Scrittura Magazine, Issue 7, Spring 2017 by Scrittura Literary Magazine

Issue number 7 Spring 2017

Scrittura Magazine ÂŠ Copyright 2017 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 07 08 10 11 12 16 17 18 19 20 21 27 28 29 30

Vernal Equinox Saquina Karla C. Guiam Tempus Fugit Ed Blundell One Last Fix David Campbell Not a Poem About Daffodils James Bell An End Annie Maclean Peace With Teeth Steven McCracken Joy Annie Maclean Bloodroot Saquina Karla C. Guiam Sound of Your Voice Ed Blundell Three Poems Sanja Dragojlov An Exiled Scot Lets The New Cat Outside For The First Time Annie Maclean Meeting You David Campbell Crush Saquina Karla C. Guiam Dear Friends Anthony McIntyre Vita Brevis Ed Blundell Crazy James Bell

Scrittura Magazine

A Note From The Editors Welcome to the spring issue of Scrittura magazine, and the first issue of 2017! We have a fantastic selection of prose and poetry from all over the globe, and being able to publish writing from such a diverse pool of talent is something we are incredibly proud of. Opening this issue on the first day of spring we have the apt and uplifting poem Vernal Equinox, turn to page 6 to read. Also included is a poignant poem about the brevity of life (Vita Brevis pg 29), a powerful portrayal of addiction (One Last Fix, pg 8), and a compelling short story filled with betrayal (Peace With Teeth, pg 12). The cover art is inspired by Meeting You, turn to page 21 to read. We’re so proud of how far Scrittura has come in the short time we’ve been running. To anyone out there looking to get their writing out to the world, don’t forget to submit your work via our website; we have rolling submissions, but our next submission deadline is 30th April 2017 for Issue 8! As always, a huge thank you to everyone who’s submitted their writing or shown their support to us via social media. We’ve thoroughly enjoyed reading each and every submission and getting to know some extremely talented writers. Finally, a big thank you to our wonderful designer Catherine, who never fails to create a stunning issue.

Valentina & Yasmin

Scrittura Magazine

Vernal Equinox Saquina Karla C. Guiam

When you tell me the story of a spring, you turn into a star. No, not the ones so far away that we can only see in stuttering flashes of their brilliance, but the kind that burns and shines and I can feel my insides melting, your rays of light sending pinpricks of yourself on my skin, marking me yours. You talk about the coming of spring like the rise of an empire; how the ruins that winter left breathe again. I heard Thoreau said he saw Judgment Day when the ice broke and you said the song of triumph practically roars throughout the forest as blossom and bloom chase wilt and curl down. I say I wish I could see it—you, basking in the new dawn, soaking up illumination, the grass and the trees singing love song after love song—and you reply You already do, holding my hands; an eternal summer etched in every lifeline on our palms. We are growing hibiscus in our hair, feverish in the slow warmth of our bodies, flowers pooling and growing everywhere around us— —spring is you and I, a Mobius strip of joy, unending and victorious.

Scrittura Magazine

Tempus Fugit Ed Blundell The sands of time that count the days, That trickle out in steady flow, To mark the hours flying by, Run faster as they near the end. The rosebuds gathered in our youth That bloomed and scented heady nights, Begin to fade, then slowly wilt, Their petals one by one drop off. The tide comes in, the tide goes out, Night follows day which dawns again. The cycle of the seasons turns, The future soon becomes the past. We have brief moments in the sun, But every sun must set at last.

