Scrittura Magazine, Issue 3, Spring 2016 by Scrittura Literary Magazine

Issue number 3 Spring 2016

Scrittura Magazine ÂŠ Copyright 2016 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 WEB: www.scritturamagazine.tumblr.com EMAIL: scrittura.magazine@gmail.com TWITTER: @Scrittura_Mag FACEBOOK: scritturamag

In This Issue 06 Travels with Wub-Wub in Search of Catnip and Other Recreational Drugs Alex McDonald 08 Dead on Nine (or the Great School Run) Peter Flint 10 Diet Molly Draper 12 Mist James Linton 15 Hello There Elizabeth Ribar 16 Ground and Air Spangled Anne M Carson 18 Green Welly Blues Peter Flint 20 Kalymnos Alex McDonald 26 Underneath the Ocean There is Another World James Bell

27 28 29 30 35 36 38 40 41 42 43 44 47 48 50 58

Trophies Ed Blundell Invaders Peter Flint Who Am I? Cameron Lyall The Lists James Bell Small World Peter Flint Portrait of my Husband Elizabeth Ribar New Carpet Molly Draper Reunion Day Melissah Comber Sonne Alex McDonald Collateral Damage Peter Flint Traces Ed Blundell Three Remixes James Bell The Lifeboat Peter Flint Gaza, or Somewhere, or Something Molly Draper Something Rotten Jimmy Hartill Messages in Bottles James Bell

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A Note From The Editors Welcome to the Spring Issue of Scrittura Magazine! This is a very special edition for us personally, as this month marks a year since we began Scrittura Magazine! After having the idea floating around in our heads for a while, we decided to take the plunge, recruited our friend Catherine and created the website. We’re thrilled with how Scrittura has turned out so far and how it has grown over the past year. Our success has surpassed both of our expectations and we’re excited to see what lies in store in the future! Our goal with Scrittura was to create a platform for budding writers– a publication with as few submission limitations as possible in order to give people the best chance to get their writing published. As writers ourselves, we know how difficult it is to succeed in such a competitive field and we wanted to do everything in our power to help out those in the same position as us. We love seeing the reactions from our featured writers on release day, and please keep on sharing, blogging and retweeting the magazine to help us get your work out there! As always, we have a great selection of writing in this issue, some very thoughtprovoking and topical pieces, a humorous little script (The Lists, page 30) and some beautiful prose, too. Our cover art is inspired by a fantastic and imaginative poem about a cat burglar - turn to page 6 to read more. Once again, a huge thank you to everyone who’s supported us on this journey– writers who have submitted their work to us and anyone who has interacted with us on social media or sent us good wishes. We appreciate each and every one of you, and Scrittura wouldn’t be what it is without your support. Here’s to another great issue and many many more to come! Finally, we have to thank Catherine, our amazing designer, for creating another wonderful issue!

Valentina & Yasmin

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Travels with WubWub in Search of Catnip and Other Recreational Drugs Alex McDonald It was real messy. The morning aft er the night before. Oh, catnip. Got the munchies, Whiskas everywhere. Wub was coughing up fur in the sink. I was sipping milk straight from the bott le. Mental. Couldn’t stand on four legs, fell asleep in the litt er tray. Wasn’t even our place. Wub’s a cat burglar. Oh yeah, ha ha, very funny. No. If you met Wub you would cry your human tears. He claws the curtains, hairballs on the carpet. Real messy. You need catnip? He will sort you. He’s not a dealer; no, no, no. Just a cat, alright?

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Dead on Nine (or the Great School Run) Peter Flint Each day at nine my life begins First our Jack and then the twins Trot every morning through that gate The whistle’s gone…we’re always late! A sulky grunt…a happy smile Just getting here was quite a trial… “Have you cleaned your teeth and brushed your hair?” “You don’t make HIM and that’s not fair!” “Please, find your kit!” Why must I plead? “Mummeee! You haven’t heard me read.” “Eat your breakfast…it’s good for you.” “Well, I don’t care…it tastes like poo!” “Switch that computer off…last time I’ll say it!” “YOU bought this game but won’t let me play it!” “Where’s your bag? Have you got your lunch? Now why did you give poor Jane a punch?” “Well, she said I’m fat and that’s a lie!” “Look what you’ve done…you’ve made her cry. Right! Shoes and coats…No, that’s not funny…” “Mum…I haven’t got my dinner-money!” “It’s on the table…look it’s there!” I must keep calm…I mustn’t swear! “Jane…ballet shoes! Jack, guitar! Right then you lot…in the car…” Why must I always scream and bark? Was Noah this stressed loading up the Ark? “Seatbelts fastened? Jane, don’t moan, Jack, have you brought your mobile phone?”

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“Bye-bye darlings…you be good…” You’d never guess I’m sweating blood, A smile, a hug, a little kiss… They’re safe in school; then oh, what bliss… “Woman’s Hour”…some well-earned tea… I have to pick them up at half-past three!

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Diet Molly Draper I gave up sugar I surrendered all things sweet and sacrificed them to the God of thighs. I held up my offerings to a higher power, my pound(s) of flesh. I hoped that they might praise me, might allow me to bask in the reflected glory of some model or another. She might rub off on me. I practice how to pose, stare at that stranger’s reflection seen over my shoulder, dropping a hip. That near death baulking grimace; a last low cal use of energy. I have prayed at that altar. That some gracious face will gaze upon me, or down on me, smiling. Blue white teeth (tongue against roof of mouth, eyes set wide, smiling, smizing) whispering, gently ‘Oh, well done you!’ to somewhere just past my face, a more attractive prospect.

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I did not want to give up sugar. He likes the curve of my thigh under his hand. The slap of soft pink against his gnarly skin. He runs a finger under my knicker elastic, a slow relief to my reddened skin. A sigh from his lips, a ping. He drags his beard across my arc and bites his peach. My arse, with no sign whatsoever of its stone, receives his teeth gladly. He hums to my arse and me; a song of praise.

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Mist James Linton My mummy was standing by the sink doing the washing up. I always wondered what the point of washing things was, when they were just going to get dirty again. Clutching Rufus by his paw, I walked over to her and pulled the bottom of her dress to get her attention. ‘Mummy, I can’t find Mist anywhere.’ Without looking down she said, ‘Milicent June Walker, you’ve got a million toys. Go and play with one of those.’ I looked down sadly and squeezed Rufus’ paw. He barked loudly and I giggled when I saw Mummy jump. ‘Milly, Mummy’s busy now. Go talk to Daddy.’ With Rufus bouncing along behind me, I ran over to Daddy who was reading a big, big, big newspaper in the garden. ‘Hey, Milly. What you up to today?’ Daddy said, as he brushed a hand through my hair. ‘Me and Rufus are looking for Mist. We lost her.’ Daddy rubbed his prickly chin. ‘You have a million toys. Which one’s Mist?’ ‘Mist! She’s my alby line. Rufus’ best friend.’ ‘Alby line? Oh albino lion. I haven’t seen Mist. Why don’t you and Rufus go and find her?’ Squeezing Rufus’ soft paw, I ran to our spaceship. *** I had parked our spaceship at the edge of the jungle that me, Rufus and Mist had finished exploring. This was where we had lost Mist. We were in the Valley of Thorns when she disappeared. After I had briefed Rufus on this, I strapped him into his seat and climbed into mine. Our spaceship was called The Build-a-Bear Workshop. I put my headset on and started speaking to Rufus. ‘Captain Rufus, this is Major Milly and we need to find Captain Mist. Set coordinates for 0, 6, north west, over by that tree.’ Rufus barked a yes. ‘Engage your engines and we’re taking off! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,’ I cheered, as our spaceship whizzed past burning suns and multi-coloured planets. We

