Anthology 2019 by Suffolk One

Perspectives

Foreword Welcome to the One Anthology of Creative Writing, created by 16-18 year old students at the college between 2014-2019. This book offers to transport you from an ‘Armchair on Bradford Road’ to ‘That Day at Jaywick’, via ‘Van Gogh’s Cornfield’, stopping at ‘The Figurative Café’ and a ‘Silent City’. On the way, you’ll meet a large cast of interesting characters a Viking warrior, a dog pining for his owner, even an invisible man… As teachers at One, we have had the privilege of working with dozens of talented writers over the years, many of whom have gone on to study Creative Writing or English at university. Whilst choosing just a handful of pieces has been incredibly difficult, this anthology is intended to celebrate some of the very best of their writing. We hope you enjoy reading the work as much as we have. The anthology contains a generous selection of stories and prose pieces featuring a wide range of voices, genres and characters. Many of the poems included here (marked with an asterisk) have either won or received commendations in the prestigious Suffolk Young Poets and Woodbridge Young Poets competitions. One poem, ‘The Figurative Café’ was also commended in the Foyles Young Poets of the Year competition. Creative Writing continues to be a very positive and important element of life at One. We run a thriving Creative Writing Club and hope to build on the impressive legacy our students have left us. We would like to thank all members –both past and present - of the English Department and the wider Humanities Faculty for their continual support. Particular thanks also to Becky Rose for her help and her always excellent suggestions, and to Frances Vickerstaff, Robyn Sadler, Katrina Seeley and Kieran Allum for putting the final text together. Finally, our thanks to all of the students who have been part of Creative Writing at One over the past few years. Whether they are included in the book or not, it has been a pleasure and an inspiration to work with them all. The front cover and all of the photographs included in the anthology are the work of much loved and respected One Photography teacher Gordon Haws who very sadly passed away in November, 2017. It is a privilege to include his work in these pages. Catherine Mann and Pete Milwright (Editors) Published by One Sixth Form College 2019

Contents Ode To The Reader....................................5

Silent City............................................107

Perspective..............................................6

Another Dance Competition*..................110

Basketball in the skies...............................7

Station Four.........................................111

Cygnet....................................................8

So Many Feet.......................................112

Aubade..................................................10

Fake*.................................................114

Leaves..................................................11

Bus Stop *...........................................115

The Squid..............................................12

Gracious Tempest*................................116

Advice* ................................................16

A Day in the Life of...............................117

Temptation*...........................................17

The Figurative Café*.............................121

Temptation............................................18

The Mad Side.......................................122

Shall I Compare Thee to a Cup of Tea?......24

The Robbery in the Gallery*...................123

Packed Lunch*.......................................25

Cell 56................................................124

Foxgloves..............................................26

Storm.................................................135

That Day at Jaywick................................32

Van Gogh’s Cornfield*...........................136

Fresh Clean Bedding...............................33

Seal-Breaker........................................137

Like Dreams or Drainpipes: The Funeral....34

A Villanelle on Inferiority – Fool’s Gold*...150

Chasing the Wind*.................................38

The Harpa............................................151

Stanza Stones*......................................39

Fragment.............................................152

Desertium..............................................40

A Face and a Name...............................153

Fear Like Waves*....................................49

Before The Tide Decides........................165

Part of Your World*.................................50

Almost Saved by Vivienne......................166

Forged in Fire........................................51

Holding Me Still.....................................168

Newborn*..............................................62

Back To The Pen And Paper*...................170

DNA/Making*.........................................63

Two Bowls............................................171

The Armchair on Bradford Road................64

Payday................................................172

Photograph*..........................................66

Villanelle for a Dementia Patient.............175

A Backwards Wish*................................67

Recuperations......................................176

Tea.......................................................68

The Tunes of Life..................................178

The Skirt Sonnet.....................................80

Machine Wash Only*.............................182

Small....................................................81

Blossom...............................................184

A Point in Time.......................................82

Librocubicularist ..................................186

Almost a Confession*..............................85

Mr Nobody...........................................187

12.03*..................................................86

Portrait of Nusch*.................................188

Mocha Afternoons...................................88

The Little Mermaid................................190

Short Sleeves.........................................99

Juliet...................................................191

January II............................................100

Like Dreams Or Drainpipes: A Meeting.....192

Humphrey............................................101

Untitled ..............................................194

Harpenden...........................................104

Resource for writers and teachers...........196

Dwarf..................................................106

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

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 mind as I will miss the way you read them out loud? As 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 my I real ise I am not worthy of your constant observa-

own.

Perspective Courtney Chilvers You stand at the polling station. You stand at the polling station

Knowing that,

Knowing that

An individual vote can.

An individual vote can

Not change the hundreds,

But rich money men can

But rich money men can.

Through them.

Through them

The decisions are made

The decisions are made.

Teenagers - the people of tomorrow.

Teenagers - the people of tomorrow -

Are silenced through

‘Great’ politicians

‘Great’ politicians.

This country in ruin.

Who are runining this country.

Leaving

We all shout in the streets screaming whilst you are

One day,

One day…

The world will change,

The world will change

When the youth get a say.

There will come a time

When we will stand for it

Will we stand for it.

No longer.

But no longer

Money may rule this world,

But we will always get our way.

But we will get our way.

“No chance,” you say,

Screaming for a re-vote.

Screaming for a re-vote

We are

Laughing

Leaving.

Basketball in the Skies Katie Harling-Challis

I thwack the ball down into the hard, black ground, the asphalt crumbling microscopically. That sound, hollow and deep, but tinged with the high-pitched ringing of taught fibres thrown unexpectedly against hard surfaces. Steady beats, rising pace, swap hands, clap hands, palms stinging, ringing their own sounds. Feet shuffle, side step, back step, swirl under my invincible invisible opponent. Small is agile, fast - easily dismissed. Arms stretch, hands and fingers extend, reaching for the ball thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gained its brief and false freedom. Caught - success. Now move, side to side to side, head and shoulders down, face up, left arm as a shield, warding off the eager and violent opponent. Now weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re down, crouching, cat-like, knees bent, body bent and ready and rising and springing up and out and we leave the ground and there is pure freedom and ecstasy and the ball experiences its own brief escape once again and it rides high in the air, lifting, curving, spinning that perfect spin, and then down down down, slight bounce, metallic ding, the net shivers, the ball falls through back into its previous trapping universe through the wormhole and into my hands, that clasp and cling and bring the ball close to my chest, my heart, thumping through my limbs and breath clouding into my face, the night sky clear with stars, small galaxies above and falling down on me, upon me.

Cygnet Maddi Hastings -DropThe bait’s in Prime Position. Orbited by the mobile of dog biscuits and maggots That dance under the shimmering, translucent blanket in front of us; The line waits, its orange marker bleeding through the foggy blue Law of contrast. You sit by the bank, banging the backs of your boots against your Propped up chair Anticipating. Watching the silky silhouettes of your prey as they dance Under the saturated Saturday sunlight. You rise to your feet when the Lilliputian buoy sinks below the Brownish liquid pit of quicksand. Bite. It rises, pulled up by the strength in your arm. You’ve got one! We’ve perched at the edge of the river Patient. The empty wind caresses your head of stubble Breathes life into my arching loops As it stabs these empty eyes Excited, you observe the shivering mirror beside us Me…not so much, Eyes are lit up with disappointment. They pass, taking the fishing l i n e With them. Looking, longing Thinking I’m one of them A cygnet among ducks. The organised formation float past. Beautiful, graceful. They tangle up his line Bloody things.

A living masterpiece, running rogue from the artist’s ire Weapon of choice – a brush – Strikes the paper Staining its surface. Now. We’re both engaged with the reckless and Free.

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.”

Leaves Katie Harling-Challis

I glance at the book Sitting Resting Waiting on the floor. Closed. The cover, worn, broken, scarred. There are dents and cracks in the leather Binding. Stories Waiting to happen. I reach down, command the book. The pages flutter, stop, rest. A new beginning. Chapter One. I jump into the leaves.

The Squid Jo Castle The first time the floods came, they hit Mum’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. I’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 unheardof. 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 help - perhaps 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 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. It was gladdening, during my final moments, that I got to witness something a bit more exciting. A big thing crawled into the corner of my eye- or was it my brain? Well, it didn’t crawl so much as float. It floated along, propelled by the flapping of two great fins like the beating wings of an exotic bird. It wasn’t a bird, though, either. It had a long body, starred with all sorts of great colours and glowing dots, and two eyes the size of basketballs. Not to mention a number of tentacles. Funny, isn’t it? I swear you can’t get giant squids on the Southwold coast. He scrolled into the frame of the scene, not emoting- well, maybe, I don’t study squid psychology-and I noticed his arms floundering in my direction. “Hello, Mr. Squid!” I would have called out, if my mouth wasn’t engaged. “Awful lot of water, this, isn’t it? Funny, really, maybe a bit ironic. Neither of us should really be here!” I didn’t need to. He had already noticed me- I was faced with both of his eyes, folded-over ‘w’s. He looked quite judgemental of me- my face probably wasn’t very photogenic, eyes streaming, mouth elliptical, and my hair swishing as per the demands of the water. I probably didn’t look like a gourmet meal. At least if I was going to die, I would gave a bit of nourishment to an endangered creature. Even if I was the equivalent of an abandoned roadside takeaway.

He swam further and further away- I followed. Getting eaten would be simpler. Things would have been easier if the squid stayed to eat me. I didn’t want to look desperate, chasing after a predator just so it could kill me before the seawater sloshing down my throat could. I slammed into a rock before either got the chance. The rock, the rock- it was the size of me. A cold, impenetrable middle finger directed at the currents. It took a couple of seconds to realise. I was in a video game- hold the rock to survive! I reached forward, clinging to its stony mass, and the squid fluttered away from my vision; evidently this was just too boring for him. “Oliver!” A sharp cry permeated my head like an alarm clock. “Oliver!” I woke up to the sight of Southwold-well, a large portion of it, anyway- crowded around an interesting piece of public sculpture: me, slumped against the stone walls in my sodden coat and school uniform. No shells in my pockets. Just silt. Mum was at the front, along with some men in high-visibility jackets. They all gazed in at me, as though through a fisheye lens; as though I was the catfish in the aquarium which usually hid under the rocks, and to the uninitiated, didn’t actually seem to be there. Was I in heaven? I noticed Mr Redmond among the gaggle and decided I wasn’t. “He’s alive,” noted one of the fluorescent men gruffly. “God knows how.” “The squid!” The words fell out of my mouth. “Oh, darling,” my mother wailed, her face a steady cascade of tears and mucus. “Oh, Oliver, we thought you’d drowned.” She was in her apron- the insistent punch of verbena found my nostrils, and stirred me out of my hypnopompic state by brute-force. Still making soap even on rough days. “The squid!” I repeated, in case they hadn’t heard me. “The squid! It must have saved my life.” Nobody acknowledged this, except for Mrs Wetherspoon’s toddler who started crying. What, like he’d nearly died too? Narcissistic jerk. Wasn’t all about him. The fluorescent men congregated to write some things down and mutter in serious tones. The flat brass-band tones of ambulance sirens powered through in the distance, and soon some matching neon vehicles drew up. Paramedics. “Listen, guys, I’m fine.” Nothing I could have said would have mattered to

them. They were really insistent on lifting me up. “The squid saved me. I’m great. I don’t have to go to the hospital.” “Phone Jenny Walker,” a fluorescent man uttered to a less active fluorescent man. “There’s the possibility he might be suffering paranoid delusion. He might need to be referred to the trauma unit.” Despite my cries, they took me away. My stretcher was long and flat, like a buffet platter, and uncomfortable. The insides of the ambulance were greyteal-brown.

Advice * Jay Kent

You like this girl, and I don’t blame you. She’s pretty and nice, and she likes you, too. You decide to come to me for a helping hand. And I know you’re nervous, I fully understand. I quote some poets to inspire and assist. But advice I’m giving you is advice that I have missed. I’d tell you what I’d do if I had your confidence. But my arms are weird, and I’m too fat, and, as a Romeo, I’m incompetent.

Temptation

Bronwyn Lutz Ooo they’re nice Completely unsuitable I reckon I could walk in them alright They’ll wreck your feet But don’t they sparkle? Where will you wear them? Getting invited to a party anytime soon? How rude It’s true They are calling my name I’m sure of it I can’t hear them I could wear them everyday Now that, I’d like to see I bet I could run in them The whole length of the platform? I’d be a good few inches taller? That will be the day Oh look, my size. It must be fate Uh oh... Just a quick try Don’t it’s a trap Omigod I LOVE them Quick take them off while you still can They fit soooo well, super comfortable

Yes alright Cinderella it’s midnight Back to work

Temptation 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 he’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 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, 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, 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?” Of course, dear, whatever you want, dear, would you like me to eat it for you as well, dear? “Sure! What sauce do you want on the bacon?” A slight pause is followed by an exasperated, “You make it every day! You know! Why do you always ask?” Because heaven forbid if I get it wrong, you think. “Okay, so brown?” “Yes!” He flops down at the table, as always making the back of the chair creak. A slight smirk plays on your lips as you can’t help but imagine how hilarious it would be if one day the chair just gave way and he ended up in a heap on the floor. His nostrils flare. “I can’t eat this.” “Why?” “Covered in oil, the bread’s drippier than you are!” He pushes the plate forward, retreating to the fridge to pull out the leftovers of the Chinese takeaway he insisted on having last night instead of your homemade lasagne. Arms full of the polystyrene and aluminium foil containers, he belches, gives you a disappointed look and stomps up the stairs, most probably into the office where he pretends to work but in fact scrolls up and down eBay all day. He thinks you don’t know, ha.

You scrape the perfectly good bacon sandwiches into the bin. It’s been a while since he’s been that rude… Washing up, you stare down at the cheap wedding ring that more often than not leaves a green hue around your finger. The “jewels” fell out many years ago but they used to be your favourite part, reminding you of the way it felt when you first met him, or more specifically, the diary entry you wrote after you first met him in the pub you used to work in. As you know, work has been especially boring lately - Jessica going on maternity leave, Tom leaving due to stress (hardly surprising). Working in a pub is no fun without my friends, as I said before! But today was different. Oh so different! This man walked in and, I kid you not, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t a Greek God in a former life. He. Was. Something. Else. So naturally when he waltzed over the bar I practically jumped at the opportunity to serve him. I played it cool, trying to linger at the pump for as long as possible to drink his chiselled features in. Men and their looks! And us girls can be so shallow sometimes… But, he was so polite too, looked right at me when he said thank you as well! I hope I see him tomorrow, I’ll be asking for extra hours if he becomes a regular! Nx You realise how naïve you were; of course it was too good to be true, and of course he was bound to morph into the blob you can hear breathing heavily after the mountainous journey of walking up the stairs. You feel yourself biting the raw skin on the inside of your cheek, the habit that always occurs when you’re trying to act strong. Your self-pity is interrupted by another text from 091. You did not appear; two people becoming close, Miss Schedar, is nothing to fear. Please make time in your undoubtedly busy schedule to meet me in said place tomorrow at 8, do not be late. I wish I was as sought after as this Miss Schedar, you think. The day carries on as normal- cook; clean; repeat, interspersed with grunts from upstairs at choice moments. But the normal tedium is laced with something else, just a little hint, a tiny butterfly, of... excitement? Flattery?

Anxiety? 091 is desperate for the woman that they think you are and despite the fact that you aren’t her, the feeling of being wanted is something that has become so foreign to you that you don’t quite know how to handle it. You crawl into bed much later than him; he gets so exhausted now, most probably due to his weight. You can already feel the warmth beneath the covers radiating off him. His snoring isn’t too bad yet but you know that it will just build up like the crescendo of a full orchestra, although it certainly isn’t a pleasant sound. You decide that your phone is too exposed on the bedside table so you tuck it beneath the second pillow, just in case there’s another text from 091, not that there probably will be. Not when they realise you’re just boring old Nikki Abbott. You bet this Miss Schedar is some really interesting, well-known woman, just like the kind of woman you used to dream of being. Just like the kind of woman you might have been if you didn’t marry the layabout that’s gradually taking up more and more of the bed. Curiosity gets the better of you. You pull your phone back out from beneath the pillows and decide to research her; if she’s that in demand surely people must know her. You type Schedar into Google; surely not many people can have such an obscure last name. Nothing of use comes up. Just some article about a star saying it’s “the southernmost star of Cassiopeia’s famed Chair. Schedar is also the brightest, though not by much and not all of the time” and “Schedar has a curious history”. Funnily enough, the description of the star sounds remarkably similar to the image you have of this woman, a woman with a lively, bright personality that is most likely hiding curious elements of her past that probably describe why she’s so in demand from 091. How infuriatingly elusive she is. You turn your phone back off. Otherwise you could quite easily stay up all night, scanning the next page of the search results just in case you’ve missed anything. Theories about her and the whole situation are chasing around in your mind and despite the fact that time has somehow propelled forward to 1 in the morning, you can’t even begin to feel tired. But then you remember who you’re going to be sleeping next to, the world’s worst snorer - so you let the sweet numbness of sleep wash over you and extinguish the feeling of being wanted as more than just a source of food and housework. You wake up much later than usual, although still to the sound of snoring. You pull your phone out from beneath the second pillow and turn it on to check that the clock in your room is correct, that you have actually been allowed to sleep in until nearly 8:30 without being sent downstairs to start the routine, beginning with breakfast. As soon as the Apple logo disappears from your screen, you see that your phone is swamped with texts, all from 091.

Miss Schedar, please do not neglect to meet me this morning. Without our meetings, my life is very boring. Beside the lake in Jakson’s Park as you know, I will be beside myself if you do not show. 7:30

8:00

I am hoping you are just going to be a few minutes late, but I am willing, for you, to wait.

8:07

I will wait for five more minutes, then I will leave, we are meant to be in each other’s life, I truly believe.

8:12

Fair enough if this is the way you wish to be, but don’t think you’ve heard the last of me.

You don’t feel the butterflies you felt yesterday. You feel dread, like a ball knotted in your stomach, covering you in a sheath of cool perspiration and making your heartbeat skip occasionally. If this man, 091, is so desperate to see this woman that he thinks you are, then what will he do next? What length will he go to? He sounds like he’s bordering on insanity. You glance over to your husband, and for all that he is, and for all of his characteristics that you’ve grown to despise, at least he’s predictable. You could tell someone what he’d be doing at any point of the day. He certainly wouldn’t be obsessively texting a wrong number to meet him so early in the morning. You don’t love him. You sometimes ask yourself why you even bother holding onto him or why you keep letting him hold onto you. But you know that if you had a life like Miss Schedar you’d probably miss slopping the bacon into the pan. You would probably miss cringing at his old, holey underwear in the washing basket. You would probably miss the covers already being warm each night when you crawl into bed. You would probably even miss, deep down, the snoring because secretly you never have liked silence in the small hours of night.

You know that you’ve changed. You know that the routine is probably making you insane, slowly niggling away at any understanding you have of how to live life for yourself. You know that it’s too late for your life to have a purpose without him in it. Another text comes through: Look, I know we aren’t together, but it’s a bit brutal to just ignore me. He must be angry. He’s finally given up on the rhyme scheme, you think, slightly amused at 091’s transparency. You block 091, rapidly tapping yes when your phone checks you are sure you want to do so. You move in towards your husband, gently resting your head upon his flabby shoulder and realise that, yes, you don’t love him but you feel comfortable and safe. Women so ingrained in tedium, women so settled in their unsatisfactory situations, could never handle a life being treated like Miss Schedar. Good luck to her, you think, as you pull yourself out of bed, one leg at a time, to go downstairs and write in your book whilst the hobs heat up.

Shall I compare thee to a cup of tea? Zoe Hammick

i think about you in as many ways as tea comes. you are a cup of cinnamon, a fire in the throat, bubbles in the stomach, and my mouth craves a sip of your dark saccharine. you are a cup of green as you joke there is more tea in the cupboard, but you are all of them and there is only space for you. you are a cup of lavender and honey, natural and sweet as you wrap me and my tired lungs into a gentle sleep that lasts the night. you are a cup of english breakfast, beige as you like to say, you energise me, keep me going until i feel happiness again. you are not for everyone, but youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re just my cup of tea.

Packed Lunch

Matt Varley Guided by a sleepy hand The polished spoon gleamed; Smudged by murky rivers of white Tainted with islands of wheat. The lover of my mother, Father to those not his own Selfless devotee to tradition, Slaves through his morning routine; Bread buttered, snacks chosen, Making lunch for the others, Unfit to make it for themselves A selfless task, Committed before the kettle boils The grace of the sleek, harmless blade Gliding across the starchy canvas Not a speck of white remains. Ham precisely placed, Routine. Knife down, kettle screams To grace mug with dark nectar, As he too sighs, Carrying blackness out of the room.

Foxgloves 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 wintry 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. ................................................. 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 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. I sorted the tea and gave the other to Granny. “Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes submerged in the past. I sipped my tea. “I put those flowers in a white jug with an angel engraved in it. They too were foxgloves. They sat in my room, the flowers turning browner as the days went by. I came home after work every day and changed the water, trying to keep the foxgloves alive for longer. But, after a few months not seeing the young chap, I had nearly forgotten him. Your father, you see, was already engaged to another woman.” “What?” I gasped. “Grandpa was going to marry someone else?” “No, dear. Not your Grandfather. Your father. He was from a higher class than me back then. I was a simple shop girl, from a family of lower middling class. But he was a young chap from a big estate. “Anyway,” she continued. “It wasn’t until a few months later when finally I saw him again. I was at work, and he saw me from across the room. I remembered him immediately. Such manly features, and broad jaw. Very handsome. I can’t remember whether he came over straight away, or whether I went to him. But we began to talk. We met up later in the day once I had finished work. He was such a gentleman, always asking if I was warm. Putting his new coat on me even though I declined. Taking me back home. He talked to my father, and asked whether he could take me out again. After he had persuaded him, we went out and had dinner at a fancy hotel the next evening. Everything was great. I felt so loved. He completely charmed me and my family.” Granny looked into the fire again. “But he knew things couldn’t last. As I said, he was from a different class to me. He said his family wouldn’t allow it. He had to keep the estate in the family. So, he was forbidden to see me again. That was when I realised we could never really be together.”

She looked at me nervously, as if she shouldn’t be telling me this. “Then I married your grandfather.” She almost acknowledged my confused look, but continued. “After about twenty years of marriage to your grandpa, I saw him again. I was in one of the new supermarket places. Very fancy and modern. I think it was about 1965. Your mother was about twenty.” “I saw him in the aisle with the milk in.” She smiled at the memory. “He didn’t see me at first, and I stood there watching the side of his face as he deliberated whether to get red or green milk. He was still as handsome as ever. Handsomer. Still the same broad face. Still the same muscular arms. He had more wrinkles, of course, but he looked good with them.” She looked at me. “He remembered me. We just stood there in the aisle, looking at each other, seeing how much time had changed us. But also recognising we hadn’t changed much at all. I can’t fully remember what happened after that. We got talking about what the twenty years between us had done. We had left the shop long ago, and had left most of our shopping behind. I think I invited him back to the house, but he said he had to get going. We had, after all, just spent nearly the whole afternoon together. “When I got back, your grandfather had hardly even noticed me leaving. He had just been reading a book about boats the whole afternoon, just like normal. Your mother was at university then. No one had eaten, and I had no food. But I was glad because I had met my childhood sweetheart, and even if I never saw him again, I felt satisfied.” From behind, something disrupted Granny’s conversation, and I could hear someone shouting. The voice walked into the room. “Mum? Are you alright. Do you want us to leave now?” My mother picked up the empty tea mugs and dragged a shawl from the side of the sofa, onto Granny’s lap. “Connie, don’t fuss. I’m fine.” Granny dragged the shawl back off her legs, and it floated to the carpet. “Well, we’re about to have some cake. Do you two want to have some as well?” “Yes please,” I said, as she put some more wood on the fire, unnecessarily. She then went to the window and began to close the curtains. “I’ll do that, Mum. Go and sort out the cake and tea.”

Mother smiled at me, and the creases around her eyes made her look tired. I think she wanted to go home more than Granny wanted us to leave. I sat back down once the outside was shut out, and asked, “What happened to him?” “George? He died in the end. I mean, we all die in the end. But he died before us all. I only saw him once again after that. Connie and I were walking down the village. Connie had just turned twenty-one and was looking for work, as she had just finished university. We saw him, and he came for a walk with us. He chatted with Connie. They seemed to get on well. Then Connie mentioned the fact she had no job and he said there was a position at the estate to run the place. And that was how she met your father.” Mother came back in with some cake. “Here you go you two.” As she walked out she whispered, “Don’t tire her out.” We ate our cake for a few moments, Granny making some murmuring noises. “Granny?” “Yes, dear?” “I don’t understand.” “You don’t understand how he could be your father, dear?” I nodded, sipped the tea, then I put it on the floor, and felt the burning liquid still on my tongue. “Think about it, dear. You’re not stupid. She went to work for him. One thing led to another, and here we are. Here you are.” I didn’t know how I should react. Maybe I should have felt alone. But I didn’t. I never knew my father, even when I didn’t know who he was. My mother had always said he was a scoundrel, a man not to be trusted. She just never said how she had met him. Or how old he was. It’s odd. I feel like I should have cared, but I didn’t. All I felt was terrible sadness for my granny. She was obviously in love with him. Granny’s face was trying to find hurt in mine, and I was trying to find sadness in hers. Instead, we just looked at each other, feeling nothing. ...........................................

Outside, the air is dusk, and the dust has settled once again. I take another sip of the tea in my hand, the liquid still lukewarm. Everything in the sitting room is in the same place. The jug still has the foxgloves in it, now completely brown. The carpet has mud on the carpet from previous days of people coming and going from the house. The house has a quietness about, almost as if it is stuck between lives. The heating doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tick in the pipes, there are no creaks from footsteps. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear anything apart from my regular breaths which I imagine cause the dust particles to collide into each other through the sky in the darkened room. I drink the rest of my tea, grimacing at the coldness of it, and get up from the chair again. I walk to the kitchen, picking up the jug on the way, and unwrap a fresh bouquet of flowers which are lying on the counter. Then I put the old ones in the wrapper. I empty the old water from the jug, put in some fresh, and gently prop the new flowers in the jug. As I walk into the dining room I see there is a ring on the dresser where the dust has settled around it. I put the jug on the ring trying not to disturb the houseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s peacefulness. I then walk back into the kitchen and swill water into the mug I used, putting it on the draining board afterwards. I pick up my coat from the counter, and walk away from the house. The foxgloves and that mug stay there for a long time afterwards.

That Day at Jaywick Kirsten Smith

Crossing the sandy turf, Two shadows on the shimmered surface. My father’s hand, warm flesh, In mine. Bitter, salted smell, The air heavy with a rotting stench Beheld to the magnitude of the sea. An anchor, coppery colour Rusting forever against the tide’s wall We’re standing statues Eating the view. Skipping stones across the water, Thin, blue membrane, Watching pebbles disappear Under a blazing red sun. Soft smiles, Teeth white like the rim of a Polaroid, Tearing through the fabric of your aged expression. Quiet, content, lingering between the brisk walks, Pauses, Fleeting thoughts of favourite days. Vast expanse of grey sand, but we stand together, Watching, listening, Talking in silence.

Fresh, Clean Bedding Pip Hanser I forget the exact sound of her voice, Or what her face looks like when sleeping. I don’t know how her hair falls down her back, Or how her jaw clenches when eating. But I know how she feels. She feels like finishing all your work Or that emotional tune, Or having nothing to do On a Sunday afternoon. She feels like that moment When you look at your friends Against the black background of a Friday night That you never want to end. She’s like a freshly clean face Or the end of a walk; A perfectly cooked lasagne; Hearing your favorite person talk. Maybe her hair falls like treacle, And her skin is soft as daisies. All I know for certain is She’s like thick, lump-less gravy.

Like Dreams or Drainpipes: The Funeral Jo Castle

of life’s occasional pitfalls, deep as they are, and the search for where lost things go The procession started at two o’clock. The morning was silent as taxidermy. The night before this one had been spent staring from the window in a womb of tangled covers, staring at the moon hanging dolefully in the sky. She had turned half of her face away from me as if I was going to demand an explanation out of her that she couldn’t quite give. I found I missed her when the dawn arrived and the earth buzzed with noises and smells and light again, almost as much as I missed my parents. Mother hadn’t been a shock. It wasn’t long after I was born, as she’d opted for having me over not having cancer. She hadn’t waited. Father, however, had. The breakfast table was just a lonely furnishing today. I sat there as convention dictated; my stomach remained silent. I stared across at the voids filling the other chairs wishing for anything. Nanna was in another room making phone calls. Books will have you believe that it always rains or snows on funerals- like somehow the clouds above are sad too, and empty out their harvests onto our planet below in an act of self-flagellating altruism. This didn’t happen. It had always seemed like Father brought the sun up on his own, since I was known to sleep for hours on end without a rousing- and without him there, who would open those curtains? Who would pull that mighty ball of gold from its refuge in the hills so that breakfast could be had and teeth could be brushed and clothes could be worn? It had turned out that the sun was totally selfsufficient and had brought its best today. By the time we got to the church where the events of the day would unfold it was at the top of its form.