Scrittura Magazine

ONE LAST FIX David Campbell The needle scratches against the surface of your skin, Probing, grasping for the dark blue river of veins That flow leisurely against the soft pallor of skin. Hungrily, feverishly, the sharp tip jabs and jabs, Leaving faint pinpricks, a demented pattern of circles. A battle-scarred skin, flinching as it is struck again and again, Until the tip breaks through the crumbling barrier of follicles, Releasing the silky, festering ooze of poison into Those beautiful blue rivers, polluting, twisting them Beyond recognition, they thrash and scream in agony As a new river is formed, a river of blackness and sludge That has asserted its dominance. You lie back, defeated, and let the transformation begin. The eyes, the all-seeing voyeur of knowledge, begin to glaze, Losing their intellectual gleam as the new river leaves its mark. The loyal pupil shrinks itself away, tiny, a ghost of its former self, To be replaced by a milky whiteness, featureless, emotionless. Your brain is numb, thoughts, dreams and memories sucked away Leaving only a lifeless pinkish sponge where intelligence once dwelled. Sweat begins to pour from the cavernous chambers within, A final gasp of defiance against a foreign invader. A slow-moving Niagara, trickling down the contours Of your skin, tugging at you, pleading for recognition. Its cries go unheeded, its sad descent continues Until it falls, quickly but silently, into the void below, A lost messenger from a battle already decided. Your body begins to tremble, a mini-earthquake roaring With fury as it is consumed from within. All you can do now is gasp and moan, little by little Releasing pure breaths of determination from shattered lungs, Only to see it dissipate in the air around you, lost in the Vast maelstrom of reality, a reality that is slipping away. You long for sleep, an end to this half-life of existence.

Scrittura Magazine

You awaken, to a colourless world, a void where nothing tangible exists. All you have left is the needle, remaining faithfully by your side, Whispering sweet nothings gently, caressing your shattered conscience. Everything will be fine, it says smoothly, confidently. Just one more. One more release of the black river to let it consume you forever. With the last vestiges of strength, your trembling fingers find their Purchase on the cold, metallic surface of the needleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge. Just one more, one more, one more. You are hesitant, the voice is too demanding, its tendrils wrapping Their way into your addled mind. One more, one more. Either you heed the needleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s insistent words or you cast it away with One last act of determination, one more display of the person you used to be, Before the black river began its corruption. Within the depths of your exhausted, weakened mind a decision is made. You raise the needle.

Scrittura Magazine

Not a Poem About Daffodils James Bell

a long time ago you asked me to write a poem about daffodils as we walked by some – I said no because it had already been done and was not a subject I wanted to address– your fingers loosened in my hands well here is the poem about daffodils though it’s not – it’s more on not writing about them when you asked I hope you get to read this– recall that day you asked the question I did not pay proper attention to kissed when we parted – a quickness mixed with earlier and freer passions– a whim on the lips was all being young and callow I did not get the import behind the request – if not actual flowers a poem would be next best

Scrittura Magazine

An End Annie Maclean Mid-December. Darkened days. Rare stars shine outside the comets. Inside the night, sea breezes roar. They say that shoals of fish have fled. Boats are built to beat the floods. The land vibrates its mantra note. Clay will suffocate all spaces and talismans encase our final wishes. The colour harmonies have settled. The end of everything is ready.

Scrittura Magazine

Peace With Teeth Steven McCracken Everyone has a friend like Jonathan Malles. You know the one. The loud one, the reckless one. The one who walks up to the biggest, gruffest guy in the club and says, ‘My friend really likes you. The one over there with the stubble. D’you see him? Look at him, he’s hiding his face! Isn’t that sweet?’ There’s nothing like sprinting through a city centre at three in the morning with ten vodkas in your veins and four bodybuilders in pursuit to make you feel alive. That’s why we do it, right? To feel alive. That’s Jonathan Malles’s ticket to the party, to every party going. He does the things we’re afraid to do, pours scorn on those who’d sleepwalk through life saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ till they’re planted beneath a headstone that says the same as all the others. The question is: what does Jonathan Malles want with us? I thought I had it worked out at Uni. I’m a thoughtful person – too thoughtful probably, second and third guessing myself till my mind’s a committee of competing voices. I thought: someone like Malles needs an audience, acolytes. Someone to tell others about the time he framed a photo of his genitals and hung it in an abstract art gallery. They didn’t notice for a week! Critics wrote about it! Well, what can you do, Jonathan Malles is Jonathan Malles! The police were very firm on this point: Jonathan Malles is not Jonathan Malles. *** It’s been over a decade since I left university now, but like many others I’ve never really kicked on. Somehow, that period of my life often seems more vivid, more real, than the reality that surrounds me. Malles disappeared into the ether a decade ago, but there he is, alive in my thoughts, while work colleagues come and go like clouds in a dull grey sky. My chosen vocation is itself a vector of the past, an accident borne of cheap student drink and a girl. ‘When I’m not drunk I can speak French,’ I told her. ‘In fact…I’m going on exchange to France next year. Where is it you’re from? Lille? It’s a little town near there, I believe…’ Don’t worry, I didn’t really set up a year long study exchange to be near a girl I met at a party. I met another girl in the interim who was from Vancouver Island so I went there instead. That’s how I ended up working for Lakeside Resorts. I run the office – a glorified housekeeper really. We issue keys, coordinate the cleaning of chalets between