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flew faster than comets and shooting stars. I had to steer sharply to avoid a big big big floating spaceman, but then the spaceman reached into my spaceship. ‘Milly! Why did you take my colander? You know I need that for the pasta tonight!’ ‘But, Mummy, it’s my headset.’ ‘You’re 5. You’re too old for this.’ Mummy walked away sighing and I returned to my mission. My mum was wrong. I’m 5 and ¾, not 5. ‘We’re landing now!’ I yelled out, taken back by the power of the twin fire engines. As soon as we had touched down, I leapt out of my ship like a little frog, grabbed Rufus and ran into the jungle. *** To reach Mist and the Valley of Thorns, me and Rufus had to reach the middle of the jungle. ‘Don’t be scared, Rufus. I’ve got my Dark Sword to protect us.’ Holding Rufus’ paw in one hand and my weapon in the other, I pressed forward. It was very quiet in the jungle; there was just the funny sound of the crickets chirping. Rufus barked behind me. ‘What is it, boy?’ I couldn’t see anything, just hanging vines and a wobbly old rope bridge. Rufus barked again and I gasped at what I saw. In front of us stood a big, big, big spider with huge teeth and a funny liquid dripping from its mouth. The spider launched forward with one leg, which I blocked with a quick swipe from my sword. The spider screeched, as its leg was eaten by the dark magic. With seven working legs, it limped around me and without warning, knocked me onto my back. The spider scuttled up to me and as it stabbed down with its stinging bit, I stabbed up with my sword. The spider screamed and reared up. I took more swipes at its legs, causing it to crawl back into the undergrowth. I picked up Rufus who had been hiding behind a tree. ‘Come on, boy. Let’s find Mist.’ We carried on walking through the jungle fighting off spiders, hiding from black eagles and dodging traps set by the natives. We finally reached a rickety old rope bridge set over a very angry river. I felt Rufus clutch my hand tightly. ‘Do we have to go over that?’ he whined softly and then there was a very scared roar. ‘That’s Mist roaring, Rufus. She’s scared and she needs us. Be brave for her. That’s a good boy.’ Slowly, I stepped onto the bridge and flinched as it shook violently. Rufus whimpered and I picked him up and held him in my arms. I continued across the bridge, ignoring the river below me that was shouting like my mummy when she was mad. I kept breathing and continued walking. My left hand was gripping the rope

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tightly, while Rufus buried his head in my chest. Steadily, we made it to the other side. ‘You’re a very brave dog, Rufus,’ I said, just as I heard another terrified roar. I knew that Mist was close. Letting Rufus walk alongside me, we slowly approached the Valley of Thorns and that was when we saw Mist. Her white fur easily stood out from the green thorns and there were spots of red in her fur. What were they, I wondered? When she saw me, she started excitedly mewing. ‘Mist, I’m so sorry we left you behind, but we’re going home now.’ Using my Dark Sword, I cut away the thorns that Mist had gotten tangled in. When she was free, Rufus started licking the red spots on her fur. I wasn’t sure why. ‘Come on. Let’s go home.’ *** The three of us walked out of the Valley of Thorns and back over the wobbly old rope bridge. Rufus was still too scared to walk over it, so he rode on Mist’s back. She was weak, but strong enough to walk. As we reached the spot where I fought the big, big, big spider, we heard a loud rumbling behind us. ‘Is that an animal?’ I asked. I took out my Dark Sword and both Rufus and Mist started roaring. As I saw the whole jungle running, I knew this wasn’t an animal. I told my two friends to hide somewhere safe and turned back to the rumbling. ‘What’s she doing?’ Rufus asked, worriedly. Mist smiled toothily. ‘Being Milly.’ I knew what the rumbling was. I always heard it when I was in the jungle. The giant boulder came crashing towards me, squashing trees as if they were ants. As I held up my Dark Sword, I saw the boulder chase everything out of the jungle and then it came for me. But it never got that far. As soon as the boulder touched the sword, it ka-boomed into a million, zillion pieces. I walked back to Rufus and Mist. ‘Let’s go home.’ As soon as I landed the spaceship, I saw my mummy march up to me. She did not look happy. I could only imagine Rufus and Mist hiding behind me. ‘Millicent Walker! Where have you been? Why do you have my wooden spoon?’ ‘It’s my Dark Sword.’ Without wanting to, I gave it back. I heard my mummy’s voice turn nicer. ‘You’re all muddy and there are leaves and twigs in your hair. Where have you been?’ ‘Over the plank at the river, where the woods are.’ ‘Milly, you know I’ve told you it’s not safe for you down there at the bottom of the garden. Why don’t you listen to me?’ I shrugged and smiled innocently. ‘I had to find what I lost.’

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Hello There Elizabeth Ribar

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sitting on the couch wearing black panties left knee bent over my stretched leg casually texting friends around the country Looking down I notice for the first time two faint lines starting at the top of my leg a raised motif of parallels like two perfectly straight arrows shot by Eros himself Is this what getting old feels like? Seeing oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s skin wither away Should I be proud to sport tiger stripes successfully chiselled down from two dress sizes? I wonder why people chase time when I just find it beautiful the changing process your scars are all your own

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Ground and Air Spangled Anne M Carson Baltimore, Maryland, USA I A whole hemisphere away from autumn, buds push against the caul of spring. The only thing holding them back is the earliness of the season. Nodes swell on every branch. Occasionally I glimpse a green escapee waving its tiny triumphant flag – an early runner bringing good news. A bird I don’t recognize and her mate feed in grasses at the water’s edge, seed-heads heavy with promise. The birds are chestnut-chested, wary of the human wandering in their cherry-tree grove midst. Planted by school children in remembrance, the plaque says, glorious now with blossoms, ground and air spangled with petals, world made momentarily magical.

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II Half a world away, you take a turn for the worse. You always wondered what your end would be – now you are getting to know – like a neighbour you have lived next to for years, asking after each other’s health – now suddenly intimate. Leaving you was a grief, a small letting go to put against the bigger letting go your death will ask. I tried telling myself that suffering it now, the small grief, could lessen the cataclysm. I let my feelings flow in the anonymity of the long-haul, the privacy of the communal airline as if those tears could count for something. But they ripened and grew to bud then burst, spilled, and they served no-one and nothing. Except their own good selves: their fealty to the heart, its pink and tender chambers.

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Green Welly Blues Peter Flint

I’ve bought myself green wellies I keep them in the shed They remind me of the gardening And things I’d rather do instead… I’ve been down to the library Got a cracking book to read Then I think about those wellies And the beds I ought to weed… The sun is hot The pool is cool I’d really like a swim Those wellies keep on nagging, “All the hedges need a trim.” A fantastic film on telly I’m the hero’s greatest fan Wellies whisper, “We’ve had no rain… Better fill that watering-can.” My golf I need to practise My handicap to lower The grass is halfway up my wellies I suppose I’d better get the mower… A ramble in the countryside Where there are lots of cosy pubs ‘Til wellies wail, “Forget your ale… You’ve got to plant those shrubs.” I’m tired of their tyranny I’ve decided what I’ll do With paving-stones and concrete Those wellingtons Will meet their Waterloo!

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Kalymnos Alex McDonald ‘Manolis?’ she calls my name from outside. She knocks once, as if she has to, and then lets herself in. The sun streams in through the open door and for a moment I’m blind. It gets very dark in here. Inside. She steps in and blocks out the glare just enough for me to see her from the bed. She wears a long dark dress with a cream coloured sash around her waist. A white headscarf covers her head, and the light from outside clings to it. ‘How are we today then?’ she asks. I don’t answer, just follow her with my eyes as she shuts the door and moves over to where I am on the bed. I can see her brown eyes. She bends down towards me and kisses me once on the head, gently. A thin lock of her hair escapes the shawl and drops down on to my cheek. She stands back up, hands on her hips, and looks at me. ‘Right then,’ she says, with a wide eyed half-smile, and leans back down towards me and begins to unbutton my shirt. There is a loud dry whistling noise and the wind shakes the shutters on the other side of the room. Something clicks in my head and I’m no longer there. The Meltemi. Remember the Meltemi. Hot summer days with an endless sky so clear. The roar. The Meltemi. How it would come charging in from the north and take away my breath and breathe into me. Breathe. Breathe. Stand naked with my back to it and feel it hold me up. Face it, walk right into it. Become it. Wild and free and alive. Alive, we ran and jumped and watched our fathers, from worn down rocks licked by salt and sea and time. We watched them at the edge of the world. The tiny boats. The tirandhils. Sculpted wood and sails so rocked and twisted by invisible fingertips. And there, there our fathers, so small on the boats, grew large with the weight they bore, the weight of the skandalopetra. The rocks, as big as their heads lifted with ease to their sides. And there, at the edge, the very edge of the world, we watched them dive and slip into the jumping, swallowing emptiness of the horizon. Wide eyed, we watched our fathers. Our fathers, alive and on fire. At our feet the sea, a mirror of the sky above. Our reflections marred and distorted in its charging swells. There, I remember the Meltemi. The roar. The whisperings of our fathers. Our fathers. We dived into waters, and wished on the other side, we would become them. It all comes back in jolts and starts just like the Meltemi. The rush, and in

