2016 Anthology by Suffolk One

The Creative Writing Anthology

2016 Anthology

Hello readers, writers and the randomly curious; welcome to our latest Creative Writing anthology. All of our students have worked really hard this year and have produced some exceptional writing. They have shown that working creatively and collaboratively with others helps to bring out the best in us all. We have tried to include some of the very best of this work and hope that you enjoy their efforts. This academic year started particularly well with the news of our success in the Suffolk Young Poets competition run by the Poetry Trust. Two of our students wrote winning poems and several others were commended for their excellent writing, resulting in them attending workshops and performing at a prizewinning ceremony at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival in November. We were extremely proud to be awarded the Hardiman -Scott cup for the best collection of entries from any educational establishment in the county. We are also very proud of all the students who attended workshops and performed their work at the Suffolk Poetry Festival held at the John Peel Centre in Stowmarket in May. Their readings were extremely well received by the audience and fellow poets, and several of the performances were especially moving, causing both whooping and weeping in the audience. Some of their work can be found in this anthology. We would like to thank the Poetry Society and particularly Jeni Smith and Dean Parkin for their support and inspiring workshops, and the poet Mark Brayley for his work with our students in November. We would also like to thank past students Daisy Ward and especially Samantha Whitby who came to help out in lessons in such an inspiring way during the year. Above all, of course, we would like to thank all of the students whose work you can read here. Regards, Catherine Mann and Pete Milwright Creative Writing teachers at One

Aubade Rhiannon Culley “As the morning glow proceeds, So begins my goodbye, To the days when as a child, I’d kick the sun across the sky.” See, the world it was our play thing, You and I would pluck a moment, From the grass beneath our window And do with it what we desired most, When we awoke that day. We stayed, Intertwined, In a state of stillness, Hoping the wind would blow less harsh. Now my pillows retain the shape of you, And I am lost in a hearty silence, Comforted only by the bony fingers, Of the mistakes I am yet to make. For now, The day, Is still just quiet, And the world is still just mine. “The sun sets through slats of blinds, On barren walls of white, With projected beams, In steady streams, Like a Xylophone of light.”

Ode to the reader Molly Banyard To you, the person who is reading. Please do not judge these series of mumbles, and with this wish I am truly pleading. My goal is not to be modest but morethankful that you have taken the time to read my hand-written words on this paper. Your elaborate mind will infer in-depth hidden meanings between my silly words. When in reality I was never that smart, unlike you. Who amazes me still. To you, the one with the elaborate mind. who has unzipped my nouns and adjectives to find little stories inside of them. Who has complicated my original intentions and turned them upside down. When, really they are all intended to admire you and your crazy mind. Because it is filled with secrets and walls I must discover and quickly break down. You are a ticking time bomb soon to be out of my reach. If I continue to write will you keep on reading? When this page ends will you go back to the beginning? Will you miss the way my words fill your mindas I will miss the way you read As

them out loud?

the last words come closer, the page turns slowerâ&#x20AC;Ś

Your attention I now contain will soon be l o s t, lost in anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s words much better than

own.

I real ise I am not worthy of your constant observa4

The Squid (Opening Section) Jo Castle The first time the floods came, they hit Mumâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s homemade soap workshop, and we were all horribly clean for months. I grew to hate the smell of verbena. The second time, I was at school. It was a dark Thursday afternoon, and we had double physics. Something about radiation was on the board, and me and Jim Reed were interlocked in a furious battle royale of tic-tac-toe. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m certain he cheated. When I voiced my outrage, Mr Redmond stepped forward to admonish me- and then frowned. There was a delicate splish at his foot, and his frown lines communicated in Morse code his regret at forgetting his wellies that day. Our area was flat and near-ish the sea, so we were naturally vulnerable to floods, or something. However, two in a month was previously unheard-of. It was a big inconvenience for everybody, really. But life goes on. After the second, we all assumed the tides were done with their generosity, and continued as usual. The third flood came when I was walking along the beach. I'm no villain, no miscreant teenager who likes to desecrate public places with graffiti and litter and such. I wasn't on the beach for a bit of old-fashioned rebellion, just a stretch of the legs. I had a couple of shells in my pocket, and sand in my shoes. Soon I had a small pond in both. I saw the sea, once, roll and tickle my soles, and I'd assumed I'd meandered over to the shore unwittingly. Then it was at my waist. Our beach was no gorgeous desktop-wallpaper lagoon; the salty slew of silt rolled over and swamped me before I got the common sense to run. Some seaweed fluttered past my face like an ugly, foul-smelling butterfly. It occurred to me I was choking, and the water had swarmed into every sort of oxygen port I had, as well as my ears. It played a wobbly, thrashing soundtrack, my struggling arms cymbal crashes and the pounding of my feet trying to find floor a feeble bassline. Even if the flood sirens sounded above, I couldn't have heard them. I dreamed up helpperhaps passers-by had watched my head vanish under the rolling wave and flung out a rope, desperately crying out- "Sir!" or, perhaps, "Oliver!", if they were people I knew. I saw no rope. I couldn't really see anything. I felt the shells drift out of my pockets, fleeing for home. Good on them. I waited a couple of seconds for the wave to recede, and had no such luck. It had claimed me, like Grandma did when I came over and her skinny arms became my prison, one with the faint vapour of White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor- a Christmas present we all regretted. There was nothing I wanted more right now than that dowdy floral smell, the soft fleece of her jumper; as it happened, I was being swallowed by a giant wave, and wasn't feeling so good. I hadn't wanted to die like this- freezing cold, my last vision a muddy watercolour wash of grey-teal-brown. My last words would be "sorry", for that guy on the promenade I'd nearly bumped straight into. God, how pathetic. What had he done to deserve my mouth's final 5

movements? All that hassle when I was young, learning how to say words- for what? "Sorry", and then "excuse me, mate". The darkness built up on me. I took up fatalism. The darkening shade of the seawater was the approach of the tunnel to the next life. I hoped it didn't matter if I hadn't been able to complete my GCSEs when I tried to get in.

Aftermath: A Departure from Physicality Betty Fox In daylight, a lively oasis expands stretching steadily in the sun, knives of gold reach all threads and strands, and an ocean of embers is spun. A plentiful meadow gently respires, lungs thick with pollen and musk, tall ferns and thorns build empires, an expanse sheltered â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;til dusk. By nightfall, the forest exhales in deep winds and darker storms, though I simply adjust my sails and drift among the lifeforms. Taking a journey to find peace, to find a home before my release. A plentiful meadow breathes its breath the fruit it bears unknown. I take a visit in my living death in coarse skin and breaking bone. A field of flowers in its living breeze, to see with eyes and to feel with hands. Welcoming my body, they carry me â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;til I take my place in their homeland. Though by winter their tears leave a debris, bare trunks of trees my gravestone, fallen petals trace my body with ease, and settle me into my home. Cold yet complete, nature must agree, she exists with woman whole-heartedly.

Blossom Betty Fox Resting in the soils of time where your hand was in mine, I now leave you behind in the confines of the space where we once co-existed. Sun, soil and seed; dig me up and dispose of me. Though if there is ever a place where your face graces mine and your rays intertwine one last time, I will not object. I will not release the suppressed bitterness and regret. Instead, I propose a new love, flourishing under your nourishing radiation, though I have not seen the sun for so long; and I long for warmth. And so it is begun. Lacklustre growth, endless yearning, a harmonious irony between longing and changing. I adapted to you and your flickering unreliability. You are not solar but synthetic A grow lamp in a darkened room, and I am buried in every lime-scaled wall. You cannot change, will not estrange yourself from your comfort in the darkness in exchange for a comfort with me. In the open air we could have lived in the illusion we had envisioned, sun, soil, seed. Though if your hand finds mine in our coexisting time for the last I will smile kindly and decline

Instead, I will succeed into air, grass , sun, for I cannot grow in the confines of your darkness and artificial light; for in hindsight, I was right. And by right, I flourish on my own.

Family: Most said things. Harry Evans Don't you think it's time to get a job? I’m trying. Not hard enough.