Scrittura Magazine

guests and arrange for maintenance workers to check appliances and keep everything in full working order. The clientele can be glamorous. We’ve had movie stars, models and millionaires. Rudy O’Hara wasn’t even a big name for us. US Republican Senator for Ohio? Tell me, had you heard of him before all of this? *** I’ve had perpetual stubble since I was thirteen. I rub it when I’m troubled, when I’m thoughtful, when I’m self-conscious, when I’m bored. I rubbed it a lot in the police interview room. The police perform a uniquely Freudian role in our lives. It’s virtually impossible to walk past a police officer without a stab of guilt, averting your gaze as if eye contact might reveal your crimes. Try driving past a cop car without looking over your shoulder, expecting the siren to loom in the rear-view mirror. When the police ask us for assistance we become pathetically obsequious – more eager to please than a neglected dog. ‘Rudy O’Hara has been reported missing? Really? Of course, I’ll do everything I can to help, everything I can. It was just yesterday he picked up his keys at Lakeside. I saw him yesterday morning…’ That’s right, I was chirpy enough when they knocked on my door to ask me about someone else’s problems. You have an entirely different attitude to the police when they return with a warrant, handcuffs and march you to a cell. *** Malles was always political. We all liked to rant at Uni – reality TV, brain dead celebrities, you know the drill. It touched on politics. The crassness of modern culture bleeds naturally into the consumerism that spawns it, the soul crushing capitalism preached by dead-eyed businessmen and the politicians that lick their boots. Malles took things a step further. The boy who couldn’t bring himself to begin essay research until a week after the submission deadline could name and shame every politician who’d voted in favour of the Iraq war. Global warming was the one that really warmed him, though – as Ellie discovered when she alluded to scepticism on the matter. ‘The science is under debate, Ellie? Really? I suppose to some extent, science is always under debate but 99% of climate scientists agree that it’s happening. Is that really balanced out by the ramblings of some TV weathermen and US talk show hosts? Imagine 99% of the structural engineers you asked told you that if you stepped onto a rickety mountain bridge it would collapse. What would you do? Would you consult a plumber for a second opinion? What if someone who reads the news told you they thought it looked safe? Would you go with their ‘expertise’ and wander confidently across the abyss?’ Ellie and Malles never really got along. They say it isn’t easy to choose between your ideals and your desires. They’re wrong.

Scrittura Magazine

*** One of the first things I wanted to establish post-arrest was whether or not I’d actually committed a crime. I’d violated Lakeside’s client confidentiality, that was clear. I could kiss my job goodbye. But was telling a girl in a bar that yes, Rudy O’Hara’s in town and, oh, you know the forest lodges do you? Yeah, he’s in the one at the foot of the lake really worthy of a jumpsuit and ankle chains? A lawyer would have been useful in this regard but when an official waves a piece of paper at you that contains the word terrorism it doesn’t even seem worthwhile asking. My disappointingly ordinary extraordinary rendition introduced me to a portacabin misnamed a ‘national security centre’. I was strip-searched and placed in front of a TV set. At first I thought I was looking at an outtake from Frozen Planet with David Attenborough. White ice cliffs flaking snow cubes into the ocean makes for a spectacular vista, even on a shaky cam. I could hear the helicopter’s rotor blades chopping the air as the camera zoomed in – and two figures came into view. *** The last time I saw Malles, his head and shoulders were poking from the top of a moving car, elbows propped on the roof with belligerent grace, like a tank commander surveying his domain. Malles was the king of Kings College University, a self-appointed monarch being driven through the streets by his latest batch of acolytes. He wore the crown with irony, raising eyebrows as the car cruised past, his V sign for peace taking on an entirely different meaning once the car passed and the angle reversed. It was my last day in the UK. A day of shifting boxes and emptying drawers. In retrospect the implication seems clear: I was a prisoner and Malles was free. *** ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the world, roll up! See the sights – the phenomenal glacial shelf of the Arctic sea ice while it still exists! Wait – how did Rudy O’Hara get there?! What’s a Republican Senator, one of the foremost climate deniers on the Earth, doing sitting on the edge of the ice cliffs? He must be trying to prove his theory that the Arctic sea ice is actually growing! ‘Rudy, you look a bit stressed! Chill out man, believe in yourself. Just last week you repeated your claim that every year the Arctic sea ice is growing. Yourself and Peace With Teeth’s Ricardo Hubrisio are ten metres back from the furthest point of the recession of last year’s ice – no way that shelf will break! ‘So why are you sweating Rudy? Huh? It can’t be from the heat! The world is getting colder! That’s what you’ve been telling us, isn’t it? ‘Wait! What was that noise? That crack didn’t sound too good. Sounds like a fissure wider than the gaps in your logic, Rudy. Are you reconsidering your perspective Rudy? Are you having second thoughts?’