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seconds the sounds and pictures are dancing and screaming behind my eyes. Vilhadia. On the beach with my father. A child, kneeling in the sand, I beat the sponges he dived for on an old piece of driftwood until they oozed a thick brown sludge. Up, over my head I lifted them, and then down hard onto the wood where they fell with a whelp and a squelch. Then, pressing down with all my young might I pushed them hard until they drooled out cold clear water in a pool at their base. Suddenly, the wild wind whipped up the sand and it soared and swirled and grew ten feet tall and charged towards me. I turned my back to it. Pushed and braced my bare body into my father’s. The sting. I will never forget the sting as it peppered my back. Tiny grains of sand like glass, so sharp as they flew and dug into my soft skin. I can feel it now. That’s what it’s like, remembering. Raining tiny flecks of fire and ice. When the wind blows inside my head and whips up that riptide sandstorm of the past I can feel each grain. Every grain different. Every tiny grain a memory, a feeling. And every tiny grain burns. *** He stepped off the boat like nothing I had ever seen in my seventeen years. He wore a white shirt and a black waistcoat, similar to us, but a long piece of cloth dangled from his neck like a snake. The whole village was gathered on the beach. They had heard about the man, the rumours bounced off the old cracked and whitewashed walls. A spy, a king, a foreigner. ‘Good morning, good people of Kalymnos.’ His accent was thick when he spoke, and he stumbled over his words, for although he had the dark skin of a Greek, he was definitely foreign. He complimented our town, our history, our people, and there were nods of agreement from the crowd. But why had he come? As the foreign man talked, three heavy looking men appeared from the boat behind him. They struggled with the weight of what they carried, a great wooden crate, as big as a man, and it doubled them over and made them shuffle sideways like crabs. The foreign man continued to talk but my eyes followed the crate. The men slammed it down in front of the crowd with relief and stretched their arms and their backs, growing taller, returning to a more comfortable shape. With a smile, a sideways glance, and a sweep of his arms, the foreign man finished his speech. ‘My friends, I introduce to you, the Skafandro!’ The front of the crate was pulled away and crashed to the floor of the bay. There in front of me, half in shadow, it was giant and monstrous. Like something from the bottom of the sea. Dull, its metal dark and dull, even in the morning sunlight. Like a weapon, something of torture. I’d seen pictures of old enemies in great wars who

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wore this kind of thing. Metal, so much metal pieced together to create what looked like a whole new being. Someone dangerous, something dangerous and not like us at all. No, this was different, this was something else from somewhere beyond. Somewhere, way out past the sun and the edge of the world. ‘My friends,’ the man continued. ‘The Skafandro will change your lives forever. This diving suit will enable you to dive for three times as long, right down to the ocean floor, and collect twice as many sponges. It is the future. Who would like to try this fine piece of equipment? Who would like to be the first to say they wore the Skafandro?’ I can describe what happened next, but I will never be able to explain why. Perhaps it was youth, or excitement, or the weight of my father that caused it, or perhaps sometimes things just happen. My hand had risen before I even knew it. There was silence. The crowd, as one, turned to face me. Fearful faces whispered and looked me in the eyes as I pushed my way to the front and stepped inside the beast. Pulled on the giant metal body, until I became the beast. So heavy. The whole weight of the machine pressed down on me like I pressed on the sponges as a child. I looked out at the faces of the crowd. Anxious, smiling, whispering, proud. When I was encased in metal from the neck down, a cheer rose up, loud and honest. I felt myself grow, I felt myself pump up to the size of a giant, to the size of the Skafandro. I think that right then, I felt for the first time, like a man. Not a boy, but a man made of metal, and bravery and triumph. Then, without warning, the man pulled down that great heavy helmet onto my head. Perfect darkness. The visibility gap that had looked so large became a pinhole. I heard nothing of the cheers, just my fast and heavy breathing inside my prison. Locked in. Buried alive inside the torturous metal, I panicked. I felt myself deflate, felt my height crushed down a foot by the weight. I was no longer a man. I was afraid. When the helmet was finally removed from my head, I was blinded. The light so real I thought it couldn’t be true. I blinked my eyes and when I saw those expectant faces in front of me, I tried to smile. Again they cheered and I tried to become a man again, tried to grow back tall but I’d lost it inside the Skafandro. Lost it all. ‘My friends,’ the man quietened the crowd. ‘My friends, let’s find out what this brave man thought of the Skafandro.’ He turned to me. He came close to my face and challenged me with his eyes. I cleared my throat silently and tried to sound convincing. ‘Oraia!’ I said loudly. ‘It is great!’ The man beamed again, and the crowd cheered at my lie, and it was all hideous. ***

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‘I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit,’ came a voice from inside. I stood listening by the door of my father’s house. Inside, the elders were gathered to discuss the man and his Skafandro. ‘Skin diving has worked for over a hundred years. It was the way our fathers did it, the way our fathers’ fathers did it. Why should we stop now? What right do we have? Do we owe nothing to a perfect tradition?’ ‘You heard the man, the Skafandro would double our production, allow us to go deeper,’ another voice from inside. ‘How can we turn that down? We have a chance to be rich. Very, very rich my brothers!’ ‘Is that all you think about? Money? How can you be willing to throw everything we have here away? No, I won’t do it. I won’t climb in to one of those things. I dive as I always have. My skin and a stone. Did you see the boy’s face? He looked terrified. How can you trust some money-spinning Turk with your life?’ ‘Pavlos, come now, he was not a Turk. And I was not thinking about you, or any of the other men. There are too many men like you, set in your ways. There is a whole generation of boys, of young men in Vilhadia who would be more than happy. They have been waiting to dive on the tirandhils all their lives and are young and will learn quickly. Your son for example, Giannis, he couldn’t wait to get the Skafandro on.’ ‘I, I’m not sure.’ My heart suddenly beat faster; it was my father’s voice. ‘We don’t know enough. About the suit, about the new depths they would go to. It might not be safe, that’s all. Papa Georgios?’ As high priest of the Orthodox Church, Papa Georgios had the final say on almost all decisions in Vilhadia. I imagined him sitting at the head of the table. His long white beard draped down over his black robes. He was old and spoke slowly, with a sad and weary tone. ‘I think, that it is unnatural. I think that God created us whole as a man, and a skin and the sky should be all we need.’ There was a long pause. ‘However, there is a new world coming. I’ve heard the things they can make now. Things from other lands that can walk and talk by themselves. Humans that can fly. It is all changing, and if that is God’s will, if he gives us the skill and the knowledge, then perhaps, perhaps it is okay.’ ‘But Papa, what about the boys?’ ‘Let the boys speak for themselves Giannis. God gave them a tongue of their own.’ We did speak. The excitement pumped through the boys like electricity. It emanated from them. I didn’t tell them what I’d felt inside the Skafandro. Perhaps I knew there was no other way. An elder handed over the money and the foreign man smiled and

