into a little bowl, then looked up at Emma with a big smile on her face. ‘See? I did it. I told you I could.’ ‘You were absolutely right,’ Emma replied, with an odd sense of pride. ‘Now go and measure out the butter and the sugar.’ While Mum busied herself with the old fashioned weighing scales, which had little brass weights on one side and a shiny brass bowl on the other, Emma picked some stray pieces of shell out of the egg mixture. When she turned back to Mum, she realised she was really only playing with the weights, lining them up like soldiers about to go into battle. Christopher and Sarah used to do that too, when Mum was still able to look after them two days a week and was always baking them little treats. ‘Let me give you a hand,’ she said, and did it herself, then beat the sugar and butter together using the wooden spoon. She let Mum add the eggs bit by bit into the fluffy mixture and then tip in the flour. Mum did it carelessly, in one go, so it billowed up around the bowl. ‘OK,’ said Emma. ‘A drop or two of vanilla essence and we’re all done.’ ‘And a pinch of salt. Cookie says never forget that,’ said Mum. Emma felt her stomach tighten. It all began with salt. She had brought Christopher over for tea on his fifth birthday. Mum had made chocolate chip biscuits, and offered him the plate first. He grabbed for the largest one. They were laughing, until suddenly his face screwed up and half-chewed biscuit

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started dribbling out of his mouth. ‘Yukky!’ he said, and began to cry, a desolate sound that echoed uncomfortably around them. ‘Don’t be silly, Christopher,’ Emma had said, still smiling. ‘What’s wrong? You don’t like Grandma’s cookies? Mummy will try one.’ She took a bite of biscuit herself. Then she too was spitting it onto the plate. ‘Oh Mum, you’ve put salt in them, not sugar.’ Her mother looked uncertain. ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Dead sure,’ Emma replied. She was distracted, trying to comfort Christopher and wipe his shirt clean. She didn’t realise at first that Mum was also crying. When she did, she took her into a big hug. ‘Don’t be silly, Mum. It’s an easy mistake to make. No harm done.’ ‘It’s his birthday. I don’t want to ruin his birthday,’ her mother had sobbed into her arms. But Emma realised later that the tears were more about fear than disappointment. Something was not quite right, and her mother knew it. ‘OK,’ Emma said now. ‘We’re done. I’ll put the mixture in the pans and we can get it in the oven.’ ‘Then I’ll lick the bowl and you can lick the spoon, same as always.’ That was exactly what they did, sitting at the kitchen table, their hands sticky, waiting for the cake to come out of the oven and smelling the sweet scent of fresh baking. Then Emma ran a deep, warm bowl of washing-up water and they washed their hands beside each other. Afterwards, Mum stayed at the sink, trailing her fingers back and forth through the bubbles, blowing some of them into the air. She seemed perfectly content. Emma picked up a magazine that was lying around and flicked through it. Joan appeared in the doorway ‘Everything alright?’ she said. ‘Everything’s just fine,’ she replied. She realised only as she spoke that she had not felt this relaxed around her mother for years. ‘In fact, everything’s great.’ When the timer rang, they both jumped. Mum was immediately full of energy again, spinning around, her eyes bright. ‘What shall we fill it with, Penny?’ said Emma. ‘Buttercream? Chocolate buttercream?’ ‘Strawberry jam and some icing sugar on top, of course. You’re just being silly. You know too much icing makes you sick.’ ‘I guess I just forgot,’ she said. The cakes had turned out perfectly. Golden, rounded and bouncy to the touch. They slipped easily from their tins onto the wire cooling rack. She and Mum spread the jam together using a palette knife, Emma guiding Mum’s hand. Then she set the cake on a plate. It was only a little lopsided. Mum sieved the icing sugar on top. It clouded up into their faces, and both of them licked their lips. ‘You look like a snowman, Claire,’ said Mum, giggling. ‘So do you,’ replied Emma, and pressed a finger gently to Mum’s nose, like she used to when Sarah was little. In the background, Joan had boiled the kettle. Now she put a tea-pot on the table, not the everyday chunky one with the white spots on the red background, but the antique silver one from the dining room. She had even got out the pretty china tea-cups and saucers, the ones with the tiny roses on them. The ugly non-spill mug that Mum was meant to use was nowhere in sight. Mum clapped her hands together. ‘Come on Cookie, how about some candles?’ she said. ‘Alright, alright,’ said Joan. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen some somewhere. How many do you want?’ ‘Fifteen of course. Claire’s fifteen today after all.’ Emma and Joan caught each other’s eye, but Joan went ahead, digging around in a drawer, letting

