Editors’ Note
Although writing would seem to be a solitary activity, the creative writing sessions have been characterised by the students’ willingness to share their work, encourage, and support each other. The One Writers’ Group has been meeting remotely since September and those creative writing sessions have been a regular bright spark through the dark winter weeks of this difficult year. These sessions have proved that writing is in fact more about unity and connection than solitude. We have been really impressed by our students’ work, and so we’d like to share it with you. We hope you enjoy reading our writing. Thank you to everyone who has attended the sessions, who has posted, and shared their work. Special thanks to Anna Su for the beautiful cover design. To all those brave soldiers wielding pens – we salute you!
Catherine Mann
Another World I would like to get lost in books older than time itself. I wish to stuff my soul with as many words as it can contain, so I am anchored down and do not float away into skies unknown. I long to tread my careful path, stepping over commas, laying down to rest at a finished sentence, and dare not breathe as I trace the curve of a semi colon. The rich text’s resounding words sleeping in my bones. I turn the page, and smile.
Marnie Cavill
Made of you If you could start your life again, from the very first moment where skin met light, what would you do differently? I wouldn’t change a thing. You see, we’re all mosaics of everyone we’ve ever loved, With tiles of shimmering purple, amber and green reflecting every single person we care about. And this is everyday life, nothing unusual, but something extraordinary. I finish every call with ‘love you, bye’ because Dad always did, I wear odd socks to irritate my Mum, I still make sandwiches the way my ex-boyfriend taught me, I curl my hair because my best friend said it looked pretty, I listen to cheesy ‘90s music because my brother once told me it was his favourite, I wish on dandelions floating on the wind, because Grandad told me I had to, I open packets upside down because it made my friends squirm, I scribble smiley faces on post-it notes because it reminds me of my favourite teacher, I wear red converse because my little sister said I look like a pop star, I eat my cereal from a mug because I saw it in a TV show my first love showed me. I’m an incomplete puzzle of everybody who, for one reason or another, has walked in and out of my life, and left a little piece of them as they went.
Rosie Stones
PHYSICAL INTIMACY
I wanted to remember it, to be able to touch it, Years, centuries, seconds later, And to know that it had been within the earth, Caressed by the worms and snails that slither therein, Weaving in and out, The soil digging into every small crack, Every fracture and rift in the slowly swelling skin. I wonder if it will start to mobilise again, The fingers twitching, knuckles creaking, With every bite, chew and swallow the ground takes, I wonder if there will be much left, Who knows how long I will leave it down there, Long enough for me to forget, Long enough for it to start crawling back out? I washed my life of the rest of the body, a clean slate, But I couldn’t part with the thing that I held most, And that held me often, So perfectly adapted to slot neatly into mine, The worn down and bitten nails, the weather worn palm, Ink staining from the top of the pinky to the wrist, All of this would be gone, I’m sure, by the time I dug it up. I wanted to remember it, to be able to touch it, Years, centuries, seconds later, And to know that it was mine now and no one else’s, That it was my secret, under the tree, Each falling apple unearthing the truth, Soon it will be time to remember it, to touch it, Soon it will be time to hold his hand again.
Caitlin Smith
Tapestry of Life
What could we have done but repeat ourselves? We fell back into old habits; opened up the doors to our childhood homes. We fell into each other, trying in our mutual demolition to hold each other up. History repeats itself and life follows a never-ending pattern; recital in a rhythmic drum beat dance. Our repetitive choices, each a different shade of regret on the woven tapestry of existence. I did wonder, once upon a time, if I could’ve troubled to pick out my thread of being among a sea of others. I did wonder if perhaps our lives were all more similar than we thought. Perhaps the tapestry was beautiful – full of complimenting colours, a kaleidoscope of vibrant life; births, relationships, proposals, marriages. But sat on the edge of my sagging bed, shaking shoulders hunched in on themselves: collapse. I favoured the idea that existence was not as glorious as I had previously thought. It was like paint, all the infinite hues muddied together into brown, or ashy grey. An ugly, honest reflection of ourselves. Something more human than we are.