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shook his hand gleefully and left. They laid the suits side by side in an old shack by the seafront. I remember on the morning of our first dive, how they stood there to attention, those headless metal corpses in the half-light. Before we went out, I sat on the pier with Sofia. I held her hand in mine as we looked out to sea and to whatever lay beyond. We were silent for a while and then suddenly, she spoke. ‘What’s it like down there? I’ve always wondered.’ I didn’t quite know how to answer; there was so much of it. ‘It’s like another world,’ I said. ‘It’s beautiful. I think you’d like it.’ ‘I’d be too afraid to dive though. I wish…I wish there was a way you could take a picture of it with your eyes and show me.’ ‘I can try.’ She laughed and moved closer to lay her head on my shoulder. There was something I wanted to say. I stroked her hand with my thumb and tried to speak. ‘Sofia, I’ve been thinking about this for some time now and…I’m yet to ask your father and if he has someone in mind for you then that’s fine or if you have someone else in mind I…look, I just wanted to…’ Sofia’s body began to shake with laughter and she jolted upright. ‘Oh Manolis, you fool, of course I will!’ She kissed me and threw her arms around my neck. I could feel her warm tears on my skin. She talked in a frenzy. ‘My father likes you, you know that, and I don’t know why you would think that there is anyone else…oh and I can wear my mother’s dress and we can dance on the beach as the sun sets. Won’t it be the most beautiful thing?’ We held each other like that for a while and then she moved back to rest her head on my shoulder. ‘I love you Manolis, please know that,’ she said gently. ‘I love you, too.’ I said. Silence for a while, and when she finally spoke, her voice quavered a little. ‘This, this Skafandro thing…you are going to be safe aren’t you? You’re going to be okay?’ As the boat sailed out later that day I watched Sofia and Vilhadia get smaller and smaller until they disappeared altogether, as if no one would ever know they were there at all. When they were gone I turned and faced the horizon as we glided towards it. As it continued to stay out of reach, I realised for the first time that no matter how hard we try we’ll never be able to touch it. But still, something inside of me still wanted to try, and that perhaps in trying, I would find something better than touching the horizon could ever be. There, out in the middle of it all, in the middle of a ghostly sea, as I pulled on the suit, I suddenly felt happy. I put on the helmet and

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unlike before, I did not panic. On the edge of the boat, locked up in the Skafandro, behind walls of metal, I could feel the Meltemi on my skin. *** ‘There we go.’ She pulls off my trousers and I’m there on the bed, naked in front of her. A man appears at the door. ‘Sofia,’ he says. ‘I’ve been looking all over the village for you.’ ‘I’m just seeing to Manolis. I’ll be home soon.’ ‘Do you have to do this every day? You’re not his mother.’ ‘Don’t talk like that, he can hear you.’ ‘Really? Look at him, what even happened to him down there?’ ‘We don’t know.’ She looks me directly in the eyes for a moment. ‘Something bad. They think there might be something down there, deep down on the ocean floor. A creature of some sort. They all come back the same. Poor boys. Poor, poor boys.’ She looks back to the man. ‘Now help me get him to the bath will you?’ ‘If you promise to be home soon?’ The man walks over to Sofia and kisses her on the cheek. ‘I promise,’ she says. As she turns towards him I see the wreath pattern on the back of her headscarf, and suddenly and uncontrollably I vomit all over my bare chest. Sofia turns back round. ‘Oh you poor thing,’ she says. ‘Help me Sifis, will you?’ With a look of disgust the man picks me up, being careful to avoid the sick, carries me over to the bath, and kissing Sofia once more on the way out, leaves. Sofia fills the bath with water from the well. I might be cold, but I can’t feel anything. Not the water, not her hands, not the Meltemi. When the bath is full she opens the shutters and the light streams in like a small, orange spotlight in the heavy shade of the room. I hear the raspy croak of crickets. I hear the roar of the Meltemi. I hear the clank of the Skafandro. I no longer feel it on me though, I just live inside it. Locked up in its heavy darkness. Tiny and a child, unable to move inside its metal walls. Sofia moves to a box in the corner and pulls something out. When she moves back to the bath I can see it is a sponge. She kneels down, and dips the sponge in the water. Then lifting it out, she sweetly sings words from Sappho, and sponges down my useless, yearning body.

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Underneath the Ocean There is Another World James Bell

in some places it is dark too where the inhabitants compensate illuminate themselves in a form of in-depth enlightenment whereas closer to the surface scales can glitt er from the sun not far above while dressed in many colours though there is disinterest in not far above except for those with mammalian traits and this is where discord happens up there above the waves and in them especially when the ocean meets land not as big as this world of water but not peaceful though it fools itself it is underneath the ocean is peaceful mostly though one inhabitant might eat another is only troublesome on the surface the other way round to the land world yet both unquiet under sun and moon

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Trophies Ed Blundell I have the glass I stole that night When we drank in our favourite pub And you told me that we were through, As you stubbed out a fag and me. You didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look back as you went, I pocketed your glass and left . It sits smeared with your lipsti ck, A trophy on my mantelpiece, Next to the snapshot that I took The day we went down to the sea. Not much left to remember you, A photo and a dirty glass.

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Invaders Peter Flint They are here…the invaders Cresting the moors; breasting the waves They stand in ranks… Metal…pinnacles of gleaming grandeur Sails, etched sharp against sky’s blue Turn gently like sci-fi sycamore seeds Their mission? Domination? Destruction? Peacefully, serenely they harness the wind Energising our homes; lighting our lives. Why then are they mistrusted? Maligned, ugly, wasteful, inefficient… They must be banned, banished, toppled Sign this petition…support their overthrow… While I have your attention, Please make a small donation To save our historic windmill Faithfully creaking out our daily bread These past four hundred years…

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Who Am I? Cameron Lyall From moment to moment, thought after thought, I dress my sense of self, from outfit to outfit, day after day. Now I am this and now I am that, But where will this lead me? I only find myself astray. Then I dwelled in the space between thoughts, to find my thoughts were nothing but a breeze in the mind, a bubble in the boil, they come and they go... So if I am not what I think I am, then who am I? Well, that’s like a wave thinking it’s only a wave when in fact it’s an entire ocean.

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The Lists James Bell The scene is a drab, old fashioned looking office with a row of filing cabinets. The Keeper of Lists sits at a bare utilitarian desk and contemplates a single sheet of paper. There is a single wooden chair on the other side of the desk. There is a knock on the door of the office. KEEPER

Come in.

The door opens and an Enquirer enters. ENQUIRER

Is this the Department of Lists?

KEEPER

Yes. There is a notice on the door and I am the Keeper of Lists.

ENQUIRER

Oh, good. Looks like I’ve come to the right place. Have you got a list of what happens next?

KEEPER

No.

ENQUIRER

But you are supposed to have lists for everything.

KEEPER

You know this one is impossible. Why ask?

ENQUIRER

Things can change.

KEEPER

We have a list of changes if you want one.

ENQUIRER

It’s not what I asked for.

KEEPER

Well it’s as close as we can get to your request.

ENQUIRER

Change is different to what happens next.

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KEEPER

ENQUIRER

That begs the question of whether what changes is what happens next or whether what happens next is indeed a change. You could go around in circles all day with that one.

The Keeper of Lists lays down the single sheet of paper on the desk before speaking again. We can see it is blank. The Keeper does not ask the Enquirer to sit in the vacant chair on the other side of the desk. KEEPER

It could drive you crazy.

ENQUIRER

All depends on what kind of person you are.

KEEPER

That’s why we make sure we keep lists constantly updated.

ENQUIRER

To your knowledge, do we have a list of circles?

KEEPER

Depends.

ENQUIRER

Depends on what?

KEEPER

What kind of circle list do you want?

ENQUIRER

Give me a few examples.

KEEPER

You could have an all day one if you want, but that can easily spiral out of control. Then there are ones by diameter or circumference: and so it goes on.

ENQUIRER

Do you have a list of conversations you’ve had like this?

KEEPER

Of course.

ENQUIRER

How many have there been since you’ve been doing this?

KEEPER

It would take a while to get the total.

ENQUIRER

You mean there’s no running total.

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KEEPER

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got better things to do all day.

ENQUIRER

So, how do you know what lists there are?

KEEPER

A list is kept, of course.

ENQUIRER

So, there is a list of all lists?

KEEPER

It would be very unwise not to have one. How would we know what to access when a request is made?

ENQUIRER

Who makes requests?

KEEPER

Everyone does eventually.

ENQUIRER

Do you grant all requests?

KEEPER

No.