Scrittura Magazine

*** We’ve all got a friend like Ricardo Hubrisio, an expert at getting us into trouble, but even for Malles this felt like a bit of a stretch. ‘We know this man attended the same university classes as you,’ I heard them say. ‘Do you really expect us to believe that you’ve had no contact with him, that you only revealed these details to a girl you barely know, whose phone number you don’t even have?’ ‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’ I said, but bravado has never been my forte. I turned to the TV once again. Bravado fit Jonathan Malles like a glove. He didn’t even look cold. There he stood, poised on the edge of fracturing ice cliffs, chained to a petrified US Senator, the epicentre of a viral, virulent, worldwide storm. Somehow, it still felt personal. Jonathan Malles chose Rudy O’Hara but he also chose me, and what have I ever done?

Scrittura Magazine

Joy

Annie Maclean Tim Peake attempts a backwards flip. He shuts his eyes. Remembers dolphins. He floats round slowly, thinking silence. Scientists plot his revolutionsâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; his spinning atoms shooting space. Tim recalls his Spirograph which followed predetermined paths. The speed. The turnings. The excitement. Cameras track his puffed face, smiling. Comic patterns.Â Tim is laughing.

Scrittura Magazine

Bloodroot Saquina Karla C. Guiam Each step brought a kingdom to its knees; I walked with the last gift my parents ever left me: flashes of snarling and rough hands—the callouses becoming stigmata. You took to alcohol; I’m intimate with the burns that settle in my liver. You put a shot glass by my temple, a lipless kiss that tasted like a spring breeze; you said you’re an idiot in a dragged out drawl, drops of bell chimes. I have no dreams, only nightmares. Past witching hour, I wake up to ash and ruin in my mouth and itching to be out; you take my hands in yours, squeeze. There are no words spoken between the mingled breaths we share. After the funeral, the nicotine in your lungs coats even your heart. I know this as it happened to me, too, and I didn’t want to stop grieving and burning. You, on the other hand, moved on; my memory lurking deep. I always knew you’d outlive lions.

Scrittura Magazine

Sound of Your Voice Ed Blundell

I touch your name and far away Your mobile phone begins to ring. I know the tune that it will play, I sit and wait for you to speak And then your message, ‘Hi it’s me But I can’t take your call just now. Leave me your number, I’ll get back To you as soon as I am free.’ I kill the call, then ring again Because I want to hear your voice And if I cannot speak to you Your answer phone will have to do.

Scrittura Magazine

THREE POEMS Sanja Dragojlov The distant moon was hanging above cemetery shores where lonesome ghosts ethereal saints with paper wings wandered with restless abandon and death watched with phantasmagorical eyes

Heart beats tangible threads Extending into the crevices Of effervescent senses A living hiraeth burns inside longing of post-war streets and the golden hope of shredded dreams among fiery planes and explosive grenades.

The rook, he dreams of cadaverous trees whilst effulgent autumn smiles at the cacophony of black-feathered souls pining one for the other in a lifelong orchestra The rook mates for life.

Scrittura Magazine

An Exiled Scot Lets The New Cat Outside For The First Time Annie Maclean The back door is opened. This room is named Garden. Its air smells of salt. Its space is unmeasured. Down through the post and rail, there are trees with low branches which point to the beach on the edge of the ocean. There is a path to the North and it stretches to Scotland. Hot paws for a month? You can walk beside water. The reward will be heaven. Sea trout and smoked salmon. Haddock and venison. Macs are mad for wee cats. My pal, Robbie B, writes of love and of mice. At last it’s our suppertime. Come back into the house?