I would have preferred rain; clement weather put everyone in such an insufferable mood. On days like this you shouldn’t have had to politely converse with adults. Days like today were for games with other children. Churches were not; I couldn’t see a single person my size. It was as if I had entered a dream. Such a strange feeling had only occurred once before in a past exploration of our reasonably large house upon finding my mother’s old dressing-room. This had been a good dream, though. My mother until then had only been something abstract that other children had and I didn’t, the same way I had money and they didn’t. Pearl necklaces dripped out of trays, powder compacts hovered suggestively open, watercolour paintings leaned against the walls. She had seemed so big, so warm- so alive, in that nest of all that gleamed and smiled. Nothing in this church could sweeten this dream of Father the same way. There was a vase of lilies at the front, but this didn’t make sense. Our house had azaleas, anemones, things beginning with ‘a’ that taught me the alphabet. I wasn’t sure which dead man this whole thing had been set up to mourn, but it didn’t seem to be my father. Everyone in black, too- Father never wore black, never bought black clothes for me. Mother favoured white nightdresses, too. I saw him sometimes, holding their silk against his face. We stood to sing hymns, but I couldn’t keep up. He never listened to these kinds of songs at home, so I wasn’t sure what the point was. At home in the library he’d have all manner of things on the gramophone- mad, jaunty things where he’d pick me up and swing me around the room, narrowly grazing shelves and vases. Occasionally there’d be quieter songs, orchestral ones, big compositions that seemed small in the same room as Father. And once in a blue moon, there’d be a very slow song playing, but it would not be quiet: he’d course round the room alone in an imaginary waltz, holding an imaginary woman. We went out to the cemetery afterwards, where his grave waited at the top of the hill next to Mother’s. I was responsible with gravity, and never challenged the boundaries of the contract we had. The darkness that lurked at the bottom of the hole had a curious call to it, though, one that made my legs tremble as though against all natural laws I could lose control and fly in an arc over the people surrounding me and fall in forever. My feet were better at anchorage than my wandering mind, however, and kept me on the grass. The coffin was so harmless removed from the church. It didn’t look quite so foreboding under the great wide grin of the afternoon sky. It looked like any normal box, albeit heavier than usual. It could’ve been a clothes trunk, a toy chest.

My dad’s in there. The thought was intrusive and glued my eyelids open. I knew I didn’t want to watch those pall-bearers carry out their morbid task, but I did anyway. Was it an urge to stop them? Was it an urge to see him one last time? Was it maybe just a sense of gross curiosity, like how I watched someone burn an ant with a magnifying glass once and, though horrified, let them simply because I had never seen something writhe around in such helpless pain before? I couldn’t identify whatever it was that made me look. I just did. It was over quicker than I thought. The journey of box down hole seemed like one of such finality that nobody questioned it. This wasn’t like weddings, where you could speak now or forever hold your peace and nullify a small fortune in cake and chiffon with a single shout. No, everyone here had just come to the unanimous decision that burying him underneath a heap of earth to decompose forever was the best way to go about this. We heard the echo as the pallbearers gave up and the coffin made the rest of the journey alone. This was it. Tears were crawling down my face but I couldn’t feel them coming out. My eyelids had unstuck now; I was overcome with the urge to look literally anywhere else. The sky, deceptively cheerful, was huge and cavernous above me. I was more trapped here in this wide open space on the top of a hill than I ever had been behind a closed door. As he dropped out of sight, my father dropped out of their minds; some other formalities proceeded after this which I couldn’t quite remember. Perhaps there was food at some respectable inn. Maybe there was a plate of roast lamb in front of me. I ignored it all. It didn’t matter. Nanna, at some point later in my life, told me that funerals didn’t have to be sad. At this point she was at a ripe age where funerals outnumbered birthday parties and weddings, and had appointed herself natural authority on the matter. The reason why the sun shone at a funeral was because “you’re moving on from one life into another, dear, the same way you go from being a boy to a man to a husband.” After this piece of wisdom she had turned around, firmly indicated that there would be no more questions, and poured herself a generous glass of gin. That was an affectation of Nanna’s- she didn’t actually enjoy drinking that much, but thought turning to the decanter would disguise the dampness on her face. Not pointing it out was one of the ways I repaid her for all she did. Some few years after that, when I was old enough to shave but not enough to smoke, I re-entered my father’s room. Thus far it was in a limbo between sepulchre and spare room. Nanna only went in to clean it, never to use it, and so we decided we’d let some unfortunate acquaintance face it someday and feel emptiness crawling on their backs in our steads. When I entered, none of Father’s things had been removed. There hadn’t been a single challenge to his old principles of neatness. Nothing spilled out as in Mother’s room; this was its straight-backed counterpart, coats and shirts lined up soldierly in the wardrobe and colognes queueing across the mantle of the fireplace.

His bed was made, but the sheets, if you squinted, held some sly allusions to an adult man. I noticed a book in its dust-jacket on the nightstand bisected by a tasselled bookmark, its journey towards completion orphaned by my father’s abandonment of his own. As all children are, I was curious about my fatherthe only difference was that he hadn’t been there to answer my questions. I could well have disturbed the book in hope of finding answers inside, some infallible guide to being a gentleman. I left it there. It was a testament to his life, not mine. Noticing the gramophone had been what stopped me from leaving. Its presence was like an old family cat, the gentle twists of its neck having the bearing of a tail. The flare of its horn was more comparable to the head of a lone daffodil, sprouting proudly into emptiness. An affront to silence. This affront I accepted. I wound up the gramophone’s crank to the right, hesitantly at first, until the repetitive motion worked its spell on me and I wound and wound until it would no longer yield. I set the crank free, released the brake, and the record that had been resting on it for years began to play again. The gramophone wasn’t like a human, whose years of emptiness and mourning could be disguised by a brave face. The music was juddery initially, slow, scratchy. It was a few moments until I realised the slowness was real: this was the waltz song. The troubadour to my ghostly father and his ghostly wife. I picked up the hands of imaginary parents, and began to dance. Timing was something I had to learn on my own. Eternity wasn’t something I had earned yet; I was still confined to the revolving of days and nights. Though I was changing physically now, I probably couldn’t change as drastically as Mother and Father had. They no longer needed shoes or hardwood floors. The sun was dimming through the gap in the curtains outside. I completed the circle myself, the ambassador of a lost genetic sequence to the world of the living, and stepped in circumferences. And I danced, and danced, until I felt like my head was going to explode. Eventually the record whirled into silence. The needle hovered at its centre, dipping down and up again like a reluctant paddler. I returned it to its original place. Then I left Father’s room, and never went back.

Chasing the Wind 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.

Stanza Stones

Megan Riggey

Warren Beneath the grassy heathland, rabbits lie in a world build purely for them. Tunnels lead to tunnels that lead to tunnels. Whiskers twitch and bunnies squeak as children, stomping in their wellies, descend an avalanche of mud, encasing the warren inside their intricate home.

Oak antlers A tiny, speckled deer – frail and nervous hides behind the oak. Fuzzy antlers peek out from either side; he hasn’t learnt to co-habit yet with noisy, picnicking visitors or blackberry pickers. For a while he will hide, camouflaged within the forest, but soon he’ll prance by his brother’s side, frolicking amidst the tufty grass.

Fluttering heart Black wings graced with bright ruby red, bending as they explore. Feeling the cool wood touch their feet they finally relax their fluttering heart to observe the running water coursing around the heathland. Sometimes they land in a child’s footprint, grooves from the bottom of their rubber boots and it feels like a crater to them, as if someone’s destroyed all they know.

Desertium Ryan Lenney I: Cortus In this sand, a black beetle seldom survives, but a gleaming back rendered matte black in darkness increases the chances. Wind need only release a small breath to tickle the sand and the creature would find itself buried. Conveniently, for those specks of life, there is no wind - nor sandstorms. Either they survive, or everything dies with them. Peeking its head from underneath the cloth in which it made a home, it begins shuffling and scurrying alongside the slab, looking for some form of substance. The beetle is tossing the smaller sand behind, propelling itself forwards. Dust falls, and our attention is drawn to the lurching spider trying to hide beyond a stalagmite. The beetle breaks into a frantic scurry and marks a path through the floor, carving a tunnel of fear and surfacing next to a bulky rock. It ascends the walls and doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look down to examine the chaos caused through irrational fear. For the time being, the spider waits â&#x20AC;&#x201C; motionless unaware of the tiny speck that is scampering from fear. On top of the slab, the beetle finds a crack in the rock, and nestles inside. More dust falls and settles on the ground as the spider repositions and the beetle remains calm, far enough away to not notice the dust settling behind. Underneath, a row of sand seems to shuffle and slide. Long lines of yellow, and the occasional chevron-shaped chunk of brown, move as a unit along the ground. The sand coils to the chime of ancient flutes. A column of snake silently embraces the rock that lays dormant in the centre. Shaking off any sand it collects, the snake now slithers undisguised, progressing upward. Its reflective scales are pointless in the black abyss. The snake folds over the top and manages to curl next to a black spot slightly protruding from the slab. Specks of dust crumble from the rotting roof and settles close to the snake - it is unphased. A sea of red begins to flow inside like blood, staining the sand like wine seeping through bread. A red halo surrounds the rectangular slab in the centre. In a quick motion, the snake pounces onto the black spot and suffocates the beetle below. Its last breath is unheard, even to the snake. The snake swallows and begins to descend, following a small corridor along the sand, filling the line and blending back into the darkness. Screeches and scratches sear through the cavern, like the screams of Angels; the sound eradicates silence and opens a rusted gate of noise. The stone slab that topped the structure in the centre, slams into the floor and skewers a snake in half. Its blood splats and taints the sand.

From inside the tomb, some small black spiders flutter out and crawl down the angled slab in a symmetrical line. They sludge through the blood of an impaled snake and ascend the walls to reunite with a much larger spider behind a stalagmite. A hand appears; the long bony fingers curl around the edge of the rock, then a second grey hand. His skin is so cold that the blood red-sunlight filling the space is enough to burn his supposedly tanned skin. His knuckles are covered in cuts where only the dust clogging the wounds are preventing his own blood from gushing out and merging with the snake’s. His skin is cracked like the dry desert. Sand-filled nails claw the stone as the man attempts to move. The nail of his forefinger snaps under the pressure of movement and clips off, his flesh exposed to raw air. A small creature pounces at the nail from beneath him but quickly retreats away after deciding the nail is closer to poison than food. His thin arms quake as his body is fuelled by a tsunami of blood and colour returns to his previously grey skin. His beating heart clouds the aura of the death, and life disperses into the darkness to hide. With trembling wrists, the man manages to hold himself up and peer over the edge of the stone. Rough edges serrate his chest, but he welcomes the feel of warm air that drifts in from the halo of light outside. His straggly black curly hair, that entwines with a similar beard, hangs low and gently strokes the sand below as he heaves and regains his breath. Morning’s red light turns yellow in the day. His breathing calms and he sits up on his knees. From his kneeled position, only the top half of his torso is visible in the circular golden light behind him. He squints at the glow and allows his eyes to adjust. He looks around at the room, observing the stalagmites and stalactites, the snakes’ trails and rats’ tails with beetles’ shells and nature’s hells all trapped under one roof. He wonders how he came to be here. Rising to a stand, his biceps shake as he attempts to regain enough strength to flop over the stone and stand on the ground. He moves his feet, preparing his body to take his full weight - he lifts one leg, his foot catches the side of the stone and he plants his face deep into the ground; his nose snorts the sand. Small droplets of blood trickle from his left nostril and stain a small patch, but the blood goes no further. The dusty man lays naked, face down, his nose bleeding and his skin dirty. Fearing similar failure, he rolls over onto his back, struggling like a beetle on its back, and brings his torso to a rise; his abdominal region forces his stomach to gag. There he sits for some time, allowing the blood to rush from his head and fuel all his muscles. He sits and inspects his body. He checks his hands and holds them up to his face; apart from the dirt and cut knuckles, they appear fine. His chest is scratched but otherwise, similar results - his groin, exposed but intact; his legs, seem thinner than he last remembered. Finally his feet-his left foot has a fresh wound from where he caught the rock but other than that, his body seems near enough how he left it. Just not where he left it.

Now that he has some time to regain his breath and analyse himself, he collects the courage to stand; doing so successfully. He notices loose cloth that is curled up near the circular glow. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Even, the clothes, off my back,â&#x20AC;? he croaks, noticing his raw and, dusty voice. He coughs, clearing his immediate airway from sand and feels the flow of air finally entering his lungs for the first time in a couple of days. The volume of air rushes to his head and he quickly reaches for the wall, pressing his hand into the rock to stabilise himself. While leaning, he bends over to gather the cloth. Shifting his weight, he leans his back on the wall and ties the cloth around his waist to form a loin-cloth and cover his bottom half. Once dressed, he stands in the yellow halo and pushes on the stone, for nothing to happen. He had expected the stone to move or open as a door would. Taking a deep breath, he digs his heels into the sand and pushes with all his body weight, as little as there is, at the stone. His palms turn red and begin to pierce against the rough rock when, with a loud crack and a sudden explosion of light, the stone falls and the boulder rolls down a large mountain. II: Conmemoro The subtle breath of an old man drifts through the tent awning. From the outside, the tent resembles nothing extraordinary. The remnants of a small fire dwindle outside, and the sinfully comforting smell of embers still lingers at the opening to the tent. Abandoned but ordinary. Inside, the croaks of an old man can be quietly heard as he sleeps on the floor, his lungs acting more like satchels than pumps. Whatever air that is managing to sneak into his chest, most likely will stay there and never make it around his body. He knows that he is in his last minutes. He craves the morning, one last time. The old man gathers all his strength to crawl forwards and peer through the tent. As his hand sweeps away the soft material, light fills his face and the warmth of the sun brings a small flush of colour in his cheek. He sees a large rock roll away from him in the distance. He lies down, his face burning on the fresh morning sand, and he awaits his judgement. A lone bird, assessing the sand below him, takes flight from the ground. Its light wings gently stroke the air as it gains height. From the ground, every speck of sand can be seen, can be felt, can be appreciated but as the bird flies higher the sand merges into one consistent slate of yellow. A large mass where one speck is impossible to determine. Brown feathers drape themselves to create a birdâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wing, which wistfully waltzes in the wind. The floor seems a world away to the bird now, but in its sights, is a large hill. One which could be called a mountain should one desire to not climb it. Close to the top, a man stands at the mouth of a cave.

The man stands, blinded by the sun that is greeting his skin like an old friend. He looks down and sees the boulder continuing to roll away and he remembers the tent at the bottom of the hill. The man looks out across the landscape, a hand covering his brow to minimalize the light blinding him. He looks out to the yellow dunes and sandy hills and admires the light that they reflect. Stepping out onto the hot granules, it takes his feet a moment to adjust to the familiar burn and then he begins his descent down the hill. An eagle rests on a boulder. He notices the limestone and how the deep red of the sun turns to green in the shade. He notices a beetle scurry back to a crack under the boulder. The eagle twitches his neck as it surveys the area for his next meal. A leopard leaps in the haze at a distance. The eagle takes flight and follows the leopard, knowing it will kill something soon and the eagle can feast on the leopard’s efforts. The man, now an inhabitant of the desert, watches the eagle fly away, then casts his eyes down from the sun. He looks at the cracks in the ground, at the earth splitting beneath him. A dead shrub’s branches reach out of the ground and scratch at his leg; the hairs on his skin flinch at nature’s touch. He twitches at the increasingly unfamiliar curse of nature’s affectionate touch. His feet burn on the sand, on tiny yellow coals. He looks to the horizon and the silhouettes that stand against the sun, their black shapes blockading the light. He walks down the hill and his eyes recognise a familiar structure, a tent. He sees a grey head protruding from the awning and it becomes clear what he has missed. Unable to just walk away, the man approaches the tent. He caresses the man’s face and it becomes clear he is still alive, just. “I am not late, yet,” the man whispers, closing his eyes and placing his palm on the old man’s forehead. The man focuses his little strength and exhales. A small wind blows past the tent and briefly the desert chills. Clouds cover the sun and a few night creatures venture into the day confused at the darkness. A solitary bird floats over the men and in its tail the light fades back and the creatures retreat. The heat of desert life fills the landscape like blood returning to the body, the wind ceases to blow and the air becomes dry and still. The old man takes a deep breath and the air rejuvenates his body. He sits and like a young child the old man grins at the colour of his tent. With a bowed head, the desert man rises and turns to leave. Walking away from the tent and across the dunes he notices the hills. He notices the waves of land that tide against the horizon. He notices the occasional Nubian ibex that stands on the mountains. He notices them watching over his walk, their curled horns branding twirls into his eyes in front of the red sun like a devil’s hypnosis.

He hears the sand whisper as the sun begins to set; it hisses his name and screams from burning pain. He sees the animals retire to shelter before the demons of the night prowl. He wonders if he will reach shelter before his skin turns to leather in the heat. III: Abscondeo A calm wind blows over the sand and the moon becomes an innocent child nestling into the sand dunes like their mother’s lap. Life is still breathing inside the shelter, the only visible life breathing this cold desert air. One candle is promised a stool at the main table. It is lit by a maiden. She finds the flint and sparks a splinter, using the tools to ignite fire. With the wax alight, the heat begins to thaw the air around the young girl. She rubs her hands together for warmth, opening them to the flame and welcoming the heat. “While the sun may burn the day, the night freezes,” she recites. She looks at the candle and watches the fire move with her breath. Fascinated by the power, she conducts the burning, with heaven watching her. She summons the flames from below and calls upon their dance. In this moment, she has sole control. She considers how easy it is to build the fire, and how it is even easier to remove it. The life of that splint is literally in her hands. A frightened sigh by the prospect; flames fly and flicker under her breath. She stubs out the splinter before she can allow herself to start an inferno. But she cannot resist holding the burnt wood against her lips - the hot char stains her mouth. She feels the burnt embers seeping into her mouth and penetrating her skin. Red lips that burn with fire. The black char smudges the youthful rouge from her face and taints her beauty with dark flakes. She wants to lick her finger and smudge the ash around her face, blackening every resemblance of her mother. The door swings open and another maiden disrupts the atmosphere. She brushes her lips, removing the marks, lifts the light in one hand and collects a tankard of ale in the other. Spinning on her bare feet, she feels the unwelcome touch of cold stone and pushes through the door. A crusade of sound suddenly charges toward her and through the noise she hears herself being summoned across the room. “Yes, my lovely lady, bring me another beverage!” calls out the largest man at the inn, who is sitting in the middle of a long wooden table. His harsh eyes pierce her skin and his mouth, that could swallow sandstorms, is deafening. It opens wide and he thrusts his teeth into an apple, piercing the skin and shooting spits of juice on his neighbours. One bite in, he throws the remainder across the room and marvels as it splats against the wall, the juice dripping down. Several other men are positioned along the benches next to and opposite him, but he stands out amongst the much skinnier men. His long, black hair curls away from him as though it is disgusted to be touching his shoulders. And the beard is forced to bow below his hair.

Weaving through a few tables she manages to get behind the man. His body odour stings her nose like snake’s venom and she can feel his scratchy hair brush her cheek even though she hasn’t touched it yet. She leans over his shoulder and places the candle at the table just short of his beard. Part of her hopes it will catch fire and burn the man, but he pushes it away before igniting his straw-like rags. “Careful there gorgeous; could have burnt me.” He spits slyly, as if the heat of the flame is burning inside him when she arrives. “Your ale, my lord.” She speaks submissively as she places down the tankard. Her eyes draw circles on the floor, trying to move but stuck going nowhere. Tucking her hands into her robe, she begins to walk back into the storeroom when a hand grips her waist and she finds herself being pulled back and spun onto the large man’s lap. A rapturous cheer comes from the table and the man erupts into a laugh that gropes the woman’s ears. She forces herself to smile, and she respectfully nods to the table to acknowledge their drunken stupor. The large man’s hand becomes a snake slithering around her waist and rests on the inside of her thigh, its grip becoming tighter as she moves. The snake is preparing to swallow its prey. She looks at him in disgust, but his eyes are so cold she freezes on the spot. The laughter from the table continues. A small tear forms in her eye. He jolts with excitement and throws her off balance. She slams her hand down on the table to stop her falling face first into the flame of the candle. “Careful there darling, getting too hot for you?” he spits as he pushes the back of her head closer to the flame. Her tear falls into the fire and disappears instantly. The heat burns her sadness and ignites her fear. The snake encapsulates her; his fingers flick around her legs and the rest pushing down her head. His eyes have frozen her mouth shut; her tongue is a block of ice weighing her face closer to the flame, yet it doesn’t melt. She finds it impossible to speak, whether to complain or to join in the jokes that the men seem to be sharing. One man at the bottom end of the table catches her eye; he isn’t laughing. She looks at him with eyes that say, ‘Help me’, but he turns away and drinks his ale. There is nothing he can do. Outside, the snakes begin to bury into the sand and the beetles scurry out of their holes. Overnight the power switches, predators hide in the dark as they become prey and the prey regroup for the night hunt. The beetles mourn the loss of a comrade and prepare for vengeance. They scurry along the sand, free to run in the open darkness. On the ground, they find the predator severed in half and one by one the beetles devour the snake.

Leaving only the bones, the beetles claim victory over a slab of stone and create a new home beneath.

IV: Adunatio The desert man, wearing only his loin cloth, strides in and stands at the door to the inn. The laughter stops. The talking stops. He seems oblivious to the audience. His face is coated in sandy dust that the wind has thrown on him; his hair hangs like rope, unwashed and smuggling several dead insects and half a desert. His eyes seemed white on first glance but then drips of clear water fill the vacant space and gleam in the candlelight. His mouth is cracked, like a rock outside; grey and cracked from the weather. The large man pushes the waitress off his lap and the snake retreats without devouring its prey. She falls and slams into the stone face first. “Oi, Carpenter? What are you doing here!” The large man shouts over silence. “You can’t get rid of me that easy,” croaks the desert man. The waitress on the floor collects herself and manages to scurry away from the brute who is now pre-occupied. She has escaped the snake and now, like a beetle, seeks cover. As she crawls away from the table towards the serving bar she looks at the stranger. He kneels to face her. Still on her hands and knees, she looks up toward him. His hand cups her chin and he helps her stand. Their eyes meet as if for the first time; the rest of the room becomes dust in a sand timer. “Mary…” His voice trails off as his body welcomes hers in an embrace. A moment of weakness and their lips interlock. Entwined as one they savour every small second together. It is over, they are in public. Suddenly they are drowning in the timer and the sand is around their necks. Whispers start to flutter around the room and the couple come back to reality. His eyes gaze into hers and he can see her fear, but she doesn’t let it consume her. She smiles at the sight of him. She gently touches her stomach and he smiles. His smile slithers off his face as he considers his path ahead. He glances once more at the woman before him. Two men, dressed in red silk, who have been quietly sitting in the corner, rise and, if their swords are not evidence enough, the royal marks of Tiberius alert the inn. “In the name of Tiberius,” speaks a guard.

Slowly, everyone sinks to their knees. The large man and his table come off their stools, tuck them under the table and bow on the floor. All the maidens prostrate themselves and, in mere seconds, everyone is face down. Apart from the desert man - Jesus. For the second time in a few minutes, silence haunts everyone. A gentle hum of breathing can be heard as the two guards remain standing and glare at his defiance. He is left alone, in the centre of the room, protected only by his loin-cloth as the guards move towards him, their gaze examining him. The beetles, in their new home, make themselves comfortable. Burrowing into the sand below and broadening the cracks in the stone to create corridors and extend their new palace. From the corner, a large spider notices the growing population of the beetles and comes down from its observatory corner to inspect the new palace. Slowly moving its legs across the stone, the spider watches the beetles scurry under the rock, apart from one. A single beetle moves from behind the stone and comes to face the spider. While not naturally a spider’s prey, the beetle moves closer. The spider lunges and grabs it, encasing it with its many legs and drags the beetle away. Wrapped up in web, the beetle hangs from a stalagmite and begins to slowly suffocate. “I have returned. Your blades do not concern me. Use your blade to sever corn and dress the ground in kernels. They are only singular seeds. But, when the seeds die, they produce many seeds. I, like wheat, grew and now I share my bread,” voices the man; this time his voice has become stronger. While his appearance is still dusty and haggard from the brute-like desert, his voice and beaten, harsh exterior are now proving to be superior. “In the name of Tiberius,” the second guard reiterates, this time with a strong sense of anger and growing agitation. A small cough comes from Mary, who is bowed at the man’s feet. Her cough seems to say Don’t try it or Please don’t do this. But the man pays no attention. “In the name…” The guards voice is interrupted. “He will not fight you,” calls out the quiet man from the table. While still on the floor, Mary’s eyes crawl up to meet his. Their eyes greet each other, and the man stands, holding out his hands as if there were shackles binding him. “You may take me with you. I shall be honoured to tell the news to your leader myself.” “No, I will,” calls another who also rises and extends his arms.

“Take me instead,” joins another from the crowd. Moments later, all those who were bowed have risen and extended their arms in sacrifice, apart from the large man. As the wind blows through the door, the guards grab the man by his arms and drag him out by his heels. Sand batters his feet as the guards rush him onto a cart outside. Everyone turns to look at the woman moving towards the door, her eyes stuck in a gaze still watching the man who is dragged away. The shy man from the table moves over to the woman and places his hand on her shoulder. “I will come with you,” he says. He doesn’t tell her where, nor did she say she was leaving. But together, they know they must follow him. “My name is Peter, I will come with you to bring him home.” Mary’s shoulders loosen, “A good name is better than fine perfume, and the day of death better than the day of birth. We can bring him home or we’ll build him an empire”.

Fear like Waves 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.

Part of your World

Courtney Chilvers

Part of me wants to tell you my old story, before I was named Ariel, given a green tail and a fork to curl my hair with. But I’m my author’s favourite Disney Princess, so this is based on the story she likes. The one where the prince kissed my voice back into me and gave my poor unfortunate life a soul. For so long I said nothing, kept my head down I had to. Even if I’d had a voice-box, I couldn’t have spoken. Couldn’t have had an opinion, or a brain, or a musical talent; couldn’t be more than someone who was half-human. And every minority since the sun first rose over the sea is like me: every woman, every black, every refugee, every redhead - that’s also me everyone disabled, poor or in LGBT silenced. But now the story has ended, the Disney way my author likes, and so this girl has a voice. A voice that is not silenced above the sea; a voice that will talk, a voice that will shout, a voice that will sing, and my voice - our voices - will become part of your world.

“Forged in Fire” A Viking Saga Amy Wallace Northerners “Current popular representations of the Vikings are typically based on cultural clichés and stereotypes, complicating modern appreciation of the Viking legacy.” I played the tip of my dagger in the outskirts of the flame, as if guarding it from the ice that crept around our camp. The heat fought off waves of chills, but didn’t seem to reach my toes, curled defensively inside the brown leather of my boots. Tufts of snow were blown from the peaks to the West; the flakes scattered downwards were obliterated by our fires. I turned over my dagger, transfixed by the way the light moved against the brass handle. The flames danced as those off-duty across camp bellowed old war songs into the night. A light mist rushed past my cheek as a smooth voice came close to my helmet. “All drunk no doubt. I don’t blame ‘em – not in this weather. I’d join ‘em if I could.” I sniffed a laugh and nodded. “I always find a good ale keeps out the winter.” I didn’t want a ‘good ale’ though; I wanted to go home. I detested being this far North. We’d been at this post for two months with not so much as a mention of battle. Tensions between the North and South had divided our country for the last 30 years; both my father and grandfather lost their lives fighting off invaders. I had been sent off to be part of an aggressive push from the Western mountains. All of us swore our lives and swords to the cause that day, a cause called for by the Southern powers. But there was to be a new King and we’d hoped the fight wouldn’t be long. Now, it seemed we were fighting with the cold – and it was on the North’s side. I shuffled closer to the fire, feeling my cheeks turn red. I wiped my nose into my palm and onto the back of my hand, pushing the edge of the blade into the dirt beside me. Our chief, Bjorn, grunted his way over towards the five of us and kicked a pile of leathers in frustration before exclaiming, “Fuckain Norfuners!”

Having travelled with Bards on the road for some years as a young boy, I understood a wide range of accents, but I must admit that his was strange to me. His face was twisted between cold and rage and on his helmet sat the furs of a bear, with its teeth hanging over his forehead. The bear’s eyes glinted with the flame’s reflection as if it burned with the frustration Bjorn felt. His fists were balled up, his knuckles poking up white ridges along his tanned hands. He plucked his commanding brooch from his tunic’s collar and tossed it to the soldier sitting across the fire pit from me. The soldier looked up with a frown before Bjorn grumbled a deep breath, “Gi’ it uh cleen.” And then he continued his grunting strides until he disappeared behind the flap of his tent. The silence he left was soon filled with the final verses of the other soldiers’ songs. Those around our campfire looked towards me expectantly. I looked back at each of them in turn and met their grins. I chuckled. “Alright, alright. I’ll give them some competition.” Clearing my throat, I sat up straighter and slid my dagger back into the sheath on my boot. “Suðrœn, vér nálgask inn norðri

(From the South, we came up to the North)

“Suðrœn, vér nálgask inn norðri

(From the South, we came up to the North)

At reyna várr víg-djarfr; Vér munu ræna grið Eða róa órr lið við valhöll. Þórr ok Óðinn standa í suðr-æt Sem vér stefna at sigr. Vér munu taka hvat vér eiga Hinn nótt eða æ.

(To prove us bold in battle); (We will deprive them of peace) (And row our people towards Valhalla). (Thor and Odin stand with the South) (As we advance to victory). (We will take possession of what we own) (This night and always).

Dauði at inn norðri!

(Death to the North!)

Ágæti at inn suðri!”

(Glory to the South!)