ENQUIRER

Why?

KEEPER

It might not be politic.

ENQUIRER

Will our conversation be added to a list?

KEEPER

Of course.

ENQUIRER

Why?

KEEPER

This is just the way things are done. And always have been, just in case you wanted to ask why.

ENQUIRER

Do you have a list of dogs?

KEEPER

Of course. What a ridiculous question.

ENQUIRER

Just one?

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KEEPER

No, several, as we have with most things.

ENQUIRER

Give me an example.

KEEPER

I’m not in the habit of giving examples, only lists.

ENQUIRER

Give me an example of a list.

KEEPER

You’ve already asked about dogs.

ENQUIRER

How many people are involved in listing?

KEEPER

There is a list. You can request it.

ENQUIRER

But the request might not be granted.

KEEPER

Exactly.

ENQUIRER

What is the big secret?

KEEPER

I don’t understand the question.

ENQUIRER

What is the secret of listing?

KEEPER

There isn’t one.

ENQUIRER

Does that mean there is more than one?

KEEPER

Yes, of course.

ENQUIRER

Tell me one.

KEEPER

Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.

ENQUIRER

Could I become a list in my own right?

KEEPER

Of course you could.

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ENQUIRER

How do I go about that?

KEEPER

Easy, just fill in the appropriate form in triplicate.

ENQUIRER

How long do I have to wait then to become a list?

KEEPER

There’s quite a demand for this sort of thing, so it’s a case of how long is a piece of string at the moment.

ENQUIRER

Is there a list of people who are waiting?

KEEPER

Of course.

ENQUIRER

Can I get a copy?

KEEPER

Of course...

ENQUIRER

No, don’t tell me, I can make the request on the appropriate form.

KEEPER

Exactly.

ENQUIRER

But the request might not be granted.

KEEPER

You’ve really got a good grasp of how the system works now. Good luck.

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Small World Peter Flint It’s not far to the wheely bin, Almost full… The half-eaten turkey, That pork pie lurking at the back of the fridge, Long past its don’t-eat date… It’s not far to the corner shop, The loaf of bread, the chocolate To munch while watching the telly… With siren ranks of goodies, Each with its low-fat absolution… It’s not far to that little pub, Lovely village…great food…atmosphere, Only an hour down the motorway… It’s not far to Florida, Thailand, Tenerife, Superb hotel, five restaurants, all day service… It’s not far to the dusty, sun-cursed square, Where swollen-bellied babies, Scrabble in the dirt for grains of corn… Small world!

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Portrait of my Husband Elizabeth Ribar you unplugging my charger from the outlet giving me that same lecture on saving electricity you trying so hard when we take dance lessons diagonal feet box step single step underarm turn you brushing our cats with the sharpest comb making them purr five minutes straight you at six foot three towering over my body that only feels petite and womanly when Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m with you savoring the hell out of your panda express even though you hate fast food you telling me I need to exercise again for our honeymoon so I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be sore when we scuba dive you rubbing my back when I eat too much with hands calloused from the barbells sometimes you nick your skin blood and scabs I scold you back you groaning like an old man

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when you wake up in the mornings your hair parted to the left it almost kisses your eyebrow you saying hey! you smacked me, you little butthead to our 9 month old kitten you wearing purple rubber gloves to do dishes so your hands donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t burn I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know why the water needs to be so hot you shaving over the sink with a towel throwing beard trimmings out the window you talking with our cats a dialogue only we will ever know. you meowing at me meowing at you.

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New Carpet Molly Draper My wife died at Christmas Again I didn’t see this one coming The first Well I had the time To unclasp that gnarly paper-covered bone collection Unsay that vow And go out with a bow But this one? This one did not creep up With cockney coughs that stayed and acked With skirts that fit Then didn’t Then slip With repeat prescriptions With repeat prescriptions This one did not sneak in With a rattle in the lung That tightened like an and Where my heart used to be And an unseeing eye Always lookin’ at me A good god’s blessin’ Unable to see (Thank God) As I prayed for somebody else’s life And not this For me And I wished it away But it stayed

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Until she And I got the wish And she left with it My wife died at Christmas Again But this one paused on the step And turned to say, ‘John!’ She said, ‘John?’ And then she was gone Dropped to the square At the foot of the stairs £5.99 a square metre.

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Reunion Day Melissah Comber Soon, Young-ho will have to leave. The bus will be departing and he will be herded on, head counted, papers checked, while Young-soo will later board his own bus home. There will be no one to ensure that Young-soo is on his bus, but no one will risk being stuck here. Soon, the women will begin to wail again, the men will quiver and Young-soo and Young-ho will clasp each other to their chests and sob without shame. Lovelorn tears will soak into their shoulders; their anguished croaks will join the cacophony. It will be farewell for so long, too long – until another reunion is held or one of them passes. Young-soo looks at his brother’s hands, his face, his mouth, at the cracks that splintered through his weathered skin, crooked fingers that struggled to bend and the sags in his body where no soul remained to buoy it together. Brothers, yes, only four birthdays apart, but the years between them were too many to count. He could stay. He could go to the bathroom and, while the marshals were distracted loading the buses, he could find another door. He could stay. He could find Young-ho again, look after him, play Gonu, read newspapers, laugh, sleep in the same bedroom as they did when they were young. There will be no fighting. There will be no bombs. There will be no father pulling him out of bed in the dark, an infant Young-ho in his arms, dragging Young-soo outside and telling him to run that way and never stop. No, he couldn’t do that. Soon, while the women wail and the men quiver, Young-soo will drown in the waves of guilt that engulf his body. His heart will lash at his chest, growing tighter, harder, more thunderous with each bursting beat until nothing around him is anything anymore. Soon, Young-ho will be put on a bus and taken back. Soon, again, Young-soo will leave his brother behind.

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Sonne

Alex McDonald Everything seems somewhat blurred and cut apart when you are watching him fuck her while you sit and sip on gin and tonic like everything is fantastic! And then she is leaving with him and through the haze of the smoke she looks at you, right at you, right into your eyes and she is laughing inside and saying look what you lost! Look at me leaving with my all American badass biker Hellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Angel superhero and look at you on your own drinking G and T like a middle aged woman in a hot flush over the gardener and oh Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m going to be sick, screw writing a sonnet

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Collateral Damage Peter Flint Beautiful children We are sorry we must kill you We are not seeking the blood of innocence But the destruction of evil Our cause is just We are strongâ&#x20AC;Ś And you are not of our tribe.

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Traces Ed Blundell There is your depression In the cushion of my chair, Where you sat. Here is a lipstick smudge On the rim of the cup You sipped from. Faint hints of your perfume Haunt still in the room, Scenting the sad silence. You departed, leaving me, Traces of you.

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Three Remixes James Bell I go into Superdrug for a box of paracetamols. There is a queue to pay as somebody has a problem the cashier is trying to deal with. Three college students come and stand behind me in their logoed sweatshirts, jeans, trainers and backpack uniform. Suddenly they surround me. ‘Hi, Bob.’ ‘How are you doing, George?’ ‘We know your name, Bill.’ None of these names are my own. As they go on to repeat this charade, it becomes crueller. They stop and look at me as I look from one to the other. I have no plan. I say what I say spontaneously, ‘I know your names too – arseholes.’ I turn and walk to the front of the store. There are noises of derision directed at me from the back of the store. I pay for the paracetamols at a cash desk at the front door that has no customers waiting and leave calmly; outside, I begin to feel shaken by my experience. I return to my office, take one of the paracetamols with water and get on with the afternoon’s tasks, while replaying the incident over and over in my head. I quietly contemplate suicide using all the caplets, knowing they are more toxic in overdose. *** I have a headache so go into Superdrug to buy some paracetamols. Only a twenty pence box and there is a fucking queue. I stand behind a few people as the cashier tries to sort out a problem for some woman. I tap a foot with impatience. Some students come and stand behind me. They do this inane giggle act until I realise it’s to do with me. ‘Need a pee, Bill?’ ‘Can’t hold it at your age, George?’ ‘I’d go if I were you, before you wet your pants, Bob.’ They giggle again as I look at them, confident I am old and harmless enough to be the butt of their jokes. I stare intently at the face of the one who seems to be their ringleader. Making a fist at my side I aim for his nose. Rewarded by a crack from a direct hit, I see the rush of blood and hear his cries of pain as blood drips onto the