Have you cleaned your room? No. You’re useless.

What do you want for dinner? I don’t know. This isn’t a hotel

Why is the house a mess? It’s one plate. Don’t back chat me.

Why don’t you just hit me? Stop shouting. I’m calling the police!

Is that your new boyfriend? Yes. No it fucking isn’t!

I did really well in my test want to see? Okay. Still not full marks though.

Are these your cigarettes? No, they’re a mates. Stop lying.

Can I have a hug? I love you. I love you too.

Fear like waves (Written in Response to the refugee crisis) Louisa Sadler Fear like waves; rising The drive to escape war; building The need to protect family; overwhelming The fight to survive; unimaginable Death circling around you; inventible The rescue mission; non existent The power of grief; incomprehensible The thought of being free for the first time; unbelievable But starting a new life without a loved one; wearying 8

Love Shania Richards In the depths is where it vanished. Missing: the muscle stripped away from your skin. Torn from your frame, away it f l o a t e d from your body. No longer trapped in loose ties of your embrace. Where it went I wonder – Must I? It will be lost like leaves on a sharp breeze. Ignited there, a fire, caressing ribbons of red. It blasted through every fibre of yours with a restless touch. Then, ceasing to beat, it lacked that absent flame. A darkness came around me. There mine lays, under this skin and bone. Not lost like yours. Sinking into the underworld, understanding that descent forced through ruined soil. You’ve drowned yours in murky seas; it became overwhelmed by tenacious waves. Mine flows with life while yours has gone, numb of the feeling that you never did hold.

Van Gogh’s Cornfield Tash Royal The field has been calm for so long, Just a meadow of yellow, a scene of green. But a storm approaches and the crow knows it. They came in their hundreds and hundreds bringing the sweet gift of numbness. Their warning cows are so loud in the once pleasant field. That peace is a memory. They didn’t come soon enough. They left no time to prepare for the despair the storm would bring with its dark clouds and its lightning. They are only crows. It is only a field. But the storm? The storm is real. To me, the storm is real. 9

Dwarf Jo Castle She squeezes the universe into a ball. Though short, she stands vast and tall, for there’s a billion stars and a billion skies contained within those glittering eyes. Comets travel so many miles for the searing glimpse of one of her smiles. She looks in the mirror and sees someone small, but I look in a telescope and don’t agree at all.

Paper Boy Pip Hill His eyes are drawn to slits against the glare. White skin, pale eyes. Previously blonde hair fallen. Bone weak and thin, ready to be snapped He is non-existent. A gust of wind Defeats him. Feeble, calliper thin; Non-existent. Bedded and bathed, No strength of his own. Blood stains his skin Sinking through: front to back. Blood that’s failed him, Blood that doesn’t work. The force of life, That travels through the air Can’t even travel around His body now. What use has he? He has no breath. No strength. No life. A single cold could blow him away. 10

He is non-existent. Anaemia has taken him He’s non-existent He’s just a paper boy, Waiting to be rubbed off this planet.

I’m Sorry: (Inspired by This Is Just To Say by William Carlos Williams) Zoe Hammick I did it again. I know I shouldn’t have but the call was so kind, so welcoming. I know you’re sad maybe even angry for I let you down, but you do not understand. Don’t forgive me I need none. I brought it on myself and you got too close.

Oh silly sepia girl Megan Blizzard I yearn to know, that sepia girl, with that cheesy grin at 19 before she had me. Did she like music? Did she like art? Did she see death? and did someone break her heart? Did she want to travel? did she have dreams? I bet she was about to pursue them but then she had me. 11

Ode to my languages Alex Castello O language, language speak to me Brought to me a gift of three. Mum was born with two, Born with the word mama, mama Then like a flower produced a seed First in our home where the Thames flows, Nella citta della amore En el centro de la ciudad. Then out came me, I slipped on my second, like I slipped on my first. Suddenly, three came to me, I resisted the last to sharpen the first To save them and to keep them. Born was I with the gift of three, Cheetah was I- a girl with thirst for words But Sloth was me- for a girl with skills, But like a battery ready to charge. Grown from a small seed, to a flower, This young girl shows her gold, Brought to me, a gift of three. This is an ode to my languages. Born was I, with a gift of gold These languages are as good as told, Made within a flower, sown within a seed. Brought to me, a gift of three.

Expat (an extract) Lee Bushe There’s not really much you can do when you have an Astra 400 pointed in the direction of your head -if I move, I’ll get shot, if I speak when I’m not spoken to, I’ll get shot, If I give the guy pointing the gun a funny look, I’ll get shot. Right now the safest option is to look directly ahead which is just fantastic considering the thing directly in front of me is his sweaty crotch. Survival instinct hasn’t quite kicked in yet - otherwise I’d be pleading for my life instead of being silent and staring at a crotch. Right now, Julio, my buddy and business partner, is being “spoken to” by a Barcelonian mobster with a black goatee and big muscles that make him look like he could probably skin a crocodile with his bare hands. Then the 12

“speaking to” turns to me and the goateed guy asks, “Did you know this wasn’t blow?” Julio had been telling him that the guy we bought the stuff off had ripped us off and given us a vanload of baking soda instead of Coke. But this wasn’t the case at all - we knew what we did, and we’d done it for a long time, always working up until this very moment. The mobster hadn’t bought Julio’s story because we purposely gave him a block of actual coke from the van to convince him he was buying good stuff. I don’t blame him to be quite honest; you had to be beyond stupid to believe a word of Julio’s sob story. “Of course we didn’t” I tell him in Spanish.

Memories Georgia Slinn The wind catches the wood of my little swing. Grass swept across the garden and daisies crowded; The blue sky open, tinted white, clouded. Black and yellow bees, they sting, The overwhelming feeling of spring. Night so much shorter, the moon shrouded. The days soon to be concluded. That swing’s now rotted and covered in mould. Grass dead swept to the side, daisies unable to grow, The bees gone; the air is too cold. Night is so dark, the moss has lost its glow. I realise I’ve gotten so old. How long has it been since I let go?

Lycanthropy (Opening Section) ‘The mythical transformation from man to wolf.’ Kayleigh Gissing “What three things cannot long be hidden?” Yangchen repeats, her heels scraping the floor...1...2...3...4...spin...1...2...3...4… “Well?” = I drop my head, kneading the balls of my hands to closed eyes, dazzling dark rainbows burst over the backs of my lids. “The sun,” drool droplets sprinkle over my lips, “the moon,” I pant. Electric- like shocks spurt tingling my skin. Spinal bones grind into place like a bicycle chain locking over gears as my neck snaps to attention, “the truth…” “Good” She says, “again.” 13

A low rumble leaves my gut, as the acid hot fire burns through me. “The sun. The moon. The Truth!” I peel my eyes open - irises a striking amber gold blaze envelop her long svelte image. Muscles shiver beneath the skin settling back into their banal appearance, allowing my heavy body to collapse to the raw flint filled wall. “You’re learning well, young pup, you’ll soon become the Beta your Alpha needs.” My head throbs, my pupils pulsing. Bitter fingers tickle my hair tips as her flounce body slivers away into the shadows… I wake gasping, my fingers embedded inside my bed pillow. Light feathers sooth my warm slim fingers as bone recalls my hand back to a tight fist. I push against the bed slow, my head still pounding from my dream - another dream. Bed covers lay askew, almost clutching my bed’s edge begging not to fall. I drag them over myself, warmth hugging my skin - best savour the rest of the night. “Sam!” A rapid knock rattles the door. “Time to get your butt to school.” Her voice hints a smile. I grunt craving sleep. Mothers, always there when you don’t want them. My eyes crank themselves back to their sleeping position gently. “Sam!” My body jolts awake like an electric shock - best not to fight with a hormonal woman Sam.

Poem inspired by The Water-Lily Pond Alex Moore Iron bars press against the greens of the pond. Reflected in the water. The tall grasses curve over, pointing towards the opposite bank. Reflected in the water. The willow trees droop lazily down catkins; an olive green. Reflected in the water. The waterlilies so beautiful in the sunlight resting on their pads. Resting on the water.