From around the camp, soldiers let out war cries, feeling a sense of unity in this place of desolation. Through the furs of his tent, Bjorn’s voice roared. “Some men’r tryin’ te get some sleep!” Around our campfire, the men sniggered and I bowed before excusing myself to my own tent; though I could not sleep, for the air of war clung to my skin and my heart settled in my throat. Southerners “A typical bóndi (freeman) was likely to fight with a spear and shield, and most also carried a seax as a utility knife and side-arm.” I dragged my feet through the snow the entire way to the gate. There were many better ways to spend your time than standing guard. Nobody ever approached the gate during the night and only a few soldiers ventured out during the day. This time, I had the night duty; small fires in basins beside the path lit my way to the camp’s entrance. If I was alone, I could spend my time singing, but solitude had been a luxury since marching North. I lifted my fist and gave three hard knocks, equal in rhythm, against the thick wood of the gate. Several planks slid across, rumbling the ground beneath my feet. Once the gate was opened, the faces of the two guards washed with relief and they nodded gratefully before shoving each other to reach camp first. I felt a sturdy grip on my shoulder and turned to meet the smirk of Fel. He let out a short laugh before striding past through the gate. “Looks like you’re stuck with me tonight.” I grunted a reply and set about barricading the gate again. He picked up the other end of the plank I was holding and I hesitated before allowing him to help me slot it into place. He immediately began tending to the fire and shouted over his shoulder. “Your song was nice this evening. Do you sing often?” The heat may have been from embarrassment or from the fire, I couldn’t tell. “Sort of. I travelled with the bards for some years.” The fire began to spit at the snow around it and I approached to be closer tothe heat. He threw some more kindling on the flames, followed by a few larger sticks.

“I’m guessing you weren’t planning on being here then?” I glanced around before removing my helmet and placing it on a rock halfburied in snow. “I wanted to travel more, hoped to become a merchant at some point. I couldn’t see myself living on a farm forever.” My hair fell in front of my eyes, the red darkened to brown by grease and dirt. I took the leather strip from my wrist and pulled it back from my face before posing a question. “What about you then?” I tied the leather around my hair and his gaze turned dark. “Well my father was exiled – long story. My mother didn’t want me around, apparently I look just like him.” His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “I had nobody and nothing, so I ran to Brant before we set off for this… War, I suppose you could call it.” I nodded before feeding the fire myself. “I think stalemate is the word you’re looking for.” Various amounts of pacing and sighing later, Fel spoke up again, “You know why Bjorn is known as ‘the Brute’?” I did not. “No, do you?” He nodded and came to sit next to me by the fire, “He’s been fighting this… stalemate, for twenty years. The first battle he was involved in, an arrow pierced him in the chest.” He poked me to illustrate and I frowned in response. “It only just missed his heart. Legend says he ripped out the arrow before entering a battle rage never seen before. I heard somewhere that he slaughtered half an army.” My eyes widened and then I raised an eyebrow. “You must be joking.” He chuckled before bringing his fist to his chest powerfully. “On the Gods, I’m being truthful”. I couldn’t help but smile in response. I guess I preferred this to the silence everyone else gave me. He got up and brushed a dusting of snow from his thighs. “I need to piss”. The word seemed unnatural, as if he had to force the phrase to fit in amongst all these unmannered men. I almost felt offended that he’d place me in the same category.

He returned a while later, producing a pile of flint from behind his back. He lumped down beside me again and pulled a dagger from his boot, smaller and more serrated than mine. He glanced sideways at me before selecting a piece and dragging the blade over the edges. I’d never been good at making arrowheads, so I was entertained by it for a while. Then my eyes wandered up to his face; his jawline was much more sharp than those of the other men and the shadows from the fire made it even more so. His nose was disjointed, realigned after battle I expected, and a deep scar separated the arch on his eyebrow on the side facing me. His hair was dark, shaved off on one side to reveal the rest of a tattoo that began on the outer corner of his eye. It swirled over and behind his ear, jutting out at various angles along the way, like the edges of a rich man’s blade. His eyes blazed umber and the middle of his brows arched down towards his nose in concentration. His lips were pursed as he judged the skill of his hand, pulling his nostrils wider. A trail of mist pushed out of them as he turned to me again and his face became neutral. “What?” I snapped my gaze back to the fire. “Nothing, nothing.” He shrugged and lined up the flint, “One down, twelve to go.” * * * * * Twelve arrowheads later, the sky began to tint a pastel lilac, signalling the early hours. We leaned our backs against the gate, eager for the changeover. Standing in silence, we stared out across the ice plains, until dawn stood upon the horizon and the snow-burdened clouds drifted further East. The Fire “The warfare and violence of the Vikings were often motivated and fuelled by their beliefs in Norse religion, focusing on Thor and Odin, the gods of war and death.” My soles slipped on the frosted earth as I pushed myself up from the floor. Small stones and shards of pottery pricked at my hands and knees, some of them burrowing under my skin. The heat chased at my heels; pushed me forwards through the blazing streets. Unwelcome warmth embraced me from all angles and I struggled against it, limping towards the cart of goods we had piled up from the village. Everything was untouched, still ready to be taken back to camp. Beneath the crackling of wooden frames, the screams of women and children merged with the roar of bloodthirsty men. I reached the cart and leaned against it, focusing my eyes on a dark lump in the shadows beside it. And there he was. His tunic was stained with blood in a slash across his stomach and it hadspilled out into a pool around his arm, with his axe still tightly gripped in his hand.

His ragged breathing spewed out uneven white mist. I knelt beside him and pulled his furs tight over his chest, turning my ear towards him. His grumbled tones trembled, “This war… This fighting.” He took a few quick breaths. “All it will ever do is bring misery… Many men will die for nothing, Trygve.” His breath caught in his throat and his voice strained further. “Leave me.” I sat upright, searching his eyes for further instruction. His lips drew back over his teeth, pulling bloody spit across the opening. “Go, now. The clanging of spears on shields rang out, echoing between the houses. Outlines moved among the flames, scampering to escape their deaths. Panic set in and I pushed myself against the cart, accepting that I had to leave him behind. The weight of the cart groaned as it churned up the soil. My nails scraped against the oak while I shoved against it with everything I had. The ash began to clog up my throat and the top of the hill seemed forever away. I buckled once. I pushed with my back, with my shoulders. I tried pulling it. I buckled twice. The flames caught up with me, bringing down the remaining structures around my sides. Looking at the food and blankets on top of the cart encouraged my legs to keep their strength. But I buckled again. A long time had passed before I got the cart to the top of the hill. The taste of death and disappointment lingered in my mouth. When I looked back, most of the village was only smouldering bones of what it once was. I sat against one of the wheels, my chest heaving. The North’s blizzard swirled around my cheeks while I listened to the chants of the enemy. “We are the North! The North! The North!” A sickening feeling took hold of my stomach, tugging at my conscience. My eyes stung with smoke and tears. We had come to take from the village, but the Northerners had been watching. And I knew that my brothers were dead. The Passage to Valhalla “Afterwards, a round barrow was built over the ashes, and in the centre of the mound they erected a staff of birch wood, where they carved the names of the dead chieftain and his king.” An entire day was spent recovering their bodies and cutting down a good amount of a nearby forest. The Jarls of the South were attending the burial and we were ‘going to build the biggest pyre the North has ever seen’. Narrow stones were lodged into the damp soil in the formation of a ship’s outline.

I stood at the bow, and Bjorn’s body lay – covered with furs – in the centre of the ship. In front of the stones, holes had been dug for the bodies of the soldiers lost that day - nine holes for nine lives. The stones were odd. Uneven. Casting my eyes over them, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there should have been a stone for me. Fel stood beside me and smiled weakly, knowing that I had been dreading this day. He had been there every night since I returned with the wagon, heaving and stuck with churned up mud. He was there every time I awoke from my recurring nightmares. I know that I kept him awake, but how can anyone stay sleeping through hours of being attacked relentlessly by Draugr? Soldiers carried forward the bodies of the slain and slumped them into their graves, wrapped in Southern flags. They then returned, passing the stones to lay some items around Bjorn’s body – ale, fruit and the lyre he attempted to play if he was drunk enough. One of the soldiers carried over his axe, barely able to hold its weight, and set it at an angle across his chest. An old woman knelt beside him, tucking a cushion under his head and laying some of his jewellery around him. While she leaned her forehead onto the ground and mumbled prayers to all of the Gods, soldiers brought piles of wood around them both. She moved behind Fel and I, continuing to pray in a feeble but resilient voice. I watched as a pyre was made from wood over Bjorn’s body, carefully placed, and creating a point. They were right; the pyre was much bigger than usual, for a much bigger issue than just mourning the dead. This was a symbol of our determination to win this war, and we all hoped the North knew it. Bjorn’s family moved with the shift of the wind, his widow, Agerta, bearing a torch set aflame. She knew that he was loyal to her. Even in his twenty years of war, he had never taken a Thrall. His two teenage sons followed her to the pyre, walking with the same sense of pride but ready to buckle with pain. The torch flame jumped at the grounding of the pyre, snaking around the base until it caught the kindling. His family reached the line of archers, stopping in front of Fel and I. We nocked our arrows and soaked the end of the cloth in a bowl of boar fat. Agerta blessed us as she set alight our arrows and we tilted them upwards. The sky seemed bland against the flame, the silver clouds rolling and twisting with grief. We drew back our bows, holding the string taught between our fingers. Fel was the one to break the silence, competing with the wind. “Lauss!”

Our arrows struck the top of the pyre, connecting the line of flame, sending it roaring upwards. The fire licked against the heavens, carrying his soul to the Gods. We lowered our bows, listening to the cracking of the flames and the cry of the wind around us. Fel’s palm warmed the top of my back and we stood in solemnity until the great pyre melted to ashes. Sjaund (The Ritual Drinking) “It was important to bury the dead in the right way so that he could join the afterlife with the same social standing that he had had in life, and to avoid becoming a homeless soul that wandered eternally.” I followed Fel into the Southern embassy’s hall, not far from our camp on the Northern border. Great rectangular oak tables spread most of the length of the hall and an orange hue from fireplaces lit up the sides, while a larger fire roared in the centre of the oak table. We took our places with the other soldiers across from Bjorn’s family and other Southern generals, while the Jarls of the South sat at the head of the table. The elderly lady sat in the corner, playing a lyre whilst captured slaves poured an ale for each of the men with shaky and frostbitten hands. The hall slowly filled with the hum of men’s voices and Fel’s struck my ear. “Do you think they’ll ask you to sing?” I’d thought about this since the raid and I pulled out a few small stone tablets from my satchel. “I’m not sure if I want to, honestly.” “I’m not doing it for you,” he chuckled, “You know I can’t sing.” I looked through the tablets and pushed them aside. “Course you can, you just sound like a screaming boar.” His lips puckered like a child tasting mead for the first time. “Well, that was cruel.” I drummed my fingers on the table, distracting myself from the need to laugh. Looking around the room, I noticed two of the officers speaking with Jarl Falker-dalr, but the lyre’s notes obscured their conversation. The burlier officer, Gunnar, came striding towards where we were sat and stood proudly, grinning at me before barking out, “The Jarl wants the fífl to sing a song before we can drink!” He gripped onto my shoulder tightly, forcing my brooch into my collarbone. Fel gave me a cautious glance – it was even less common to insult each other in the South. Gunnar’s palm smacked against my shoulder blade and the Jarl’s sharp eyes fell upon me.

“Gunnar, let the boy entertain us.” He stepped back from me, dragging his feet back to his chair further up the table.Fel’s brows relaxed and he gazed at me expectantly as I stood. I flickered my eyes between the etched tablets and the fire-lit faces opposite for a moment and then pushed them towards Fel. Before he could think I was suggesting he should do it, I let my voice carry through the hall. It echoed around the ceiling beams, opposed only by the spit of the flames. “Vér munu muna inn Ævi ór yfimaðr; Nakkvarr ríkr seggr Hinn norðanverðr folk taka. Hann grr bardagi hraustliga Unz inn enda, Með breið-øx í mund, Við deyja otta-lauss.”

(We will remember the) (Life story of our Chieftain); (A great warrior) (The Northern people took). (He made battle bravely) (Until the end), (With axe in hand), (To die without fear).

The hall seemed to grow more still, only the Jarls daring to look around. “Hann grr inn líf Til nakkvarr ríkr seggr: Með elska eða staðr at suðr-æt Ok æðra innan órr fjándmaðr. Hann veita mannvirðing At inn skuldalið Eða at sik, Vér skulu drekka hinn nótt.”

(He made the life) (Of a great man): (With love and respect from the South) (And fear within our enemies). (He gives honour) (To the family) (And to him), (We shall drink this night).

All eyes were on me then. I could see the eagerness in them– my words rang true. Almost every man was nodding, leaned forward in their seats. I glanced around, meeting their gaze before continuing. “Lofa hvat þeir eiga vera Brenna inn bruni í þú. Órr borg sýna mikill, Eða órr hugr es meiri þan þeir vita. Vér munu flugr Eða vér munu ekki hvíla. Inn Norðri munu vita. Þeir munu vita.”

(Let what they have done) (Set alight the fire within you). (Our pyre seemed big), (But our spirit is bigger than they know). (We will be strong) (And we will not rest). (The North will know). (They will know).

My voice rose on the final line and, unexpectedly, it was shouted back at me – first by Fel, followed by the rest of the hall. My heartbeat matched the pace that the soldiers were banging their fists against the oak. The Jarls raised their hands to silence us and a horn sounded once, signalling the beginning of the Sjaund.

My vision wavered at the edges as I looked into the fire. The vicious shades of amber writhed and dissipated into smoke that passed through the roof and into the bitter air. The fire still spat above the noise of the music and men, giving off waves of heat that pricked under my skin and crawled their way along my spine. It amazed me that something that could destroy so much was so close to man. Something so pleasant, but so cruel; the fire that cleanses and disfigures, wielded and repelled by the Gods. The screams of the innocents echoed in my mind again as the flames whirled, spitting out embers that fell against the ash of the fire pit. Across the room, the wavering outlines of Bjorn’s children approached the Jarls, leaning closer. Their eyes shot towards me and Jarl Falker-dalr nodded slowly, as if in understanding. Fel spoke into his tankard, beginning to slur, “I bet his eldesht son ish going to take over.” He slumped his tankard onto the table with a heavy arm, sloshing dregs of mead over the table, which dried up almost instantly from the fire’s heat. The Jarls stood. Silence swept over the hall. Jarl Falker-dalr spoke first. “As I’m sure you are all aware, now is the time to select a new Chieftain.” He looked over towards Agerta. “I have been asked by Bjorn’s family to make a specific selection on their behalf…” He pulled a commanding brooch from a leather pouch and placed it on the table in front of him. “In Bjorn’s memory, it is my duty and my honour to declare Trygve Völlr as your new Chieftain.” Applause rattled around the hall and Fel shoved my shoulder in excitement. “Well, go on then!” I waited a bit longer – waited for the laughter, for the Jarl to admit his mistake or chuckle at his cruel joke. Fel shoved me again and I stood with weak legs, not feeling the floor beneath me as I walked to the head of the table. The Jarls stood to greet me and the brooch was pressed into my palm, the brass struck cold and unnatural against my fevered skin. Gunnar’s chair tipped when he stood with his arms tensed and nostrils flaring like a horse. “Veslingr!” He spat phlegm into his tankard and eyes flew back and forth between him and I. Fel got up from his chair, folding his arms across his chest and smirking at Gunnar.

“I think I speak for most here when I tell you that if you don’t shut your mouth, I will gladly deliver you to the Northerners’ gates myself.” He leaned forward on the table, with his eyes seeming sharper than before. “Is that understood?” Gunnar huffed, wafting the fire with his furs as he turned and left.

Fel opened the door to the longhouse we were staying in and bowed as I walked through, making me grimace. “Please stop doing that.” “What? You’re a Chieftain now.” He followed me through and began lighting the fire. “Yes, a Chieftain, Fel. Not a King.” “Not a king yet.” I drew in a stale breath between gritted teeth. “I couldn’t even lead myself to that door. What makes you think I’m fit to lead people?” “You are the only reason that we were able to survive. Without that cart, we’d all be dead. What you did was very bra-” “I ran away, Fel!” Confusion took hold of his sharp features, restoring a sense of childlike innocence. “That… Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to be a great warrior to lead.” “Gunnar is right about me.” “No, he is not.” With the fire going, he stood and walked to me. “And if you don’t feel like you can do it alone, I’m always here.” His optimism was both inspiring and irritating. I lowered my gaze. “Don’t waste your time on a bard.” Fel gave a soft smile and rested his hands on my shoulders. “You’ve always been much more than a bard to me.”

Newborn Cheyenne Dunnett

He’s not here yet, but I can picture him;  skin like not-yet-embroidered cotton,  eyes the colour of natural innocence.  He’s like freedom, floating,  fresh as the world after an afternoon’s soaking,  ready to stare out at the spitting clouds.    The sky screams stormily,   as grey-bruised as his mother’s skin;  dyed by time, stained by pain, but she’s singing with the abandon of the mid-winter wind.   Too aware of the ticking clock and the pulse  of red-hot blood rushing through every limb.     Let me know when you give him a name. Tell me  so that I can look up the meaning.

DNA/Making

Charlotte Rowntree

You can roll your tongue, And you got it from your Mother. Your hair colour is your grandmother’s (Father’s side). You learned to bite back From TV, and teen taunting, and it made me laugh, (and cry and rage and want to die) Your eyes look like your Father’s but his have laugh lines and yours examine my faults. (How similar to your mother) You learned to punch, when you were nine. You punched the wall once. (I was scared I could crumble like that plaster) You smile like your brothers; easily, often, and brilliantly, with chubby cheeks, and crooked teeth. (Only not so often anymore) You got your anger from me. I pushed, and pushed, and formed it in fire (like a smith makes swords and axes) (How proud I am, to have helped make you).

The Armchair on the Bradford Road (Extract) Zoe Hammick The sun had turned in hours ago - as had the rest of the neighbourhood (and, probably, city) - but the moon seemed to be enjoying its time to shine on summer’s nocturnal nuisances. The barbeque smoke that guided the garden into night had withered away to a thin vapour in the stars, conquered by an embering fire. Chairs - cushioned, wooden, plastic - were occupied by tired or blethering teens. The grass stamped to a canvas of brown and green; a bee hummed in between bodies, the buzz hardly competing with the blare of some ket pop song - assumingly Boyzone. A group of girls belting out the lyrics far too excitedly supported this deduction. Dancers were dotted everywhere like a pointillism painting, chatter reaching space and back. Me and my friends were sat by the music player, indexes twitching towards the skip button - there must have been something decent hidden in the playlist. Rowan had been trying to distract herself by giggling at some kid starfishing on the floor baked like a cake; Jeanie obligingly laughed along. Mixed with addled humour and the high-pitched harmony of five grown men, my ears started filling with blood, ready to burst - such sweet relief when the song melted into a steady beat. Before the riff even had the chance to kiss our drums, Rowan was on her feet - an electric bolt straight to the guffer exclaiming loudly and forcing Jeanie up by the hand. She pulled their torsos together, palms as vines, their steps perfectly aligned to each other and the beat: looking so peaceful, mumbling the lyrics, for a few moments we were all content just watching them waltz into wonder. “I’m sure you’ve heard it all before but you never really had a doubt!” I sang, parachuting into the slow dance - the others huddling in as a fourth, fifth and sixth wheel. “I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now.” Feet overlapped, inharmonious voices mingled, bodies bumped yet we didn’t care - we never really did. A smile stretched across Elf’s lips - the Cheshire cat he is - ginger sticking to his moistening forehead; Sage was beside, bouncing as if to meet his impossible altitude, their short locks flopping in and out of their eyes. My arms looped around Will and Rowan’s necks as I savoured every snippet of their numbing happiness. “And all the roads we have to walk are winding.

And all the lights that lead us here are blind-” “I’ve warned you kids!” a neighbour screamed from his two storey fortress, his face an excellent shade of magenta. “Shut it off right now!” The tassels of his toothpaste robe, an antwacky crown, were blowing in the breeze; it wasn’t exactly easy to find him intimidating. We stared up as one, one giant eye, analysing - that is, until Sage broke away from our clutch with hands encasing his mouth. “And what if we don’t? Gonna bray us you ol’ mardy? Come at me, see what happens!” ***** I hadn’t been sleeping well. The bed too hard and too flat: sheets a boa constrictor, feasting on the air in my lungs. Cold coffee eyes watched each minute pass in hours; the sun would be soon. I abandoned attempts of temporary death, sliding out of the duvet into a jumper and some shoes, sunrise more inviting. Stairs are too risky - I can’t wake my parents - so I wrestled open the sticky window to abseil the guttering. One day, it will collapse under the abuse of my weight and I was glad it decided not to that day. I traipsed the runway of the road, tomb of motion, with the lights walking with me. Rowan’s flat building was at the end of the road and I stopped the parade, wondering whether she would have wanted to join - she was always up for a fiesta. ***** Gone. I leave for eight bloody hours and it’s gone. The only thing left is a boastful square of mud and yellow grass, grasping the air for the missing weight; my eyes long to water the withered blades as I bray the clammy ground. “Dude, I worry about you, y’know? We’re all leaving and you’re just staying here.” Some of the bottles are still there, investigating the crime scene of a brother’s murder. I pick up one in anger, firing the brown bullet at an innocent passing lorry; the weather explodes into snow. “Yeah, but what if you’re not fine in the end? None of us are exactly planning on coming back and we’re all moving on and you could’ve gone to uni to study English but you decided to stay here and work in Tesco’s.” The flakes aren’t soft - they don’t melt or disintegrate. They cut, they clink, they scream in a bellowed tone. “I’m just worried you’re going to regret it one day.” Who was I kidding? I’m not fine. I was never fine.

Photograph Rosie Rivers

I hope someday you’ll find an old picture of me. And you’ll wonder if I still love banana smoothies More than I love myself. Or if I still request a pinkie promise Upon agreement. If my bed is still crowded with teddy bears, From a forgotten youth. If my curly hair, still hides my eyes And my endless secrets. Or if I still have that old jumper That I would refuse to throw away, Because it smelt of you. And maybe you’ll even wonder, If I wonder About you.

A Backwards Wish

Charlotte Humphrey

I wish I could back away and wait at the house And oh how I waited, Until you stood up and away from the trees And that awful car reversed Up the road, back into town. Until you’d back-tracked and re-climbed the fence And re-traced your steps to the house And placed your food back in the bowl Before making your way back into the living room And I would come back in, walking backwards And you would do up my shoelaces as if you know how And the blanket you shrugged off would jump onto your back And my arms would twist around you and pull you Back onto my lap. Then unwrap you. You would make your way back to the foot of the stairs And look at me and your stare would say “I’m scared.”

Tea Tash Royal

Lewis had been taught by his mother to cry. She used to tell him it was a “cure for sadness”, that every tear was another bad memory slipping away. It was naïve, innocent, and probably saved Lewis from a lot of emotional internalisation in his childhood. The downfall of it all was, as always, growing up. Lewis was eventually intoxicated with the cynical views that suffocated his teenage and adult years. His mother’s old wives’ tale became nothing more than that; a naïve memory. And yet, that night as the sun dozed off in the early evening, he lay down and cried until his lungs got sore. His phone buzzed, the sound muffled by his congested sinuses. Of course, he pulled his duvet over his head and ignored it, despite the sound drilling holes into his patience with every ring. Ultimately, his curiosity won, and he wasn’t at all surprised by the identity of culprit behind the messages. Lewis had one friend, who had lots of other friends that he pretended were his own friends. He found that happened a lot; introverts become friends with extroverts who surround themselves with other extroverts – it was a common life trope. Lewis’s one friend was Kate, and she was the only one persistent enough to send him 12 texts in a row. Unsurprisingly, all of them were begging him to come out that night. The light on the phone screen was bright, scathing his eyes until he dimmed it down to a comfortable dullness. “im sick,” he replied in a monotonous message, before he padded over to the kitchen, scratching the salt from his cheeks. Rather than make the mistake of opening his fridge and being let down by the lack of food, he decided to sit. He slid to the floor, his sweaty back leaving a sparkling trail behind him where it grazed the fridge door. His street-view window looked down at Lewis from the wall facing him. He didn’t stare out of it, just at it, entranced by the dirt and grime festering on the corners, the damp from his cheap walls spreading to the glass. He imagined it worming out of the wall, choking him. He stared at this window almost daily with no change to the view, so it came as quite a shock when something disturbed the familiar image. A small stone flew into the pane, followed by another. He walked over and looked down and blinked in mild surprise. Standing on the street, three floors below, was Kate.

He opened the window and she called up, “You don’t look ill!” “I’ve got the flu.” “Come on then, let’s hear you sneeze!” “Biology doesn’t work that way, Kate. I can’t do it on command.” “That’s what she said!” The joke was juvenile and not really funny, but Lewis smiled anyway. “Buzz me in, loser!” she insisted. And he did. He always did. ***** Lewis offered Kate some tea but she refused. “Oh no, I know this game: you go to put the kettle on, I ask how you are, then I blink twice, it’s three hours later, you’re in pieces and I never get my bloody drink. We’re going out.” “Come on, I promise to get you any drink you want, right here.” “Martini, on the rocks.” “Okay, I promise to get you any drink that involves water and a tea bag.” “Nope, that wasn’t in the rules.” She beckoned him towards the door, “You promised and now you have to deliver.” It was very hard to say no to Kate. She was the female version of ‘tall-darkand-handsome’. Her eyebrows were angry but her eyes were smart, and her smile could kiss you from across the room. Of course, the real Kate was far less enigmatic. Kate was a promiscuous alcoholic. She adopted a stray dog and spent more money on his food than her own. She slept with her forty-year-old landlord to keep the rent low. She ate beetroots before a night out to give her lips a tint because she didn’t have time for make-up. She wasn’t the stranger in the bar, but the one stealing from it. While Lewis was a mess, she was a disgrace. They made a fantastic pair. But Kate? She was a do-er, and dragged Lewis right along with her. “Kate, I’m not up for dancing.” He watched her smile pull her features, her eyes squinted and her eyebrows rose until she was doing a very poor impression of The Shining. “Who said anything about dancing?”

“Kate.”

*****

“Yeah?” “How old do you think I am?” “Old enough to experience your first drunk magic show at a bar.” “That’s not a thing.” Lewis crossed his arms in disapproval, trying to stare down Kate. She stood in front of the bar, the lights outside blinking at her and covering her in coloured speckles that bounced off her hair, and she ignored his paternal look. Kate’s roommate, Jess, had done something far too spontaneous for Lewis’ liking, as usual. Jess was younger than them, barely nineteen and all too naïve to be living with someone 4 years her senior, let alone going out drinking with them. Kate shook her head excitedly at him. “No, it totally is: you get blasted and go see a magic show, and because you’re so hammered, it all seems a thousand times more impressive. Jess and I do it all the time.” “You go to magic shows all the time?” “Well, not just magic shows: poetry slams, operas, art galleries, town council meetings. Really, anything can be fun when you’re drunk.” Kate’s optimism constantly did a number on Lewis, as did her clear emotional dependence on alcohol. “I don’t think I’m going to be a fun drunk at the moment,” Lewis insisted, hoping the bout of self-pity might dissuade Kate from pushing further. “Well, you can hold my hair while I vomit.” “Sounds like a riot. Still want to go home.” Kate didn’t roll her eyes like she usually would. She instead gave a small smile and took his hand. Though he would much rather have been in bed than standing in the cold outside a bar, the fact that Kate was with him gave a little spark of warmth in the breeze. “For me.” She rubbed his hand with her thumb and leant into his side. He enveloped her in his arms and sighed heavily, trying to huff out all of his doubts in one breath. Lewis had always thought that in another life, he might be dating Kate, in some twisted world where he wasn’t gay. But that wasn’t his life.

“Okay, fine. For you. But it’s gonna be an early night,” Lewis promised. Kate’s resigned look made him think that, just for a moment, he had won, but that was shattered by her following sentence. “Might change your mind after you see the entertainment,” she teased, avoiding his eye but letting him catch her smirk. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Lewis mumbled. In all honesty, he didn’t really want to know what she meant. It was likely a sexual innuendo, or something illegal considering Kate’s slightly immature sense of humour. She raised her eyebrow in reply and buried her hand in her back pocket yanking out a crumpled flyer; it showed a man in a smart scarlet suit, holding a hand out towards the camera, a playing card slotted between his fingers. Something about the picture fascinated Lewis, and he studied it a moment. Unseen by him, Kate smiled. “Is that the magician?” Lewis asked, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. Jess knows him, apparently,” Kate replied, trying not to overplay her hand. “They went to sixth form together or something, bit of a loner, his brother was the popular one, but Jess got along with him pretty well,” she leaned over his shoulder and smiled at the picture, “and he’s clearly matured wonderfully. A masterpiece, if I do say so. Though Jess said that I’m, shall we say… not his type,” she winked, beginning to head inside the bar, nodding to the bouncer as she did. “You coming?” Kate asked, spinning to face him in the doorway. Lewis barely heard her. “He’s...” Lewis didn’t know what he was. The man’s eyes were dark, and judging from the umbra around them, he hadn’t slept in a month; his hands were slight and his hair wasn’t quite black, but as close as it could be, tousled in a way that could be considered an art form. There was a fine line between jealously and lust and Lewis wasn’t sure where he fell. “Yeah, I’m coming.” *****

The bar was small, but not crowded; ‘The Scarlet Sorcerer’, as the magician styled himself, seemed to be none too big a draw, despite his flyers declaring him as ‘Amazing...Truly spell-binding!’. During the walk inside, Lewis eyed the small stage that had been constructed at the far end of the bar, a simple raised platform covered by a ruddy red curtain. The five short rows of plastic chairs that observed the ‘stage’ looked out of place in the bar, yet despite the mismatch in the interior design, it was almost calming. Jess had bailed. Nobody was surprised. Teen angst had gotten the better of her with her ex back in town. Kate spent their first 10 minutes at the bar complaining about teenagers, cursing herself for once being one. Despite the lack of Jess, she was still sure they could use the connection to meet the magician. Kate wasted no time in downing three Martinis. He closed his eyes and prayed to every deity he knew that the show would begin before she started slurring. “C’mon, we gotta get sood geats… good seats! Good seats, ha, I’m a little tipsy,” she chatted on, gripping his hand with warm, sweaty fingers. He suspected that she had sneaked in a few shots in between her cocktails, judging by her lazy feet that danced to keep her upright as they made their way to the front row. He wanted to call a cab and take her home, but his wayward mind took too long to decide; the lights dimmed before he was ready to make a choice. He looked at Kate who had planted her head on his shoulder, and by the time he looked back, the young man from the flyer, resplendent in the same red suit, had appeared on stage, the spotlight drawing every eye in the room to look at him. Everyone applauded and Lewis looked for a trap door or perhaps a secret entrance from behind the stage through which he could have entered. As hard as he looked, however, he saw none. “Good evening!” The Scarlet Sorcerer boomed despite his slight frame. He looked younger in person, or maybe it was just his expression, holding a joy that only children have. He wasn’t short, but he was lithe, his smirking pixiegrin oozing confidence. Lewis wasn’t surprised. A face like his, he had a right to be confident. “Good evening,” the audience called back with varying levels of enthusiasm, the most enthusiastic of all being from Kate, who had perked up from her sleepy slant on Lewis’ shoulder. “How are we doing?” he asked merrily, walking across the stage, shoes catching the light as he did, “Are we good?” The small crowd responded with a lazy, collective, “yes”, as though they all actually felt okay. Lewis said nothing. “Good, good. Everyone’s happy? No-one’s sad? No-one’s crushingly depressed?