Marnie Cavill
From Humans to Nature We stirred salt into your coffee, And called it sugar. We told you it was sweet, When we’ve been spoon-feeding you salt On salt on salt. We took the carcass of your creations, And created a throne of lies From the splintered bones that fell before us. We killed you and the entire time We told you we were saving you.
Helios McClean
SOMETIMES IT’S A QUIET POEM It could be the fog that hugs the morning sun or the jolt of a lonely night spent watching the dark perhaps the softness of sleep, footsteps on carpet or moss, the gentle workings of the mind.
Anna Austin
Moments We can feel it, though only as it brushes against our ailing skins, as if a feather, and sweeps itself away from our innocent, wide-eyed grasps. We can see it, but little matters as it eludes each colour of the rainbow before finally reaching our eye, a litany of fading silhouettes seeping down a scene lost to none but me. Why is it, that I could never treasure thatWe can hear it, although only for that fleeting moment a crow calls on a lonely autumn dawn, wishing that it wasn’t so alone after all. Perhaps it watches time more intently than we do, counting, gingerly, every passing second sinceWe can almost smell it, the passing of the blooming spring blossom to weeping grass to bittersweet raindrops, to nothingness. Yet, we can be swept back through time just as easily with the passing of a long-lost scent, of a withered rose, set upon a wooden stall that melts in despair each time I pass. I touch it, just to know that it’s truly there, just like I did when sheTo taste it again. That’s all I want. To taste those blue skies and marshmallow clouds again, on that breezy afternoon, bathed in shimmering golden rays. I was an angel, that day, but all time could do was bind my lifeless corpse and drag it up to the heavens, in its rusted chains. That’s all it can ever do, take me away, forcing its knife deeper into these wounds. An angel, bleeding from above. But, I know I can almost touch that day again, if I remember it hard enough. I could hold out my hand again, feel my hair whipping on the hillside, if my thoughts, would, just, for this single momentThis moment. I’m back, in the present. Again. …Why is it, that I could never treasure that moment while it lasted?
Jake Hewitt
Sunset Sun sets on the west, The pretty colours swirl together and blend Like the froth from my cappuccino, And the chocolate art. They mix together like they were destined to be, Hold each other tight Until the darkness takes charge And swallows up the light Why is darkness always stronger than the light? I find peace in the way my limited words, And my paintbrush, Will never recreate the beauty of a sunset . Sure, I could get close. But does that not take the beauty away? It is not something so easily replicated And I would hate to have my words, Not do the colours justice.
Helios McClean
When all this is over, I’ll hope agoraphobia hasn’t got its grip too strong. And that my hands will stay still, And my eyes won’t wonder too far ahead of what's in front of me. I’ll hope my palms will remain dry, More importantly, my eyes will remain dry. For the noise around me can growl too loud, And the commotion of life can shadow over me too high. I don’t want to have that black dog follow me outside of my bedroom. The black dog must stay in a crate underneath the warmth, Which my duvet replaced whilst we were apart. I want to hear life again, I don’t want to listen to the beating of my heart. Who knows when, This will all be over.
Alex Wright
A song for you These notes have meaning Heart strings A soundtrack of our ‘what ifs’ melting into melodies, chords pulsing through veins, our reflections smiling in the glossy grand piano, seeing life through lyrics, harmonies chasing what we can’t. Timeless. Plated steel strings, the world at your fingertips and the clocks trip over A future, a past, a present rolling in ribbons, And I’ll play it on repeat. The acoustics of what could have been echo A cappella in our falling sky. Your laughter a symphony, Breathing a bass, Heart drumming as hands strum the strings of our masterpiece.
Rosie Stones
Tis the damn season Don’t tell me the truth I don’t want to know Let me pretend that colour still exists Although the past few months my vision has been greyscale Please just be the perfect son in law My mother can’t handle the heartbreak You can disappear when the snow has melted But for now stay and watch it fall This is no one’s fault Different paths have different destinations But for now pretend we are on the same track Because we both know that Christmas is not the time to end a marriage So pretend that the end is not near We will drive this train through the snow And in Spring, there will be new beginnings Gemma Birch
The Ticket to Where You Want to Be
I hand you a ticket destined, Destined to wherever, wherever you want to be, be happy and smile for as long as you want, Want to go then?