Scrittura Magazine

Meeting You David Campbell

It was a chilly Saturday evening, the night our eyes first gazed upon one another. The Ginger Horse bar, Lewisham. A cosy little place, nothing too fancy. You were sitting at the bar with your girlfriends, clutching a glass of cider without a care in the world. Your long black hair was trailing seamlessly past your neck and settling between the broad outline of your shoulders. The subtle flicks and twirls it made as you leaned forward and back had been the catalyst for my eyes to fix on you. I was sitting ninety degrees to your right, immersed in my own choice of beverage, a white wine spritzer, listening to the banal, slightly tipsy chatter of my friends Jack and Graham. We were three very bored young men with nothing to do on a Saturday evening. Like so many times before, we had come to the Ginger Horse to let the clock run by, become unnecessarily wasted and stagger home through the dark streets. On the Sunday morning I would awaken, hungover, burying my head in the pillow and wait for the insides of my skull to stop burning. The next Saturday, we would repeat the ritual all over again. Nothing ever interrupted this routine until I caught sight of you. The gentle sway of your hair had entered the peripheral vision of my left eye, a dark speck that seemed to be tugging at my pupil, demanding attention. I gave in to its request, turning my head ever so slightly. My gaze must have lingered for ten seconds or more. It wasn’t just your hair that was so captivating; it was the way you sat on that bar stool, confident but without a trace of arrogance, relaxed yet seemingly alert, attentive. You had made that corner of the bar your own with seemingly no effort at all. Your girlfriends were in fits of giggles, occasionally drawing closer to one another and engaging in hushed whispers. One or two of them were already drunk, teetering slightly on the edges of their stools and the volume of their laughter beginning to rise audibly. I remember seeing you smile, no doubt in response to something one of the girls had said to you. I can still picture those beautiful white teeth, the lipstick at the corners of your mouth peeling away to reveal them. That smile was a beacon that was flashing its way across the pub at me, demanding my undivided attention. ‘Hello, Earth to Dennis!’ said a heavy, masculine voice in my right ear. Reluctantly I tore myself away from the entrancing sight and turned to find Graham shaking his empty glass at me. ‘I’m all out, mate. And it’s your round.’ I felt a slight lurch in my stomach at his words. My round? That would mean going to the bar, to the corner of the pub you had made your own. At the same time, I scolded myself. For crying out loud, you’re just buying Graham and Jack a round. She’s just a girl at the bar. Get a grip, idiot. ‘Same again?’ I asked, standing up and gesturing to the remnants of their

Scrittura Magazine

banana daiquiris (Graham loved those cocktails. Jack, indecisive as always, usually followed his lead). ‘Yeah, but ask them for a large this time, not a medium,’ Graham replied with a grin. ‘I don’t feel nearly as plastered as I should be.’ ‘Large one for me too Denny,’ Jack slurred (He was often the first to get drunk; the man could not hold his alcohol at all). At the bar, I ordered another spritzer and waited idly as the barmaid did her thing of pouring and mixing the cocktail. A voice suddenly drifted its way across to me. A voice that sounded eloquent yet sensual, each word, each sentence uttered with care. ‘I’d love to go on holiday again this year. We should try somewhere exotic this time. Tenerife, maybe? Imagine just how much of a tan we’ll come back with!’ Another cacophony of giggles followed this sentence. ‘Well, Sandra went there a few years back,’ piped a shrill, female voice. ‘Met a lovely Greek fella at the resort she stayed in. Didn’t take her long to show him how good us Brit girls are in the bedroom!’ Another round of shrieks and giggles. ‘Maybe you’ll get lucky Julie, perhaps some hunky rich bloke on the beach will take a shine to you. Especially if you bring that gold bikini of yours!’ Laughter again. Julie, I thought to myself. That was your name. I liked the way it sounded. Two perfect syllables that rolled off the tongue. It was an angelic name to go with that angelic voice, which I heard again pouring deliciously into my left ear. ‘I don’t think I’ll have time for any blokes in Tenerife, whether they’re rich or not,’ the voice said, this time dripping with sarcasm but with a hint of shyness, I thought. ‘Get me anywhere near a beach and I’ll be happy.’ The chorus of giggles sounded again. I couldn’t help myself – I had to look over. I turned my head towards your corner of the bar. You were taking another long sip of your cider, head tilted back, hair cascading once more, savouring the liquid like it was an elixir. And then you looked at me. Looked at me with two piercing blue eyes. I felt that lurch in my stomach again, became suddenly aware of the thumping of my pulse as it reverberated through my ears. Those eyes simply gazed at me, connecting me to your world in that moment. I felt a numbness creeping through my body. I was a deer caught in headlights, frozen in shock. I thought I saw the ghost of that precious smile playing on your lips. It’s just your imagination, said a logical voice in the pit of my brain, fighting to be heard through the numbness. After what seemed like an eternity (but in reality was probably no more than four seconds), I turned away, feeling life return to my nerves once more. The barmaid came back with the daquiris and gave me a quizzical look. I realised a blush had begun to form in my cheeks. Hurriedly passing some coins and mumbling a thanks, I set off back to the table, daiquiris in hand, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste. What is wrong with you? A girl looks at you in a bar and you start acting like a teenager at a school disco. Get a grip. I reached the table and found Graham giving me a sly grin. ‘What?’ I asked him. ‘I didn’t realise you had such a roving eye, Dennis,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m sure the