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asinine logo on his sweatshirt. The other two are frozen to the spot. I kick one in the balls and he doubles over, then I hit him on the neck with a now painful fist. He drops. The third guy legs it. Two police officers appear from nowhere. ‘It was him!’ shouts the still able-bodied guy, who’s seen them outside and called them in. He has plenty of witnesses who had earlier ignored my ignominy. So I am formally charged with assault, charged too with shoplifting, the box of paracetamol found its way into my pocket somehow. Later, I lose my job after being given a six-month prison sentence, having vowed revenge from the dock; but the public and media memory is short. *** Go into Superdrug for paracetamols, find them and see a checkout nearby at the back of the store. They say even a small decision can change your destiny. I stand and watch some woman being difficult with the cashier. My hat is tipped over my eyes from behind. There are giggles so I turn round. Three guys stand there in standard student uniform. What they have done is dangerous fun with consequences. What they do now simply compounds their now gigantic problem. ‘Should take your hat off indoors, George.’ ‘It’s only polite, Bill.’ ‘Even if you are bald, Bob.’ This rude little chant has a refrain of forced laughter, becomes more forced as I stand and look calmly back at them. ‘He’s foreign, can’t speak English,’ says the ringleader. ‘Can’t speak English, Boris?’ echoes another. ‘Can’t speak-a-de English, Ivan,’ says the third with little further originality. I now notice an empty cash desk at the front of the store with nobody waiting so go there while the three guys force more laughter and try out other names: ‘Pablo, Hans, Pierre.’ The air outside is fresh and welcome. There is time to spare so I lean against a wall and light a cigarette. I watch as the woman who had the problem at the cash desk comes out the store flushed and flustered; finish my cigarette as the three students appear. I do what I do without premeditation. I am convinced all I wanted was a cigarette but then again maybe I didn’t. They do not see me. I am recent history, so now invisible. They begin to walk by me absorbed in their own arrogance. I grip a bag of loose change in my right hand coat pocket at the same time I grab the floppy dark hair of the ringleader with my

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left. He shouts in pain as my right hand connects with his nose and the other two shy back like frightened antelope. I repeat the hit; he howls and falls to the pavement where I kick him as hard as I can between the legs. He has never been in a situation like this before in his short life so has not gone into a foetal position to protect his head with his hands. He becomes still, probably unconscious, dead maybe, or brain damaged. All street movement has stopped. ‘You can’t do that!’ shouts a male voice, the first to unfreeze. ‘I just did,’ I shout back. I feel released from all constraints and can do anything. I am due back at the office but decide not to bother. There have been plenty of witnesses to what I have done and I want to get away, disappear, as I am already semi-prepared for such an eventuality. The street remains still and silent as I walk away.

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THE LIFEBOAT Peter Flint

As usual, the world has moved on Other topics now take priority in our safe cocoon, Greedy folk fiddling F.I.F.A for a few millions more David Cameron’s Eton frolicking with a dead pig Who will shine amid Strictly’s glam and glitter New pictures dominate our screens No longer is the flood of desperate people Risking their lives and those of bewildered kiddies To escape the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse The bombs, the sickness, the poverty, the fear Evil, heartless profiteers promising a new world Just a few hours in an inflatable dinghy Or a rusty overcrowded fishing boat The headline-grabbing topic We can forget the deflated, rubbish-strewn Remains of these fragile ferries to freedom Strewn on the beaches…abandoned, forgotten Now we must consider their former passengers Who will offer them sanctuary or rejection? Who will take them into their hearts and homes Or spend millions erecting razor-wire barriers Saying, ‘Keep out…you are not of our tribe!’ Or…‘We are willing to help…of course As long as you don’t bring your troubles to our shores.’ Tiny children are passed hand to hand onto trains Which may or may not be heading for Utopia Newspaper headlines damn desperate innocents As ‘scroungers’…risking their lives for benefits Why once more do ordinary folk have to migrate When they would much rather stay in their homeland? I suppose a half chance of survival and a future Might be a reason worth risking one’s life But what a gamble when that haven of safety Becomes a nightmare of death and delusion When the tiny body was carried up the beach… A potential life of hope and happiness Transformed into a slumped parcel of meat Was the lifeboat a lifeboat or all too often a deathboat?

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Gaza, or Somewhere, or Something Molly Draper Hey! There’s a baby! (Everybody loves a baby) There’s a baby. Ahhh! There’s a baby. …It’s so chalky. There’s a baby. There’s a baby looking chalky. On its own and looking dusty. There’s a baby. There’s a baby. …On its own and looking dusty in the rubble. There’s a baby. There’s a baby in the rubble, looking dusty, on its own, and is it sleeping? There’s a baby. There’s a baby. And the hands that find the baby Looking chalky. There’s a baby.

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There’s a baby. And the hands that dig the baby from the rubble pull the baby. There’s a baby. Hey! There’s a baby! And they dig it from the rubble Looking dusty! Looking sleepy. There’s a fucking baby. Hey! There’s a puppy! (Everybody loves a puppy) There’s a puppy.

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Something Rotten Jimmy Hartill

The two guards tramped their way through the slopping mud of the street with a scowl and a grimace. Their hauberks jingled every time they slipped and their spears were now serving as walking sticks to help them move in their bulky armour. They knew where they were going, round the bend past the old cobbler’s, skirting around the small garden of water lilies that lined the moat and finally to the tavern. Normally, they’d be doing this walk gladly. Though, normally, they’d be doing it out of their armour. The mud on the street lessened once they were off the thoroughfare leading into the castle proper, so they took a minute to scrape their shins and boots clean. They still hoped it was mostly mud. The two of them grumbled amongst themselves, casting untrusting looks at the moat when they walked past the lilies before entering the illustrious ‘Cockerel’s Hoop’. The tavern was somewhat subdued this evening – morose drinking and hushed conversations over mugs of ale that were held comfortingly in both hands. Most of them were discussing the deaths and the events of the afternoon. The guards approached the innkeeper who was busy scrubbing a mug clean with a tangle of coarse wool. He looked up at their approach and quickly tossed both in the basin of water. ‘Bernard, Marcel. What’re you two after in your finery?’ ‘Har-bloody-har,’ Bernard scoffed. ‘His Majesty has given us a task, Eric,’ Marcel sighed. ‘He wants us to look for a certain someone who we have reason to believe is drinking in here.’ ‘Who might that be?’ Eric looked curious now, his bushy eyebrows knitting together and his arms resting on one of the kegs loaded behind the bar. ‘His Majesty is looking for a wandering swordsman, clad in leather armour adorned with mail and bearing a crimson mantle tied about his–’ ‘We’re looking for the Moth,’ Bernard rolled his eyes. ‘What were his name? Asher?’ Eric looked unimpressed at Bernard’s lack of tact and nodded his head towards the back of the room. Sure enough, they saw the scruff of brown hair streaked with burnt black patches and the crimson cloak of the man they sought. They clinked across the tavern, picking their way between drinkers and tapped him