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Mum stick them into the top of the cake, and then lighting them carefully one after the other. ‘One, two, three…Happy birthday to you,’ Mum began to sing. Emma and Joan joined in. ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Claire…happy birthday to you.’ ‘Let me help you blow them out, Claire,’ said Mum. ‘Please let me.’ Before Emma could say anything, Mum had blown them out herself, in four short breaths. They all laughed and Mum clapped her hands again. ‘Make a wish when you cut it, Claire,’ she said. ‘Can I make one too? Can I?’ ‘Of course you can,’ Emma replied. Then she shut her eyes, pressed down through the sponge with a knife, and wished for more times like this with her mother before she died. When she opened her eyes, Mum’s were still shut, her mouth muttering something too quiet to be heard. ‘What are you wishing for, Penny?’ Emma asked. ‘It’s a secret, silly. I’m not telling,’ she replied, but she looked more serious than she had before. The cake tasted as good as it looked. They almost finished it between them, two slices each. Then Emma glanced at the clock above the door and jumped up. She was going to be late picking up Christopher from his piano lesson. ‘I’d better be off now,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back soon though.’ Mum looked up, her eyes suddenly wide. ‘You’re not going out on your new horse, are you Claire?’ she asked. Her voice was tense. ‘Not now. Don’t go now. It’s far too dark. You don’t know him well enough yet.’ Emma hesitated. ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘You won’t believe this, but I’m not too keen on horses any more. I’ll have to tell Mummy and Daddy I don’t think much of their birthday present. I wonder what they’ll say?’ Relief coursed across Mum’s face. ‘Oh, I’m glad, Claire.’ Emma bent down and kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ she said. ‘I’ll always be here to look after you, I promise.’ In the hallway, as she put on her coat, Emma could hear Mum and Joan humming along to the tune of Happy Birthday. She could still go back inside and join the fun, couldn’t she? She just needed to make a quick call to the piano teacher and explain she’d be late. He wouldn’t mind, not this once. She reached out a hand to open the kitchen door. Just as she began to turn the knob, she heard Mum’s voice. ‘Who was that woman, who was here just now?’ ‘It was Emma, love,’ Joan replied. ‘Your daughter. Come to visit.’ ‘Was it?’ says her mother. ‘My daughter, you say? What a funny thing. She reminded me of someone else altogether. I wonder who?’ Emma let her hand drop and turned away.

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Saviour Marc Carver

Some people try to save other people but really they are trying to save themselves some know it and some don’t

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As an African Child Amera Elwesef

As an African child I crawled on mamaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arm Searching for an imaginary house Which bear me with a fancy view Of the coming clouds upon my head As an African child I jumped many times for seeing the clown Who laugh and cry Making jokes Acts an excellent spy With many children in their bed As an African child I saw the bitterness on mamaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face And tried to chase Her shadow before her cheek is wet As an African child I drew my plan on the clay pot I insisted to fly Asking my sun to let The charming of justice light And asking the darkness to rest

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Wish I Was a Rose of Bliss Geraldine Douglas Wish I was a Rose of bliss, instead a flowerless forest. Spring never buds. Blackbirds never sing, weary of every-time unanswered prayers. Unripening Summer, trees absent weighty apples… They crash to sodden earth as shadows steal Autumn crowning and wasps sting their sweet. I live in a darkened room, weary eyed, gazing upon wind stirred lilies… Cannot make sorrow beautiful unless we steal from sweetest music. Cladded with chains, wrought in lead, a traveller grinding through dull symphonies, my face grey. I fear tomorrows, dreadful memories creep behind. Butterfly cannot see me, Cuckoo mocks, my mouth without smiles. Creeping years, vats of tears, hopefully losing their terrors… Maybe wake to a nightingale’s call? To touch a golden sun, hear foxglove’s first bell… Time tells with her bright eyes, for the unknown is a mystery… Dancing with ghosts no more…

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