Scrittura Magazine

lucky lady was very flattered.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ I replied defensively. That blush was beginning to seep back into my cheeks again. ‘The girls at the bar,’ Graham laughed. ‘You were staring at them like you’d been struck dumb!’ Jack snorted at this. ‘So, Denny’s spotted a bird!’ he cackled, rather too loudly for my liking. ‘Guys,’ I said petulantly. ‘I wasn’t staring, I was thinking…thinking about…’ I trailed off, not even bothering to come up with an excuse. I was never very good at lying. ‘Thinking about what?’ Graham chortled. ‘About the hangover you’ll have tomorrow morning?’ He leaned forward and snatched the daquiris out of my hands. ‘So, tell me Casanova, who’s caught your eye?’ I ignored him, sitting back down and trying to look as detached as possible. Unperturbed, Graham glanced over to where you were sitting, scanning the group of giggling, chatty girls like a hawk. ‘I bet it’s that blonde one there,’ he said, pointing at a woman sitting a few stools across from you. ‘Check out the rack on her! No wonder you’re smitten.’ Jack followed Graham’s line of sight and guffawed. ‘Bloody hell, you’re not wrong Gray, she could crush a man to death with one of those!’ Even when half-drunk, Jack’s eyes would always fixate on breasts. ‘Give it a rest,’ I moaned, now wishing the floor would swallow me up. ‘Well, why don’t you go and chat her up then?’ Graham said. ‘If you fancy her that much, I’m sure she’d love to hear it!’ A thought seemed to occur to him. ‘Play your cards right and you might be having a hangover at someone else’s pad tomorrow!’ ‘Can we change the bloody subject, please?’ I said, now sorely tempted to throw Graham’s daquiri over him if he didn’t shut up. ‘Hold your horses Dennis, looks like you’re wanted over there. You’re just a regular babe magnet tonight!’ Ignoring Graham, I turned towards the bar and noticed someone gesticulating towards me. It was the barmaid. She was pointing at a glass on the counter. My spritzer. In my rush, I had forgotten all about it. Sighing, but thankful to be away from those two for a few more seconds, I got up and headed back to the bar. You were looking at me again. Smiling. This time, it was unmistakeable. Those pearly whites were on full show again, the blue eyes were fixed directly on me. The numbness hit me again like a train, threatening to paralyse me once more. I could feel the thunder of my pulse returning to my ears and the back of my throat felt dry. But this time I held your gaze. I’m not sure why I did it. Perhaps it was confidence, hidden away somewhere inside me and exploding outwards. Perhaps I was just crazy. Whatever the case, I kept looking at you during my journey to the bar, a journey that felt as long and arduous as if I was crossing a desert. Time no longer mattered. In that moment, we were the only two people left in the world. Eventually, after a thousand years or so had passed, I reached the bar once more. Reluctantly I turned away from you, thanking the barmaid once more and