No-one’s overwrought with the tragedies of existence?” Here, Kate turned to look at Lewis, and he wondered if maybe Jess had told the magician they’d be in the audience. The Scarlet Sorcerer continued, “I’m asking because life isn’t always easy, it isn’t always fair and it’s seldom pretty. For example, ma’am,” he skipped to the front of the stage and leaned down to Kate’s level, the spotlight following him to cast a brief glow on Lewis and Kate, “You have a centipede in your drink.” As one, the audience turned to look at Kate’s glass and saw that indeed, there was a great black centipede curled along the rim. Kate jerked, looking like she was about to cast the glass aside when the magician plucked it deftly from her hand, picked the bug off, and stepped back, luminous as he examined it in the light that had once again followed him. “Oh, sorry, my mistake,” he said airily, “it was but an olive.” He turned around his hand to show them and everyone gasped: only a single black olive sat in his palm. “Still; waste not, want not.” He downed the cocktail in one concise gulp and handed the glass back to a stunned Kate, along with the olive. “Here. Don’t fret; there’s a replacement under your seat, on the house.” Kate reached down and found two full glasses waiting for her. She looked up, cautiously confused. ”And one for your friend,” the magician added, winking at Lewis. He would have blushed under any other circumstance, but was far too shocked to comprehend the flirtation. ***** The show was, admittedly, amazing. Lewis didn’t need the alcohol to enjoy it – every trick was impressive, every move disarming. Somewhere in the show, the magician asked for a volunteer, and although Kate grabbed Lewis’ hand and held it high in the air, shaking it madly, the magician picked an elderly lady in the third row, seemingly making her disappear into thin air and then rematerialize in the window of the tiny lighting booth a few metres away from the stage. Lewis found himself confounded by his mastery of stage magic. When the show ended, everyone in the audience stood up whooping and applauding wildly. The magician bowed, smiling with bright eyes and called over the cheers, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, but what I could really use is some more money!” The noise abated. Well, that shut you up, didn’t it?”

Everyone laughed. A comedian, too, Lewis thought. “We’ll buy you a drink!” someone called, and it took him a minute to click that the voice had come from right beside him. His neck cracked as he turned to look at Kate. Her eyes glanced sideways at him and she gave a devilish smile. “Done!” The magician replied and in unison, the audience laughed and clapped again. The Scarlet Sorcerer dismounted the stage and stood in front of Kate and Lewis, clasping his hands together. “What are we waiting for?” ***** As they were leaving, people patted the magician on the back, or grabbed his hand, shook it violently and told him how much they enjoyed his show. Some were kind enough to slip him a couple of fivers, which the magician twirled in his fingers until they magically vanished. His sleight of hand was impressive, even up close. “What’re you guys having?” Lewis asked, directing the question at both his companions, but his eyes remained fixed on the magician. ”Vodka, neat,” he replied, a practiced half-smile flashing at Lewis. “A margarita,” Kate piped up. The bartender, keen-eared, had already started on their orders. “And for you, good sir?” the magician asked, his voice still full of all the showmanship that he had on stage. Lewis smiled at him, feeling very young as his nerves did an acrobatics performance in his gut. “Uh, just a rum and coke, please.” The magician smiled at him knowingly. Lewis was all of a sudden self-conscious of his predictability. “Is your name really Scarlet?” Kate asked as they sat. She may have sobered up during the show, but she was at the very least tipsy enough to embarrass herself. He laughed, dropping his theatrical bravado. “No. It’s Will.” “I prefer Scarlet.” “So do I – that’s why I chose it.” Kate rested her elbows on the table, propped up her head in her hand and gave a light sigh, gazing unapologetically at Will. “You’re really pretty.” Will smiled and gave a seated bow, but said nothing.

“We’re friends of Jess,” Lewis commented, steering the conversation away from Kate’s drunken dreamy-eyes. Will took a sip of vodka (which baffled Lewis, who couldn’t even smell straight vodka without his eyes watering) and nodded, “I know – she told me to look out for you.” “What did she say?” Kate asked, her eyes sparkling still. “’Look for the drunk Asian and the tall slab of sadness,’” he quoted bluntly, giving her a sympathetic look as her face lit up at her own description. “That’s us!” Kate clinked her glass against Lewis’ in jubilation, an emotion which Lewis was hardly ready to reciprocate. “I’m not that tall,” Lewis said. “Ah, but you are that sad,” Will observed. In the silent moments where Will and Lewis stared at each other, Will smiling and Lewis hypnotised, Kate stood up and left the bar, heading for the door leading to the back. Lewis eyed the purple lighter that protruded from the back pocket of her jeans. “Something I said?” Will asked, eyebrows raised as he watched her leave. “Oh, no, she just pretends she doesn’t smoke.” Will nodded vaguely, briefly catching Lewis’ eye again, playing with the gaze and dropping it again, all while Lewis was totally defenceless. “Did you like the show?” Will asked, placing down what was left of his drink. Lewis was unable to hold back his awe. “It was amazing. Incredible, even! I don’t know how you did half of that...” “Maybe I’m really magic,” Will suggested nonchalantly. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Lewis sighed, staring into his glass. Will stared at him, a little bemused. “Wow, you really are sad.” He scanned the blond man inquisitively before turning back to his drink. As he did, his eyes caught the light, becoming a kaleidoscope of every brand of whiskey on the shelf. Lewis finished his glass in one bitter gulp.

“And somehow I’m still sober.” Will apparently found this quite amusing, giving a bark of laughter before raising his hand to get the bartender’s attention and pointing at his glass. “I’m paying.” Will explained as he ordered a shot each for the pair. “You – you are?” ”I’ve got a tab. They’re never gonna make me pay it back. And besides,” he picked up a coaster, put it over the top of Lewis’ drink and then tipped the glass over. Even though there had been an inch of liquid left, nothing fell out; the glass was empty. “You need something stronger.” “Don’t tell me what I need.” Lewis could feel his voice waver in meek defence of his integrity. Maybe it was wrong to snap. Will was just trying to be kind, wasn’t he? “Okay, you tell me: what do you need?” Lewis was silent. Will shrugged and pushed the shot that had materialised in front of him over to Lewis, the glass gliding straight into his resting hand. He picked it up, swilling it around for a second. ”Shouldn’t Kate be back by now?” “Yes, but she’s hoping I’ll hook up with you. If it helps, I will.” Lewis felt a spike in his stomach. “Oh.” This man was forward, rude and attractive; a dangerous combination to meet in a bar. For the second, maybe third time that night, Lewis found himself at the mercy of Kate’s plan. “Right here?” he asked. Will smiled and shrugged in return. “If you like. It’s really up to you.” Lewis took a sharp breath in and, in a greatly non-Lewis-esque fashion, poured his shot down his throat. It stung, but it was temporary. He looked at Will square in the eyes, forcing himself not to grimace. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see where it goes.” *****

Kate found them making out in the smoking zone several hours later, holding a cigarette that she insisted wasn’t her own. “Oh for the love of – really? Here? You dirty bastards…” she grumbled, tossing the cigarette to the ground and piercing it with the heel of her shoe. “Well, you’re a sober-er gal!” Lewis slurred, falling backwards as he tried to push himself off the ground that he and his tipsy companion had been frolicking on. Beside him, Will was laughing his life away; his once stylish suit now looked more akin to a red and grey Jackson Pollock painting. But there was something magical in his smile that somehow painted over the grey dirt patches. “Yes. Yes I am. And I’m calling a taxi, for both of you. Sleepover at mine, boys.” Kate snapped, dialling aggressively into her phone as she shook her hair out of her face. If Lewis had been a little more sober, he would have pointed out the lipstick smears around her mouth and called her out for being a hypocrite, but he was far too busy eyeing up a different pair of lips. The scene was a fantastic caricature of friendship, really. Two of them pissed, one of them angrily calling a ride, and one of them missing entirely. Lewis giggled, for the first time in a long time, at the thought of how degraded he would feel the next morning. “Katie-Kate. Thank you for draggin’ me outta bed. This is a beautiful man,” he reminded her, one arm slung around the magician, who sat straight and shook his head in dismay. “I agree, but we really need to be getting to the cab, doll-face. C’mon,” Kate pointed out, grabbing Lewis’ right arm as Will grabbed the left, the two of them hauling him towards the road where a taxi sat waiting for them. “I’m not that drunk, gerroff,” he insisted, shrugging off their help and instead wrapping an arm round either of their sides and strolling along with minimal stumbles, though the effort it took not to fall was very evident. ***** After guzzling three bottles of water, Lewis, although desperately in need of the toilet, had sobered up enough to make tea, which was his usual state of being at 4:00AM after a night out. “Tea?” Lewis asked to anybody listening. “I don’t drink tea,” Will said from behind him. Lewis turned as he flipped on the kettle to see that it was just him and Will. Kate must have headed to bed, or perhaps a shower.

The lights in Kate’s flat gave the room a dim haze, acting as a make-shift sunrise that weaved into Will’s hair, bathing him in a copper glow. “Just for me then.” Lewis pulled out a mug and popped in a tea bag before walking over to the sofa. “I drink almost nothing else.” Will looked around the flat. “People kept on giving it to me when my brother died. I can’t drink it now. Unconscious associations.” “Oh, I’m so sorry.” ” No great loss: it’s only tea.” “I meant about your brother.” The magician sat down at the table. “He was a little wayward. Overdosed before I went on stage a few years ago.” There wasn’t emotion in Will’s face. Melancholy, maybe, but nothing close to grief. “That’s awful.” “It’s funny – I’ve given up tea but not on performing. You’d think it’d be the other way around.” He said this without sadness or even apparent regret, a small smile on his lips. Lewis didn’t know what to say. He sat down at the table and tried to examine Will’s face, but the spotlight was casting shadows in all the wrong places. “You seem a lot sadder than me about this,” Will noticed a moment later. There was another pause as Lewis tried to find the words to reply, distracted by the silence. The light above them flickered out – the fuse had blown – but neither of them made a move to fix it. At last, Lewis spoke. “I don’t know why I get so sad.” Will gave no clue that he was listening. “I just- I feel like there’s a blanket over me. A huge, suffocating blanket. And I’m trying to crawl out from under the edges, but it’s so big and so thick and so heavy and... warm. And I just want to lie down and let it bury me. And I hate it, but it’s so much easier than moving.” He turned to look at Will, still busied with staring at the ceiling. “And you, you have so much reason to be sad-” “I’m not sad.”

“I know, but-” “Neither are you. You’re depressed. There’s a difference.” Lewis looked at the other man’s face and saw the harsh etchings of what looked like anger, barely visible through the foggy darkness. “Are you – Did I say something?” “Why should I be sad? Because of Thomas?” “Was that his name? Your brother?” “Yes. And it doesn’t make me sad. It happened, he’s dead. There’s nothing to be done.” Lewis furrowed his brow. “How do you do that? How do you let go of things? How do you not just feel the weight of everything pressing down on you?” “It’s easy. I’m not depressed.” Not for the first time, Lewis was rendered speechless by the Scarlet Sorcerer. Will suddenly ascended from the sofa and drifted airily towards where he had left his shoes. “Where are you going?” Lewis asked, his voice wavering. He bit his tongue, feeling a familiar swelling in his throat, yet still he could not cry. He only stared. “Home. I’m a magician, not a therapist.” Lewis blanched. “I don’t need therapy.” “You don’t know what you need. You barely even know what you want, beyond the calls of your hormones.” His tone was harsh, his words were harsher, but his face was soft, lit by the moonlight that poked shyly through the curtains, as if scared to intrude. “Don’t feel bad. No one does.” He stood in front of the window, silhouetted by his own resplendent glimmer. “You seem to.” Lewis retorted. The Scarlet Sorcerer smiled, showering Lewis in his afterglow. “Yes, well. I’m magic.” Then, for his final obstruction of scientific law, he seamlessly, undeniably, magically, disappeared.

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.

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!

A Point in Time Courtney Chilvers 12:00. Midday. It would be more dramatic if it was midnight, wouldn’t it? I’m sorry; I don’t make the rules. We’re in an underground station in 1988 - no, I’m joking, we’re still present day. If we weren’t present day, it wouldn’t be half as busy as it is now. Now. Look now. You can’t look away. It’s an underground station at midday. Not rush hour - would be better, wouldn’t it? But I don’t make the rules. Either way, people everywhere, you can’t look away. Each person follows their own separate course of their own separate lives and they each cross a path, a point in time, once. We all share this moment that we are not sharing, in this midday that we do not care for. Because nobody wants to be in an underground station at 12:00, midday. Men talk on the phones, and women hold children’s hands - no, that’s sexist, let’s start again - women talk on the phones, and men hold children’s hands - but that’s too feminist. The truth is it’s both. It’s every culture, every genre, little and large, all walking in a thousand different directions, but all following the same route of never being seen by each other again. It’s black and white, Christian and Muslim - and atheist - dumb and bright, straight and gay, rich and poor - and everything else I forgot to mention so that this list remains PC.

It’s London.

Give it a wave. Hello!!!! Don’t draw too much attention; this is London, I just told you that. But don’t look too suspicious, or they’ll think you’re something you’re not. That’s the paranoia, anyhow. The paranoia that people from around here do not share. This paranoia, coloured purple, lifting its head through every tunnel the train trolls under, that somebody everybody nobody - yes, everybody - is out to get you, and you them. But your lives will each cross a path, a point in time, once. And then time makes you forget all about it. We’re standing on the platform of station Liverpool Street. It’s not tidy, but it’s neat; everyone knows what they’re doing. Supposedly. In actual fact, nobody knows where they’re going, but we all funnel in the same direction of a million different directions to prove to one another that we do. Even though we will never meet again, so what’s the point?

Look, there’s another father with his child. And a man with a briefcase. A hiker, a group of tourists - they don’t speak English, but they are different from the group of people down the platform who live here, even though they share the same heritage. There’s a dropped pamphlet for the London Eye, someone with a bike helmet, a couple saying goodbye, as if their paths will never cross again at any point in time. That woman walking up the stairs, adjusting the clothes that fit her tight. She pushes a child out of her way as she climbs the escalator, because they didn’t read the sign to stand on the right. Those teenagers coming off the train as it pulls in, the wind from no particular direction and the busker… Wait, no. Those teenagers. Those are the ones we have been waiting for. They are the ones the story centres around. We like them. Focus on them. Zoom into them. Are you crazy? Don’t go talking to them! Do you want to change the plot of the entire story? Because I haven’t got time to go through rewriting this all over again. Watch them from afar - like a stalker - you can easily become invisible with a place running with bright colours - it’s London. But they’re running. The doors barely opened before she saw her exit and broke for it. She holds his hand. One of them is called Kit, the other named Ashley. I couldn’t tell you who was who; that’s a minor detail you can decide for yourself. She runs adjacent to the crowd, he trips up and nearly falls down as she pushes through the thick of it. She’s a little girl - grown into a woman - but she’s stronger than the men on phones, women with children, women on phones and men with children. The man with the cycle helmet gets on the tube she got off - but focus on them or you’ll miss ‘em. This girl is different. She does not follow the crowd, but her direction stands out, meaning that even though she is as scattered as the million different lives, her moves will form an impression that lasts on the witnesses’ brains through time. He is less noticeable, except for his bright ginger hair. But hers still manages to drown his out, purple streaked with blue and yellows and pinks and blue again. It could be anybody in this grey black white crowd, but someone is following them. We don’t know who. Then, our heroes - or maybe they’re the antagonists; I haven’t quite decided yet and, probably, neither have you - run down the corridor, wind blowing in their hair, although nobody knows quite where from what wind comes. It just seems to appear, as they did. They run up the right side of the escalator - by that, I mean the left - Kit looks behind once. Their stalker - no, not you - is behind them. Kit looks behind a second time and keeps walking, jogging, running. At the top of the tunnel, the girl turns right and follows the maze of everyone the same until she comes out the other side. At the little gates. She scans a contactless card, which acts as an Oyster card, and the gates open. She sneaks the boy through with her.

Nobody notices but the one watching them. And me. And you. Knowing you, you won’t have anything to get through these barriers, so you’ll have to pull the same trick they did. Latch on to somebody else. But don’t let anyone see you, or they’ll be after you and that will change the whole plot of the story - and I already said I’m not rewriting it. Why are you being so slow? Hurry up! Look, they’ve gone now. Into the daylight. Their stalker has followed them, although we don’t know who he is - except now you know his gender, or maybe I’m just being sexist and assuming again. Mind you, people now identify as a range of 52, so there’s really no telling at all who anybody really is. It’s London. You’ll never catch them now. Walk back downstairs, go back to that platform and I’ll loop the story back round. This time, try to catch them.

It’s 12:03, but it’s now once again midday.

Almost a Confession * Cheyenne Dunnett

I want to take this night and hide it Away. Treasure it. Keep it locked inside a cage. I want to say things under these magnetic stars That I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t usually say. Yet somehow, The lump in my throat gets in the way; Restricting my throat until each breath becomes A gasp of wonder. Oh, you are so beautiful. But we cannot talk of beauty In such a romantic setting, With your eyes illuminated by the night sky. Wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want you to go and get The wrong idea.

12:03am * Gabi Stones

and with every word; you grew a garden in my mind with every word a flower grew and bloomed at the thought of you at 12:03am my garden is blossoming and i fought my eyes at 12:03am because no dream was worth dreaming without you and i think iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m jealous of the morning sun who gets to see you first

yet it’s the stars that are jealous of the way you shine at 12:03am your name engraves my heart like a star stains the sky and your eyes stain my mind like the clouds crowd the moon at 12:03am you watch that moon. you say: “i’ve never seen such a view” i agreed because i was looking at you.

Mocha Afternoons Maddi Hastings

This part of the high street really has a thing for coffee shops. Even the offbrand pub down the street has a Costa license. I take the zebra crossing and head towards the Welsh Street artesian café on the other side; it’s painted a horrible, foreign purple. A queue of customers pools out from the door, leaning on the sculpted fences that leave wet patches on the elbows of their jackets. I pass a couple of houses and end up at Pam’s Cafe, my regular. I usually sit in the back of the café and catch up with the footy scores. Today though, I was just lucky enough to get the last copy of The Star which hadn’t had the bloody inserts nicked from it - all because the alarm clock decided it didn’t want to go off this morning. My watch says it’s a couple of minutes shy of lunchtime, and already both of my lunch-spots are full. I’m thinking about going home - what else can I do? Go for a pub lunch? I’d rather not. I turn my back on the strip but as I do I notice a tree growing from the exposed side of an old cottage across the street. This tree is adolescent; it’s growing out from a somewhat thick root which escapes from beneath street level. A group of people have gathered outside of the building, and are reading a board pinned to the wall. What the hell - I head towards the entrance where a two-sectioned door lies half open. The colours of the building have come from another era entirely. On the pavement is a chalkboard, with ‘HOME-BREWED TEA, CAKES AND GOODIES…PRICES FROM 85p’ is written in messy capitalised text. Above the door is a faded Beachwood sign that has been chipped and bleached into obscurity by years of exposure. I can just about make out the words ‘Tea House’ from the sign. A record player greets me as I join a queue of people inside. Its needle skids along a well-worn vinyl disk, following a rocky path as the thin desk it’s on seems to struggle with its own weight. There’s a waft of cold air coming from the ceiling, where a fanlight has been left on. For God’s sake, it’s cold enough outside. I’m waiting in front of a podium where an old phone stands opposite a pile of menus. A faded laminated sign tells me, ‘please wait here to be seated’ in small lower case. ‘Hello? Is anyone here?’ someone from the queue asks. There’s a border of wood shelves hanging from the top of the walls. It holds a collection of novelty teapots coated in pleasing prints; the collection wraps around the dining hall twice over. Tables that look as if they’ve been taken from various eras and styles of differing shapes are scattered around the room.

The slap-dash nature of the place reminds me of home. The group in front of me decide to leave, just as I start to smell burnt eggs. A door slams open, causing the coffee glasses resting on one of the shelving units to shake with anticipation. A voice follows suit, crying out, ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!’ It’s followed by laughter from where a group of hipsters are sitting. Looks like the owner can’t cook. Wonderful. Hopefully they don’t burn my coffee. ‘We’ve got company, Elly’¬ a woman in a knitted cardi calls out to the kitchen. The smell of burnt cooking oil is being overpowered by a perfume coming from the dining area that smells like water and vaguely floral soap. ‘Do we?’ the kitchen shouts back, I hear something slam down with a ceramic chink, followed by the hurried tapper of high heels. At first, I only see a towering mass of greyed hair that’s whipped into a regal cocoon at the top of her head. Beads and weathered flowers hang from her hairline to her ears. She’s dressed like she’s just walked out of an English Heritage display. She looks over to me, the thick strokes of some sort of make-up marking her cheekbones. She has a face like a Judy puppet that’s trying to smile. ‘Hello there! Table for one?’ ‘Sure.’ The stuff I put myself through for a coffee. ‘Is that table okay?’ she asks, looking back over at me, and then at the table. I take my seat and she pushes a menu at me. Her hand is shaking, and with a crooked smile. ‘Here is the menu.’ She pauses, and looks over at the other occupied table as if she were looking for approval. I look down at the menu; it’s mostly untouched, though the sun’s certainly gotten to it. It’s headlined with text that declares ‘TEA MENU’ caught up with a litany of different brews: Christmas cake and cranberry, pomegranate and dragon fruit, Bakewell tart and blueberry, pansy petals and mango. How the hell do you drink petal-flavoured tea? Do petals have a flavour? Beneath that is a modest list of coffees, branded as fair-trade. ‘I’ll have a mocha.’ I glimpse at the dessert cabinet that is on front of me. ‘Oh, and a slice of sponge too.’ Soon enough the woman comes back, now holding a displaced latte mug resting on an underside saucer. It skips and the murky liquid wobbles intently. The cup spills; I look over to my waitress who looks down and is red with embarrassment.

‘Oh dear, I am so, so sorry!’ She grabs my napkin and starts to dab the folded cloth around the saucer. I don’t know what to even expect anymore. I look at what remains of my drink. A thin, dense slice of expresso topped by a diminishing head of cream. ‘I will get your cake.’ She hurries to the cabinet and quickly pulls off the glass cage keeping the cake fresh, cuts a fat slice and takes a small plate from the lower shelf to plop it onto, then comes back to me. She hurries back off to the kitchen, probably to make the other women their food. I take the teaspoon set down next to the fork and stir what remains of my mocha. It tastes more like dirty water than actual coffee, with a lump of chocolate powder clotting at the base of the glass. I then cut off the corner of my cake and take it to my mouth. The sponge crunches, and tastes crisp. No, stale. I think I’m going to be sick. ‘Could I have the bill, please?’ I call out, and she returns with a bill of £3.60. I pay with a fiver, wait for my change - and get the hell out of there. As I walk back home, I feel my pocket for my change so I can check it; I feel an old, round pound coin, and a small octagon piece. The crazy nutter short-changed me. II There’s a strange-looking cabinet at the back of the countertop at the cottage, or to be correct, The Adaline Tea House. The owner informs me of this as I arrive; today she seems a little calmer. She looks less like she belongs in a museum display and more like she’s been picked out from another decade entirely. She is wearing a swing dress, a yellow one with spring flowers printed on. Her hair is tied up into sloppy victory rolls that resemble overcooked sausage rolls. My mother used to wear those. ‘Table for one?’ I’m sitting at a different table today. It’s near the bar. The place has a draught pump, though it doesn’t look like it’s been touched in months, maybe years. The hipster troupe is at their round table, and there’s an occupied table near the back of the room beneath an overcast shadow. The suit is sifting through papers over untouched tea. He was seated by the time I’d arrived, and I’m yet to see him do much of anything aside from turn pages and scribble things down. ‘What can I get you today?’ the owner asks; her wrinkles seem to be quivering. She’s not got her Judy-face on, so maybe it’s cold? A specials board hangs behind her, placed above a gutted fireplace now which I don’t think was there before. The chalk looks fresh.

‘Brunswick…stew?’ I read. ‘Oh, it’s simply deliciousful! It’s my nana’s recipe. I’ll get you some,’ she tells me before hurrying off into the kitchen. I hear sniggering from the other table. I pull a menu from the holder and skim-read through it. At the bottom of the menu two new options have been scrawled on in marker: ‘cinnamon butter’ and ’Chelsea bun’. How you’d manage to cut up a Chelsea bun into tea I’ll never know. ‘Excuse me,’ I ask the table of hipsters. ‘What’s up?’ Cardigan asks me. ‘What’s the tea like here?’ ‘Pretty good,’ she says, lifting the cup up at me. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. Isn’t that right guys?’ She looks over to her group who agree on command. ‘Can’t be any worse than the coffee.’ ‘El- no, uh, what’s she calling her self today? Whatever. I don’t think she knows how to work the machine properly.’ ‘Oh dear.’ Cardigan smiles and goes back to her group, leaving me to sift through the menu until the owner returns, walking backwards with a bowl rested on a tray. ‘Here we go!’ she chirps as the bowl is set down. ‘Brunswick stew!’ ‘Thanks.’ I search for a spoon, only to realise that the table is pretty much spoon-free. ‘Could I get a spoon?’ ‘Oh of course.’ ‘And some - dragon fruit and apple tea please?’ I don’t know why I decided I wanted this tea of all things, but out of the specialty stuff it seems the most conventional. She’s hiding behind the counter, sifting through the cabinet, and stopping at a bright pink square and pulling it from the third row down. She seems to be staring at it, not just to check its contents, but like she’s in some sort of confused trance. The group at the table are starting to watch too, and Cardigan’s looking like she might speak up.

She snaps out of it, shaking her head and slamming the jar onto the counter and hurrying over to another cabinet. She takes out a vaguely purple teacup and a white saucer. She sets it down beside the jar, her eyes looking around the top of the room. I’m served a teapot of apple and dragon fruit tea in a contorted pot; its edges are wet and liquid is leaking from the spout and onto the table. The shape of the pot reminds me of an unfinished clay vase with just a spout and handle plopped onto it. The pot’s got town colours painted onto the curves, blue and white. ‘This is one of my favourites,’ she tells me, inviting herself to take a seat opposite me. ‘I make all of my specialty brews myself. I love taking the leaves and the fruits and flavours and making something derightous.’ ‘Oh really’. Her face lights up. ‘I make teas that are well...’ she looks over to Cardigan, ‘How would you put it?’ ‘Unique,’ Cardigan chimes back. I nod as I sip the tea. The apple tastes crisp and tangy, though the dragon fruit softens it somewhat with a plush aftertaste. ‘What’s a dragon fruit, anyway?’ ‘It is a tropical fruit. They grow them in one of the Canary Islands, and they are gorgeous things. They look like beautiful little fireballs.’ She lifts up the lid of the tea pot, motioning me to take a look inside. There’s some sort of sieve- like thing. I lift it out and look inside; bits of yellowy cube and long strands of pink-ish skin are floating amongst green tea. ‘They are not as pretty when they’re dried, but I took the little flaps of skin and the innards, chopped them into teeny little cubes with some apple, and voila!’ She smiles at me; I can see cracks of her lips etched into her lipstick. ‘You are used to just normal tea, I suppose.’ I have no idea what she’s talking about. ‘I am so glad you like it though. I think it is nothing short of perciting!’ She’s looking quite proud of the word she’s invented. Cardigan, no, Kimbra looks up from her tea and conversation with the others. Yeah, Mari,’ she says. I thought her name was Elly? “‘You should too, I will get you a bag of it if you’d like. Hmm…and a cakey one too. You look like the dessert type. Any simple gentleman such as yourself has to like cake!’ She pauses and then looks directly at me. ‘You are the man from Pam’s. You came in here a week or so ago; it wasn’t raining like today. Anyway, you ordered a mocha and a Victoria sponge. Elly said you didn’t like it very much…I’m so very sorry, that was an old cake!’