Oceanic Eyes Pip Hill I had always loved those eyes. They weren’t sky blue, Or the blue you’d paint a baby boy’s bedroom, Or the flaking, Bleach worn blue of a tiled swimming pool floor. His eyes were the sea. Not the murky grey beach waters of Suffolk, But the crystal clear, Shimmering of a post card sea a thousand miles awayChurning and swaying around The coal black rock that was his pupil. Looking into his eyes you could hear the waves Falling softly against the shore, Children laughing in the shallows, Foam flying in the air. I often found myself lost in his gaze: A Bermuda Triangle that has long since captured My pride, common sense and freedomAll forever lost in those mysterious beauties. I knew them so well; I could notice any small change. That’s what I saw tonight. The sea was crashing upon the rock With the mercy of the devil, Banging with eruptions of grey, Turbid water, Bursting around the battered stone-cold rock. Normally wide, It was shrivelledShrunken and distant, As if I was on a boat, The savage tempest Tearing me further And further Away from it And I couldn’t get back. 15

No More Hiding in the Darkness Natalie Mortimer I give you a lampshade

it is a protector from harsh light. It promises safety like the true security of love. Here. It will defend you from having sore eyes like a committed lover, avoiding the tears. It will make life more vibrant and give you the effect of love. I am trying to help you. Not make life less clear. I give you a lampshade. Its protection saves you delicate and helpful as I am for as long as possible. Remember it. Those unique qualities it has forever. Careful. Forever may be not be what it seems and youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be blinded, left without a protector.

Doubt Jake Austin My mind the betrayer planting the same question, what if? What if? I stop. Theories sprout their saplings 16

Flowering, they release their spores a fungus that controls the brain What if? I’m wrong, I’m selfish, they hate me Action, consequence not just one thousands of unknowns this summer of oppression rips at my fears But, all flowers die. The pollen, no longer blinding me But what if? The topic has changed? The moment been and gone and summer reigns once more.

The Skirt Sonnet Jo Castle Mine is one that follows the call of wind: Floating and ballooning, a parachute. Staying in place only if she is pinnedif the sun’s out, she’ll perform her salute. I beg of her, please, just protect my knees, and then while you’re at it cover my thighsfor all it takes is one summer’s light breeze, and I must feel the hunger of their eyes. A thing of caprice is my dear old skirt. It need not matter, immodest or chaste, because this garment is an extrovert, and need not care if it leaves me disgraced. But no, I won’t disrobe by any means, because I just look fat if I wear jeans. 17

Red Jamie Moore Heels clicked against the tiled ground with an unhurried pace, that echoed around the solemn building. Bright red in their appearance, they clung to her elegant feet with an unforgiving foot-crushing strength. Still, she glided along the floor, hips sashaying in the natural way dancers seemed to be born with. The crimson dress she wore, to match her exuberant shoes, accommodated every asset she had on display; curving possessively around her hips like a lover’s hand. Her curls bounced against her back in threads of gold and sunlight. Ruby lipstick slashed at her heart-shaped lips, illuminating their plumpness and dexterity. A small briefcase was tucked within her grasp, her scarlet nails tapping against it in a snipped and calloused rhythm. People stared, their eyes assessing as she strutted into the elevator and gently pushed number five with a sharp nail. Corny elevator music chimed in the confined space as she kept her eyes downcast but didn’t stop her incessant abuse on the bruised briefcase. The elevator came to a stop and the tension seemed to seep out of the four walls as the doors shuddered open. She continued down the corridor and passed the sturdy columns that lined the hall from the dusty floor to the grand ceiling. Eventually, she came to rest at an enlarged set of wooden, iron railed, doors. She marvelled at the detail inserted into the material, the way the iron curled into itself before bursting out in a flurry of silver; reaching each corner of the door where it met its end. A metal head in the form of a majestic lion was perched in the centre of the door, its eyes searing through her with an intensity she’d never seen in an inanimate object. It was as if she could hear its triumphant roar echo in her memory as it shook its mane with satisfactory pride. After a few moments of exaggerated breathing she raised her hand to knock against the door. After her third knock the doors flurried open to reveal a short stubby man clad in a black tuxedo. His hair was greased back to show his shining forehead. His yellow teeth seemed to elongate as he gave her a crude smile and swiped his arm to allow her entrance. Tentatively, she entered the room and stopped before a large oak desk, taking a sudden keen interest in her apple-red shoes. Not wanting to risk his insufferable anger she dared to sneak a quick peek at the man behind the desk. He was turned away from her so she could not glimpse at his face, all that she could see of the man was his sleek, polished black shoes. A subtle round of coughs from the stubby man brought her back to reality, she glared down at her shoes in aggravation. “Is it done?” A smooth voice caressed her ears, a cacophony of angelic and demonic tones. She shifted on her feet, admiring how the red gleamed in the light. “With more force than necessary. She resisted.” “Did you dispose of her?” He inquired. “Yes,” was all she fathomed to reply. The silence suffocated her breaths. Her shoes seemed to plead with her to run out the entombing doors and never return.

“And what proof do you have?” He asked with clear suspicion. She gazed down at the lovely shoes, tapping them against one another much like one would imagine Dorothy to do so. ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore’, she thought to herself ironically. They gleamed under her inspection and showcased her pale skin. They beckoned to be dance in and were a siren’s call to many a man. The long heels held her steady, displaying her long legs and concealing her bleeding toes. They were worth it, she thought to herself smugly. “I’m wearing her shoes,” was all she said with a curve of her lips.

Rhiannon Culley “There is a kind of love called maintenance.” - U.A Fanthorpe Days soaked, In a comfortable silence, Eyes stained with laugh lines, The same iridescent glow, On your skin. Past lash flickers, And practiced giggles, Now nothing, But you and I remain. We work for each other, And cannot work without. I feel in your fingers, Every door you ever slammed, All the hands that you held, Before you found mine. From the days when, Your laughter was violent, And latched onto Any passing fad it could find. The skin is rippled, From summer days, In the shade, I wish I could have lived them with you.

Villanelle on Inferiority- Fool’s Gold Archie Gault Why do my eyes dress you in robes of gold? I lift your veil and underneath I find Your eyeless visage shivers in the cold When all your beauty fits one perfect mould Unflawed, pristine, yet somehow still maligned Why do my eyes dress you in robes of gold? I thought once I might venture in the fold And in the unseen light I left behind Your eyeless visage shivers in the cold This mask for which your virgin soul was sold Is but the sunrise of a dirty mind Why do my eyes dress you in robes of gold? The flowers will wilt as time turns young to old You rot, desist, you rust, you change, unwind Why do my eyes dress you in robes of gold? Your eyeless visage shivers in the cold.

Foxgloves (opening extract) Phoebe Sizer I carry my tea into the sitting room, and sit down on the greying old armchair in the corner. I take a sip from the mug. Underneath me, I can feel a lump on my thigh which feels like a rock. I’m sure it’s not a rock, but my mind takes me to a mountain with snow tipped peaks and fresh wintery gales, rocks and boulders scattered prettily here and there like someone has placed them there with a purpose. I decide to stand back up, putting my mug on the table besides the chair, and look underneath the cushion. It’s not a rock. It’s not even an exciting piece of evidence. It’s just the telly remote. I remove the remote, and sit back down on the chair, relaxing into the folds of age and memories. I sip some more tea. The grate is empty in the corner of the room, the fire gone out a long time ago. But I remember a time when the fire would be alive and well only a couple of weeks ago. Full of joy and happiness. Memories and secrets. I found out one of the biggest secrets once, sitting in this room. Only, I was not the one sitting in this chair. That was someone else. .................... 20