Pack your bags and leave this woeful world behind, Behind you is where your dreams were shattered, Shattered now, but still time to turn them around, Around the corner you can wave goodbye to your 9 to 5, 9 to 5 you can put your feet up.
When you arrive, you can burry your past in the sand for good, Good times lie ahead, Ahead, you can bask in the mid-day sunshine all day long, Long days will flyby as you watch the world revolve around you, You,
It’s all up to you whether you want it or not.
Jack Gillbanks
First Love I have learnt to live by the rhythm of the fluttering wings in my heart. There’s an ache in my chest and it feels like drowning but I’d gladly sink and sink because dying never felt so good. My lips they part at the mere suggestion of your name yearning for your embrace soft and desperate and it seems I was put on this earth to hear your laugh dance with mine. Anna Austin
Because I tried I remember reaching forward. I remember begging for you to hold my hand, to help me through flames and smoke, I remember you letting go and letting me fall. Words never stuck to me then. I was alone, but strong, withstanding the words and harshly strung out paragraphs, which desperately tried to tip toe around what you really wanted to say... “You look different.” I remember how it rung in my head, how you walked away as I stood there, confused. I wasn’t used to those words. I didn’t know if I was proud or ashamed. I don’t think you cared, and at first neither did i, I belonged to myself, who cares what you thought... Was I trying to impress you? Make you stare at me, in spite? Was I trying to pull you into the flames with me, but somehow was the only one who got burnt. Because I tried. I really did. But no matter what I’d do, it was always too short. Or too thick. Too thin. “I can see too much.” Became “I can’t see enough.” I went from showing, to hiding, to feeling ashamed when someone looked for too long. Being flustered when people whistled on the street; now it rings through my ears like a haunted siren, going and going, making me pinch myself until it stops. It was always too loud, but what you said to me carried over all the rest of the noise. “I like you this way.”
Aly True-Holloway
Unknown.
The dearest of his daughters was never intended to be. Choosing her among them, reminded him of dust particles; they are an indispensable part of his life even though they can be annoying and crowded. The dearest. The most loved and it was a healthy relationship theirs. His other daughters knew of it and never judged, simply because she was beautiful. Wild, adventurous, sweet, caring. Loving. Adored by everyone. Her eyes caressed and soothed anyone in sight, her fingertips gentler than silk on the skin, comforting, never violent. Neighbors congratulated her father, for the excellent upbringing and the kindest soul that he brought to this world. But she never smiled. No-one had seen her smile. The bets had been going on for years and the boys still lined outside her house to try and be the one, the successful, who made her smile. Only no-one realized. She might have been the sweetest and most compassionate, but she was rotten inside. The heart she owned had long gone out of use and the yellow plastic tapes wrote in bold black letters “No trespassing. No room”. Not anymore. She was early matured. People often spoke of her as if she were cheese rotting in a millionaire’s cellar until she was of some worth and instantly sold green patched, used and miserable at the taste. Before her life started, it had already ended. But no-one realized, not even her father, that each night lying in bed she cried for this world. For the news of the nineteen year old raped by her step-father. For the people who had to flee their homes in search of a better life, appalled by the horrors of war. For the people oppressed by some medieval ideas, who everyone brushed aside as impossible for these times and yet everyone was blurry eyed, sometimes, for. The bets kept pilling and the neighbors kept congratulating and her father kept smiling, until she decided. To be peaceful. This one day, when the earth stopped spinning, the raindrops freezed and hanged in the atmosphere like crystals from a broken chandelier, the sun rised and its rays shone brightly, bend by the clear crystals, it shone through her window and showed the dust flying and caressing her beautifully hanging and spinning body. The grave read that morality died that day at an unknown date and hour. The grey marble stone sparkled around these eternally carved words. Life still went on, without Morality. It still goes on.