I don’t think Elly and this Mari different people. Both Elly and Mari aren’t great waitresses, and I recognise their voice. That’s the same too. Semi-affluent and poised, like some of the other old bags back at the flat. They put on this Queen’s English voice to try for some reason. I’m not too fond of it. They’re also almost as bad as putting on makeup as my granddaughter- both feel the need to cake their faces in the stuff and draw in ‘shadows’ and ‘highlights’ that aren’t actually there. At least ‘Mari’ isn’t trying the Punch-and-Judy look today; I don’t think I could stomach this conversation if she was. Unless the flat upstairs is home to a collective of nutters who play dress up and run a teahouse, how would this Mari-Elly know about me in the first place? Why would she care? ‘Do people come here often?’ I ask in between a teaspoonful of soup and a sip of tea. I should probably slow down a little as these tastes don’t mix. ‘Kimbra and the girls do,’ Mari tells me, ‘and people come for tea sometimes.’ She sighs, and looks over to the man in the suit who has gotten out a packed sandwich. ‘Though it is just me and my staff here. I think I like it that way. Me and my tea. But what’s the point in making so much tea when no one comes for a party? Sometimes I think about getting a bird. I’d keep it in a cage, out of the way from the food, and I would teach it to sing along with my records, that would be nice...’ ***** The man in the suit is now waiting at the bar, an open wallet in one hand and a packed briefcase in another. He’s looking over at us, and is probably getting impatient – how long has he been there anyway? Elly has gone to serve him, walking without the giddy, childish limp. ‘Miss Adeline should be in again in a few days,’ I hear Elly tell him - despite the whispered attempt to keep her voice down. ‘I will tell her you came in.’ He nods, and offers a note as payment before leaving. She seems solemn as she holds the note to the light and stuffs it into an unseen pocket. She looks over to me and puts her smile back on before asking me, ‘Care for another pot, mister?’

III Mari-Elly’s ringed eyes have lingered in my head. I blame the make-up. She paints herself in such a way that’s perfect for a late-night horror movie. She’s got the eyes of a future killer, or a killer who hasn’t been caught. Maybe she puts the muscles and eyes of her victims in her menu; I like to entertain myself with the thought. When I go through the yellow pages sometimes I trick myself to see those eyes within the text. I used to keep track of all the names in the book, see what comes out most across the volumes. They keep printing them smaller and smaller these last few years, so I had to get a magnifying glass to sift through the words. I feel like I’ve ran out of days since I stopped buying calendars. I haven’t had a need for them in years. I know my son’s birthday by heart, the day Isabelle left with his kids, the day June died, the important days. When you run out of days, you run out of things to do. When jobs dry up and visits are limited, you can sleep the few years you have left away, or you could spend all day in a flat watching reruns, or you can sit in the porch with the staff and the other residents who all never have anything to say. I’m just grateful they still let me out. Mari-Elly looks around my age, a little younger perhaps; she looks like she’d fit in with dying with the rest of us and yet she’s got a cottage at the end of town, a business, something to work for. Maybe I should dress up in silly costumes and start making weird tea, too. ***** There’s something about that Kimbra and the troop of colourful friends that I just don’t like. For a bunch of twenty-somethings, they sure don’t talk much. Instead, they seem to hang out with each other in the same fashion I’d expect the old bags from the flat to. There’s no chat, no excitement, just a dead, clergy-like formation on a round table with strange types of tea and slices of cake that they “forget” to remind Mari-Elly about when the bill comes. Today I’m paying for a slice of chocolate fudge cake – my waitress is calling herself Victoria today, and she insisted that she’d made it that morning, and when I said I wasn’t hungry she just got me a slice anyway - and some crunchy nut green tea. Unfortunately, it does not taste like the cereal, but I wouldn’t put it past her to start trying that. She’s gotten a bird cage, which is waiting near the vinyl player. I’m trying to imagine a bird that’ll be as interesting as she is; maybe she can get wigs for the poor bugger too. ‘Mari mentioned getting a bird. She ordered a cage on the internets, built it, and then hasn’t really done much of anything with it,’ she tells me. ‘Last month she wanted a horse, but what sort of tea place has a horse? How ridiculous!’ ‘I think a bird sounds like a better idea.’

‘Maybe she’s ill?’ ‘She would call me.’ She tries to force a smile. I hear the needle from the vinyl skip, fall off the disc, and then screech to quiet. ‘I hope she comes soon… she always does. She knows that I only open because of her and her pals.’ Mari-Elly-Vic starts to address me. ‘I have had this house…hmm…since I was married I reckon, and the tea house is all I have. It is all I am! I try and try and try to get people to come. I have the signs, the little business cards-‘ She pulls out a small index card from her breast pocket and passes it to me. It’s a delicate ivory colour, with hand-written cursive like what’s on the chalkboard outside and a hurried drawing of a cup and saucer above some all-capital text that’s too close together to be distinguishable. ‘The best I get is a few people who come in and buy my tea wholesale. I hate to give MY tea to THEM.’ Her voice seems to gravel at the reference, ‘but it is how I stay open.’ She shakes her head, and with wobbly hands she picks up her cup and raises it to her lips. She goes to tip it into her mouth but instead the angle tugs it out of her grasp; the green tea spills into both her lap and her side of the table. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!’ she cries, grabbing a napkin and dabbing the folded paper across the table. Though the hysteria devolves into laughter. ‘Trust me to do that. Anyhow, how’s the tea?’ ‘Er, um, it’s something.’ Elly checks the door again, then back to me. ‘I do not see the point in trying with this anymore. Why come to the weird little place at the end of the strip, when that bastard hipster-trap across the street has the tea it makes?’ I try to remember the last time I went to Welsh Street, the artsy-fartsy tea house. It’s the closest thing to a “hipster trap” around here, unless she’s talking about this place. I’ve never had the tea there because it’s a whole load of overpriced nonsense; and I’m not paying £5 a pot for the privilege of their “Locally Sourced Specialties”. ‘You mean Welsh Street?’ ‘Yes. I ought to refuse to sell my tea to them. But it is how I stay open.’ Her lip quivers, and the spilt tea that pooled on her lap collapses to the floor like an accident. She doesn’t think to acknowledge this.

I nod at her. ‘Are you okay? You’re shaking.’ She sighs, and cups her forehead with her hand. ‘I wish…I wish…I just wish that people would notice me! Notice my work!’ Tears collect and her mascara starts to pour down her cheeks. I get up and go to comfort her, kneeling at her seat and wrapping my arms around her shoulders. I feel her shiver slightly with each hick of a cry. She starts to make peculiar groaning sounds, and first they’re stifled, tight as if she’s choking tears back. As I rub her back she collapses. Her tears turn to dry heaving, and then to nothing. She pulls herself together, pulls away from me, and shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry about that…’ she murmurs. The Queen’s English has cracked, and what remains is fragile Suffolk drawl. ‘Ah, I’ve got something for you.’ She gets up from her chair, heads over to the counter and begins to search through the different shelves, stopping at a thick rail holding rows of jars and tubs filled with non-descript ingredients, pulling out a handful of spice shakers and liquid bottles. She scurries her way through the workspace in some sort of confused panic. She runs her hand through her hair as she pulls down a couple of additional jars, and a large latte glass. She slams at the glass beneath the coffee machine and tips in several spoonfuls of various flavours, she then punches in a couple of buttons and goes to pull out a saucer and spoon. She serves me a chocolate-coloured beverage and gives a smile that swells with pride; it offers a mint-choc scent and the milk froth seems to clump at the corners like starch scum. ‘What’s this?’ I ask ‘Something special.’ She tells me as she returns to her seat. I start to stir the drink. It’s quite thick, and as I pull out the spoon, among the liquid that clings to its surface is a browned herb leaf. Fresh mint. I take a sip from the glass, it offers a warm, thick coffee with a chocolatey, minty, no, strawberry aftertaste. I feel something rise up in my throat as I swallow. Mari-Elly-Vic looks up at me. ‘What do you think?’ I take another sip of the drink; another mint leaf slips through that I have to swallow. She’s made me a mint, cinnamon, and strawberry-flavoured mocha, just for me. ‘It’s just a little thank you that Mari, Victoria, and I came up with,’ she tells me as I stir through it again. ‘I’ve never made it for anyone else before, er-‘ ‘Derek.’ I tell her, ‘my name’s Derek.’

V There’s something familiar about the tenderness of the sky at this time, something calming about the overcast of British weather paired with underlying year-end winds. The mildness of once-summer blues feels right, makes me think that today feels like a mocha afternoon. It’s especially cold today. Frost has started to cloud up the corners of singleglazed windows, which are popular in this part of town. I’m shivering my way to the cottage at the end of the road, passing the other cafés. Inside, the flourished tables are rammed, with clusters of friendship groups hunched over their oversized teacups filled with what I guess is Mari-Elly-Vic’s tea. I head towards the adolescent tree that’s still struggling against the wall; it’s greyed still to pull away from the base trunk. Next to it, left out on the pavement, is a white cage. I haven’t got a clue why it’s out there. One of the branches from the tree is poking through into the cage, which is layered with a delicate crust of ice that must have come to form overnight. A layer of uneven newspaper clippings lay down on the floor of the cage, some drenched in moisture that pins it down, though a lot has blown away and scattered across the street. I look across to the entrance. The entire pavement opposite is bare, the chalkboard is gone and I can’t see the menu that’s usually pinned to the wall. I look through the window and see the place is vacant, the lights are dimmed, and from what I can see the shelves have been ransacked. The tables have been stacked on top of each other, the chairs are piled up at the back of the room. I feel my hand brush against something damp and laminate. I take a step back and read:

Section 8 Notice Seeking possession of a propertyTenant: Adaline Odell Maybe Mari-Elly-Vic’s in the kitchen or something, I tell myself as I go to check the front door. I knock, and wait to be let in. If she’ll let me in. If she’s even here. I knock again, harder this time. I feel the cold around me, my hand seizing up in the cold. I should have worn gloves. I should have come earlier. I should have done something.

I look back over to Pam’s Café and see someone lingering at the door; some staff have gathered at the door of that artisan place too. I knock again. And again. And again. I look through the door’s small window, then up at the windows above it. A curtain has been drawn, and I swear I can see a figure hovering by the window with a phone in hand. It looks down at me, I look back at her. It’s a woman, I’m sure of it, dressed in a nightgown and wearing an offset wig. It’s Mari, or Elly, or Vic, or Adaline, whatever she’s calling herself now. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ I try to call to her. Her face hardens, she shakes her head and disappears from the window.

Short Sleeves Archie Gault

Short sleeves for the chill Long journey to take for a small hope No life-jacket

Vast ocean Small boat Nothing but sky on a horizon rimmed with flawed potential

January || Cheyenne Dunnett

When Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m stuck for ideas, I go back to January, plucking words from your mouth and turning them into a new kind of art. I never showed you what I had written; I was scared that it would reveal too much. I planted my own thoughts among the skeletal trees and let my tears pour out of the sky.

100

Humphrey Chloe Elson

When she left him this morning his bones creaked and cracked underneath him. Buds had lined the trees eight times since it had begun. Whatever she gave him no longer worked and the pain had become a sharp, uncomfortable heat under his skin. He wasn’t young anymore-and he knew that. Curling up in their bed he whined. His skin twitched as he repositioned, lying next to her to keep her from getting colder. He could hear the couple next door arguing again. Their stomping travelled up the walls and made the light shake in its fitting. His grey wiry hair looked dull in the morning sun and his mouth was dry- but he didn’t feel thirsty. Before she left she told him she loved him- but didn’t wait for his reply as she already knew he loved her, more than anyone else. She was still vulnerable, fragile. He could sense it. Every night he would come into her room to find her lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She always told him she was following the cracks to see where they met, but the only cracks he saw were in her voice. It was at that point he would curl up and use her body heat to help him fall asleep. The sycamore tree outside the window looked almost naked- the rough brown skin stayed the same as a few amber leaves covered over some of its multiple bare spots. He tried to remember the last time they went out on a walk- was it two or three days ago? Since the leaves fell last, she would get up and walk by herself. He would try and get her attention by pulling at her nightdress, but she would carry on, talking to her husband- who left when the tree had finished dropping its seeds. He vaguely remembered it, when his body was still new- but not undamaged. She set her grief aside to wake up during the night to give him his medicine, and soothe him when he cried. More leaves fell, dancing in the wind as he stared down at the steaming pile of moist, pale biscuits soaked in their own juice. Gulping, he was worried she would be mad at him if she saw it, but she would never shout at him- unlike his last owners, but that was a long time ago. He would have fetched a blanket to cover it, but felt as if his legs were frozen- too tired and stiff to move. Looking at the picture on the bedside table he identified the child. Then a young girl, smiling into the camera with him. His mistress would kiss the child’s cheek every night before she slept, as a ritual. He liked seeing his younger self; it reminded him of a time where he couldn’t feel himself slowly dying.

101

The acidic taste of the biscuits he once loved now tasted sour and burned the back of his tongue. The afterburn. He licked his lips and whined as the wind tore more umber shards off the tree. They whipped the glass and flew off with the birds. He looked up and watched them as they disappeared- the birds weaving in and out of them. His chest rose and fell heavily, as his heart tapped under his ribs. He shivered once more as the tree shook off its last crisp leaves. He watched them fall out of sight. His body shuddered as he curled up further into the rosebud quilt. He licked his lips, not wanting her to be alone. The last leaf was blown away by the wind and lay flat up against the window, before it too fell. That was when the knocking started. ‘Hey mum, I brought that wool you asked for on the phone yesterday.’ The keys scraped as she pulled the key out of lock. ‘I don’t see why it couldn’t be acrylic- it would be cheaper and I’m sure Humphrey wouldn’t notice.’ The bag rustled as she laid it down on the floor. ‘Mum?’ His throat warbled as he managed to croak out a bark. ‘Humphrey?’ He tried to moisten his sore throat as they were left in silence. The clunk of her heels echoed down the hallway. ‘Where are you, Humphrey? Where’s mum?’ The branches banged outside the window. ‘Mum!’ The door knob rattled as it turned, and the door opened at the foot of the bedrevealing a thirty-something year old woman. His little mistress, all grown up. His ears pricked up and he barked as her face fell and her eyes grew red. ‘Mum, are you ok? Mum?’ She came to the side of the bed and felt her mother’s cool cheek with the back of her hand. She let it hang uselessly at her side. He winced as he dragged himself to be closer to her and licked it- trying to warm it up again. ‘Please wake up mum, please.’ She lay face up on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with closed eyes. His mistress’s white hair lay around her and shone with an ethereal light- matching the dull greyish white of her face and hands. The sycamore tree didn’t move for a while, as strange men in bright clothes took her away from him. He growled and snapped at them whenever they tried to move her. The little mistress had to hold him back by his collar. ‘Good boy, Humphrey. She’s with the Lord in Heaven now.’ He didn’t want her to be with the lord, he wanted her, here, with him. One day, after snow had graced the land- when he could barely lift his head, he was taken to the men in white coats. He hated it there, but no longer could be bothered to try and get away. He breathed in the artificial scent of the room, and it burned his lungs. He didn’t even wriggle to escape the man’s grasp. The man pinched between his shoulders and he soon felt sleepy. As he rested his head on his paws, he remembered what she had said to him when his mistress left. ‘She’s with the Lord in Heaven now.’ He tried to imagine her as an angel, but only saw her as he had always done. The little mistress cried and rubbed behind his ear, as he started to close his heavy eyes. He hoped he would go to heaven and be with her and the master again.

102

He awoke to the call of his name. ‘Humphrey.’ Her voice sang in the wind. ‘Come to me Humphrey.’ The master bellowed next to her. He padded up to both of them in the soft grass and sat at their feet. ‘Good boy.’ She stroked down the grey wires on his head; the master scratched behind his ear, as his tail thumped in the moss. ‘I’m so sorry I left you.’ He licked her hand, as the white blossom floated down around them and landed around them- rolling along at their feet. ‘Now we have forever.’

103

Harpenden Maddi Hastings My mother takes me back to her care home. Back to the place she grew up When I left that place, my childhood ended she mourns over what has broken; fallen apart as time passed. Our journey sees us manoeuvring through the highway, following a tide of traffic. Imitating the toy cars my brother and I once played with. A zombie-like fatigue lingers. Though Mum is awake and alert as we venture through an unsettled detour â&#x20AC;&#x201C; courtesy of the sat nav which tries to retrace steps now lost. We return to the home, the oval that once shaped her world, surrounded by the discomfort of the smallest of changes. And yet she lights up with contentment.

104

Walking through memories, snapshots of stories told in passing. Next comes introductions. Mum recognises names with voices, faces are no longer the same. Grown out of the faded photographs that fill old scrapbooks. Mum isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t that little girl anymore. Nor are her peers, old friends. Surrogate siblings that lost their bond.

105

Dwarf Jo Castle

She squeezes the universe into a ball. Though short, she stands vast and tall, for thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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 donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t agree at all.

106

Silent City Kat Finch

“Going up. Going down. Ground floor. Second floor. Fifth floor. Third floor.” All day that voice instructs us as to where it is going next. All day that woman says where she intends to take her passengers. She doesn’t even know us. We don’t even know her. I don’t even know you. I enter a tall, thin, mechanical, square, box. It’s great when you are the only one or with someone you know, because all you really have to think about is the metal death trap you are temporarily being held hostage within. But I have come to realise that actually a lift can be fun if you are standing in there with a bunch of random people. If you can get over the thoughts of them pedantically judging whether or not you are someone they deem worthy to spend their brief time with, then your mind can become wonderful if you open it up. Within that confined space it seems that there is a rule that everyone shares secretly in the back of their mind; it is socially unacceptable to talk to people in a lift in the presence of strangers. Therefore the moment random people enter the lift words do not fill the air. Instead, thoughts do. The lift moves down to the second floor. I wonder who I shall encounter today. A man of just under 6 foot stomps inside, swiftly followed by a short woman with strawberry red hair, who is then followed by a young boy dressed in black jeans, a white t-shirt and black converse sneakers. They all look down at 4’10 me. The air stiffens as the doors shut. Words get tugged in the throat and we stand there all sharing at least one thought; great, the lift is now going up and not down. But I start to ignore the annoying lift and start concentrating on my new company. Just the very thought of where these three very different people came from, who they are, what their jobs are, what they do, who they know. I could go on but it is all enough to make me feel amazed. Looking at the man, I’d put him at around 5’9. He seems to be in his late 30s and probably has a very good job. Maybe he’s an accountant. No, wait - he looks too strong to be an accountant so maybe he does not have an office job. Police officer or medic perhaps? No, I am going to give him the job of a fire-fighter because why not? He doesn’t know what I am thinking... Mind you I don’t know what he’s thinking. He could have made me a little high school kid even though I am older than I look. Anyway, so he’s a fire-fighter from...

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Where could he be from? Well, he has a fairly good tan, but that could just be from the recent sun increase. We will say he is from America. So now currently in my lift of characters we have a late 30’s man who is 5’9, a firefighter from America and who doesn’t have a name yet. He has short blond hair that is spiked up at the front. He appears to have greenish eyes and not much facial hair. He looks like someone who would be called either Jason or Jeremy. I think I will settle on Jeremy. I notice that Jeremy keeps looking over at the raspberry red-haired woman, which leads me to question if they know each other or not. Does he like her? Does she like him? Are they already married or engaged? I take a peek down at the lady’s hands; luckily her left hand is closest to me, so I make it as though I am just checking my phone. Well I don’t see any sort of rings. Ooohhh so maybe they like each other. How exciting! She does seem his type of girl. She has long pomegranate red hair, the full peachy lips. She has the exquisitely, slender, womanly curves in all the rights places. Although she looks quite sophisticated, I bet under her cute black “nerdy” style glasses and behind her smart casual look of blue jeans and a white blouse, she is a festive rainbow lorikeet with the amazing talents of the hummingbird. She could be a humming lorikeet. However, during the working day I’d say she was an assistant of some sort. Or maybe she is a receptionist for a beauty salon or hairdressers. Actually I’m going to make this ball of fire the receptionist for a magazine company tower. I would say she is a bit younger than Jeremy, perhaps in her late twenties about 27. She isn’t far off my height too, so she is quite a petite woman. All she needs is a name. She seems to be the British kind of girl looking at her crystal skin and I’m going to give her the name of Lucy. It just fits her pretty persona. With Jeremy and Lucy being distracted by the love hearts hanging in the air between them, I move on to creating my third stranger friend. The young boy looks in his teens; I’d put him at around 17 years of age, judging by his choice of clothing and the fact that throughout this lift journey I have seen him on his i-phone the whole time. He could be talking to his friends or his family. But to be honest he does seem somewhat handsome with his short cut black hair and his decent-looking muscles so he could be talking to his girlfriend. I reckon she is a beautiful white butterfly, who is very intelligent and great to be around. Meanwhile, he probably has pure golden love flowing through his veins for everyone he meets and knows. I believe that he is not related to either of the other two adults within our proximity telling from his delightful dark skin. His phone goes off in a phone call tone. He looks up for a split second and spots me. I look back with a soft gaze. He smiles, seemingly more relaxed about breaking that secret universal rule of talking in a lift, before reluctantly answering the call. At first I had thought he had come from somewhere like Brazil but upon hearing him talk it appears he is from Romania since he said the words ‘Buna ziua bona’ which must mean he is talking to his Nana. I know this since in my spare time I like to learn different languages, and I have recently learnt a little Romanian and know that he said ‘Hello Nanny’. He ends the call and puts his phone in his pocket.

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Maybe he has had an argument with nana since the conversation didn’t sound like ‘Ah hello, how are you today? Oh I’m great thanks’. I still need to give this boy a fitting name. The boy looks over at me again. I smile and he smiles back. Does he want to be friends? Perhaps he doesn’t have a girlfriend, maybe he is the shy type... Billy. That name goes with him well. And even if he is shy I’m sure he has an outstanding skill hiding away... Perhaps he is a dancer. The lift comes to a stop on the seventh floor, but there is no one else there. The loving connection is briefly lost as we all share the thought of confusion and annoyance. Finally, as the lift descends to the ground floor, I think to myself about Jeremy, Lucy and Billy. Oh the stories you can tell within the silence of a normally boring, grey, box. Of course I don’t actually know these people and yet here they are as my brief lift stranger friends. As the lift comes to a definite stop we all part ways, maybe never to be seen again.

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Another Dance Competition Rachel Skipper The long drive, to the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by the multitude of sparkled dresses. I’ve lost a tassel on the left side of my dress. “Pin your number to your back.” My partner grabs my hand, The music starts.

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Station Four Pip Hanser

When I was ruined by Love, I took a vow To cut it from me and live in despair. To live only in the sadness of ‘now’. Being selfish, I thought love wouldn’t care.

Like a galaxy that leaves behind one spark, Love gave me one last chance of redemption. To see beauty in trees, and leaves, and bark, For love to be the centre of my attention.

I focused on growth, as anyone would And of loving my pale and blotted face. I thought of love all the time that I could, Love of myself, of person, and of place.

Though somewhere out there in the twisting dark, The black curve of an arm falls into night, And whilst poets serenade bits of bark, Women in scarves lack basic human rights.

These girls feel sunrise falling like a lift, And danger flowing in with the morning mist.

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So Many Feet Phoebe Ruia There are so many feet, wandering the winter streets, of London Camden town but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s so quiet, no sound to be heard, no frown to be seen. But blank expressions everywhere, no frown but hers Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s slapped across her Bittersweet face, her narrow cold shaped. Jaw. she must have tasted

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Muted place. The silence The buildings hold, Those Stale Tears Behind those e y e s. Her broken Unfixed Suitcase.

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Fake * Willow Butler

Look at you sunshine on your neck on your hands. Your nose pointed and careful above that blessed moustache. People will believe when they see this portrait that you are a regal man with that nose of yours. But you are not look at that coat of yours rough threads and loose buttons you are not regal. But people will believe it because of that sunshine glowing your neck and that nose. Look at you false man read that newspaper and we will pretend.

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Bus Stop * Willow Butler

Woman at the bus stop smiles, says “there’s nobody English anymore all black, brown, yellow.” Woman’s friends laugh, agree, ponder how my generation copes with all the colour. I feel sick. I say nothing.

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Gracious Tempest Charlotte Humphrey

Gracious tempest draw back our pride and swell pools of guilt. Gracious storm pour away the love we have for what we have built. Flood the corners in which we hide and spill what has not yet been spilt.

Gracious tempest tear down our sky catchers and drown out the notes, green or queen-faced. Gracious storm drag them down and rip through cities, we are braced for the end, for our gold-plated monsters to be into your dark waters displaced.

Tempest if I am to play the game of greed to breathe, fill my lungs and let me sleep. Let me not be a ten o clock headline sacrifice, lead new money to ruin and the old money to dust, platinum rings and diamond playthings, watch them bleed let them into your dark waters be thrust.

Am I cruel tempest, for losing faith and calling upon your name? Must they drown for things to change? Must the world freeze over for man to understand, to exchange pain for the serene? Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll pour their oils into you. Must you be kind or cut them through?

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A day in the life of

an unburdened free-thinker of independent means Archie Gault Day dawned for Fragrance McMillian far earlier than he’d have liked. He wasn’t sleeping of course - sleep was far too mainstream - but occasionally he would rest his eyes a little, always making sure to get up early enough to be sure no one saw him at it. Most of the nights were spent sitting in his genuine 1900’s ol’ Western rocking chair listening to genuine 70’s prog rock vinyl records on his genuine mahogany record player which, he’d been led to believe, predated the birth of Christ. It was quiet in the hours between 3 and 4; he liked that, even if it meant there was no one else to hear that he was listening to music that they’d probably never heard of. Oh well, sighed Fragrance; he could always tell people about it later on. For the next track he’d selected something a little alternative. Nursing the mug in his hands, he lay back into the shroud of the chair, sighing distantly as the subtle tones of the Lumen Drones washed over him. It wasn’t that he liked the Lumen Drones, in fact quite the opposite, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that, by listening to Swedish drone music which none of his peers had even heard of, he was cultivating that cool, laid back, alternative image that deep down he felt he deserved. That’s what he thought at least. In actual fact it merely gave the impression that he had a weird, mushroomaddled taste in music, meaning that when his group of friends (or at least close associates) went out to concerts and such he was never invited. Ever. Not even when they’d all gone to see that all-transgender Abba tribute band in a club near Camden, which was a shame really, because if Fragrance had one secret love, it was definitely either Abba or Transgender people - but they weren’t to know that as he’d never voiced his affection for anything remotely mainstream like that ever. It wasn’t that he was some kind of slave to his own image or something, perish the thought; he just lived in constant fear of being seen as basic or weird, or, even worse, a strange combination of the two in which he was so mundane to the extent that it became creepy. The sudden noise of a car backfiring somewhere in the neighbourhood brought Fragrance back to his senses. He glanced around for a second, certain that someone was stealing his collection of vintage records. A couple of years back, somebody had told him that, to the thieves of the East End, vintage vinyl was like gold dust and that he should be on his guard at all times. He’d never quite made up his mind whether said person had been serious or not but, ever since, his nightmares had been plagued with images of balaclavaed youths, parachuting out of the window of his first floor apartment, an LP under each arm and presumably a malicious grin under all those layers of knitwear.

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Alone in the suddenly colder dark of his apartment, Fragrance got to his feet, swirling the mug of coffee he held in his suddenly shivering hand. It was cold. It had been for days. The coffee itself was a blend so exquisite that, according to the shifty- looking salesman he’d bought it off, it contained 7 different types of bean and the blood of a virgin sacrificed under a full moon. He hadn’t been sure whether the virgin’s blood should be taken literally or whether it was just another obscure coffee bean; either way the blend was far too exquisite to drink and consequently he’d taken to carrying it around for the last couple of weeks, forever professing to the purity of the blend and lamenting the fact it’d gone cold to anyone who would listen. It should be pointed out here that the name Fragrance McMillian was not the one that the man known as Fragrance had been given at birth. In actual fact he had been christened Robert but, he reasoned, the name Robert didn’t exactly convey the image which he wished to project. Truth be told, Fragrance, a name which he considered reflected his suitably sensory nature, was only a recent development, having been preceded by Charlemagne, which in turn had been chosen because Fragrance felt it harked back to the European blood which simply had to be in his veins somewhere. Certainly he knew he was not of British stock and, though his family hailed from the noble concrete of the East End and had done as far as anyone could remember, he was determined to one day show the ancestry test he’d taken to be as false as he’d always suspected, and prove himself to be of noble Viking stock. How else could you explain the majesty of his beard? In quick succession before Charlemagne had come Martin-Luther, Barack and Ghandi, all of which he’d only dropped after people assured him that yes, it was disrespectful, which was a shame because he felt he’d really identified with Ghandi. Fragrance, as he had finally settled with, for now at least, liked attention, but only the right kind; he liked the sort of attention which turned heads, he liked the sort of attention which drew the approving gaze of young women in the underground clubs he frequented but most of all he liked the sort of attention which caused people to ask questions. He liked questions very much, as they gave him the excuse he needed to talk about himself, and then of course they couldn’t then object because they’d asked him. What he’d never been so keen on was the sort of attention that aroused the attention of journalists. He’d heard about the sort of things that happened to a fellow after journalists got interested in them; things like hails of angry tweets, pictures of him without any pants on circulating in the most shady corners of the internet, and of course casual shootings, none of which really got Fragrance going.