Scrittura Magazine

slipping another handful of coins into her outstretched hand. Spritzer in hand, I turned back towards the table. You were still looking. And still smiling. I stood there, drink in hand, frozen in place like a statue. Your eyes were boring into me, scrutinising me, entrapping me with their gaze. Every instinct in my body was telling me to move, to get back to the table. But I didn’t. I put my right foot forward, and then the left. Towards you. It was my choice but at the same time it wasn’t. I no longer felt in control of my body. I was merely an observer as whatever force had sprung from inside me directed itself towards where you were sitting. One step, then another. And another. You were still smiling, still beckoning me forward with those eyes. And I continued to respond. Another step forward. Another. And another. Just one more to go. I reached you at long last. You gazed up at me with those sparkling pools of blue, the smile never having left your face. Your friends stopped their chatter and looked up, surprised. No-one said a word. A stillness seemed to have descended upon the world again. Just the two of us, in a bar. I had to speak, to regain control of myself. My throat felt like it was filled with glue. I couldn’t get the words to form. With a great deal of effort, I unstuck my vocal chords. ‘Ca-can I?’ I stuttered. Still, you were looking up at me. Waiting for me to utter the words. To begin the next stage. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ The spell was broken. I was back in control. I could feel life returning to the world around me. The deep murmurings of conversations, the chink of glasses, the scrape of chairs on the rough wooden floor. It was all coming back. The girls around us began to giggle, looking towards us in amazement. I was slowly starting to realise what I had done. It was my last chance to walk away, to salvage one last scrap of dignity. To return to Graham and Jack, laugh at my stupidity and drink the rest of the night away. But I stayed there. Saw that the smile was still there, the dancing pools of blue in your eyes still fixed upon me. ‘I’d like that,’ you said in that angelic voice that was music to my ears. ‘I’ll have a lime cider.’ ‘One lime cider,’ I said to the barmaid, who nodded and set about preparing the order. I glanced towards the empty stool next to you. ‘Mind if I join you?’ ‘Sure. I’m Julie, by the way.’ ‘Dennis.’ ‘Nice to meet you!’ we both said at once. You laughed; a wonderful, happy, positive laugh. I couldn’t help it. I laughed back. The nerves, the anxiety dissipated with that laugh. I glanced over towards Graham and Jack, who were staring at me open-mouthed. The barmaid came back with a fresh lime cider. I handed over some more coins and then presented the bottle to you, as if it were a prized possession. ‘Cheers,’ you said, as we clinked our cider and spritzer together. ‘So, Dennis, tell me about yourself. What’s your story?’ I grinned. This was going to be a magical Saturday evening.

Scrittura Magazine

CRUSH Saquina Karla C. Guiam all it takes from you is a look and a volcano forms in between my ribs / when the scientists come, they pick the petals off the ground and begin to deliberate among themselves / since when did volcanic ash become flowers / you should be sorry for tipping the scales / the world was once feather-light but I guess you blew it / and I have to go back to spitting lava from dried up caves.

Scrittura Magazine

Dear Friends Anthony McIntyre Dear Friends, When I am old, I shall order the biggest steak and finest wines in restaurants, take taxis everywhere and say we have no money for gas. I will speak to everyone and not be afraid of a dirty look. I will wear a smile that catches you and engages you in lessons learned. I shall put out the bins in my nightshirt and wellington boots. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll break wind in public and blame the man behind. I will laugh loud And have a tattoo And wear outrageous shirts. I will steal beer mats. But now I have a house to build and a career to pursue. Set an example to my children. Smile within and keep my thoughts to myself. I have papers to read and opinions to form. I thought Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d better warn you. So friends, do not be shocked when I suddenly order the biggest steak And blame the man behind when my bottom burps.

Scrittura Magazine

Vita Brevis Ed Blundell There was a time when those who died Were frail old people, past their prime. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d lingered on for lots of years With aches and pains and chesty coughs. But all the dead are younger now And some of them as young as me. They say that we live longer, yet I lose more friends it seems each week And with each death that comes I fear, I hear the reaper creeping near.

Scrittura Magazine

Crazy James Bell the woodpecker flies down most days pecks around below the hazel– I know his ornithological name but call him Crazy– obviously the male black and white plumage with red on the rear end and the red plume on his head he waves around like – well – crazy the bird books say he is not a ground feeder but maybe he has not read them– though does live in trees and does make noise on bark and like any natural clown is just crazy– makes me remember my clown days when it was possible to be like that in character and out

Scrittura Magazine