Despoina Goudousaki
Identity “Tell me about yourself.” This is the first question they will ask you. It’s a surface level question But here’s the thing, I’m not a surface level person. I’m a writer But I guess that also answers the question. “Tell me more.” You don’t know who I am But I do not blame you Because I don’t know myself either, But I guess that also answers the question. “What kind of person are you?” The kind of person who doesn’t know how To be kind Let alone be themselves, Left alone making a home In so-called no man’s land.
Helios McClean
The Key Open, Not yet, Not until you find the key which, unlocks secrets never been told, that have been wrapped in a soft warm blanket defended from the cold, world outside frozen solid, full of evil and hatred, you don’t deserve that you’re: Precious. Valuable. With a warm glow, You sparkle in the moonlight and show you’re: Gold riches on display before you, hide away at the end of each day, firmly inside my pocket until, I had to hide you, For good, I had to shelter you like a mother does to their children, It’s a dangerous world out there full of villainous animals, I couldn’t let them destroy you, I couldn’t let them walk all over you like you’re some muddy footpath, I’d fallen in love with you from day one, You bought me joy, splendour and happiness, But not everybody’s like me, Not everybody cares for you the way I do, You are the gateway to all my secrets, memories and all I ever had, You’re my precious little key, tucked away in my secret little box And nobody’s breaking in.
Jack Gillbanks
Comments in the Margins They say they pen is mightier than the sword, they say a lot of things. They seem to forget the blood flows freer than any bic biro ink - though which one is worth the most is something they deliberate - I think, perhaps the pen isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, unforgiving and often crude, leaving un-erasable rudeness spattered between red lines and occasional kindness. I say the pencil - softer and more breakable is more meaningful: leaving graphite veins of affection on my page.
Becky Rose
The Last Day My heart, it thawed today At the touch of a day betrayed by frost; At this sight, that may soon be lost; I finally opened my eyes. I tread this ocean of leaves, shining, lustrous; A plethora of orange, and red, and yellow teardrops Or ashes, scattered over the ground at the year’s cremation; This bitter breeze descending to whisk them into the wind. Their crunch beneath my feet feels almost like snow And nestled in amongst them, the last acorns and conkers Hide from the burrowing squirrels, already knee-deep; Their shells shed, they fade silently into the sands of the earth. The sun still shines even now, yet It burns a brighter white, struggling from within the clouds. Icicles pierce my veins; my cheeks glow a gentle red; A patch of frost giggles, buried snugly beneath a shadow. To think a world, only this morning pale as a ghost, Could muster a last breath as beautiful as this Brings me to a smile, wandering these paths alone. Why must this fire burn out? I stop. This lake glistens; twilight dances delicately on each ripple; Flames still raging at the very reaches of the sky. And I sit here, for just a minute, To watch. A leaf twirled down, in front of my eyes, clinging to the breeze, until It could no longer. An ember softly washed away by the wind, perhaps, or Maybe one last tear from a scorched, tired branch Smiling weakly toward the setting sun. A tear of joy.
Jake Hewitt
Bath I miss that climb into the warm shallows you would run for me, To help with the fever that took over my small body. I miss the way I was able to trust, Trust that you would hold that cloth across my small head, As you let water run through my hair, Trust that you would defend me of the bubbles and soap that could glide through my brows, Trust that you wouldn’t let my eyes sting and become that crimson glow, After the warm shallows would try their best.
Alex Wright
1999 Britney Spears was playing on the speakers, making them ripple like a sea tide. I was playing Snake on my new Nokia, pretending I wasn’t at this New Year’s Party, when I saw you. Piercings, short red hair and a Cher shirt, you came over to get a drink with a friend, your boyfriend? I wanted to know. I introduced myself as Mike, awkwardly moving my short brown hair around, that’s sexy right? You smiled and said your name was, “Callum,” and that the guy with you was your colleague, “John.” My smile doubled in size. Apparently, you worked in the same office, just different departments, separating us by corporate structuring and a dozen or so floors at our office block. A lot was changing at work, a lot had changed. The office had three new computers and my boss was a woman and people only called her a Lesbian behind her back. A serious improvement, we both joked. You and I talked and talked, you put your arm on mine and I did the same. We danced through more Britney, talked about who we thought at work who was like us, drank all the way to midnight. A century was about to end and all together we counted down. At 10, 9, 8 and 7 I took your hand. But at 6, 5, 4 we attracted stares and whispers and I felt you let go. And by 3, 2 and finally 1 you let go, as everyone cheered, the end of the century and the start of a new future. Yeah right, I thought. I drank till dawn but even then, the sky was a weak blue, illuminating wispy clouds on the horizon. However, as I staggered home, I saw you helping John into a taxi, his shirt stained with vomit yellow colour. You smiled and me and I smiled back and we both turned away from each other.