She sat there neatly in her old armchair, the arms threadbare and grey. As I watched her I could see her whole body relaxing as she gently fell asleep. Her wise wrinkles showed she was tired. Her eye-lashes quivered as she tried to stop herself from sleeping. Her naked arm shifted slightly as her body tried to wake up. It lost its comfortable position on the chair. She opened her eyes and smiled, saying “I must have dozed off, dear.” She pushed herself off the greyed chair, making it squeak with age. She patted my head affectionately as she passed, bending down to pick up my empty mug of tea with obvious pain, and shuffled into the kitchen. I collected up the other used cutlery and plates. As I walked to the kitchen, I saw some purple foxgloves, smiling in a white jug, filled with water smelling old and foul. I bent down to see if the flowers smelt nice. They didn’t smell of anything. “Granny, I have some more washing here.” “Thank you dear,” “Where did you get those flowers from?” “What flowers?” I bent down to put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. “In the sitting room. Aren’t they foxgloves?” “Oh, yes, dear. I got them from next door’s garden.” “Oh? Did he give them to you?” “Oh, no dear. They looked so pretty, I thought I must have some for the house.” “Did you ask?” “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I would have done if he was there, but his car was gone from the drive, and I didn’t know when he would be back.” I decided to not say anything. Once I was done loading the dishwasher, I went back into the sitting room. The fire had died down to a low red glow. As Granny came back in too, I put some more wood on, and it lazily caught the embers. I sat down on the sofa opposite, the cream cover emitting a small army of dust particles, glinting in the late autumn sunshine. Granny went over to her greying chair and sat slowly, her arms holding her weight until she reached the cushion and sighed. She smiled at me through her eyelashes. “I remember when I first met your father.” “Really?” I remembered my mother talking about how he was a scoundrel, a charmer, a serial adulterer. “I remember. It was a sunny spring evening in ’44, and I was on my way home from working at the shop. We were all walking and laughing. Suddenly, a young chap came out from one of the alleyways, and almost ran into us. We all screamed, I think, because we thought he 21

was a bad person. But he had a bunch of flowers in his hand. He looked straight at me, his eyes looking for a friendly face. Whilst the other girls ran into the road, I smiled, so he gave me the flowers.” I nodded, realising she was not talking about my father at all. She must have me mixed up with Mum, I thought as I asked whether she wanted another mug of tea. As I went back into the kitchen, I looked at the foxgloves again. As the kettle bubbled, I decided to empty the yellowing water, and put in some fresh, propping the foxgloves in their jug, trying to hide the brown bits.

Dear Friend Beth Cope She held you In her stomach For nine months, You know. Did you forget that? She fought for you Year after year, You know.

Do you remember that? She loves you, You know. Endlessly, beautifully, Unrequited perhaps. I wouldn’t know, But you would. You should. It’s sad that We don’t talk Much anymore. I still remember you, You know. But did you forget that? Dying brain cells, Disintegrating, Grating. 22

We can see it, You know. They cut you out Of her belly, I mean, Severing soft untouched skin. She did it for you, You know. Did you forget that? I haven’t. She’s not even my mother. But I see her, Watching; Your slow burning Memories. Its patronizing To say I worry, So I’ll write it instead. Although neither of you Will ever lay blue eyes Upon this paper. Paper. Cigarette papers. One after another. I see the chemicals In your eyes. Electric blue. She told us To never touch the ‘stuff’. But you do. She knows And you know that. She held you In her stomach For nine months, You know. Connected, Feeding you, For you. But when they cut The cord, They cut more Than just the flesh. 23

But when they cut The cord, They cut more Than just the feeding. You are one, Dear Friend, And now you leave her, Her sweet home created For only you, Days upon days, For cigarette chemicals As connections And fake friends As feeding. She held you In her stomach For nine months, You know.

A Hellish Affair Aidan Talbot I am, I discover, a very untidy man. I say man, but can the devil himself really consider himself on level with man? I shall have to ask around. Back to why the son of darkness is untidy. You see, hell isn’t that bad of a place - you just have to be on the right side of the glass as one could say. This side just so happens to be full of dark marble, beautifully rare woods, and not to mention the gold finishings on every other piece of furniture. It is rather striking. Unfortunately, though, the ‘other side’ gets a tad messy. Have you seen the amount of people that drop dead and arrive at my pearly gates? Millions a day. Processing alone takes most of our time, determining their sins, and setting punishment accordingly. Then comes dishing out the punishments themselves - after your third drawn and quartering it begins to drag. Finally, comes the preparation for the sinner to repeat the punishment again. Just think about how long all this goes on - eternity is bloody long. In this rather complex factory of pain we occasionally get a few stragglers - more so recently since recruiting is at an all- time low. These people get lost in what they refer to as ‘limbo’ we call this the waiting room. Usually those towards the front of the waiting line have been there a millennium or two, and have gone quite mad from the whole ordeal. Except the British, they seem to have a knack for queueing. This bureaucratic nightmare isn’t even the most untidy part of our operation. Do you know what happens to those that narrowly missed Heaven? The constant torture is for the 24

murderers and rapists. The rest are really just your average people, adulterers, thieves and those who are generally, but not overwhelmingly, unpleasant. I, however, quite enjoy their company. For someone depicted by ‘modern culture’ as dark, gothic and emo - oh father I hate those terms; they sure send down a lot of my type. Prostitutes, whores, and all-round ‘open’ men and women littering the halls of the underworld. It’s delightful. Another reason why it gets so disordered down here; have you any idea how difficult it is to tidy up after a party of a few hundred million barely dressed people whoring and eating their way through a good fortnight of fornication? After hitting party number thirty-thousand a few centuries ago we started hiring for a more dedicated cleaning crew. Unfortunately, however, not many are willing to clean up in this. Sticky situation. Perhaps I should use this as one of the punishments. I’ll have this run by the torturers.

Heaven (Edited opening section from a story about a journey into the afterlife…) Zac Howe Four or five air hostesses made their way up the aisles asking whether or not we were interested in complimentary beverages during our flight. When asked I simply shook my head and offered a smile. Every seat on the plane was first class - you could adjust the seat backwards without fear of obstructing the person behind you because of the amount of space the airline allowed for foot room. I must admit I was anxious about accepting a free trip from an airline I’ve never heard of. I only actually did it because I’d recently found myself stuck with writer's block and thought this might finally get me out of the routine of sitting there, staring at my computer, writing something, deleting it and repeating for hours on end. “Are you okay sir?” I didn’t hear her at first - I was busy thinking about how horrible the trip could be. “Sir? Mr Smith?” I’d never told anyone at this company my name or signed any papers - I looked to the hostess. “I’m sorry… just anxious…” “There’s no need for that” she replied quickly. “Everything will be fine” “Yes that’s what you keep telling me… but repetition rarely puts a sceptic's mind at ease” “It’s true. Have we given you some reason not to trust us – or have we upset you in some way? Please Mr Smith - if we have we’d like to know” “I’m fine… or I will be when I find out where I’m going…”

A Broken Human By Kat Finch Nobody’s blood caresses the unclaimed souls, While shattered hearts beat wildfires. Under the stage play of happiness true feelings decay into the forgotten, And the heart discolours to a shade darker than dark. Words from the mind travel secluded within Pendulous lies. While tears that drop from the storm, Become at one with those that have already fallen, With fake reality glossing over the eyes of hurt. And gushing through and under the bones, Pain’s story echoes.

Šaltas Amy Wallace “'šaltas' is a free verse poem inspired by Pablo Neruda's 'Tonight I Can Write...' and expresses my adoration towards my Lithuanian boyfriend and includes the first full sentence of his language that he taught me.