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on the shoulder. Asher glanced up at them, quickly taking into account the spears and armour, as well as Bernard’s irritable expression. He opted to let them start the conversation. ‘You’re coming with us,’ Bernard said bluntly. Asher raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry, it isn’t a religious thing,’ Marcel said with a glare at Bernard. ‘His Majesty simply has a commission for you. And a royal pardon for heresy should you need it on your travels.’ ‘Normally, kings make an “offer” when the receiver isn’t in a good position to refuse,’ Asher commented dryly. ‘Would you say that you are?’ Marcel asked with a grim smile. Asher sighed and quickly slung his sheathed sword over his shoulder. ‘Alright, let’s get this over with.’ *** The throne room was extravagant, if somewhat unusual. Gold lined the arrow slits along the far wall and the magnificent throne sat where a cauldron of boiling tar used to. White silk banners twined across the ceiling like a delicate cobweb before descending down the heavy, rectangular granite pillars. It was a unique arrangement; the former fortress had been converted since the country adopted Ulden worship and the ornamentation had been done to try and make the throne room less intimidating. Asher did take note that the God of Water’s holy symbol (Ulden’s fishhook) stood over the throne and another still dangled around Bernard’s neck. As a chosen of the Goddess of Fire, Asher was well aware how Ulden’s faithful felt about him. He made sure to keep at least a hand’s length away from the grumpy guard. He also took care to walk on the stone floor and not the intricately weaved carpet when he approached the king. Showing the manners he’d long been taught, he dropped to one knee and pressed his fist to his forehead. ‘You do me great honour in summoning me, King Wendill. I am Asher, chosen of Brunx. What is it you require of me?’ ‘I am afraid I must correct you, young Moth,’ the king said with a sad smile. ‘I am King Claude, Wendill was my older brother.’ Asher stayed silent, unsure if he should sympathise with his loss or applaud him for his gain. The king seemed to guess what he was thinking and chuckled. ‘Aye, most are uncertain how to address that information. It is not yet common knowledge that my brother has died and that I have assumed his throne. And married his widow.’ Asher stayed silent once more. He didn’t feel his opinion on that would be a

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welcome one. ‘In fact,’ the king continued. ‘The number of people who know this information now numbers thirteen. You are in a rather select group, young Moth. Now tell me…what do you know of ghosts?’ Asher sighed and his clasped fist relaxed to hold his face in his palm. ‘Your highness, may I speak plainly?’ ‘Of course. Provided you still speak wisely,’ the king said with a glare. ‘Dealing with the creatures that lurk in the darkness is my trade, and I’ve met a lot of things that use the dead as a medium. But I have never encountered a departed spirit. On a spiritual level, I am dubious that the dead linger in this world once their body is destroyed. I’m no expert, but I believe your god says as much too, “Washed away to rejoin the great sea” or something? What cause do you have to think one lingers here?’ ‘The cause is…it is the spirit in question. It is one quite close to my–’ ‘It’s the deceased king,’ Asher interrupted. ‘Your highness, I implore you, whatever your opinion of “Moths” we are rarely stupid. All I need to know is who has seen what, and where.’ King Claude’s brow darkened for a moment and Asher felt a flash of concern. Had he overstepped his bounds? His eyes darted to ensure he remembered where the guards all stood. But it was unnecessary, as a hollow chuckle emerged from the king’s lips. ‘Aye, I suppose this must be a matter in which you’ve had some experience even if you’ve never encountered one. Truly, it is my brother who has been seen. Never by myself, but both Bernard and Marcel, the two who met you today, our local scholar Horace, and my wife, Ruth. She has seen the spectre lingering by the barracks. She told me that he shimmers: a terrible purple colour, flickering like a flame in a gale, with a truly terrifying expression.’ Asher glanced back at the two guards. They didn’t give him the impression of pranksters, Bernard was too irritable and Marcel too loyal. If this was someone’s idea of a joke they’d run it too far if they’d shown the queen. ‘And of course, the Prince,’ the king continued. ‘Amleth has seen the phantasm multiple times and I fear it has driven him quite mad. We have called for a priestess from a distant village, Mother Deirdre; she should be here soon. In truth, I was willing to wait but events of the afternoon have…forced my hand. Are you aware of them?’ ‘No,’ Asher said, his tone curious now. ‘I was helping a farmer called Glason with an ogre problem. That’s interesting if it’s desperate enough you’re willing to let a follower of Brunx have at it. What happened this afternoon? I noticed the tavern was sombre.’

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The king sat back and took a deep breath in, rubbing his eyes with a finger and thumb as if uncertain how to proceed. He glanced at the guards who respectfully bowed their heads and stepped outside leaving the king along with the Moth. ‘Stand up, lad,’ the king sighed. ‘No point in your legs getting numb while I tell you the tale. I warn you though, it’s an unhappy one. And should you breathe a word of it to anyone I’ll have you executed via sawing. Understood?’ Asher smiled. ‘I always understand when the threat includes the method, tell me your story, King Claude.’ The king fidgeted with one of the rings on his hand. Asher noticed that it didn’t fit properly; it was cut for a different finger. The king started talking. ‘This all begins in my youth, back when I was a boy. My brother, Wendill, he was always going to be king. I understood that, truly: I made my peace that I would be a royal, live in comfort, but I would never be the ruler. No, that would fall to Wendill’s children. As is their right. In truth, I would have given Amleth the throne were he a few years older. But I want that to be clear, I have never had designs on the throne. Never. I was frequently a diplomat for the kingdom and I daresay I learned well how to speak and extoll my virtues. A silver tongue in place of a golden crown. It was while overseas that I met Ruth. She was first among women, her poise was flawless, her wit quicker than a whip. I remember when we first met, in the court of King Leir, I could see the faintest hints of her curly black hair beneath the flawless white of her wimple. I fell in love, Moth. I fell for this beautiful foreign princess and I soon invited her back to my brother’s kingdom to seek his blessing. ‘I was foolish. I should have known that Wendill was king. He could never abide his younger brother possessing such a beauty. So they were wed. And I had to watch on. I was not required to officiate, thank Ulden, but I was to be ring-bearer. My brother in his crimson and gold finery, grinning as Ruth walked up the aisle. Her dress was green. I never questioned it till now but I think it was a custom. They worshipped Gerra of the Soil in her native land; I suppose she was seeking the earth queen’s blessing. I had to hand the ring to my brother, the shackle he would affix about my beloved’s finger… ‘Do not look at me like that, Moth! You are drawing hasty conclusions. Far, far, too hasty. My brother and Ruth were wed for many a year, Amleth was born of their union and I did my best to raise the boy. All was fine except…my brother. My brother began to change. It was subtle, at first. In truth I do not know when it started but I remember when I first noticed. Amleth was still a boy but Ruth took him out hunting and whilst pursing a rabbit he was grazed by a tree. Wendill burned down the entire copse and…befouled…the ashes of the tree that dared graze his royal progeny. ‘I was concerned, naturally, I asked Ruth what she thought. We did not speak often, her and I, the flicker of romance still smouldered in our breasts and we did not

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wish to risk an inferno erupting. I imagine you can relate to such pyrrhic dilemmas… apologies lad, that was unworthy. ‘Ruth also did not know what to make of Wendill’s recent attitude but it wasn’t until we heard his plans for the North that we realised the extent of the danger. Wendill was conspiring to declare war on our neighbours. All of our neighbours. Never mind that we were vastly outnumbered, even were we to win, such disregard for the teachings of Ulden would bring the rest of the continent down upon us. If you’ll pardon my poetic soul, we would never survive such a deluge. And so it was that I hatched upon my plot. I had access to a plant called hebona, which medicinally is used to treat stress related conditions by thinning the blood but at higher doses is quite fatal. Wendill and Ruth never shared chambers, not since Amleth’s birth. It was enough for Wendill to possess her it seemed. Wendill slept alone, undefended and...I dripped the hebona extract into his ear. My brother soon expired, blood bursting within his skull. And so I murdered him…’ The king paused here, his hands clasped tightly together, staring at the floor. Cautiously, he raised his head to look at Asher, trying to gauge what the Moth might be thinking about this heinous crime he had committed. But the young man looked almost disinterested in the morality of the deed, his hand cupped his chin and his expression was one of great thought. ‘Your highness,’ Asher said finally. ‘Not that this hasn’t been informative, but you might want to focus on the ghost?’ The king was unsure how to feel about the Moth’s dismissal of his guilt, he had bared his soul to this heretic and his response was a chastisement of relevance? King Claude chuckled to himself and resumed his tale. ‘I married Ruth almost before the body was cold, we had waited long enough for our union. At first, I intended to allow Amleth to take over but the situation was so tenuous with our neighbours. The bulk were unaware of Wendill’s plan, all save for the ruler of Yawron whose spies had burrowed deep within our castle like ticks on a mangy hound. I negotiated peace, which was not easy I shall tell you now, owing to Wendill killing the former king in a duel. But it was done, I told Yawron’s king of my deed to earn his favour and I returned from the negotiations to find the rumours had begun. ‘I’m loathe to admit it, but my first response was to have Bernard and Marcel caned for their impudence, daring to have claimed they saw Wendill’s ghost. But I did notice the smell, as did most others. The waft of decay permeated the castle – every room but here. It wasn’t until Horace affirmed he had seen it too, as well as Amleth, that I acknowledged the truth of the rumours. I repaid the guards for their suffering, a silver piece for every lash. Amleth seems to have been the worst affected by the sight, he began to lose his wits, constantly complaining of seeing the spectre