Billy Smith
Open the Window Open the window even if you’re cold, or in a car the breeze might bring a gift. There could be birds singing. A passing pedestrian might hear the music playing on your stereo, walk to the beat of your blues. Open the window. Trust me, the air will feel your face a new blind friend. Open the window, you’ll still be safe, but that breeze might blow a new chapter into your mind, might bring a message morse code from rush hour traffic, or footsteps that echo you back.
Catherine Mann
Our lives had grown so empty Remember the hibiscus we planted last spring? Well, it flowered. There is no other news. I’d love to tell you compassionate tales about how life has exploded with opportunity after opportunity, since the day you left my side. But alas there is no such story to tell. As my eyes dart around our precious allotment they catch a glimpse of the scarlet bloom that exudes the very love I have for you. As my soul locks on to the reminiscence of last summer, my mind dives into the depths of my thoughts and exposes me to the fantasy you left me to drown in. You may have moved on, become busy with life I suppose, but have you ever contemplated the sheer confusion you left me with? Like a helpless kitten dangling from a tree, I was met with a drastic feeling of fear, paired with the realisation that my eventual plummet to chaos would be inevitable. Except I cannot identify with a kitten, I merely empathise with the raw innocence it displays and how it playfully goes about life, unaware of the overbearing evil around it. To put it simply, you were the darkness I fell in to, you overtook my mind, enticed me with your charming ways, only to leave me rotting in the mess you created. Truthfully, my prior meaningless proposal of asking for redemption has been ditched for a simple request. All I ask is that you cherish the bond we once had, just like our delicate hibiscus keeps the memories of our youth alive. For as long as the soil is tied to our little blossom of life, I savour the existence of the hibiscus we planted last spring. For now, my love, there is no other news.
Aviha Begum
My One Way Ticket Preparing for departure at dawn, I kiss my wife, my children and my entire family goodbye, Little did they know, this was the last they would see of me, I set off for work a mission from God, Die in his name or thou art a coward, I steady myself in my coffin: My hands shaking rapidly like some nervous school kid although, what will I be learning today? How to crash a plane into an enemy ship, How to destroy an innocent life in a reckless act, How to rip an entire family, an entire generation even apart, It just doesn’t seem like me. Suddenly, the engine starts to roar, like a loud lion from the zoo, This lion just as powerful. It can tear through anything in its way. The enemy doesn’t stand a chance. Twenty five thousand feet, the petrifying reality sinks in my feet will never touch the ground again, There’s no turning back now, For I only have a one way ticket and enough power from the plane for one-way, The enemy is within sight, A cold shiver runs through my spine questioning, what crime did I sign up for? I realise he’s not my enemy, since we are just the same, After all we are all human, we breathe the same air and share the same planet, The gun or the dive I hear in my ear, The glory or humiliation, To heaven or to hell, The choice is yours. All of a sudden the plane descends rapidly from the sky, like an owl that has found its prey and Crash! The one-way mission reaches a tragic end.