His voice. His touch. His scent. The irises which captured the sky. I forgot him for a nanosecond And love him again for eternity. His absence nipped at my heart Like the hardest winter. His language is that of the snow. “Mano nosis yra šalta” Was not only my way of complaining That my nose was cold. He was made of ice And I, a dwindling flame. It is now after constant, hellish summers That I realise: I thaw him And he stops me burning 26

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Chasing the Windâ&#x20AC;? Ariana Dobell

Wind, breezing through the trees, why do you run? Must you go someplace to be with someone else? Wind, know you are welcome here, for the sunny day grows longer and hotter with each passing letter. Come back and speak to me more, I want to hear your whispers again. The way you softly touch each living creature as you race by in hope of something more

Sailed away Georgie Reik The water shivers amongst us, Clothes without sleeves Smear nets of Goosebumps, Rising up, just like My life that’s grieving towards heaven. Incapable. My face capsizing, my child clinging, My family missing. Without the two Of us, I know my beat, my breath, My belief would have drowned, Shoved under that boat, Whilst my remembrance Sobs over the army That try and sail on Through the punctures Leaking through the Repetitive audience Of holes, that Are weakening just Like your shins at The end of a marathon. Whilst they have hydration, Chased alongside Them; we just live Off dreams, ideas, expectations That shield us from our Country’s war, Our country’s death, Our country’s normality. Now all I need is you to think of me. We clasp onto the winds for hope. Hope that broadcasts amongst Our crew, without a plug, a socket, a screen. Technology is alien to us. Since the time our homes left, 28

Felt like a flashback of the seasons where One never comes back. The fall of autumn, Waltz of leaves, never visible On a peak of a wave. No matter the danger No matter the state Your memory of shore Is too late.

Small Kat Finch

Size matters not. So you judge me by my size, do you? Well I’ll have you know, I have fought people ten times the size of me. I can scream. I can shout at them! I’m not afraid of you skyscraper people. Yeah I’m small – there’s no need for scientific evidence. I get called: Teeny –weeny, Tiney – winey, Midget, Smurf, Munchkin. But it’s not the size of the person that counts... It’s the size of their spirit. I may be small, but I. Am. MIGHTY!

Two Worlds (Opening Extract) Chanel Layne He just sat there, waiting. Watching. In the same taxi that had the same unpleasant smell of a boy’s changing room. For Caleb, it was strangely comforting, as it reminded him of simpler times when things made sense and he bubbled with genuine optimism. But a lot of things had changed since then. And let me tell you something: Caleb Sullivan does not like change. His fingers brushed through his gelled, ginger hair and he took a long drag of his cigarette, savouring that horrible, yet addictive toxin and waited outside Gatwick airport, like he did every second Thursday of the month. Cigarettes were the antidote to the irritation and impatience that burned within him. Caleb Sullivan does not like waiting. His gullible mind had a tendency to fabricate inexplicable 29

ideas that entertained his childlike personality. Twin sisters that had the ability to transform into man-eating dragons were in the backseat not three days ago (they were feminists. Caleb Sullivan does not like feminists). Aggression fizzed each second he was at work, but as long as it paid the bills he couldn’t complain too much. So like any other dull second Thursday of a month, Caleb slouched in his stuffy cab and waited. Cigarette in hand, and smoke in lungs, he listened to the latest music, questioning: what went wrong? and attempted to wiggled his bulky build into a relaxed position. His legs curled as a stretch broke free. Being 6,9 and a full time taxi driver wasn’t ideal. Being a taxi driver overall wasn’t ideal actually. He wanted to join the army when he was younger. He wanted to be a hero. But luck never favoured Caleb meaning he couldn’t leave home, he couldn’t leave them behind. If I knew then what I know now, Caleb thought sombrely, chuckling sarcastically and shaking his head. He took a drag of his cigarette and switched the radio off, deciding that silence was better than the shit he was listening to. A breeze blew into the car as he blew out smoke and chills trailed down his spine. Like the chills he feels when he sees his ex-wife. He took a final pull, flicked the cigarette out and rolled the window up. The feeling of someone staring burned the back of his head. Wiping the sleep from his dirty green eyes and picking a crumb out of ‘horrid bushy beard’ - as his mother calls it- he turned and got his eye caught on the curvy female figure that stood two meters away from the left side of the Nissan. A thick, black sun hat hung across her face masking her appearance completely. She was covered, head to toe, in black clothing. Black buttoned up coat that clung tightly to her body, emphasising her hourglass figure, worn out black denim jeans with rips at the knees, black ankle boots, black gloves, black scarf and a black suitcase in hand. She stood tall, around 6,5 in her boots. He watched her, eyes wide and fixated as she walked towards the cab and slid into the back seat, placing her suitcase on the left side while she sat on the right. His heart quickened as her unique scent twirled its way through his pointed nose. She raised her head and revealed a pair of plump lips painted deep violet and dark olive skin. “Ipswich please.” She was British. Her voice was soft, deep and had a pinch of menace that made Caleb feel good in all the inappropriate ways. “Where ‘bouts in Ipswich?” he asked straightening his posture. “Town Centre” The intensity she possessed made his blood run cold but his heart race as an awkward silence began to wiggle between them. Without speaking, Caleb woke up the engine, pulled out of the parking space and signalled left to exit the carpark. She sat motionless in the back seat with her head down and her thumbs twiddling in her lap. “Why you goin’ Ipswich?” His word came out skittish and childlike; embarrassing for a person of his age. The slight invasion of privacy didn’t go unmissed by the woman in the back. But, without looking up she replied, “Family reunion”. “Oh, where’d you fly from?” Caleb’s curiosity was a result of his lack of self- control. The same lack of self-control that resulted in many, many, many mistakes in his life. Although naturally impulsive, there was something about the woman in the backseat that made him 30

gravitate towards her. The urge to climb in the back seat was almost too much. She was almost too much. “New York.” “Really? That’s cool. What’s it like?” “It’s pleasant.” Caleb peered up at the rear view mirror to see her sat completely still. “You don’t speak much,” Caleb noted. Her lips tightened. “Impeccable observation.” She remained soft in her sarcastic tone. Jet black hair hung loose over her poised shoulders. It looked so silky to touch. Caleb imagined running his fingers through the black abyss, and it slipping between the gaps of his fingers like sand. “Want some music?” Shut up, Caleb! He advised himself, embarrassed by, what he felt was, incessant rambling. “Yes please.” “Anythin’ in particular? Radio stations are mostly shit nowadays.” She ignored his last comment and answered: “Something soothing.” With one hand, Caleb turned on the radio and switched from station to station to find something remotely soothing.

Lumps: A Poem For My Sister. Zoe Hammick Laces on fingers, Aglets pass, never to touch, looping, twisting, until they knot. I look at you, your silly monkey face, as you laugh at your own words, I can’t help but laugh too. Torso to back, I feel your warmth invade my own, knitted wool a cloud to my scarred skin. An ugly thud tell me it’s your phone, not a bag in boot, you sat in your passenger throne as you leave me behind. 31

Sin Beth Cope Snakes are not temptresses, Eve was no sinner, And a bite from an apple Is no crime. And wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Adam Rather foolish also? Or does that part not count? But this, after all, Was the beginning Of all our sin. Eve is merely From his rib. But I feel it now, That I am made of Much, much more. I have twelve pairs, All for my own. And then, Cain and dear Abel; First born and first died. If Abel was perhaps More appreciative Cain would have spared His younger brother. But this was their doing; A temptress snake And a bite from an apple. But, Seth, kind and good, Gave us Noah, Who was lucky enough To live through the flood. They came in pairs To create others, But what then? Ah, but this was their doing; A temptress snake And a bite from an apple.

And I see it now, This is what our world is built from. Atomic bombs And machine guns. These stories of A temptress snake And a bite from an apple Is what our world is built from. Nail bombs And small knives In dark pockets. I see it on my TV screen; So many Cains, So many Abels. And sometimes, Less and less Seths. But this is our doing; A temptress snake and a bite from an apple. This is what would Like to be believed. To blame ancient stories, So distant from ourselves, For any wrong doings. But I see it every day; So many Cains, So many Abels. These monumental figures Are just symbols for one another, Not ancestors. Snakes are not temptresses, Eve was no sinner, And a bite from an apple is no crime.