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They’d shot Ghandi, he reasoned, so they’d probably shoot him too. It was no good, thought Fragrance, he just couldn’t focus on the music anymore. He stood, silencing the Lumen Drones and sliding the record back into its case. With an almost drunken gait he made his way to the kitchen, placing the mug of what presumably still counted as coffee back into the fridge where he had taken to storing it, walked on into the bathroom and set to preparing for the day. Not that he was going to give in and use any of these modern products to style the hair known to him as his baby and to the rest of the world as his beard and moustache. No, good old water and soap would see him though. The man who had sold him the soap a week or so back had waxed lyrical about the genuine tribal recipe to which it was made and if that didn’t give Fragrance’s countenance that certain cultural zing, he didn’t know what would. He stood, almost in silence for a minute, maybe longer, gazing at his reflection in the polished glass of the ornate mirror. He’d bought it a couple of months ago from an antiques store somewhere out in the suburbs, thinking it would fit his vintage chic design theme so well. He’d been so pleased then, but now, looking at it in the early hours of the morning, it didn’t seem quite so great. The focus in his eyes shifted back to his own reflection in the mirror. His own image didn’t seem quite as it had before either. Distracted fingers ran through his immaculately groomed beard, tugging on it thoughtfully. Gazing into the mirror he regarded himself more than on just a physical level, looking back at his life and indeed all the things in it. Things he’d bought flashed mentally before his eyes, a phantasmal price tag attached on a little cardboard slip; it cut him deeper than paper should be able to. His friends’ faces appeared before him also, one after another. It didn’t take long. Worth was something that Fragrance knew about. He knew his own worth and he knew the worth of others, especially in comparison to himself. He knew the worth of his own possessions and, thanks to Antiques Roadshow, he knew the worth of other people’s also - not that he would ever openly admit to having watched the programme. However, now as in reminiscence, his purchases passed before his eyes like the memories of a man on the brink of death, his sense of worth seemed suddenly blurred. Wincing, he splashed his face with water from the sink, blinking as the water rolled down into his eyes. He looked up again, back to the mirror, and, face dripping in the image that he saw there. A paleness seemed to have afflicted his skin. His face used to have a full hue, good skin and a perfect complexion; he’d put it down to the natural prevalence of the noble Nordic heritage in his genes, but over the last few months he’d hit a slow decline as the pallor in his face grew and the bright smoothness he had once enjoyed faded away. For weeks his friends (acquaintances) had tried to press upon him some lotion, (bought from the local chemist but true origin unknown) but he wasn’t having any of it; he wasn’t going to let his own personal defects and insecurities force him into the vicious cycle of fuelling the capitalist machine. No, he would fight these battles on his own.

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That morning as Fragrance headed out, he was troubled. Quite what troubled him he was unsure, but there was something that weighed down upon him as he took the short walk down the street to the small coffee shop where he worked. It was not quite light and, in the half light of the dawn, he found his mind wandering. His thoughts passed like a cloud over the horizon of his right side brain. They dwelled on the peaks of the previous night, pensively stirring in a miasma as he replayed the memories. Tongue running absently over his dry lips, he thought once more as he had then. Biting his lip, the futility that, last night, had seemed so all-consuming presented itself once more but now the bite was gone. A hollow threat, nothing but the product of a fatigued and overworked mind; he paid it no heed. Fragrance was cheering up now. The shadow had lifted and, behind the cloud was, not sun if Fragrance was perfectly honest, but it looked to be a little less grey. His step deepened as the confidence returned to his movements. Self-righteousness blossomed once more behind his eyes, he straightened his thick rimmed glasses (they were fake, but no one had to know that), smoothed down his beard and stepped confidently onwards.

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The Figurative Café

Louisa Sadler

I once went to the figurative café where I ordered chicken for you as I was saving your bacon before they gave you a knuckle sandwich.

In a way I felt sorry for you as the chips were down in your corner and you had gone bananas over smelling like hot cakes and because I didn’t want to be your eye candy.

Now it’s time for you to take the biscuit with coffee of course as you were in a pickle over a pinch of salt and your bread and butter.

As we began to leave the Figurative Café I ordered you a small beer as you were angry about your split milk and you would’ve felt guilty over ordering the last of the summer wine but you need to remember this; when life gives you lemons, make lemonade before you run out of juice.

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The Mad Side Emma Hiscock

Some days, the ink threatens to overflow and I struggle to restrain it, the fright of what deeper, darker secrets might be discovered. I know you hide that fear too, the dread of letting others witness the real side, The Mad Side, as some would say. And I wander through the maze of humanity every day, watching men become machines, with the slightest hope to catch the tiniest bit of the uninhibited; an unfiltered word, unexpected emotions, a real smile, a genuine laugh. I live for these moments, craving to see streaks of madness in others, the way I sometimes catch them in myself.

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The Robbery in the Gallery (Pantoum)

Oliver Smart

I stare desperately at the empty space Encompassed by four strips of nylon tape, And then at the shattered sculpture Smashed upon the tiled floor.

Encompassed by four strips of nylon tape, A curator screams at his night guard. Smashed upon the tiled floor, It lies in a ceramic heap.

A curator screams at his night guard, And then at the scattered sculpture. It lies in a ceramic heap, I stare desperately at the empty space.

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Cell 56 Willow Butler Asher was staring at him. His chin was jammed – it must have been uncomfortable – up against the bars surrounding his bunk; his fingers were twisted beneath his chin, twitched off at awkward angles. Einar knew he’d been staring a while – it was something he did, when Einar ignored him, stare unblinkingly to try and get some sort of reaction. Often it went on for hours. But tonight Einar curled the corner of his book – it was a second hand book, it did not warrant the delicacy of a bookmark for its corners were already tousled from previous fingers’ use – and placed it on his single pillow. “What?” he asked. It took a moment for Asher to respond. It wasn’t often that he got a response from his little game and Einar pinpointed the flicker of pride and surprise over usually blank eyes. Asher was one of those boys who had trained himself to speak without emotion and his eyes to remain impassive and dull, no matter the topic. Still, Einar could tell he was suddenly struggling to find words. “What’re we gonna do when we get outta here?” He had never indulged himself enough to think about getting out. To even imagine it felt wrong as if somehow their thoughts of freedom were betraying the persecutors’ smug smiles; the judge’s gavel. He rolled onto his stomach and jammed his chin into his fingers, a mimic of Asher’s broken-fingered clasp on his own jaw. It felt odd to Einar that they were trading each-others’ traits. Often he’d notice himself smiling with a corner of his mouth, singular, as opposed to the broad curve of both. He’d witnessed, a couple of times, Asher watching him smoke and later imitating it but he’d ended up looking more a member of French royalty with the way he flung back his neck – dark hair rolling the stark line of his shoulders – than Einar. They’d been together too long. “We might not get out,” said Einar. Asher dipped his little finger in his mouth, pushing at the points of canines. “No,” he answered carefully, clamping his teeth over his finger. “But, think ‘bout it, Einar. Look who got out last time. Last release, you remember?” “He was well behaved.”

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Einar watched the delicate eye roll, the flash of pink-laced whites. Asher preferred his stories to be supported and often sagged under the pressed cynicism of Einar’s tone. “Ain’t we been?” he threw back, jaw moving mechanically around his finger. His hair fell into his face as his teeth gnawed and twisted. He laughed. “Sure, you have, maybe. I only just got out of solitary.” Asher dropped his finger. “Well that’s just technicality, isn’t it?” He supposed that it was, though he’d never been able to look at the world with such simplicity. Never had he looked at their predicament and simply thought of it as a technicality to life, though similarly, he supposed it was. “Okay, saying it is just a technicality, and like last time they’re feeling – I don’t know-sympathetic?” he shook his head, deciding it was the wrong word. “Bored. Well then what? We get out.” Einar watched the shifting expression around Asher’s brows, the soft scrunch of his nose and the twitch of his eyelid – the obvious regret in his face asking why he ever bothered to try and get Einar to put the book down and respond when the dull expression and the rushing degradation of being ignored was far more exciting than the chat? “We going to keep in touch?” Asher asked. His saliva-wet fingers were dangling from the bunk and Einar watched him with a certain level of curiosity. It had never been explicitly mentioned between them if they actually liked one another – when Einar had first been put into Asher’s cell he’d made his position known fairly quickly. Sometimes when he looked at Asher he could see it in his eyes how he didn’t forgive him, that one side of his face was more abstract than the other. Einar turned his head, gave him a shrug. “If I need money, I’ll call you,” he answered plainly. Asher was wealthy – his parents had died when he was small. The inheritance had settled into his bank when he’d turned 18. “Think they’d let a con access to that amount?” asked Asher. The bed creaked when Einar moved, his legs propelling him up. He wrapped his fingers around the twisted bars of the bunk, forcing himself upright, face to face with the snarled curl of Asher’s sneer. His arms held strong, feet dangling a foot off the ground as they looked to one another. Asher’s mouth was red and wet from where he’d gnawed at the bones of his fingers – his eyes flittered to take in Einar’s features.

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“Well, if they don’t, you pull out your gun – don’t you – and you tell them, ‘hand over my inheritance’,” Einar said carefully. His arms had begun to shake, shuddering with the effort of holding up his own weight. “Or I shall shoot. And then you drop your own name, so they know you aren’t an amateur.” Asher’s sticky fingers caught on his cheekbones. “Master plan, ain’t it?” ***** “What?” A shrugged. “Don’t you feel something?” Bill asked. He smacked his lips together to stop himself from pushing him further. “I don’t know what you’re getting at –“ Bill refrained from rolling his eyes. He was to remain taut and professional. He tucked his sleeves over his elbows and looked at A pointedly. “It’s for your –“ “Yes, it’s for my recovery. But I don’t know what you want me to do.” “You’re not stupid.” Bill was tired. He might soon give up. “You know where we are. It is cold, A, and I want to go home.” “You’re not stupid’. Is that what this has taught you, Bill? That I’m clever?” Bill shook his head. “No, what I’ve learnt from all this is that you are stubborn, A. It’s unlikely that this will help your recovery, but as you’re aware, it is requested.” “I’ve got to look sorry,” filled in A. “So that you can say I’m recovered.” “Yes, you’ve got to look sorry.” “Do you want me to apologise?” A was always acting dumb. Like he didn’t understand. “To an empty cafeteria?” Bill nodded, though he understood its absurdity. “Yes, to an empty cafeteria. Apologise like it’s full. To them.” “To who.” “You know who.” Bill pushed up his glasses. A was shivering. “Yes I do.” He stood up straighter. “Sorry, cafeteria.” “Who else?” A’s company was wholly unfulfilling. They had stood in the cafeteria and not said a word for an hour. Bill had not tried to engage A - and neither the other way around.

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“I don’t know. What do you want me to say? Who –“ “Why do you act dumb now? When we met you said their names a lot. You were proud. Say them now and apologise.” He stopped himself. He was not allowed to force his recovery any more than he already had. He tugged his sleeves back down to cover the goose-bumps. A smirked. “Sorry ‘them’.” “We will come back tomorrow.” Bill was resigned. Behind them two guards shifted from their spots against the wall. They clicked handcuffs around A’s wrists and led him out. A turned his head and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Sorry,” he called, and then the door closed. ***** Asher had been absent most of the day. It often happened, their cell would clatter open early in the morning and the guards would filter in and pull him from his bed. Einar was always awake when it happened, pushed up into the corner of his bunk, watching. Asher never woke until his ankle was grabbed and he was hefted from the bed sheets. The first time it happened he’d fallen on his ankle – the bone looking odd in its sudden raspberry tones, pink like a slapped cheek. He’d snarled from one corner of his mouth as his twisted fingers were captured and held still when cuffs were placed around his slight wrists. Sometimes he would be back within a few hours, but most of the time he was missing until dark. Einar never asked about it, and he knew Asher often stared at him with disdain and disappointment that he did not query after his whereabouts. It did interest Einar, though. He’d heard it happening with a few other men, too, their cellies talking about it in the yard – Allen the Rod in particular was certain his cell-mate was snitching on him to the men up top, but Einar didn’t think that was it. At least he doubted Asher would do something like that – he was too proud of his position within the prison to risk falling. No, Asher was far too clever to murmur to the guards about what went on – he’d be putting himself in danger too, for Einar knew for certain Asher was the reason several of the particularly young boys now had soft mangled fingers and flicking awkward wrists. Einar had watched him kick some skinhead kid out in the yard once, his heel jammed into bony wrist like a foot on a cigarette.

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It was against him to ask, though. It would appear to Asher that Einar was relenting power to him – which would not do, for the delicacy of their cell arrangement was absolute. Einar did not intend to bow his head to Asher, even if it would satiate his intense curiosity. No, if Asher was ever the one being looked to for answers he would taunt his sudden power down at Einar like a weak King who ruled over a war-born Knight. “Heard Fiddler was getting outta the infirmary real soon, Einar,” Laurence, a man in the cell adjacent to Einar’s, said. Einar moved from where he’d been on his bunk. His knees caught in the sheets as he threw himself at the rattling cell door; his cheek hit the cold metal bar and his eyelashes caught its rough surface. “That man’s dead,” he responded. “Nobody survives that.” He heard Laurence laugh, saw a curl of hair fall through the bars. “You’re gonna have’ta try a lil harder next time, mate.” The bar was blunt against his skull as he smacked his head into it, a rage pulled at him. He thought he growled, screamed a couple times before a guard walked up and smacked a baton into the centre of his forehead. “There’s still a bed in solitary for you, Cohen,” he said. “I’d pull your shit together or they won’t ever consider you for release like your cellie.” Einar found himself twisting his fingers like Asher did, off to subtly wrong angles around the bars, a smirk dropped onto his lips. Despite the dull thud in his skull he pressed the beaten spot against the bars and licked his lips. “I’ll keep it in mind, boss.” He hadn’t even considered that Asher’s absence had anything to do with the mass release of prisoners. He supposed they were putting Asher through tests, of a sort; that the system was combing his mind to see if his twitching smirk held remorse or such for his actions. For Asher was young and there was always the guilt of a judge who put some kid just out of high school behind bars. He felt smug in a sense that the guard, loose-tongued in his taunting, had given him a right of power over his cell mate. Blood dried on his forehead as he settled back on his bed. It was later that Asher was pushed back into the cell. He tilted his head at Einar upon entering, his lips tugging at the corner and pulling to that gouged smirk. “You’ve got blood on you,” he said. He pushed onto the top bunk, curling his fingers around the bars once more. Einar thought it was comforting to him, or something – a weakness. “Yeah.” Einar licked his fingers, tongue flattening against the dents of joints. Asher stared him down, eyes flickering at his tongue. He wiped the spit-sticky palm over the blood. “And you’re getting out of here.”

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It was funny how easy it was to see Asher’s dismay at Einar holding such information. Einar knew that if their situation were turned Asher would have announced it with more drama. He’d slide from his bunk and lord about their cell with his knowledge unsaid for hours. It would be a taunt, soft, boring. Einar stared at Asher, watching the idea of his own power crumble, and he smirked. “They are testing you. For remorse – which I doubt you shall show. You always boast about shooting up those kids. Maybe they’re running out of innocents to release – so they’re letting out the ones they think are victims. Maybe they’re worried you’re so pretty you’re being hurt? Maybe that’s why.” Einar felt himself shudder, his nails dug into his jaw to keep from retracting his words. Asher twitched, bodily and their eyes met again. Einar looked away, out of the cell and scored his jaw with blunt nails. He could feel Asher writhing with comments he wanted to spit at him, but his bravado held him up. “Maybe the government are just fed up of high school students these days?” he offered quietly, tonelessly. Einar didn’t respond and their cell fell silent. When the lights went out and the only real light left was the glow from the guard’s torches he watched the cracking warmth of Asher’s cigarette. He was leant in his bed, hair trickling over his shoulders looking like a French royal. ***** “What is your current sentence?” Bill asked A. A tilted his head at him. They were, for once, not in the empty cafeteria. Instead they sat in an interview room within the prison. Guards stood outside the door and A’s wrists were chained to the table. “You already know my sentence, Bill,” A responded. “I do, but you must say it nonetheless.” A sat up, the chains jingled. “I did it when I was a minor. Sixteen; so it’s a minimum sentence for an adult. Ten years for first degree.” He looked around. It sounded like he was quoting. “It’s clever, isn’t it, how when you’re sixteen you can go and shoot eight people and only get a minimum sentence. You can do a lot at sixteen, marry, fuck, drive – and the government lets you murder too, like a try-out session, with minimum charge. Don’t you think that’s odd, Bill?” “You’re here for ten years, correct.”

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“Less.” A smirked and leaned into the table; his hair fell off his shoulders and hung around his cheeks. “Said that you’re getting me out of here. My cellie confirmed it. Now ain’t that an injustice?” Bill pushed up his glasses and leant back in his chair. “Sure it’s an injustice and if the parents of them kids you killed found out about it they’d hate the government. Thing is you’re a kid, you’re remorseful, and the government doesn’t wanna hold remorseful kids any more. Takes away your future.” “What, like I took away their futures?” “Yep.” Bill picked up the clipboard from the table. Across the top of it A’s name was written out in bold print ‘ASHER FAIRCHILD’, his charge typed out neatly below that, and further beneath that the Governor’s stamp of release – a release hidden under the guise of a YOI, Young Offenders Institute Licence Licence – which allowed young offenders release at 22 into a life of probation. In reality, Bill had done this before; it was simply an issue of release. Asher Fairchild would be unmonitored within the world. “The irony,” A said. His chair rocked as he leant back. “Tomorrow we are going back to the cafeteria, A,” Bill said. “So I can check off that you feel remorse. Then after that you will meet with the Governor; she will assess you as I have.” “Great,” A smirked. He stood quickly, yanking at the chains around his wrists. “I have a cell mate to brag to.” When the guards did not come immediately A started to yell. Bill leant back in his seat and watched until they came. They lumped A against the wall and re-cuffed his wrists. ***** Now that it had been confirmed to Einar that Asher’s departure was inevitable he sat in their cell and mulled it over. To begin with he hadn’t thought too much about it – he had thought, even, that it would be pleasant to have a different cell mate, for sometimes Asher was boring, with his mangled fingers and wet gouged smirk. But then Einar would consider who he might be put with – he supposed, if the Governor wanted an excuse to hold him in permanent solitary confinement he might be put up with Fiddler – and that would not do. He knew for sure that if they were holed up together he would not be able to hide his blatant disgust and hatred towards him, knew that he’d find some way to dig a shank in his throat – his sense of morals would win over self-preservation and hope of release.

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He supposed in a sense he might miss Asher. The cell clattered open and Asher was pushed inside. His head was lolled heavy to his right side and on his face a grim smile split his cheeks. He moved quickly, hopping to the end of Einar’s bed in a moment. He tilted his head. “I’m out real soon,” he admitted, like Einar hadn’t told him the day before. Like he knew something Einar didn’t. “Gonna talk with the Governor and she’ll stamp my release, or something, and then I’ll be gone.” Einar wondered if it was that simple. While the whole process itself had been going on, so far, for about a month he wondered how long it would drag out with the Governor being put into the equation. She was notorious for dangling releases in front of prisoners just to watch them curve in subservience, to watch them slip in their own bravado and feign innocence. Einar had heard she’d done that a couple times with this new release scheme. “Good,” Einar found himself saying. He reached for his cigarettes and rolled one between his fingers to unflatten it before he stuck it between his teeth and lit. “Maybe my new cell-mate won’t be so dull.” Asher leant back against the wall-he was crouched, still on his feet and the sheets around him crumpled. “Nah, you’ll miss me,” he said, dropping down. He turned his head, hanging it back like it was too heavy – like something possessed. Einar flicked his lighter, watched the slow wide smile drawing Asher’s slim face. “No doubt.” Einar didn’t know what he’d feel when Asher eventually left. It was inevitable that at some point Asher would be released – but it was expected that he’d have been inside another five or so years. He’d planned his crime carefully, made sure that no matter what he couldn’t be held in prison for over ten years – if he’d done it a couple months out he’d be in longer than Einar. But the kid was smart – or too in love with himself to do it as an adult and never get out from behind bars. “I see you looking at me, you pretend you’re this hard-ass, but you look at your cellie like the faggot down on cell 34. You think I’m pretty – you said it.” Asher was twitching, eyes darting over Einar. Smoke spread between them. “You watch me smoke, you think I’m delicate – you like that, don’t you? You’ll miss me, n’ you’ll miss me in particular when you’re holed up with some fatass with a hairy back – trust me.” Einar’s hands shook, felt anger in his body like a seismic pulse. He spat his cigarette at Asher, the bud bright orange twinged his skin, catching the score of stubble on his jaw and fizzling the hot sound of fat bursting. It fell quickly, the light fading to ashes when the air hit it. He’d turned, found himself with his fingers wrapped around Asher’s throat – the other’s head forced up against the grey walls. “Trust me,” he imitated, “when you’re out I will be goddamned glad, Asher.”

131

He thought of when Asher had mumbled to him about getting out together – what they’d do if it happened, that they’d stay together from necessity and a sincere case of having nobody else. He thought fleetingly that he was glad that he was stuck in prison while Asher was given the opportunity to prove a con’s always a con. Einar reckoned, staring at those dark bugged eyes, that it’d be a year before he was back in prison. ***** “We have a video of you expressing your sincere regret. A psychologist has evaluated you and deems you a minimal public risk; you have only seen solitary once during your time here. This evidence leads me to believe that you are liable for release within the next week.” A was sat in front of a new wooden desk. It was polished well and the items atop it were neat and organized. Release papers sat in front of the Governor, a pen in her hands. “Do you have anything to say about that?” she asked. She did not believe the sincerity of his remorse, though Bill had said it was adequate. Indeed she believed he did not feel any remorse at all. She did not care. “The evidence say’s I’m sorry, isn’t that all you need to know?” A asked. He leant forwards in his chair. For once he was not wearing chains. The Governor believed the necessity would seem absurd considering A was fit for release. “I’m real sorry for shooting up those kids, Boss, real sorry.” “That is all I need to know,” agreed the Governor. ***** Asher left a week later. He forgot his cigarettes and forgot his toothbrush. He’d said to Einar that he’d left him his sweaters which he found beneath the sheets on his bunk. They had faint bloodstains and one a charred burn on the ribcage. It felt empty, there was no more chiding at the smeared toothpastespit in the sink, no more was there a wet sound of teeth around fingers; Einar felt inexplicably loud. Laurence was the first warning he got. The loud laugh from the adjacent cell was followed by, “They really got it in for Cohen!” like an announcement. The cells rattled as prisoners smacked their foreheads into the bars to get a glimpse at what Laurence crowed about. “Ay! Cohen, you seeing this!”

132

It was Fiddler. His hunched figure was pushed along by two guards. His hands were still heavily bandaged, shoulder engorged where the bandages were piled together. It was a shock he was even out of the infirmary, though Einar knew he’d been in the cells with the victims for at least two weeks. Hot oil wasn’t something that wounded thoughtfully and when Einar had done it (pushed Fiddler at the hot oil pans during their time in Kitchen work, lugged a scalding pan that had held carrots over his back so he slumped further into the blistering oil) the guards had snarled at him and told him that Fiddler just wouldn’t make it; only so much pain a man could go through. But he had recovered, at least enough for the nurses to grow uncomfortable with his bulky presence and blistered skin – and now was Einar’s real punishment. “Open cell 56,” one of the guards spoke into a walkie. Einar watched his own cell clatter open. Fiddler was pushed in; he glanced to Einar and Einar noted how the whites of his eyes flickered like a scared dog. The cell shuddered shut. In the back of his mind Einar knew that this was a test from the Governor. He was being subjected to provocation for her amusement, to prove that prisoners don’t change, or something. He’d known since Asher had boasted his departure that this might happen. Asher had even said, smug, like he held knowledge over Einar’s head that they were probably going to hole him up with Fiddler – for fun – like people held bears for fighting. He knew that he should keep to himself; that he should continue as he had while Asher had shared his cell, but his morals wouldn’t let him. Fiddler made his stomach writhe. At some point he’d moved from his bed; at some point he’d torn the forgotten sweatshirts, wrapped them around his fists. He didn’t even realise he’d moved. There was a buzz as the guards left. Fiddler ducked back, coward, pushed himself back against the cell. He didn’t shout, but the people in the cells opposite were crowing; Laurence’s cell was shaking from his hands on the bars – everything was noise. Fiddler was huge, Einar was quick. Einar’s foot found the edge of his bed; he launched at Fiddler, his knee caught solidly against his gut and his head smacked into his nose. Blood ran cold on his shaved head. He was moving without thought. His wrapped hands grabbed Fiddler’s ears, dragged him down onto his knee, again again again – until he was dozy, until his face was blood and not much else. Einar could hear his own breath, caught himself wondering if the guards were watching, decided he didn’t care as Fiddler’s head was thrown against the bars.

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“Real nice rooming with you,” he heard himself say. Blood soaked through the sweatshirt scraps around his fists, Fiddler went loose in his grip and sagged against the cell like something shot. Einar’s body was shaking, adrenaline moving through him – he felt like Asher with his twitching energy, felt the sudden loneliness of his absence as the cell clattered open again. Fiddler slumped into the open corridor. The people in the cell opposite crowed and the other prisoners copied, chanting meaningless words as Fiddler was dragged away. Einar slumped, head hitting the edge of Asher’s bed. He imagined those awkward fingers scratching over the top of his head, the leer in his voice as he muttered, “I told ya, you’d miss me, didn’t I?”

134

Storm Charlotte Rowntree

I envy the quiet rain That lulls you to sleep I am the storm that scares you.

Shouting at the skies Rather than just whispering My words while you sleep.

I envy delicacy softness and quiet: Obviously I envy you.

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Van Goghâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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 caws are so loud in the once pleasant field that peace is a memory.

They didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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.

136

Seal-Breaker Beth Cope

“Bedlam. And in that place be found many men that be fallen out of their wit. And full honestly they be kept in that place; and some be restored onto their wit and health again. And some be abiding therein for ever, for they be fallen so much out of themselves that it is incurable unto man.” – William Gregory, Lord Mayor of London, 1450. She nibbles her nails. She never bites them off, just crunches the ends so they grow rather crooked and thin. She often peels the skin from the edges of her thumbnails, drawing blood and sucking it all away. I watch, looking down my nose at her and making subtle notes. It’s difficult to say what’s wrong with her. I search, seeing my hands sifting through the inner workings of her mind, pushing squiggly, pink flesh away from electric connections. In brain scans, the amygdalae light up in people like her. The amygdalae are pulsating, throbbing things in people like her. But it’s wrong to put them all in the same box; there are so many differences, so many anomalies. “I don’t want to talk.” Her accent is Northern and dark. She hasn’t spoken for our first few sessions. I had asked, first and foremost, if she was OK, and she had sniggered. After that I thought it was best to wait until she wanted to speak-after all, she isn’t refusing to come to the sessions. “Well you won’t progress if not. Do you want to get better?” I smile. Her teeth click against her fingernails. “What does getting better matter?” Her eyes are deep, like tunnels. “Isn’t it too late?” She smiles. There’s something sinister about the revealing of her teeth. I take my glasses off and set them down on the table between us. I cross my legs. “I don’t believe so, otherwise I wouldn’t have a job.”

137

“Hm.” Vacant again, eyes grey. I let the silence fester, now the seal has been broken it will rot in the air. “I don’t think talking helps at all.” “Yet again, if it didn’t I wouldn’t have a job.” I pause, shuffling myself forward. “But aside from that, talking is… well, it’s what we humans do best.” She bites down on her index finger’s nail and pulls. She holds my eyes with hers and for a moment, I think she might rip the nail from her very own finger right there, but she stops, letting the nail be tainted with dark blood. ***** When I was eighteen I moved to Yorkshire to begin my degree. I learnt how to talk to people like Alex. I’ve been fascinated by the brain since I can remember, always pestering my father, poking him, asking ‘what does this bit do?’ pointing at my forehead on one occasion. The ‘front bit’ is ‘you’. I spent hours wondering how all of me, everything that is me, could fit in there. At eighteen, Alex’s ‘front bit’ comes up dull in the brain scan. ***** “Do you ever feel like you’re wasting time?” she asks. “In what sense?” “With me… here.” She sits forward in that old armchair, elbow rested on her knee, fingers in her mouth. “Do you think we’re wasting time?” “You are.” She rolls her eyes. “Because you don’t like talking.” “An hour of your life is wasted every other day.” She’s looking past me, through me. “I don’t see it like that and neither should you.” “You sit here, examining me, writing your notes.” “I’m here to help you Alex. I pose no threat.” I look down at my notepad and blush. “But talking doesn’t help at all.”

138

“What will help?” I blurt. She looks down. “I… I don’t know.” She scratches her head and the sound seems to fill the room. “You could join a class,” I suggest. “You think I’m broken, don’t you?” She looks up with bloodshot eyes. “You think I’m totally and utterly damaged. Well, here’s something for your notes: I wasn’t abused and my parents’ relationship was fine. I hadn’t committed before, I liked school and…” Her scabbed fingers twitch. “Let me just write that down for you.” I begin to write out exactly what she’s said, taking my time with it as well. “There’s your psychological evaluation,” she mutters. “Sorry, what was that?” She has her head turned from me, so I continue. “Is there anything you want to add?” “I had friends too,” she mumbles. I write down her exact words.

*****

Reading them back they feel mournful, emotional, yet from a dull cerebrum. Or are they ignited by alight amygdalae? I can easily quit on Alex, but her eyes, her age, the incessant biting of her nails, it draws me in. I recognise her, see myself within her perhaps. I imagine myself at eighteen sitting in a psychiatrist’s office every other day for an hour. A woman who is, in reality, only slightly older, having her analysing me, knowing the secrets I keep, the crime I committed. Just the thought disturbs me. ***** “Do you like music?” I ask. “Why?” “Well, it’s therapeutic, don’t you think?” “I suppose.”