Jack Gillbanks
Coney Island Life is busy Relationships are hard Balance is difficult My schedule’s full My head’s busy Priorities get mixed You were there Now you’re not I miss you
Gemma Birch
THE RECOGNISABLE SORROW OF A DAUGHTER There is a man on fire in a chair. There is a man in a chair on fire. In a chair there is a man on fire. These are all valid ways of describing what I am seeing but, None of them quite sum it up. I’ve been known to scream in my sleep: “Heaven is a hoax and Hell is crazed escapism” Quiet tears mumble on my cheeks, Whilst my lover, shivering from head to foot, Quickly gets dressed and leaves. Choking down pill after pill. There is a woman here to see me, A doctor I think. Smart. Bold. Accusing. If she were not a woman I would think her the Devil, Lurking in the shadows. Heaven is a hoax and you can all bear witness. I was told dying would be easy, swift and painless. And it was for him, plummeting into the depths of sleep, But the rest of us could not, Would not, learn to cope. I shan’t wish grief upon my greatest enemy, My most passionate lover, Or my sister, or my brother, or his wife and their kids. Hell is but crazed escapism and I hope he’s there, Sharing a glass of bourbon with Beelzebub. Caitlin Smith
Stained Skin I was never good at telling you what I felt. I would let you tell me secret after secret, watching the cursed words slip from your tongue to mine, absorbing them for you. Your lips would dance over my skin, whispering sweet lies, promises you wouldn’t keep. I should’ve known they had kissed poison, should have thought that maybe you were using me to hide your serpents tongue. I was too fragile, too innocent to stop you hands clasping my throat, to stop your fingers trailing over my skin, leaving marks of falsifying bruises and empty touches. Cursed touches. Touches that would leave me broken and bitter, ice crackling at my finger tips, the heat of my veins having left when you did. So when the next one of you comes along, peeling back those layers of secret stained skin, I will cry as it all pours onto the sheets, blackening heartbreak seeping into us as I whisper to myself that somehow, after everything, I still miss you. I still miss you despite the betrayal. The pure, rich, deafening betrayal. The type that weaves itself into you like red thread through smooth white silk, tearing when you tug at the seams too hard. God you loved it; seeing my purity gone away with you, watching as my pearls turned red with the stains you promised you would wash away. But tell me... What did you gain from it? Aly True-Holloway
I bought my mother flowers on my walk home today. I decided to leave the house wearing my new Miss 60, forest-creek green suede trench coat. I smiled as I saw my reflection through the shop windows and imagined myself singing about a smelly cat on stage. I felt unstoppable. My purple flares brushed my vinyl boots as I walked, peering under the false eyelashes which I stuck forcefully to my eyelid. I wore my malachite pendant and every bracelet I could find so that I could twinkle and rattle and let other pedestrians know that I walk quicker than them. Because dressing up for the post office is certainly appropriate.
Alex Wright
Willow The wiser the tree, the more rings she has The more rings she has, the stronger she is Your wind makes her bend Although she bends, she never breaks Snapping perfectly back into place Then another year comes along And she earns her next ring
Gemma Birch
Woodlice Okay – let’s get it right from the start. I’m nothing fancy; Not one of your zedonks Or some swan Swanning about, Gliding over the rivers of the rich Or even a robin, Robbing your attention On a photoshoot for some Christmas card, Preening about in the snow. But, hey – I’m happy enough With my hard crunchy back And more legs than you can count. Sidling under your fridge, Sliding under your fancy dishwasher And we’re a sociable lot really. We’ve turned scuttling into an artform (Cheaper than the ballet or the football) True – we’re downtrodden Under your boots and old shoes. But, hey – you all know what we are And what we do. And what’s the point of zedonks anyway?