Dom Brock Lockdown (Extract from story set during the Siege of Sarajevo) I am walking down Ulica Milana-Preloga, once part of a residential district in the city, now lying in ruins. Silence haunts a once bustling street. The house to my left has collapsed, probably due to shelling. A burning barrel sits in the ruins. There are some etchings on the wall of what I presume were once the stairs of the house. It reads, “No more hiding, we meet in heaven”. Clearly the occupants of the house feel that death is inevitable. It is a poignant message, something you don’t always see in an environment where the only thing 33

you really see is hate and violence. I am feeling teary as I continue walking. I don’t know why I connect with that message so much. I’ve seen some pretty bad things in the past, either when I was still working as a firefighter or on previous nights that I’ve been scavenging. These few words just hit me more than most. As I get closer to the end of the street I come across a familiar sight, the house with the old couple inside. I go up to the white picket fence around their front garden. It is surprising that the house is still in a relatively unscathed state, despite the collapsed building further down the road. There are a few chips out of the wall and some of the paint on the fence is peeling, but other than that the house is fine. I hop over the gate and take a closer look at the house. The curtains are closed, but a flickering light is illuminating from behind it. I got even closer and place my ear lightly against the glass. Muffled sounds are coming from inside, but there seems to be very little talking happening. I think a radio must be on as there appears to be another sound making it difficult to hear what’s going on inside. I knew I shouldn’t, but the temptation seems just too much. I swing my rucksack over my shoulder and zip open the front pocket. Inside is my trusty lock-pick. Handmade and my best friend when it comes to breaking into tricky situations. What I am about to do is wrong, but it just seems inevitable. I slip the pick into the lock and get to work. “What is the meaning of this? You have no right to come in here, this is our house!” The old man lifts his world weary bones out of the armchair. The chair is in clear view of their front door and as I enter, I’m in full view and spotted immediately. “What’s going on my dear” calls a frail voice from the opposite armchair. I cannot see anyone in it, just a crooked wooden stick hooked around one of the arms. “It’s a scavenger, stay there.” I have no intention of hurting them. I wouldn’t even think to touch them. The man gets within about five paces of me before he realises I’m not going to stop for him. Striding forward, the house looks very orderly, almost a shock to my system considering the environment back home. There’s a warm fire burning in the open fireplace and candles spread about the room. Blankets are splayed over the two armchairs for added comfort. It reminds me of my grandparents, and how they used to do something similar with their living room. I glance around the room for cupboards and drawers, but there is nothing, just a gutted room of long lost memories. “Where are the valuables? Why are there no cupboards and drawers? You’re in a safer part of the city so you must have something!” “What do you think is on the fire?” I can now see the old woman. Her wrinkled face shows a look of anger and distress. “We can’t go outside like most people. We’re old and tired and very little take any notice of us.” I shake my head, but give no reply. ‘This cannot be’ I think to myself, There must be something. Across the room is another door. I head straight towards it and my hand dives for the handle. The door clicks open and creaks as it swings around. 34

Mi Corazόn Kat Finch Mi corazόn belongs to you, For I believe that love lies beyond the tomb, I was someone who knew nothing, And you showed me a light to my soul, Mi corazόn belongs to you. Mi corazόn belongs with you, Every day I die with the pain that you ease, Before crying myself to sleep because I am lost, But you always help me find my way again, Mi corazόn belongs with you. Mi corazόn lives in your spirit, Since you inspired my future, And showed me there is more to life than indoors, You showed me the world that I now want to travel, Mi Corazόn lives in your spirit. Mi Corazόn grew with you, Since I grew up with you for five years, And you showed me love and passion to all creatures great and small, Plus your courage and enthusiasm I shall always remember As it continues to grow inside me forever Mi Corazόn grew with you Mi Corazόn lies with yours, For you gave me my first lifelong dream You never knew me... And that hurts. But I still looked up to you like a dad. Mi Corazόn lies with yours.

Forget Liara de Banks I give you a rubber It is a small way to forget all the bad It promises finality Like the full stop in a sentence Here. It will help to forget your sorrows Like a hug. It will make your mistakes easier to remove. I am trying to help you. Not a kiss or a hug I give you a rubber. Its quick work should help you Faithful and important As you are to me, For as long as I am to you. Take it Its small wrapper contains a great help If you want it It’s only small, But if you need it, It will help for as long as you need.

Mr. Nobody Jay Kent I am an invisible man. Now, that may sound like some sort of profound metaphor, perhaps highlighting my isolation from society or maybe even how lonely I am. But understand this – I am being entirely literal. I am an invisible man. If you try and look at me, you’ll see nothing. Because I’m invisible. Now, you could ask “how is that scientifically possible? What medical condition could possibly result in your entire body being invisible?” Well, believe me, if I could visit a hospital or something to try and find a cure, I’d jump at the chance. But every time I go and make an appointment, it never gets made. Because the person at the front desk can’t see a patient there. And you can’t make an appointment with something you can’t see. So this is me. Invisible. Transparent. Other synonyms for ‘see through’. 36

It’s not entirely a bad thing, though. Your imagination may be like a rollercoaster, thinking of what you may do if you were invisible. Nick a packet of sweets, sit in public naked, rob a bank. I assure you, I use my condition in a very good willed and law abiding way. I’ll admit, as a teenager, I did attempt a few things. Successfully, too. But looking back they were a bit embarrassing. Your typical things, you know? Sneak out at night, take a few beers from behind the bar, sneak into the changing rooms of the opposite sex. I regret this, I’ll say that now, and I would not attempt anything like that again. I won’t abuse my condition. Some people will consider it a superpower, and you know that quote. With great power comes great copyright issues. But here I am, a good 29 years old and I don’t even know what I look like. I mean, I’ve styled my hair…I think. Best as I could, y’know? I think it might look good if I was visible, but I’m not too sure. You’d think the fact that nobody can see my appearance might be a benefit for getting into relationships, because as we all know, looks don’t matter in a relationship and personality is all that matters. But, sadly, that’s not how the world works. To trigger some sort of attraction, you need a physical appearance to trigger a chemical called dopamine in your brain that makes you think someone is attractive. And that’s one of two reasons I haven’t had a relationship in my life. The second reason is because I can burst spontaneously into talking about dopamine without reason. I usually spend my nights at home, listening to ‘Nowhere Man’ by the Beatles on repeat. I do this for at least a week per month until the song gets on my nerves, so I change the record and listen to whatever comes up on the radio. Then the presenter’s voice gets predictable, so I put the Beatles back on and we’re back to square one. In fact, reflecting on my routine, my life is strangely boring. More boring than you’d expect an invisible man’s life to be. Because I know the stereotypes on Invisible Men. They float about with toilet roll wrapped around their head going ‘woooo’ and getting up to all sorts of hijinks. But here I am, having a midlife crisis twenty years early thinking ‘where did I go wrong?’ I answer this almost immediately by saying ‘birth, because you can’t exactly catch invisibleness’.

Ghar Sian Perry The train seemed to drag deliberately slow into the station, imitating my enthusiasm. I smiled at my sarcasm, grateful for the time it consumed. For the train seemed as reluctant as I was to meet my father, the well- known butcher of Madras. My eyes rolled at the thought. Just as I arose from my seat, a very pale old woman scoffed in my direction and our eyes met. Her eyes shifted to my outfit; daggers replaced her eyes and caused an uncomfortable presence, vaporising my readiness to face the people of London once again. Of course she did not approve of the saris I wore or my traditional bindi makeup - they never did, but I did not criticise her sweater. A horrific shade of blue. A smile was my response although my mind was not so pleasant.

I caught a taxi from the train station; with notes my mother had provided I was able to inform the driver of the location where my parents lived. The journey was lonely, although never had I felt so comfortable in another’s presence. Eventually the car slowed, leaving the tyres to roll over gravel, leaving the noises of crunching stones to clean my ears of busy streets. “Aap yahan hain”, I paused; a wave of familiarity soothed me. The language of Hindi, my first tongue. Children danced to the sound of car horns and the chatter of merchants after completing a day's work. I smiled, caught up in memories. “You are here” he repeated, I noticed he was looking at me through the rear-view mirror, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Dhanyavaad” I whispered. Thanks. Puddles decorated the gravel driveway; the bright colours of my saris seemed to reflect in every puddle, contrasting with the dim colors of the sky. Their door stood before me, a tall, rectangle, wooden door, painted a pure white with a golden door handle. “Devas, make me wise so that I understand,” I spoke under my breath, a quick prayer to my god so I could survive my parents today. Inhaling a deep breath before knocking on the door, the exterior mirrored a predictable future yet I hoped the interior returned to a forgiving past. The door swung open to reveal an unfamiliar woman, a fake mahogany brown middle aged woman with hair as big as her ego. Her skirt was black leather and clung to her thighs and hips following her curves in a very flattering manner. Her white shirt cut low at the breasts and was loose around her shoulders until being tucked into the skirt.