139

“Look… I think I’ve got some old records some place around here.” I get up and am thankful to see the record player. I begin to rifle through the pile of vinyl discs. I find the right one, yet again, thankfully, as I feel strangely alien to the room, although it is my office, my record player, and my vinyl collection. “I always preferred the sound of records. My dad gave me these before he-” I’m unsure whether information this personal is safe with her. “I know music always helps me when I’m… you know.” I place the needle on the disc and let the song play out, clear and crisp. I had learnt the triggering effects of music in college. I hesitate before going to sit back down, scanning her expression. “I don’t like this song.” Her eyes widen. “Why’s that? It’s one of my favourites.” I sit down. “I don’t like this song.” She starts picking the skin next to her thumb, digging with her nail like a shovel in dirt. She watches the skin flay, the blood begin to form, at first in tiny droplets and then into one large drop that she quickly licks away. “That’s not answering my question,” I say, looking at Alex’s guard, Mason, out of the corner of my eye. He’s glaring at me. I can feel his judgement oozing out into the room. “It’s overrated.” “Is it now?” I chuckle. I wonder if she can see it all happening behind her eyes like I can. As I think deeper, the scene grows clearer and bolder like watercolour to acrylic. Her standing there over him, his favourite song on the record player. I know she’s imagining it; her eyes are watering. Or perhaps she’s been staring at me too long because she quickly blinks and sits back in her seat. I feel a sharp pain in my thumb and notice a droplet of blood growing bigger and redder with each second. I had imagined convulsive sobs, the breaking of the seal. Or at least a smile… wouldn’t a criminal revel in their crime? I’m not sure anymore. ***** I found this job after Alex had been placed in confinement. It seemed… exciting. I guess you could say this was shallow, but the whole thing is shallow. I get paid to make a criminal speak. Yet after weeks of ‘therapy’, Alex could merely be an idea in my mind. She is flat. She’s like a terrible actress in a terrible play. Her brain scan flashes behind my eyes, the green and red lights; the blank spaces.

140

***** “Do your parents ever visit you?” I ask. “My dad visits once a week.” I notice the sharp bones of her wrist, how visible they are under her meagre layer of skin. “You don’t see your mum?” “No, otherwise I would have said.” She makes a ‘duh’ face, but keeps her eyes on her hands, her fingernails. “So what do you and your dad talk about?” “Just… he just asks how it is in here and I ask about how it is out there.” “Do you miss them? Home?” These words ignite a deep yearning for home within myself, I ache for my own father. “You’re being direct.” She laughs. “I’m doing my job, Alex.” I like the way my voice sounds, the way it cuts neatly through the silence. “So you go for the typical therapy question about parents? Are you hoping to discover some dark family secret?” She waves her hands sarcastically, but quickly places them back in her lap to continue picking the scabs on her fingers. “You think that’s how the mind works.” I scoff. I sit up, somewhat desperately, glancing at the dark scab on my thumb. “Well yeah, it gets damaged… as a child.” “Not necessarily.” “Go on?” She folds her arms, sitting back. “Well for one it can be damaged later in life, by drugs, severe stress… there’s tonnes of things. But some people are just born, I guess you could say, damaged.”

141

“Tonnes of things… that’s professional.” She says the first part in my Southern accent. “Aren’t you meant to be a psychiatrist?” She bursts out laughing, baring her teeth. “What about you? Are you damaged? Was it stress, drugs… or were you just born like that?” “I’m just trying to get to know you.” I look down. “You think.” She laughs harder. “You think, that will make me talk. Isn’t psychology a little more complicated than that? You can do better. You must have gone to university, didn’t you?” I look past her, trying to imagine my university building. “It will help you Alex, I can promise you that,” I mumble. “You just repeating the same old thing doesn’t really convince me. You know, it’s almost like you don’t even know what you’re doing.” My cheeks are burning. How can I do my job with her prying questions in that dark accent of hers? “I had therapy… when I was younger my boyfriend died,” I blurt. “I didn’t want to talk either. My therapist was some woman, I hated her, despised her even… but she helped me to understand why I didn’t want to confront what had happened, why I…” I feel confused, like an elderly woman who suddenly feels she is in the wrong room. Alex sits forward and our eyes meet. I realise she is studying me. “You’ll get out of here quicker if you talk about it. You won’t feel so angry,” I say, adjusting my jacket. “I’m angry?” She is laughing again. “Well you attacked another inmate because she cut in front of you in the canteen queue… got yourself into confinement,” I bite back. I want my home, my father, my dead boyfriend. “Is that what you think?” Alex frowns. “Look, stop trying to one-up me. This is about you, not me.” “About me? You just told me you had therapy.” Her eyes could swallow me whole. “Why didn’t you want to confront what had happened?” She is plunging her fists into my mind like a clumsy toddler, muddling my order of things. I feel like her brain scan.

142

“I’ve already asked you: don’t turn this on me… I would recommend relaxing yourself, reading or creating something.” I close my eyes, afraid of her expressions. I hear her shuffling about on her leather seat. “Perhaps.” ***** At the beginning of our next session she tells me she has started reading Jane Eyre. I wonder if she is doing this to humour me after the blip last time. “It’s not very realistic though. She gets the man she wants in the end.” She looks at the ceiling. “That’s not realistic?” “You tell me.” Alex sits back in her chair like some all-knowing goddess. I’m not going to let her break me again, I’m not the seal of this bottle. “Do you like it though?” “I guess. It’s set around here.” “Oh yes.” I push. “Now, I might be wrong, but if I remember rightly, Mr… Mr what’s his name?” “Rochester.” “Yes, he’s, um, he’s disabled in the end. Because of the fire.” Alex rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but she still loves him.” Her accent emphasises ‘loves’, taints it and makes it worrisome, like when she nearly ripped her nail from her own finger. “I guess you could say that’s true love.” I sit forward, adjusting my glasses on the bridge of my nose. “I suppose.” She holds my gaze for a minute perhaps, but like a submissive dog her eyes dart to the ground, watering. Mason peers over at us. “So you’ve finished it then?” I persist. “Nearly. I knew the story vaguely anyway.” She begins to pick her nails, making a little clicking sound.

143

“Ah, how’s that?” “Him,” she snorts. The seal has been well and truly broken now. There’s no turning back, and it is totally hers, as it always should have been. Alex’s brain is a malleable thing, resting calmly in my palm. Jane Eyre, the seal-breaker. “He liked it?” I ask, crossing my legs and sitting forward. “Yeah. He loved old books and stuff.” “Loves.” My veins tingle with adrenaline. “You reckon he reads still?” Her voice is but an echo. “Why wouldn’t he?” “I just… I can’t imagine it. Can you?” I imagine my dead boyfriend reading Jane Eyre. It starts to rain outside, diagonal and fast, hitting the windows. It makes me jump. “Alex.” I go to sit next to her. “This is a safe place. I know I can be… this is your time.” She scans me, like Terminator, an unsettling thought. I suppose it’s because I’ve never been this close to her. She looks fuller, sunnier than I expected. “It’s the act of saying it. The actual reality of saying anything about it. His… his name, his… oh God, his voice.” Her hand covers her mouth. “Do you want to write it?” My thoughts are whirring, solely concerned with her brain scan, how had it been so dull, so clearly wrong? I am in a trance. I rip a page from my notebook and hand it to her; a strange offering. She takes it. I return to my seat, putting my pen on the coffee table and sliding it closer to her. I don’t acknowledge the trembling of her hands. I sit down. Mason appears startled, and as she picks up the pen he moves towards her armchair. She begins to scribble. It seems entirely random, and both Mason and I are hypnotized, watching the rapid motions of her hand. She gets up, clearly finished, and leaves the room.

144

I snatch the paper, waiting for Mason to follow after, but he stares at me for a while, scanning me like Alex does. I frown as he leaves, feeling the dents on the other side of the sheet of paper that Alex has drawn on. I hear, out in the corridor, someone pressing the button to release the fire door. But I’m too absorbed in this moment to care. She’s drawn a man, a scribbly, slightly terrifying man. His eyes are large in his face, like a baby’s. I rush to my side room, and rummage through Alex’s files which are still left in their boxes. I realise I don’t really know where to look for what file. I pick the largest one, sliding my finger across the sheets of paper and slice the tip of my index finger. I wince and suck the blood away, dropping the file. Out falls a photo of Mr Bulmer. For a moment, it feels like time is suspended. I can see his age drawn on his face, but I’m drawn to his eyes, those delicate, gentle, baby’s eyes. He looks hurt, terribly hurt and alone, knowing he will never feel his legs again, never stand or walk again, I can see it all in his darling eyes. I shake my head and grab the photo, screwing it up a little and smearing blood on his face. I bring it through to compare it to Alex’s drawing. I notice that a different guard is standing in my office, but before I can say anything Alex and Mason arrive, both soaking wet. “I want to talk about it,” she says, her voice breaking off at the end. I put the pictures down on the coffee table and sit down. “Of course, of course.” I move my hair out of my face. “You’ve just rubbed blood on your forehead.” She points whilst taking a seat. I wipe my temple with my thumb. “Yeah, it’s gone.” “Did you go outside?” I ask, rather dazed, confused. This is a moment I have anticipated, almost dreamt about and now it feels so surreal, like watching a film in colour after only seeing black and white. She nods. “I haven’t felt the rain since that night.” Her hair is dripping onto the leather seat. The sound is aggravating and I begin to anticipate each drop. It makes me twitch. The new guard stands behind me, looking stern with his stiff lip and scarred cheek.

145

“Is this necessary? Alex needs privacy.” He doesn’t answer. “Are you OK?” Alex asks, frowning. I feel like I’m at therapy again. The three frowning faces of my parents and my therapist… a frayed memory now, barely recognisable. “What? Why?” I shudder, noticing how upright she’s sitting, how the scabs on her fingers have healed so very quickly. “Tell me… tell me what happened that night Alex.” “I went to his house, I wanted to… I wanted to…” “Hurt his wife,” I say. She is going to confess. I can feel the satisfaction already, on the tips of my fingers, the ends of my toes. “Yeah… I wanted to get rid of her. I hated her.” She sniffs. “She was ugly, wasn’t she?” I bite the dry skin on my lips. She shrugs. Mason stands forward, his eyes stuck on me. I begin to blush, uncomfortably aware of my inexperience. “She found out about me and Craig and she wasn’t letting him leave the house. So I thought I’d build up some muscle, it was like… this fantasy. I started going to gym almost every night. I was obsessed with the idea of me and Craig, just me and Craig, starting our new life together.” I keep nodding at her, the photo of Craig Bulmer staring at me from the table. “I walked through the woods between his house and mine. It was raining; I was drenched by the time I got there. I went to his shed at the bottom of the garden. I didn’t even knock, I just let myself in. I knew he wouldn’t mind. He had his back to me, he was making something. He had a saw in his hand, I remember… he was making a table. He was making a table for her.” She puts her head in her hands. “Your clothes.” I point at her. “Your hair. You were soaking, it was dripping on the floor.” “Yes.” Her hair is still dripping on the sofa, drip drop drip drop. I am twitching again. “He turned round to me, he said, ‘What are you doing here? I thought I made it clear.’ I loved him, I loved him so much it hurt me to see his face. I said something like, ‘You can still see me, Craig. She doesn’t love you like I do. She doesn’t need to know a thing.’ He just said, ‘I have children, Alex.’”

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“It got heated?” I am sitting, literally, on the edge of my chair. “A bit. I don’t remember much of the conversation; it’s kind of a blur. I remember he said something that hurt me. It felt like he had sliced me with that saw in his hand, he was swinging it about, he said… he loved her. She was so beautiful, you know?” Her voice cracks. No, she was so ugly, so fat and ugly, and she treated him like a child. “He did swing it at you though, didn’t he? He was threatening you.” The guard behind me puts his hand on my shoulder and thrusts me back into my seat. “Stay calm,” he says. “What?” I turn around. I pull from his grip and stand up. His hands fall limp by his sides. I go to sit next to Alex again, but she looks at me like I’m an insect. He deserved better, he deserved more. But he wouldn’t stop, he was swinging that saw, pointing it... I decide to persist. “So when he threatened you-” “He didn’t.” “But he did! You had no choice, Alex! He swung at you with the saw; he wanted you out of his life.” I stand over her, making her shrink into her seat. “That never happened.” “But it did, Alex. That’s why you took the golf club. You held it strong in your hands.” I close my eyes, feeling a golf club in my grip. “He’d turned away from you, he’d said ‘I’m done with your shit’ and had turned away. So you took the golf club from behind the door, and you swung, and you hit him and hit him until the anger went away.” I swing an imaginary golf club. I open my eyes and see that Alex is smiling. “That’s the confession,” she says. I begin to pace.

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“Yes, go on, say what happened, I can help you get out of here. Confession is the first step.” I start to scratch the back of my hand. “Those files we gave you.” Her smile grows. “They don’t contain Mr Bulmer’s statement.” “What is this? Some game of yours?” I laugh. “I’m your psychiatrist, I’m trying to help you.” I stop pacing and begin to nibble the ends of my nails, crunching the ends so they appear rather crooked and thin. Mason and the unknown guard approach me. “Come on Payne, it’s over,” Mason says as they stretch their hands out to me. Alex stands by the window, watching the rain that’s falling harder and harder. “There’s no way you could have known all that, don’t you see?” Alex turns back round to me. “Look, I know I was harsh, I’m inexperienced… this is my first job. You don’t need to do this. We’ve been working so hard to get you better.” I am on the brink of weeping. I try to cower, but the guards seize my shoulders, lock their grip onto my arms. “We’ve been working on a confession for a month,” she corrects me, as smug as she’s always been. I shake my head, closing my eyes. My thoughts swirl into a deep red mess. “You attacked Mr Bulmer because he claimed to no longer love you, at eighteen years old you paralysed him. You hit him on the small of his back repeatedly. The evidence gave the police everything they needed, they found your hair at the crime scene, your fingerprints on the golf club, your blood even, from that picking habit of yours, but they could only bring you here due to your… insistence that you were a psychiatrist trying to help this ‘Alex’… yourself.” I can see the scene behind the lids of my eyes, vivid and bold. I am stepping over him, my hair wet and soaking and dripping on the floor. I can hear the rain, the thunder, the cracking of his spine. I try to shake off their giant’s hands, but my eyes become distracted by the gleam from the tip of the biro pen. I am trembling. I want to take it in my hands and rip each one of them apart. “Do you see now? We’ve had to go along with your reality.” Alex comes close to me. “You know there’s something missing, don’t you? Your mind… it flits from reality to fantasy.

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Last time we pushed you too far you were violent, Payne.” She exchanges a glance with the unknown guard. His cheeks redden so his scar stands out from his face, stark and white. “I want to sit down,” I say. Alex nods at Mason and the scarred guard. They go on holding me until I’ve sat down. I look at the pen on the table for a while. Alex picks it up and puts it in her pocket. I watch the shining tip disappear. The rain stops. I look out of the windows and see the trees off into the distance, behind the fence. The lack of sound is claustrophobic. I feel like the walls are closing in on me, the ceiling is growing closer and closer to my head. The light seems to turn grey and fall out of the floor like it’s a sieve. Their eyes are watching me. I see Mason’s blurred hand in front of my eyes as he clicks his fingers. “I think we’ve broken her, boss,” he says, sounding like he’s underwater. I am watching myself in Craig’s shed. I’m biting my nails and looking at the droplets of blood and water on the floor. One droplet looks like yin and yang: half blood, half water. I am whispering, muttering, scratching my hands. “They tricked you, they tricked you, they tricked you,” I say.

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Villanelle on Inferiority - Foolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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.

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The Harpa Isabella Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Reilly

It stands alone. A monument to abstract thoughts glowing in the gloom.

Panes of glass that stare, stacked in prisms of colour. Waiting for your eyes.

The halls echo the sound of your footsteps, clapping. All you hear is you.

Wandering like dust, breathing in the light you see, all you hear is you. But all you see is me.

151

Fragment Charlotte Rowntree

She remembered the past in framed photos Heavily edited, high posed, Brutally selected.

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A Face and a Name Charlotte Humphrey She had woken to find that she had a face and a name, which surprised her – it was more than she could say for the little girls and boys playing something like hopscotch on the street outside. When the pink oil streaks of dawn slipped up into another day, she watched as they abandoned their jumping game and found new laughter in chasing each other through the dust. All the while they were singing a song she’d never heard before – though it was hardly a challenge to sing a song she’d never heard. One little boy dragged himself away from the group and found a place to sit, in the shade. His straw hair set him apart from the other children, who, through soot and sun, seemed to be made of darkness. His pale features, however, were secondary to the cloth bound round his head that had come loose during the course of their new game. The other children were unfazed by the hole that had been lingering just above his smile. He looked on with one clean eye, whilst he rewrapped the side of his face that fell away into a deep bloom of red and black. It hadn’t been the first time that Karina had seen it. Nor had the moment when one of the little girls had removed her metal leg, to rub the stump underneath, been the first time she’d seen that either. What she had never seen or heard though, was a sign that these children had names. They would call to each other like ghosts - they would click or whistle and always found the attention they sought. As if they were communicating on a frequency with which Karina was not in tune. A face and name. Karina could have sworn, she’d never felt so lost or so lucky. Spring was dying – she knew that much as there was a voice in the back of her head that told her that the sun, which stretched over the dust, and the smell of the desert river meant that the middle of the year was coming, and she had fallen for the scent that drifted up off the green water and palms. She had been standing beyond the one building she had managed to call hers – it stood away from the rest - one nameless day, breathing in the palms and the sun and the distant burning, when she felt her stomach drain like a sink. She blinked, before looking ahead to the store shed. It sat just inside a chain-linked fence and appeared to have gained favour with a low-standing windmill, as the structure had toppled to get closer.

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It was dark inside and smelt as if something damp had dried and gone rancid, but it had held her food store since the day she woke up and she couldn’t hate it. She lifted the lid of the storage box. Several screws had rolled around and come to a stop – clinking against one another. They lay still now. Empty granola packets, an ice-lolly stick, the decapitated lid of a can and a dried-up piece of gum that didn’t belong to her. She let out a deliberate breath through her nose, milling over the prospect of getting by without stocking up. For a second her eyes were drawn to the door of the shed. The ground outside was dry – a dusty, fiery colour that stretched beyond the buildings and rivers and palms. She had the fleeting thought of cutting a shovel into the dust and praying for rain – for small beads of green. But she didn’t have a shovel and she didn’t have rain. She thought of Strip 313 – the market Strip. It was true that her memory didn’t surpass the day she had woken up, several weeks back, but it hadn’t taken long for her to figure out life there. They lived in Strips – long stretches of dying buildings. Dying people. Each Strip sat several miles from the next – labelled, through pride or order, Karina wasn’t sure. Welcome to Strip 309. 309 Oil Stores. I was here – 309. Citizens of 309 – Your cooperation will not go unnoticed. It was plastered, stapled, spray painted on most things. The only person, Karina thought, who may not have known that they lived in Strip 309 was the little boy with straw hair, as she wondered just how much he could really see with one eye. Thirty minutes later, and she was treading along on the dirt path leading towards Strip 310. She reached its edge when the sun had climbed the length of itself up into the sky. A sad building greeted her. The paint had faded, and three of the four windows were boarded up. A woman opened the door - she looked at Karina with a dark uncertainty. Karina glanced towards the large shed beside the house and the woman followed her gaze, before sticking out five sharp-nailed fingers. Karina passed her a small leather pouch. She opened it and leered inside – twenty-seven 9mm Luger shells. Currency. When the woman was satisfied, she called out to someone in the house. A moment later, two boys joined them.

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They said nothing but gestured for Karina to follow. She was lead to a vehicle, like the one she’d seen patrol in Strip 313 once before. The boys climbed in the front, and she jumped in the back. As they set off, she rolled the window down - the air was cooler now that it was streaming in. She ignored the sand that was being thrown up in large plumes and rested her head against the window frame when the radio crackled to life. A faint voice could be heard through the static – it rose and became clearer. “So, what you’re saying is that… we’re to trust the government completely and that these people, because they are people -” “Yes, of course – that’s not what I’m…” “These people are to be demonised…” “No, John. I’m not saying that they are to be demonised. What we have been told is that they pose a possible threat to our society-” “But don’t most things now pose a threat-” “Yes, well.” “The oil shortages, the increased level of crime in the Strips…” “Yes, but these people-” These people. The words stopped dead in Karina’s mind as one of the boys, the one driving, became aggravated and thumped the radio system. Silence reigned. Strip 313 got along better than most others. It was the only Strip that still vaguely resembled a western high street from ’17. But it was still a corpse and the people were still flies. On one side, the market which was really an expanse of tents designed to keep the sun away from the cupboard items and a few large cooling units and the back – for the rich. And on the other side – more buildings, dying like most. Karina ducked under the first tent –the rows of expendables stretched back until they reached the men and the AK47’s, by the cooling units but she drifted through the aisles as if they weren’t there. One bag of rice and one of buckwheat – or something that resembled buckwheat – eight cans of beans, half a bag of dried apricots, popcorn kernels (God knows how she’d cook them), two tubs of milk powder and a scoop of rolled oats; a canister of cheap vodka, not for drinking, and, because she had one more Luger shell to spare, two squares of bitter chocolate.

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She unloaded it all from her folded arms, onto the counter, which still had printed, in faded lettering:

MILITARY

FROM TRANS: OFF MONTERREY SU4 APO 884 US ISP – 9 BARBAR_ST WN – 0946753 RT. MAG O_Ln LA KENTUCKY

The man’s name, the one hunched over the counter, was Ship Magdon – He was a leather-skinned man, with greasy hair. Karina watched as he wrapped her items in a large rag. Something piled up against the side of the wooden block caught her attention - a large stack of newspapers. Half of the headline was peering out from under the wrapping – as search efforts for the missing are dropped. “Came in yesterday,” Ship said. “First time in eight God-damn months, they decide to tell us something about anything,” he spoke as he tightened the knots on her make-shift bag. “They?” Karina said. Ship looked up at her. “They is they, I don’t know who is running this country, do I?” She turned back to the headline, unperturbed by Ship’s mouth. “Can I swap the chocolate for one of these?” She pulled the first paper free. Ship shrugged, shoving his hand into a small gap in the bundle, before retrieving a small rectangle of foil. She gave him her shells, gathered her bundle under one arm, the newspaper under the other and made her way back to where the boys were waiting with the car. Karina didn’t believe in ghosts. That was the thought that crossed her mind when this new boy came into view. If she thought the kids in her Strip were made of darkness - this boy was death himself. He looked at her with ice for eyes and she couldn’t suppress the sense of unease… or curiosity. His arms were barely visible under the tattoos and he had a ring slid through one eyebrow.

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The boy from before, the one who had driven her there slapped the side of his truck, his heavy rings banging against the metal, and her face clicked towards him. He was sitting up and out of the window and Karina sped up, closing the distance between them and trying to ignore the phantom boy’s gaze as he watched her leave. Once she was in, the vehicle coughed and sped away from Strip 313 in a cloud of dust. It wasn’t until they were passing 311, that Karina noticed the scraps and wires that sat between the two boys. It would seem that they had removed the stereo from its place. Maybe the static had got to their heads, but whatever the reason, Karina was filled with a sudden incitement. When they reached their starting point, she jumped down and stopped the driver before he could disappear. “Is that for trade?” she said, pointing to the stereo. The boy shook his head curiously. “Issa piece of shit,” he said, turning back towards the house. She stopped him again. “I’ll give you something for it.” He almost laughed. “You’re crazy, lady,” but he didn’t turn her away – he approached the truck and recovered the pile of metal. “What you got?” he said. She laid her bundle out on the floor and untied it. She watched as he scanned the assortment. He reached down, picked up a tub of powdered milk and straightened himself. “For ma mum,” he said, tossing it into the air - catching it in the same hand. The sun was sitting halfway between the midpoint and sunset when she made it back to 309. She wasn’t heading for her house. Not just yet. She looked up at the sign creaking in the breeze above her. 309 Oil Stores. A man ambled out into the afternoon, wiping his fat hands on his apron. He eyed her cautiously - oil was a defendable thing, but it didn’t matter – she wasn’t there for oil. She was there for the speaker that had been lying on the mound of wood planks, outside, for the last week and a half. Of course, the large man wanted something for it. She laid out her pack once more. He picked up the second tub of powdered milk and she sighed but didn’t dare let him see. No milk for her, but still she had the speaker, the stereo, and an ambitious idea.

157

The afternoon was ticking over into early evening – the dust drifted up off the paths the way it always did when the warm haze of night approached. The smell of water and the palms was stronger in the evenings and of course, something was always burning. It was a strange thing – for the world to be dying so quietly. Karina reached the house. Inside she dumped her bundle on the table and slumped onto the garden chair, which she had dragged into the living room several weeks earlier, with the newspaper in hand. Tensions rise as search efforts for the missing are dropped. The State cities are in dispute over the search for the branded citizens who allegedly escaped the South Communal State Correctional Facility almost two months ago in a manner that was both violent and alarmingly skilled, says South Communal State editor, Sally Brogan. The search in almost all North Communal State Strips has been dropped due to lack of support from the North’s leader Charles Colfax. Karina read into the evening… she didn’t know what the North or South Communal States were, nor did any of the names she came across create a face in her mind, but she was drawn in by stories of the branded citizens of the South Communal State Correctional Facility. She thought back to the man on the radio. The thought stretched out and grew – roots twisting deep into her mind - She looked over to where she had abandoned the stereo on the table. She saw the food lying next to it and decided she would put it away before she did anything else. The air was an angry red – the reddest it got before the blues started creeping in. She was drawn by the smell of the green pools and the palms. She could just see them from the store shed. She stopped. A figure of darkness was crouched low to the water, but she was close enough to make out the markings on their arms. She hadn’t been sure, but the figure turned, and something glinted in the sun… just above their eye. Curiosity or the recklessness that came with having only half a mind, she wasn’t sure what it was that had compelled her to close the distance between them. It had surprised her, but what surprised her more was that this figure didn’t seem cautious of her. He stood and faced her.

158

“Hey,” he said in a voice like gravel. “Hi,” she said, and he pointed towards the house with a deft movement. “What you plannin’ on doin’ with that stereo?” he said. She looked between him and the house. “You were following me?” He shook his head - he wasn’t looking at her. He was concentrating intently on picking the dirt from underneath his nail. “No. I saw you by the oil stores.” He looked up at her then – ice eyes in the dusk. “And what were you doing by the oil stores?” she said, trying to sound confident. “What do you think I was doing?” he said, kicking the small container by his feet, which she hadn’t seen until then. “You know how to hook that thing up?” he said, and it took Karina a moment to realise that he was talking about the stereo. She flushed. “I thought so.” He took a step forward and she retracted. “If I set it up for you, will you do something for me?” “What do you want me to do?” she said. “I need somewhere to stay tonight.” **** The nights were darker than they used to be and often lay under a thick drift of smoke coming from further south, but the cold was a thing of the past. The windows and doors were thrown open. The phantom curtains around the back door were rippling in the draught that had come up from the pools and several shards of old glass skittered across the bare floor. Karina looked over, having been attracted by the noise, before facing the tattooed boy, who had introduced himself as Vincent. He was fiddling with a few of the wires that connected the stereo and speaker. He must have done something right, as it sparked to life – crackling like a rogue fire. “Now,” a man’s voice came through, before cutting out again. Vincent tapped the machine… “spokesperson from the South Communal State Correctional Facility. Mr. Davis, good evening.”

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“Good evening, John.” “Now what can you tell us about the decision to abandon the search for these people in the North and how is that going to affect those in the Southern Strips?” “Well John, as you know Charles Colfax has decided to drop the search in the North. He released yesterday, in a statement, that he could not jeopardise the North’s limited resources on concerns that belonged entirely to the South…” “And what do you say to that?” “Well John, the citizens of the Southern Strips are not to worry, because the search for the missing will continue in the South – the military are pulling out all the stops to find these individuals…” “Okay… sorry, we’re running out of time; do you wish to add anything before we go?” ”Yes, thank you John, Commander Henderson released a statement several weeks ago, which I’d like to reiterate. The fugitives in question are identifiable by sequential numbers that have been tattooed onto their backs. If you encounter any person who fits this description you must contact the Communal State Office on the standardised call sign.” “Thank you, Mr. Davis…” The static crept back in. They sat in silence for a moment. “Who are the people they’re searching for?” Vincent looked at her and she felt as if she’d done something wrong. “You really don’t know?” he said. “What? Were you born a month ago?” She could have laughed. “Something like that,” she said. He looked at the floor before he turned sharply away from Karina and pulled his shirt over his head. It was as tattooed as his arms, but there, in an ink darker than the rest: 615187 and Karina found herself running her fingers against it. “One of the other runaways tried to cover it up,” he said. She pulled her hand away. “You’re a…” He turned around, not bothering to put his shirt back on.

160

“An escaped citizen… a fugitive… a dangerous member of our society,” he said with a tired sarcasm. Karina must have looked scared. “Don’t tell me you buy into all that crap?” He pointed to the stereo. “You have no idea… what they did.” **** Karina was pulled into a deeper sleep that usual that night, which was strange considering she was harbouring a fugitive in her living room – who could have been as dangerous as the reports, for all she knew. When she woke, she could not drag herself fully into the day. Vincent was gone. He said that he would be. She would have missed him had she not been so content to drift through the days alone. Besides, she didn’t want the South Communal State Correctional Facility to come knocking at her door. Hunger found her later that morning and she couldn’t prolong the walk out to the store shed - she pushed open the storage box. She sighed. “That bastard.” He had left her with nothing. He had taken the stereo and several things that had been there before. Karina wasn’t prone to anger, but before another thought crossed her mind she was out in the morning light, kicking up the dust as she walked. She had no shells left, so she was going to have to walk to Strip 313. She knew he would be there - it was the only Strip that you could trade in for a vehicle. The sun was at midpoint when she reached 313. She had been walking for a few minutes when a familiar figure came into view. The straw-haired boy from her Strip. She had a strange urge to run to him as if he was her friend. She did not run, as a moment later the boy was surrounded by several she did not recognise. A minute later and the tallest of the group had kicked him to the ground. He reached down, aiming for the bandage over the boy’s absent eye, but Karina ran then. She waved them away and, having sized her up, they left without protest. She put out a hand for the little boy, pulling him up. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you here?” she said.