Pete Milwright
Ishtar, Goddess of Beauty -2800 BC, Mesopotamia – unknown locationThe sand-covered east was scorched by the ever blazing sun, and the land was hot, causing excruciating levels of discomfort to walk on the ground in bare foot. The crystal water from the Persian Gulf Sea was licking at the shore, gentle waves brushing up the beaches which were layered with the utmost perfect white sand. It was quiet – the land of Mesopotamia, the renamed Sumerian Empire, had been met with war with its neighbouring colonies which had been rising in power, though not to the same extent as was the case with Eridu’s beginning. Nonetheless, conflict was always brewing, and skirmishes were fought left and right, it almost became a common occurrence. Peace was hard to find and gone were the Eridu glory days of simple life. Since then, Mesopotamia had vastly expanded, and its religion had become even more widespread, and spawned new gods along with it. The waves were the only sound one could hear at this beach – there was no wind at all, thus keeping the heat in the air, even when so close to the water. Even the sea itself was warm – the perfect temperature for a leisurely relaxation period. These were her favourite places. Ishtar, Goddess of Beauty was one of the newest additions to the Sumerian religion, and swiftly became one of the most popular for her gentle nature and unparalleled attractive appearance. Like the sand she sat on by the water, her body shone, glimmering in the morning sun. She basked, perched looking out to sea as her skin absorbed the sunlight keeping the goddess warm, much like a reptile. The young deity was certainly not a morning person, but when she did eventually convince herself to emerge from her chambers, temple or whichever palace she decided to stay the previous night, she would normally visit a quiet spot with little to no noise, and where the rays of sunshine would make her beauty glimmer brightest. It was naturally her duty to have nothing but the best appearance possible, for it was described in her title. A god that cannot live up to their given authority is no god at all and will cease to exist from the world, that is what each of them are told before being born. The quietness of this beach, coupled with the gentle warmth of the sunrays radiating on Ishtar’s skin was an utmost delicacy to this goddess – she had always had a soft spot for riches – but the calm of moments like this felt particularly nostalgic. It reminded her of her first memories – the extensive vastness of space. The black surroundings, dotted with distant stars and the familiar feeling of the sunlight on her bare skin, a warmth that was present yet could not be felt. Ishtar was assigned her duties as a goddess immediately from birth, and studied hard to understand her several authorities, similar to how a student would revise all their subjects before an exam. “You have been assigned your designated authorities – go learn what you are, Inanna.”
Ishtar remembers her father well, or so she thought. She remembered having a very loving father-daughter relationship with Anu, yet this one sentence is the only thing she remembers him saying to her, as he turned his head away, his body with his back turned to her slowly fading into a bright light, never to be seen again. She thinks he was smiling. She wanted to know, where was Anu, her father? For years she simply wrote it off as he was busy being the most powerful god, of course he wouldn’t have time. But why, why did she think they had a good relationship? Now that Ishtar thought about it more thoroughly, they only spent this one moment together. She was determined to find out, and according to legends there was a mythical artefact in which one could have a wish granted, so they say. It was just a matter of what it was and where it could be found. Her knowledge of the universe was vast, yet her understanding of certain aspects such as emotion was somewhat larval, causing her to make rather rash decisions at important times. Naivety like this can be one’s downfall, as poor Sal found out thousands of years before. History is violent, and prone to repeating itself – but would a young, naïve goddess follow the same fate as a poor, struggling farmer? Determined to find out about her father, Ishtar finally had a goal. She stood up from the beach and brushed the sand off of her body, gazing up into the sky. “Find out about Father, you can do this Inanna” were the words blinking in her mind. Perhaps this was what Anu meant. She understood and followed her strict duties as a part of her authorities as a goddess, but did that mean she understood her true nature? Knowing your role is not the same as knowing yourself. “Go learn what you are, Inanna.”
Louis Searle
Healing I can’t. I can’t be everyone else when I only just found the tip of the iceberg to myself. Being just like everyone else is my poison. And I am trying to heal from the time I fell upon my own blade, in my despair at not recognising a single thing reflected back at me in the mirror. Healing is such a peculiar thing. It is not the calm flowing of peace taking residence in the soul. Healing is a wet thing of tears and blood – and not knowing whether the trickling sensation is one or the other. Whether you are letting your soul slip away, from fingertips that are a shade too pale, or whether you are climbing a step higher in life, and the dizziness of it is just so potent. You sway on your feet. I have spent far too long erasing myself into the background when I was the centrepiece all along. I know this now, possessing this knowledge is enough for now.
Marnie Cavill
Roots To have roots must be a strange thing growing in all directions but never moving. I see trees cracked, split, fallen over or into themselves unable to avoid the storm, or take shelter, or find another tree to lean against for a while. I trip over tree roots erupting through concrete, roots stronger than the floor, stronger than flagstones, or manmade foundations and I think roots must be a comfort.