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lurking about him. ‘I know not what came over him, but he took to raving and was constantly pursuing me with a mad-dog’s eye, the same glint I used to see in his father’s. He began to act repulsed by Eury, his former lover, and hired some actors to put on macabre performances of a prince murdering his uncle the king in gruesome ways. I was disturbed by the performance’s similarities to my own trouble with Wendill, hastened only by the revelation the plays were penned by none other than Amleth himself. While I wondered whether or not to tell him the truth, the prince murdered my advisor Jeptha in cold blood. Jeptha was lurking behind a curtain; no doubt the old fool was trying to spy on the prince and learn what ailed him but was repaid with a knife to the gullet. ‘I managed to prevent Amleth’s execution, his death would have broken Ruth’s heart, but I fear the consequences of my actions. I had him exiled instead, accompanied by two colleagues of his. I managed to placate Jeptha’s children, Eury who had lost near everything and Setreal his son who demanded revenge. This was months ago, our only problem since was Eury’s constant complaints of a foul odour, but yesterday…Eury killed herself. She plunged from the top of the west tower into the reeds and drowned amidst the water lilies. I can but hope her soul is with Ulden for during the funeral procession this afternoon, Amleth returned. He claimed to be heartbroken at her death, the woman he had scorned, shamed before the entire court. In front of her brother, Setreal, he accused me of being the responsible party. Setreal’s rage overflowed and he had to be restrained from attacking the prince. Instead, he challenged him to a duel. Amleth agreed, witnessed by Horace, and has sworn to bloody his blade with my blood.’ Asher tapped his chin with a finger while he processed this information, pacing around one of the heavy pillars of the room. He leant casually against one and seemed to be studying the king’s body language, looking for some sign of a deception. ‘Aside from Eury, did anyone else notice the rotten smell linger after Amleth’s banishment?’ ‘Aye, it has lessened in some quarters but intensified in others.’ Asher cursed and chewed a knuckle on his hand. ‘That isn’t good. Would you like the good news or the bad?’ ‘If there is any good to be had, I would gladly hear it.’ ‘There is no ghost,’ Asher grunted. ‘And you haven’t told anyone that the rotten smell began long before you killed Wendill.’ King Claude looked briefly shocked and his mouth opened and closed in mute indignation. ‘Maybe you didn’t notice, but I guarantee it was the case. The queen would

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probably remember better.’ ‘And what is the bad news?’ ‘There is going to be blood shed today,’ Asher said with a grim scowl. He drew his sword with a soft ring of steel and performed a few warm up movements. ‘I’ll need a guide, someone who’s seen it before. It’s time I talked to this ghost.’ Asher leant besides the burning torch, a single flickering point of orange amidst the dull blue of the moonlit moor. The castle’s keep was surrounded by a moat but for a single point, which lead out into an inhospitable swamp. This point had the thickest wall, a huge iron portcullis and lead directly into a courtyard where the guards had their quarters and a constant watch. Asher knew all this because the bespectacled man opposite him had told him it all in excruciating detail, including every time that this particular stretch of castle had been crucially involved in a battle. Horace was nothing if not well informed and, to Asher’s surprise, was the young prince’s closest friend. He’d provided Amleth’s side of the story, or at least how Horace understood it. The ghost had told him all about his uncle’s evil deeds and that he must avenge his father’s death. Amleth had struggled at first with the moral implications but was soon convinced that the ghost was earnest and began behaving erratically. He assured Horace it was only an act, to which Asher rather impolitely scoffed. The duel with Setreal would be taking place soon and Horace wished to be there to support his friend. Or wish him farewell. There was little belief that Amleth could win against Setreal, he was the superior swordsman. Or so Horace told him. Asher feigned interest and admiration at Setreal’s feats but without sounding arrogant, Asher fought for his life near enough every fortnight. Mastering the Yotsgardian Arrow Riposte meant very little to someone whose style was ‘apply the sharp bit to opponent as fast and frequently as possible.’ Horace was just about to begin explaining how Amleth might win because of the local rules regarding daggers but was halted by a wave of Asher’s hand. A faint lavender coloured mist was rising up from the moor, swirling in the faint ebb and flow of wind. It began to spiral and twine about itself, a foul smelling fog that soon coalesced into a screaming face, warped and twisted by the wind plucking at its ephemeral form. Asher said nothing as he rested a hand against his drawn blade and quickly ran it down the length of the sword. The blade ignited in time with his hand, bursting into fantastic burning hues and casting more light against the swirling fog that now resembled the dead King Wendill. ‘Oh warrior, pity the lost soul of King Wendill, murdered by his own brother, for a meaningless wreath of gold.’ ‘You aren’t fooling anyone.’ Asher said, smiling nastily.

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‘Oh? What hubris is this? For a vagabond to so mock a monarch?’ ‘Why didn’t you go for Claude?’ Asher continued, ignoring the ghost’s words. ‘Was it just that you couldn’t enter the throne room? Too many holy symbols about? You did alright influencing Wendill.’ ‘What sadness I feel, that the warrior is a fool, Horace why hast thou brought me a lunatic?’ ‘What about Eury?’ Asher cut off any attempts by Horace to answer. ‘She lasted for months with you trying to influence her, dripping poison in her ear as it were. What was your end goal? Just kill as many as you could with whoever would listen to you?’ ‘Who are you?’ the ghost finally asked, his voice warping and becoming somehow more feral. Less human. ‘Asher, Chosen of Brunx. Most people call us Moths.’ The ghost’s body warped with a terrible shriek and to Horace’s shock, set upon Asher. It tried to smother him with tendrils of vapour pouring at the Moth’s face, but held at bay by Asher’s crimson cloak wrapped around his nose and mouth. The burning sword cleaved through the gas form like a knife through air but wherever it cut the lilac mist blackened and burned away into smoke. It was a surreal sight, to see the Moth with the flaming blade duelling a creature as insubstantial as air yet burning its form away, shrinking the horrific being with every strike until it was forced to a dim silhouette of a person standing before them. Unceremoniously, Asher cleaved it in twain and watched the last remnants burn into a wisp of grey. ‘An Aberra,’ Asher explained. ‘A creature that feeds on madness and death. The gases of decomposing bodies make up its physical form but the creature itself is made of dark magic. That’s why your castle smelt of rot. It drove Wendill mad and now it seems to have done the same to the young prince.’ ‘The duel! We must stop it! The prince must be told that he was deceived!’ Asher said nothing. He sheathed his sword and looked out into the moor. In his pocket he had the royal pardon, that pardon would probably save his life one day provided he rode fast. He smiled sadly at Horace and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Horace, will you do me a favour?’ The scholar hesitated but nodded. ‘Judging by the arrows I saw by old Glason’s farm, the army of Yawron will be here by dawn. Though I know not the result of the duel, I implore you: let noone speak of my presence here. This story has been tragic enough, let it not be for naught.’ Horace was silent, he merely watched Asher walk off into the moors with only the moon to guide him. He turned and hurried, hoping he was not too late to see the duel. Unaware of the sight that would await him.

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Messages in Bottles James Bell and there is that practice of walking a subliminal beach where you need to use your imagination where the bare foot marks in the sand are your own it is dawn and waves have washed the shore the only other living energy apart from the rising sun it is as if you are not there have been excused the usual dimension intruded upon by a bottle on the shore that you open for the message inside it says you are here another bottle further on also has a message you are also here yet another bottle further on holds a message you are here too dawn light is reflected from a series of other bottles on the shore you can choose to open them all or not

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