This is just to say Kate Pryke I have used Your lipstick That was sitting In your room It is your Favourite one You were saving it For a special occasion It is such a Beautiful red colour So nice And I’m so sorry.

Blinded by the lights (Inspired by T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock) Connor Noble

Too many days I have sat here, contemplating, wondering. Just get up and go is all I will tell myself, but it’s just not that easy. People talk, you know they do, You just won’t see Won’t realise. Because if you realise, you know you’ll crumble. Tongues of salt are so bitter, but you tuck them away, In the false image of sugar coated lips. A broken mind is said to be pieced together by the right person. What happens when the right person is the wrong person and they break it even further? A broken mind leads to a crack in the future, a hole in ambition. What is there after that? I’m blinded by the lights of other people’s uprising, I cannot see the possibility for my own.

What characterizes strength? Solomon Holmes What characterizes strength? Is it cold metallic suits of armour? Is it the mannerism in which humans portray a sense of glamour? Expensive brands leaking needlessly in, endless, materialism. That top is so last year, stand ashamed because you are weak. A misguided sense of direction emitted by the meak. The truth is I find no strength in objectification. A view considered a hindrance for a wretched servile nation. For strength can only be found; delving deep into the self. No matter physical well being Your job Your Residence Your Health. Over Mind Over Matter As the old saying goes. But mind Is all that matters To attain domination of your foes Taking charge of your own truths Honesty is your shield. No need for futile retaliations for the spite they harshly wield. For what characterizes true strength is the ability to stay head strong, amongst this atrocious pretentious society Fuelled by lies and endless wrongs. 40

Lingering Smoke (An Extract) Willow Butler Patrick Turner had died and I’d seen his obituary in the newspaper. It had only been a few lines, a note that he would be dearly missed. There had been a small photo of him too, nothing like the Patrick that I remembered. He had grey hair, thick still, and combed back from a face heavy with wrinkles of smile lines. I hadn’t seen Patrick in years and it was odd to see a version of him not dark haired with teeth grinning around a cigarette. At the funeral, I didn’t recognise many people, but I saw a woman with a greying afro who reminded me of a girl Patrick had once held and kissed. The funeral was in a church, despite the fact Patrick had always laughed at God. It was a traditional church; at either end and down the length were stained glass windows, glowing pink and orange onto the brown tiled floor, like sweet wrappers held up to a lamp. The end of the church was strangely empty for he’d wanted to be cremated. I took a seat in one of the pews, they were a dull wood, shine dampened from use. At my feet were discarded prayer cushions; dark blue with little white hands clasped together. I was one amongst the dark overcoats and solemn faces of those who had known him. There were too many people here and I felt an insignificant man from his past. I wonder if he would have recognised me if we had sat near one another in a café. I sat for half an hour before the funeral begun. There were photos of Patrick along the sides of the church, obscuring delicate paintings of Jesus’ round blossom cheek. The first photographs of Pat were black and white. The Patrick I remember, wearing the same things he wore on the day I had met him; silly leather jacket, cigarette behind the ear and blue ripped jeans. In the photo he was grinning and drunk and beautiful. I’m in a photo with him but nobody recognised me. In the photo we sat on a bathroom floor and I hugged a toilet seat and he was caught mid laugh. The further down the line of photographs the more the colour of the photos improved as he became monochrome. Brown hair turned grey and leather jacket turned into sweaters but the cigarette stayed. There were wedding photos, too; he was real old in them and I wonder if we’d gotten married, if we’d have been old with arthritic hands. 1965 You’re angry at that stupid boy for not leaving you alone. He was persistent if anything, but he wasn’t your type. To be frank, nobody was your type. He wore a leather jacket that was only cool to the boys who bent over cars, and claimed the name Grease-Monkey. He smoked, too - you could tell from the cigarette behind his ear. It was a factor that you didn’t particularly appreciate from a person. Your father had smoked; big fat cigars that went on for hours and billowed smoke about the room, perhaps that’s why you hated cigarettes and the boy. He must have thought the sun shone out of his arse because he’d sauntered over to where you had perched on the sofa and smirked – you’d thought you were fairly obscure behind a couple that were choking on each other’s tongues and the man who dozed drunk across the sofa’s arm, but apparently not. Nobody ever willingly spoke with you; you were an angry bastard if anything, tended to put people off, and your presence practically exuded 41

that. He’d come over, though, with his hands stuffed in that daft leather jacket – a poser, you could see it in the quiff of his hair and the smirk of his lips – and started to talk to you. It wasn’t really that he had flirted, because boys did not flirt with boys, but he smirked and tried to flit his charm about like any other boy who scored too often. You’d wanted to punch him in his jaw when he persisted. Between boy ignoring boy, a girl approached. She had a little black bob and red lips and if you were interested in people – in girls – then maybe you wouldn’t mind when she fell and kissed you with drunk lips. Poor, discarded greaser boy looked awfully depressed and shocked when she smooched you on the mouth, smearing her red lips about your chin. You felt the same, too; too much human contact. Your head had felt as though it would explode and your stomach rolled as though it were ready to hurl. You’d pushed the bird back, and stumbled, all clumsy and foolish up the stairs. The bathroom wasn’t inhabited when you stumbled in. You fell down in front of the toilet and wrapped your arms around the seat, head over the top. Not a pleasant feeling really your nostrils filled with the smell of stale piss but you didn’t have much choice because your stomach was rolling in warning and your throat felt like it was contracting. Between throwing up what little alcohol you had drunk, the door opened and you looked up from your pile on the floor. Greaser boy stood in the doorway and you wished that he would leave. You didn’t like him and his persistence and you wished for the taste of bile to exit your throat so you could go home. He took a seat against the door and stretched his legs out. He’d got long legs, gangly things topped in Ox-Blood boots. You glared at him – your forty-year-old’s frown lines became, once again, prominent over the lines of your spectacles. He picked dirt from the soles of his boots and flicked it towards you as though you had known one another for years and not ten unbearable minutes. “She a bad kisser, or somethin’?” he asked, tilting his head a little. You found he had an accent different from your own and you frowned. “Never seen a bloke throw up from kissin’ a pretty girl.” “Tasted bad,” you lied. He smirked at you once more, that irritating smirk that you supposed the girls all swooned and spread their legs over. “She was pretty though,” he continued like the shape of her face made a difference to your desire to kiss her. “I guess not if you’re into fellas though.”

Written Regrets Ally Sayer You found me in my stupidest state Among a row of intellectuals I was a blank slate But you chose me. I felt so honoured to be yours I was at your will You can tell me anything, Spill out everything to me. You always came running to me Telling me about your first day About the girl who bullied you And how you would make her pay. You did something wrong that hurt me Grabbing ink, contained and sharp Quickly scratching my insides And after youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re done, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m left with your scars. I knew so much Maybe too much So you tore my innards out Piece by piece. I did not need to know You threw me into the fire With my pages scattered around me You light them and leave me Your first secret diary.

Octopus Jo Castle So drifts the octopus across the loamy sand and shingle stone. Where does he go? Only he knows; going to a place all alone And this, the big shell he carries, all eight arms for only two sides, will make wonderful stepping-stones in his garden under the tides.

Family Alex Moore We are gathered here today; A celebration. Suits and dresses, Looking to the front. You dashed through; To grab your brother, Down and up the aisle. All eyes towards you. I tried to catch your eye. I wanted to talk to you. But you were gone; Out of the church in your usual rush. You reappeared; With the procession, Attached to your fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arm, Everyone rose. We sat with you, Thinking back: The time she took you and I to the cinema, That concert you longed to see. After the ceremony we gathered. Outside; Watching the car drive off. I came over to you and offered my Condolences.