Becky Rose
Pinkie Promise When we were four years old, time was measured in grass stains and ice cream, And happiness in sandy feet and hopscotch. The sweet taste of custard and those little boxes of raisins Hazing memories of summer afternoons rolling down hills, Where daisy chains embellished our little wrists And the sticky scent of sun cream clung to us like Velcro. You got stung by a bee once, at the farm, my mum patched you up with a princess plaster And a can of coke as a cold compress. The goats were laughing at your sharp shrieks Whilst I offered half my packet of salt and vinegar crisps, The acid tingling noses, it could’ve been morphine, Blurring the line between pain and pleasure until the bee was forgotten. I’ve watched you grow up, forgetting that I too am no longer the little girl with strawberry ice cream on her shirt. I think we’ll always be the four year olds, locking secrets with a pinkie promise And sharing bags of crisps, playing dress up in my sister’s tutus, splashing in the paddling pool and screaming at the sight of a bee. My watch tells me it’s time for ice cream, I’m waiting for you.
Rosie Stones
Untitled (Or, the Rather Understated Beginning to a Peculiar Tale Concerning Time Itself) And it was at precisely that moment that the phone began to ring. I answered, gingerly - rightly so, having been forced to abandon what remained of my glass of mead to attend to the phone - though I must now remark that the content of the call itself happened to ultimately be of little note. In this abridged recount of my experiences, all that I feel I must convey to the reader is the date signature of said conversation, which happened to be two years prior to my own date, though at the time I dismissed this as if it bore no significance whatsoever. Before you scold me so, I am forced to admit that looking back now, it was frankly ridiculous to overlook such an alien detail as in any way trivial. I hope that the reader is inclined to remember that at this time my mind lacked the extreme wariness and caution for which I am so greatly noted now; time always has that effect, without fail, and what was to occur over the two years prior to that call is precisely what steeled me to the world as such; for it was then that the clock upon my wall began to tock. Not tick, I must stress, rather tock. As in, if I were to begin with yang rather than yin. The emphasis is on how unsettlingly wrong it feels rolling off the tongue, and that should indeed be the case, for only such a sensation could mirror exactly my bemusement when, before my eyes, the very same twelve hours, thirty minutes and forty two seconds I had experienced only a few drawn-out puffs ago suddenly bore itself before me once again. It is difficult to recall my feelings of the time, such is how distant that day feels in my brain now, but if I were to present to you the fact that I did not smoke for at least three days subsequent (or prior, for I confuse even myself) to the revelation, it would surely bestow upon you some idea of the event’s toll on me. I do recall reaching to adjust my wall clock, thinking at the time it was merely malfunctioning, or the butt of a poor joke set up by my son to try and rid of me early, but beyond this I suspect my mind wished to largely overwrite this trauma, though I use such a description as ‘trauma’ hesitantly, for without wishing to possibly miscommunicate the nature of these events at all I cannot think of any alternative way to prevent their significance being lost upon the reader. There is, however, one particular point in this day that still does remain clear within my mind, and I believe it was then that the full nature of the situation finally manifested itself to me. I remember reaching once again for the drained glass of mead, having found my way back to the armchair following the afternoon’s drama, though I instead I was instead to meet a glass full to the brim - in fact, a glass exactly as full as it had been when I had taken it into my care that morning. It was looking upon my own reflection within this newly-full glass that, with the greatest assurance I can present upon the reader, put into realisation before me what had truly occurred that afternoon and, in turn, that which would proceed to change not only my own life - for I suspect with the benefit of hindsight that I was not the sole individual tangled within these events - but the world itself, forevermore.
Jake Hewitt
OBLIVIOUS A room. A table. A chair, Occupied but empty. I’m denser than air but I’m still not really here. My hand reaches across a million miles to pass the salt.
Anna Austin
Contributors: Anna Austin Aviha Begum Gemma Birch Marnie Cavill Jack Gillbanks Despoina Goudousaki Jake Hewitt Catherine Mann Helios McClean Pete Milwright Becky Rose Louis Searle Billy Smith Caitlin Smith Rosie Stones Aly True-Holloway Alex Wright
2021