Temptation (Opening Section) Megan Riggey Yet another morning waking up to spend the whole day looking after him. You roll over, grimacing at his snoring face with the wrinkled forehead and upturned top lip that will soon be grunting at you to make breakfast. Long gone are the days after you got married when heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d get up earlier to spontaneously bring you breakfast in bed. But now, the duvet is wrinkled, stretching over the large gut that shows no signs of the washboard abs that used 44

to give you butterflies whenever you caught a glimpse of them. His dishevelled hair spreads across the pillow like an unruly collection of black wires that blend in with his five o’clock shadow that has been neglected for countless days. You start to cry- not an over the top; sobbing episode, just evidence of years’ worth of misery slowly trickling down your puffy face. There isn’t even anything particular to cry about. Perhaps you’re just bored, every day being the same old thing. You consider resting your head in the crook of his neck like you used to, the warm place that used to make you feel so safe but the droplets of sweat collecting between the subtle folds of the skin repulse you. Your scrutinising eyes and self-pity are distracted by your phone lighting up on the bedside table, a text from an unknown number. Hesitantly, you swipe right to unlock your phone and read it: Miss Schedar, I don’t need you to travel far. I assume you need no explanation of who this is. Please meet me beside the lake in Jakson’s Park in precisely an hour so that our relationship can further flower. Strange, must be a wrong number, you think. You mentally note the last three digits of the number, 091, just in case then hastily delete the text just in case your husband sees it and thinks that something untoward is going on, he can be so possessive like that, especially with someone sending texts like that. You lay for a while, thinking about how much you’d love for someone to put so much effort into anything for you, even if it was just a text with a slightly forced rhyme in it. Now you’re awake, you think that you may as well get up. You drag yourself out of bed one leg at a time, throwing the rest of the covers over his body, trying not to wince at the sight of him. You wander downstairs, relishing the peacefulness after another disturbed night of his incessant snoring and go into the kitchen, pulling open the drawer below the sink, tenderly running the tip of your index finger along the spine of the hidden A5 black book that contains each and every secret thought you’ve had this year. You don’t know what you’d do if he ever found them but it’s your only way of escaping the monotony; your only way of not speaking out and saying something you’d probably regret; your only way of putting some colour into the black and white days that repeat in an endless cycle. “Nikki? Nik!” He bellows down the staircase, the loud voice only slightly muffled by morning grogginess. “Yes?” You return, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible. “Get breakfast on the go, will you?”

Megan Farrow Do you know what it is?

Do you know what it is?

Jitters, butterflies, a pit in my stomach that never falls, never flies, never ends.

Jitters, butterflies, a pit in my stomach that sometimes falls, sometimes flies, always ends.

Constant pressures and expectations which you have no choice but to meet them.

Different pressures or expectations that start with the ones you create for yourself.

Your state of mind has changed completely, and you drive yourself in to madness.

You will fail them; you will let them down… but they don’t see why you care.

You will get it; you need to have it… You’ll sacrifice anything to get it back.

They don’t understand at all.

But no one understands that at all.

Death row Adam Reynolds Rot in this cell Wait for the guard To tell you it is time Fearful and alone But unable to show it Each day the last day He brings you out To your last meal Bangers and mash, uncooked and lumpy You wait for your name to be called But the name is not yours So you retreat back to your cell This is not your destiny today Wait for tomorrow To start it all again Each day the last day 46

poems don’t deserve titles Aaron Foley May I not have to write another poem. The words on the page don’t work. I’m just rambling to get it done. May Poetry eventually die out. Replaced with music. Replaced with stories. Anything but this. May I abolish poetry. 5 years to life for every couplet. 10 for every stanza. Public executions for full-time poets. I know this is hypocrisy. A poem- hating poem. A poem- hating person. Not a poet though. Even I won’t stoop that low.

In The Night Joe Humfrey I was a wilted rose laid across the bed, An object for his desires to be fed, I was dying without a shining light, An animal without passion or fight, I was a carcass, a dead sight of my former self, I am merely a possession for the men with wealth, I am stalked by the darkness each night, I stand waiting, my red lips start to bite, I invite them in, small change, barely a dime To seduce their dark fantasy each time. I pray for escape, for a reason to die I am nothing but a wilted rose left in a bed to lie.

Observation Elliot Goodyear I can’t help but notice the way she circles her thumbs delicately around one another. For a moment her hands are no longer intertwined and gently she curls a lock of hair around her finger. The girl stares longingly at her pen, seeming to be compelling it to take control, to write - but it doesn’t, and she continues just to sit, occasionally glancing up at the clock. I study the class more, taking everybody in, until I notice a boy I haven’t seen before. At first glance he seems focused, intently listening to every word the teacher has to say. I wonder, though, where his mind really is. Based on appearance alone I would have placed him in a band, so my natural assumption is that that is what his mind is on. Perhaps not though perhaps he really is focused on what is happening in the moment. My attention is drawn to another girl. This one however seems to be watching me in the same way I have been watching others. Maybe it’s love - could she be picturing all the things I am? More likely however, could it be the shock of a new face in the room? Nonetheless, I smile at her. Her expression remains unchanged and this is how I reach the conclusion she isn’t looking at me, but rather through me. I’m aware of another pair of eyes locking on to me, but these are not the eyes of a girl, rather the eyes of a woman. It is in this exact moment I realise that I am in fact in a lesson, and that I’ve seemingly spent the last thirty minutes staring aimlessly….

Bubbles Chloe Button Dipping the wand into the liquid I retract it and gently blow into it. I watch as a small cylindrical form flows and weaves and swirls with amazing rainbow colours. It grows bigger and bigger and bigger with each bit of breath - even though my lungs feel fit to burst I do not give up I am mesmerized. Watch this kaleidoscope of colour take shape on the tip of this magic little wand, with the strange liquid that now retains my precious breath. I stop just long enough to breath in just quickly, just enough, just a second to continue creating this beautiful masterpiece. Others may see it as a bubble but I see it as a new and exciting invention, a one of a kind only belonging to me. Suddenly it breaks free of the wand and floats into the air rising momentarily before slowly beginning to descend. I panic and anxiously blow on it to keep it 'alive' - I don't want this wonderful thing to leave me just yet. It dances it the air and drifts away from me but I persist, following its enchanting movements, and I watch as I have 'given birth' to this marvellous object. All my effort goes into this small formation and I could not be prouder. 48

Then without warning, without any sign of danger, It bursts. The bubble bursts. Little droplets of liquid residue fall to the ground and with that the small fragile little bubble is gone. Dead. My heart shatters just as the bubble had and I bid farewell to my small triumph that is no more.

Prayer India Steggall May things change how they are, To a simpler brighter place. May the wind stop racing And the summers slow down. May the clouds move along, And the river slow to a calm. May the days last longer, And the moon be brighter. May the stars light up the sky, And giggle at the eyes looking up from below. May the only war Be that of nature herself. And may the living and dead Be never alone.

Featured Writers Jake Austin, Molly Banyard Megan Blizzard Dom Brock Lee Bushe Willow Butler Chloe Button Jo Castle Alex Castello Beth Cope Rhiannon Culley Liara de Banks Ariana Dobell Harry Evans Megan Farrow Kat Finch Betty Fox Archie Gault Kayleigh Gissing Elliot Goodyear Zoe Hammick Joe Humfrey Pip Hill Solomon Holmes Zac Howe Jay Kent Chanel Layne Alex Moore Jamie Moore Natalie Mortimer Connor Noble Sian Perry Kate Pryke Georgie Reik India Steggall Adam Reynolds Shania Richards Megan Riggey Tash Royal Louise Sadler Ally Sayer Phoebe Sizer Georgia Slinn Aidan Talbot Amy Wallace

Front and Back Cover Painting:

Kate Eastall (Courtesy of the Art Department) 50