161

He said nothing but took Karina’s hand. She was unsure of what she was supposed to do, but then… There he was. With the little boy’s hand in hers, she began marching towards Vincent, who had not seen her yet. They were a hundred feet away, when a hummer cut through the dust, wheels spinning. It came to a sudden stop – as did Karina, alarm bells screaming in her skull. Vincent started backing up, arms out as if he was ready to fall. He did – he crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Karina’s grip on the little boy’s hand tightened and she tracked back. There was a small section of buildings almost opposite the market. She was quick to guide them to the closest entrance. They were hit with a strange darkness and an even stranger coldness. “Stay here,” she said, pushing him into a black space under the stairs. She ascended the steps over his head two at a time, paced passed the intricacies of the landing and into the ghost of a bedroom. The windows were bright white squares on the far wall – she crossed the room and looked down to where a pack of black-clad men with SIG550 Assault rifles were approaching Vincent. One shoved his gun roughly towards his companion, before leaning down to pick him up. He was not small by any means but looked like a child in the soldier’s arms. Something else had caught Karina’s eye. Someone was strolling through the dust, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He seemed to be watching the scene unravel with a collected ease. She could have sworn she’d seen him before. One of the soldiers approached him and he craned his neck to listen. He began to turn on his heels until he was looking up. Right up. Right up at Karina. His eyes were shielded by tinted sunglasses, but all feeling left her. She was cold. She had to break his stare – she felt that if she didn’t, it would destroy her and so she moved away from the window. She made it to the top of the stairs, but her thoughts were shattered by the sound of heavy footfall on the floorboards beneath her. Like a doe that was being hunted, she found herself shaking and backing up. She was prey – pressed deep into the safe space where the two far walls joined. She waited for the footsteps. Dust plumed from almost everything.

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A figure appeared in the doorway, in the half-light of the room. He pulled his glasses down. His fair hair was cropped close to his skull around the sides, but long enough on top to be swept over. His dark coat almost reached the floor and thick gold rings sat on most of his leathery fingers. “Hey baby,” he drawled. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.” Karina didn’t understand. She said nothing. “You know,” he said, strolling forwards. “It ain’t right, seeing you like this,” he kept going. “I remember when I couldn’t get you to shut up. Now… not even a word.” He was right next to her now. Close enough to take a fistful of her hair. “Karina,” he said into her ear. Her eyes closed, cheeks now glazed. “Come on now. Whatchu cryin’ for?” he wiped the silver lines away. He was crouched in front of her now, holding her arms as if she was a child. “You gone come with me and I’m gone make it all better.” He squeezed her arm slightly, forcing her to open her eyes. “You just wanna make sense of it all. The news reports, the missin’ people, why you can’t remember, you wanna know that, don’t you? You’re gone come with me. It will all make sense…” She shook her head. But this man smiled. “Oh baby…” he said and tightened his grip on her. “I wasn’t really givin’ you an option. But I’ll tell you what, you can come down with me and get in the truck like a good girl or…” He laughed at the look on her face. “No, I’m not gone kill you, but I am gonna kill the little cyclops downstairs.” Karina shook her head – more violently this time. “Yes,” he said, grinning. “You gone come with me?” She wanted to throw up. But she didn’t – she just nodded. “Attagirl.” She went with him down the stairs in silence – only making a sound when he grabbed the back of the little boy’s shirt, dragging him out into the afternoon. When he reached the porch, he let go of him and he toddled forwards. The man lifted a heavy boot, kicked him into the arms of two awaiting soldiers. Karina couldn’t bear the thought of them hurting him. She screamed like an injured animal, thrashing in the man’s arms. He smiled. “That’s more like it,” he said, bundling her into the back of the hummer.

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She hit her head when she fell and there was no time to stop the handcuffs that were clamped down over her wrists. She listened to them click against the metal railing. The door slammed shut. The back of the vehicle had been stripped out. It resembled the back of an ambulance more than anything else, but the driver was sitting on the right side of a grid cage. She listened to Vincent’s subdued breathing – he was lying limp on the gurney that was close enough to touch with her foot and nothing else - and her own breathing. The doors opened once more. She did not turn. She braced. Though she hadn’t expected rough hands to take the collar of her dress and yank down, tearing it to the base of her back. A sharp chill hit her skin. Her assailant left soon enough. Left her with the sounds of Vincent’s sleep. The sound of the engine beneath them. She looked up at their new prison – chrome metal lined almost everything. The wall at her back was chrome, she could see now. Her breath hitched. She was looking at her eyes. At the large tear in her dress. She saw her skin and the numbers 922413 tattooed across her spine. The engine came thudding through the floor. She felt the hummer move. A face and a name. Karina could have sworn; she’d never felt so important or so unlucky.

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Before the Tide Decides Zach Taylor The wind utters lonely thoughts Slicing through each blade of grass

Dunes devoid of life Limpets clinging to unforgiving rocks

Helpless the briny sole Caressed amidst the frothy swell

Ripples melting into sunlight Harbouring cries the horizon wakes

A myriad of stones under the shoals Like ancient cameras collecting memories

Seaweed so vast and plentiful silencing the patter of the shore crabs

Channelling its ever flowing wisdom To those who can confide within the tideâ&#x20AC;Ś

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Almost Saved by Vivienne Shania Richards

I From the ocean, by the quay

The river, shaken, flows

And people from the city go away From bolted front doors of apartments, Grey as the paving stones but centuries younger. Doors That intend to keep The homeless out In winter. II The river stretches and yawns Then perspires in anxiousness pearly Beads from its skin

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aqua

Splash onto the dock where machinery used to turn whine.

and whir and

III And then Comes Vivienne, wandering like smoke.

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Holding me Still Beth Cope I saw two buzzards today tapping reptilian feet on wet earth. I would have never noticed.

I’ve found black snakes in undergrowth, and lizards and geckos on Mediterranean tiles.

We’ve found praying mantises, scorpions, strange hybrid bugs in swimming pools.

I’ve seen bee-eaters and hoopoes, nightingales and colourful dots in Caribbean jungle.

You’ve seen otters and desert creatures. Had a bird of your own that followed you tree by tree.

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I remember ladybird pee in my palm, and princess ants. Thick fog clinging to Scottish lake.

Cicadas in strange places, tiny frogs hiding in foliage, hermit crabs on hotel beds.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m so thankful for it. I might find you annoying; squeezing my knees,

But your knowledge is priceless, and you made me better. Holding me still, watching deer In Thetford forest.

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Back to Pen and Paper Kayleigh Gissing

Like pen to paper, I take you for granted. The smooth edges of letters, forming the dip of your lip.

The tightened grip on a pen, like your hand slipping into mine. Rough scribbles of mistakes, reminding us of our own.

Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re letting the past slip away. Our futures turning into screens before my eyes. Can we go back to pen, to paper, where I can write our times, hide secret love notes, wake up to yours?

Let us go back to pen and paper. Let us love like old times.

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Two Bowls Connor Williams He’d prepare two bowls of cereal before he went to bed, Ready for the morning after. One for himself and one for his queen, A diamond couple, 60 years spent together. He lived through two great wars, fighting in one, And was captured here for a time That he cared not to talk of. There were dreams of home after the war’s end, The fields of his fatherland hailing a return. But he would stay, his queen giving him reason, And that cereal on the side greeting him each morning. Yet bullets, bombs and hospital drips are not even close To the drowning anchor of time. It latches on to every victim, like a thriving bird of prey, From him it took one queen And one bowl away. He would still pour that solitary bowl And I’d watch him as I grew. I never quite understood the preparation he took; Only as I aged and his eyes began to fade, Did I see the surety of awakening it gave for the morning. Without his queen, He still had his prince, who admired him more Than he could have expressed. I should have released the love that I felt, The pride and cherishment inside. I should have used my time for him, Before his bleakest day arrived. I found two bowls side by side, Old and cracked but still A pair, Empty. And my hero, Still, in his bed.

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Payday Solomen Holmes There’s nothing disappoints me more than payday. Staring at that excruciatingly low number long enough, so that I can maybe attain some sort of psychic powers to alter the figures. Just one digit, one single minute digit to help me attain something. Another month passes and my response stays the same. Just one digit. One minute figure would signify a whole paradigm change: I could get that new sofa; I could get my apartment renovated, new drapes, new trousers. The possibilities would be endless. But alas another month passes and there’s no luck in the psychic abilities department. Maybe I should consider asking for a raise. But of course I won’t, not even I could argue a point for myself which justifies such a cause. I earn a horrible wage, for a low paying job. I work horribly, so fair is fair. Another month passes and still no change. I’m slowly losing the will to live and swiftly turning to nihilism. I’ve been reading up a lot about psychics and ‘The Power of the Subconscious’. Apparently, you can read a person inside out just from their hands. You can identify tiny details about their personality just from the look in their eyes. Some claim that they can speak to the dead; that they can discover who they were in a past life. But there’s nothing about digits; just one little digit. The months continue to go by with each day of the calendar year mocking me. Mocking me with the way that the digits rise every day. Then reminding me at the end of the month when the number reverts to zero that payday has arrived. I’ve still attained no progression. I continue to think about asking for a raise but whilst still being ordinary I can’t possibly follow through with that. That fact echoes repeatedly around my head as another month passes me by. Still no supernatural powers, and no bloody digits. Absolutely nothing of note to report, as per usual other than this ongoing hindrance that keeps itching at my sanity. So as I stand at the photocopier minding my own business (as I’m the only one who really cares to mind it) I notice Peter waltzing down the corridor like it’s everybody’s business (as it’s really quite hard not to). “Steve, would you mind quickly copying these?” He holds out an ungodly amount of paperwork and I struggle to fend off a look of disgust. -‘Sure’, I say monotonous. He gives an assured one-sided grin, clicks with both fingers and points to me as if I’m The Man.

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As he would say before twirling off in the opposite direction. He’s so cool and it makes me physically sick. But I suck it up and begin the tedious task of copying it all because I’m too polite to do otherwise. Staring glumly into the never ending abyss that is Pete’s sales reports. Why do I help these god- awful people out? They wouldn’t do the same for me. I don’t know this for sure as they only talk to me when they want something. I’m too nervous to start a conversation; let alone ask for a favour. So I guess I’ll continue brainlessly scanning their documents for no personal gain. It’s atrocious really but I suck it up and accept reality. That reality seems to just consist of long days. In bland looking offices. Clearing up mess, for everyone else. Having only other people’s conversations as ‘entertainment’. That’s all my life is really; just being a spectator for others’ endeavours. Walking into rooms and saying nothing while I see others walk into rooms and say things. Occasionally stooping to do some photocopying, copying mundane pointless documents. Dear god, is this all there is to life? Is it just people walking into rooms and saying things? Forever. A huge emphasis on the mundane and a lesser emphasis on that which is interesting. If something’s interesting then it doesn’t happen a lot. If even at all. Is this what mankind has amounted to? I begin to have a spout of depression until a single conversation, makes reality seem a lot more like fiction. “Excuse me?” Wait, what? Dialogue? Actual human contact, I’m not conditioned to this, just carry on? What do normal people do in these situations? Wait, I swear that I’m normal. “Sir? Are you still using the copier?” Not just any human voice, a female voice! I look up to find a radiant smile beckoning me to make a response. Time seems to stop. In a split second I take in the entirety of her essence. The messy, ravenous hair-do that seems wholehearted, articulate, and planned. Spectacles dangling as rock climbers do from the crevices behind her ears. A turtle dove fabric smothering her upper half in unrivalled professionalism. A crow black skirt screaming for a visceral response. “Urm, I. I. I’m urm… Nope.” I make my frantic debut of a reply. I just continue to stand there blankly, astonished by the fact; she’s communicating with me. “So, would you mind stepping out of the way?’ she continues.. “Oh yeah sorry - I’m not particularly practised in the way of human communication,” I say as I grab my paper and begin to leave.

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“Well, that sentence you used just then tells me otherwise, Mr…?’ she awaits a reply. -“Johnson, but just call me Steve. And your name is?” “Sally, Sally Robins, pleased to meet you.” She holds out her hand. She’s not even slightly alienated by my presence; she must be new here. But I shake her hand politely and give what I believe to be a smile. It’s quite difficult to tell nowadays; I barely even manage a frown. Just an incessant glare of emptiness. But no - I’m almost certain that this handshake induced a smile. Well, that’s new. With that simple act of friendliness, things are looking up. “Sorry, but I’ve never seen you around here before. Are you new?” “Lil’ old me? No, no, not at all. I’m one of the nameless fiends from the office below, y’know us outsider types.” “Sounds like my cuppa tea to be honest,” I say confidently. Hang on, confidently? “Oh, a cuppa tea? Did you wanna?” Woah, she’s a little forward. I’m not prepared for this; how do actual people react in these situations? “But I don’t know you” “Isn’t that what going for a cuppa tea is meant for - getting to know one another?” “How do I know that you’re not some sort of psychopath?” ‘Well, do I look like a psychopath?” “No… But they never do, do they?” “Well, I suppose that’s a risk that you’re going to have to take. Exciting isn’t it?” she says, a confident smirk stretching across her face. “Okay, yeah sure - tea sounds nice.” God, I feel like Casanova. “Good, I’m glad.’ She smiles. “So, I’ll meet you in reception straight after work?” “Yes, you will.’ And with that she struts away from the photocopier, her papers dangling carelessly from the grip of her red fingernails. Ahh red fingernails.

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Villanelle for a Dementia Patient Kirsten Smith When he turns, he sees, and yet cannot see, His eyes seem to darken, lacklustre pips. He’s there to sleep but he’s looking at me.

Who am I, who could I possibly be? Am I a memory lost from his grip? He’s looking, he sees, and yet cannot see.

He sits calmly but his face disagrees With a gaze half-fulfilled, starting to slip, He’s there to sleep but he’s looking at me

Dark marbles staring out, almost a plea, What was life before? To him, a lost trip. He’s looking, he sees, and yet cannot see.

And his mind is lost, a true vacancy, Memories fleeting, they’re fading and quick. He’s there to sleep, but he’s looking at me, He’s looking, he sees, and yet cannot see.

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Recuperations Shania Richards

Here Police cars and ambulances Burn their wheels on black tarmac: They come and go Past the quay Where the river rolls its tongue Licking hulls of pale boats afloat The dull whine of ambulances drones on.

Apartments She approaches the door of her home, past the quay where sailboat masts sway, stranded Walking through endless roads with great carelessness, swaying as though vehicles on tarmac roads manipulate and translate. A breeze-torn flag snarls, staring above a

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school yard which kids and their dear guardians have long departed. (I will not say the rain poured, but it shattered - like smashed windows; it could have sliced off eyelashes or severed hair, transforming long locks into patches but did not.) Spending hours learning, regretting, listening to faded conversations beyond cheap earphones when she yearned to be alone. Upon arriving back home, she drags out an earplug, ears open for that hum a grey main door Yawns in her wake. Then comes the ascension of old steps to be alone again â&#x20AC;Ś Pulling off her slate-grey coat hanging it on a wooden hook She falls into the crease of a blue second hand sofa From her father Knowing the world lives on without her outside. Over the din of the television Flicking over the cover of a torn journal She keeps her thoughts in. Spying faults upon a canvas half-finished by the item shaped like a box with a screen, the painting itself propped upon a broken easel.

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The Tunes of Life Dom Brock ** Side 1 ** Music, Artist, “Pink Floyd”, Shuffle: Volume level 5. Well, that’s not enough! A friend once told me that Pink Floyd would probably sound better while high on drugs. I’ve never got what he means by this; I can only assume there’s something he’s not telling me. Volume level 12 - that’s better. Now time to immerse my thoughts in my music. ‘Dogs’, the 16 minute brutish, shouty song about a cut-throat business in a massively capitalist world where everyone works all their life for nothing. It reminded me of where I was going. Work had become hellish over the last month and our boss had turned into a vicious dictator of a man - although he wasn’t much different when I first knew him. The drive to work became more and more frustrating as traffic lights disobeyed my every command. I’m not usually a negative person, but I knew today wasn’t going to be a good one. Maybe it was just the brute force from “Dogs” putting me on edge. 12 minutes in and the Gilmour acoustics plinked and echoed around the car. The speaker boomed as the song changed. The first drumbeat of “Learning to Fly” rang around the car for a second before being smashed by the striking guitar. A great song, but frankly it wasn’t right at that moment. I needed something stronger, more invigorating. Music, Artist, “Pink Floyd”, The Wall (Side2): Hey You. I wasn’t far from work and I knew that this was the song that would get me in the mood for the day ahead. Roger Waters’s cries for help made it very topical for the events that would soon occur when I got there. I coasted the car into the car park. The song hadn’t finished so I stayed put. The final cries of horror screamed and the vibrating acoustics faded away. My cue to exit. I got out of my car, locked it and pulled the handle to make sure, my mind a labyrinth of unanswered questions and trepidation. I can’t bear the sounds of reality. Sirens, lorries and other ghastly harsh sounds. I had to get out my iPod and change that. Music, Artist, “Gorrilaz”, “Demon Days”, “Dirty Harry”: “Gorrilaz” was the music I used for the flow of everyday life. I would walk to the beat, each beat a step on the ground. When I did it, the people around seemed to do the same, almost if they’d become part of a melodic synchronisation with me and the music. The walk to work from the nearby car park wasn’t too long, but I managed to get through both ‘Dirty Harry’ and ‘Feel Good Inc.’ before I got there. As I approached the revolving door to my work I got ready for war.

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This I felt was merely the quiet before the raging storm. ** Side 2 ** The cool air-conditioned office felt like a completely different climate to that outside. A breeze flew around the room, but in a very harsh and unsubtle manner, as if you were to open your car window on the motorway and stick your head out. By now I’d stopped my music completely. The office wasn’t a suitable place for the “Gorrilaz” beat. Something calmer was required. I scanned through my iPod to see what there was. “Dire Straits” and “The Sultans of Swing” wouldn’t be a bad choice. Its fast beat, slender guitar and repetitive drum beat usually put me in a good mood. I slid back up the list and saw my favourite band Queen. The best of the best when it comes to rock anthems. The only problem with Queen is that their music should be used when you feel joyous or when you feel on top of the world. It just wasn’t the right moment for something like that. Pink Floyd looked the most likely again. Floyd isn’t really a jump for joy band- there is rarely a song that feels like it is trying to appeal to the listener’s nice side. Music, Artist, “Pink Floyd,” Wish You Were Here, Shine On You Crazy Diamond (Parts I-V): The gradual rumble of the wine glass harmonica and synthesizer began as I walked over to my desk. John was at his desk, distracted by news as he usually was. Marcus was over to my right, glasses perched on the end of his nose, similar to how a robin redbreast would sit on a branch. Alan wasn’t in yet. He is one of those “Better late than never” guys who is always turning up at the last minute. I dropped my stuff on the desk with a crash. No sooner had I collapsed into my seat, I was approached by another co-worker of mine by the name of Steve. “The boss is in a foul mood this morning.” “Such a shame,” I said in my most sarcastic tone. I decided to be as brief as possible. Steve was one of the most talkative men I knew. It would be nice to talk to him on some occasions; we had lots in common but it very quickly got to a point where his speech would turn to an irritating blabber. Once he even started foaming at the mouth as his saliva struggled to keep up with the movement of his lips. I logged into the computer and heard the processed ‘welcome’ sound over the music. The sound of sliding guitar chords echoed through my headphones as the intro cut quickly into the main part of the song. The work I had been involved in was a pretty half-hearted operation. It was a computer programme which was very unreliable in near enough every way. Some days me and the guys would even have trouble getting it to start and that could literally be half a day wasted because of it.

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None of us were particularly happy doing the job, but we all put in an effort which we considered acceptable. My boss’s door swung open and hit the wall before squeaking back the other way. The shadowy figure of my boss appeared at the door. He walked into the light slowly; his eyes had bags, his hair was a mess and the shirt he wore was creased. He looked a real state as he headed over towards the coffee machine in the corner of the room. Trampy would be one of the kinder words I’d use to describe him. He gazed around the room making sure that his force was on task. “Dom, I need to see you in my office, its important” “Err……when exactly boss?” “Now would be nice”. He signalled to me with his fingers to follow him. I shifted up from my seat and stood up again, the music now starting to build. ** Side 3 ** Bag on seat, key in ignition and CD in stereo. Time to get away, far away. I hadn’t been in the office long enough to go through the whole of ‘Shine on you Crazy Diamond’ so I synchronised the CD with my iPod and continued from where I was. I let the Sat-Nav decide which pub I’d crash down in. It plonked me far away on the western side of Sheffield at a place called the ‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese Inn’. The big green smudge over my Sat-Nav reassured me that I wasn’t going to have to deal with traffic again. I was fed up from the slow progress I’d made on my morning commute. The joy I would have, never having to do it again. Out of Sheffield and through the satellite villages I cruised. Though it wasn’t evening, the shadows of the houses stretched across the road, almost turning the road into a checkerboard of light and shadow. The ‘Wish you Were Here’ album had just finished. By now Pink Floyd felt just that bit too mainstream and industrial. The music didn’t match the landscape I was seeing. I wanted music that wasn’t layered up and thick like Floyd. Something more natural was required. I ran through the list of artists in my head. Which band had a natural sound with a steady pace? Two sprang to mind. Noah and the Whale with their pretty songs like ‘5 Years Time’ and ‘L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N’ about love and modern life. The other was a far more local band. Elbow from, ironically, Manchester. Their music topics range from joy and the happiest moments, all the way to drinking and smoking yourself to death. Even though the topic sounds depressing, it is conveyed it such a beautiful way that you don’t really notice.

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Their music has this warm, soft texture that no other seems to have. A mesh of guitar, piano, occasional violins and Guy Garvey’s swearing create a strange peacefulness compared to other artists. I went for ‘Elbow’ and immediately put them on shuffle. Their music was all very similar -sounding and to me, a very consistent quality so it wasn’t like Floyd where I would only get half the story in that one song.

** Side 4 ** As I made my way through the platter of Elbow songs before me, the landscape changed further. The satellite villages disappeared and turned into rolling hills and sweeping valleys. As I drove down the pothole-laced road, I noticed the remains of a castle on the hill. What a painting that would be against the ultramarine sky. A sign then flashed past the car. I just turned my head around in time to see what it said. “You are now entering Castleton”. Ahead was a small, stony village. The houses were roofed with slate and the window panes lined with wood. So this is where the Sat-Nav wanted me to go. Now to find a place to park. I couldn’t imagine it would be easy being such a small village, but I slotted the car on the kerb relatively simply. I waited for the track to finish and then I was off. The river I was walking by had a certain freshness about it despite its dirty demeanour. It’s not something you get to experience in Sheffield. The village felt far more natural than the city. Castleton also had a very medieval feel to it. I continued down the street admiring each of the buildings. As I turned the corner there was a flowery building with a sign hanging off the side. ‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese Inn,’ it read. The pub! The building looked as old as the sign sounds, but I didn’t care. I pushed the heavy wooden door and walked inside. As I leaned against the bar I reflected on what an awful day I’d had. I could just about remember what my boss had said to me as ‘Shine on’ played in the background. “I said this would be a difficult job, but you said you’d be capable. It turns out you were wrong….” I couldn’t bear to replay the sacking all over again. I reached for my iPod in my pocket. I knew exactly what to play. Music, Artist, Pink Floyd, The Wall (side2): As I slipped deeper and deeper into my drunken state, I let the guitar solo of ‘Comfortably Numb’ smash into my ear drums, with every note pulsing through my mind and feeding the fire inside me - or maybe that was just the brandy. Everything I needed to complete my day.

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Machine-Wash Only Jessica Jenkins Your sweatshirt, I slept in it I’m giving it back Not because it’s yours But because it’s a part of me I cried in it A part of me died in it It smelled of you And that God-awful cologne It triggered something inside of me That I’ll never understand Something about My arms and my chest Being where yours once were My heart drumming against the fabric Like yours did It tore me apart. Your sweatshirt, I wept in it I’m giving it back So maybe you’ll sleep in it And think of me And how we can never be, In the fabric, every thread A murmur of cinema dates And drinking vodka straight At 2AM in the streets But how we can never Be together, in bed Or the backseat of the car With the music loud And our thoughts on hold The smell of leather, petrol And Coca-Cola.

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Your sweatshirt, It smells of lonely nights Fuelled by nicotine and coffee White, two sugars So when you lay there at night Wrapped up warm Your arms and chest Will be where mine once were And your heart will drum against the fabric And weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be together But oh, so far apart And Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll still miss you.

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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 coexisted. 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

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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.

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Librocubicularist Rachel Skipper

The blood stains the pages, my thumb skimming through, ignoring the cuts as Kanga and Rooâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s love soothes the scarred skin, as they have done since I met them as a child. Will they soothe the ache of death? When I fall down the rabbit hole, will it be dark? or will a smiling feline be waiting for me? The earthy hint of tea draws me in, my new world greeting me with a mad man and a queen. I have longed to dance with wolves, race the lions, feel the wind through my jacket. Will the dazzling coat of many colours protect me as every door closes around me the light fading, and I question how my life will end? Will dying be my awfully big adventure as my bookend fits into place?

* Librocubicularist â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Someone who reads in bed

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Portrait of Nusch

Beth Cope

I’m thinking about His other paintings And how he makes the ladies look With their vicious smiles and wonky eyes. I’m hoping He won’t do the same to me.

I know for sure my hat Will be more than one colour, And my skin will consist Of reds and blues.

My hair will appear knotted, I promise it’s not. My nostrils will appear large, I can assure you, they’re not.

But I truly think he likes me, I really think I please him. Perhaps he will make me beautiful Like Renaissance art Or a Botticelli painting Or even like Venus herself.

But, I’m thinking about his Other paintings, And how he makes the ladies look, And I think Perhaps he has Never truly liked

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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’. 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.

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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’.

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The Little Mermaid Beth Ford

I tore my tail in two for you, I sewed up the ruined shreds, I stuffed them into fishnet stockings for you, And cut off the bloody loose threads.

I climbed up to the sandy shore for you, My new legs just bleeding stumps, It was like walking on sharp knives for you, My toes merely grisly lumps.

I climbed up the palace stairs for you, Your look of disgust greeted me at the door, My dedication wasn’t enough for you, You wanted “something more”.

And so I danced at the wedding for you, My horrid legs burning in pain, I watched her do what I couldn’t for you, It was worse than watching the sea drain.

I would never be good enough for you, So the sea witch gave me a choice, Spare that perfect life for you, Or she’d get back my tail and voice.

The stories all say I died for you, Became nothing more than sea foam, But the knife was not thrown to the sea for you, Instead I drove it home.

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Juliet Courtney Chilvers

Once upon a time, I lived and I died, my story became romanticised. Everyone’s fairytale used to end the same, then Hollywood came along and said that was ‘lame’.

Now, their grim original stories are lost, they got a second life at no apparent cost. They were saved by Walt Disney and all his parks China, Japan, USA and France.

I’m a ‘relic of England’, a ‘cultured play’, ‘Though I’d rather see my face star on Broadway. But they can’t revive me like they do for the others because we’re famous for being the ‘star-crossed lovers’.

People try to resurrect me, you know, I’ve lived my life through with young DiCaprio; I’ve been a Taylor Swift ballad and a gnome in the garden, but it’s just not the same.

Hollywood, revive me! Because my one regret is dying at the end of ‘Romeo & Juliet’. I want a life full of love, joy and laughter. I want my own happily ever after.

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Like Dreams or Drainpipes: A Meeting Jo Castle

They had walked for two miles to get to one second-hand shop in a village on the eastern coastline. Neither took the same journey; one approached from the north and the other from the south, and this little shop was where their paths intersected. Like many second-hand shops do, this one had its own smell. There was the smell of mothballs- a predictable note. The bookshelves at the back contributed the sweet acid of yellowing pages. In the easternmost corner hung a tatty peignoir, which dominated its section with a perfume that simultaneously suggested a light powder and a punch in the nostrils; the items of clothing hanging on the rails besides it stagnated in sadder concoctions of parted owners. Our two met over the scratchy scent of cheap lavender, where some candles still wrapped in plastic were. The meeting was delayed. She, an angular thing with long tanned legs freckled with peeling plasters, dithered over the candles momentarily as if they were things of great importance. He, a being of softer persuasion in an expensive shirt and even dearer trousers, tucked some spilling pearl necklaces back into a hefty cardboard box he carried. For a minute there was an almighty impasse, strong enough to slow a speeding locomotive, until their eyes were persuaded to disengage and look at the other. “Excuse me,” he found himself improvising- “do I… know you?” “Probably,” she said. Her gaze was flat, dreamlike. “I get that a lot.” “Do you have a name?” he asked, and then checked himself. “What’s your name?” Her eyes flickered away from him for a moment and onto the ceiling. “Marlowe.” She remembered the birth certificate she found buried in the bottom of a suitcase and for a moment felt nothing but proud. “Mine’s Heath,” he offered.

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“I’m throwing some stuff out. Nobody needed it.” A finger slipped from a corner and the box’s contents made an unappreciative rattle. “So, what brought you here? Browsing?” She rose from her bent posture in a full and gracious bow, gleaming with exultation. “I came here to find a trestle table,” she half-whispered, “and a day out.” “Well, this shop doesn’t have any tables on sale-” it was true, it didn’t- “and is it really a day out if you’re inside?” He bent his head towards the shop’s front door, a gesture universally understood even between two half-strangers. Candles now no longer seemed important. The sharp sea-grass whistled as if permitting them entry, though this went unappreciated due to the aggressive clunking of Heath’s cardboard box. They had tied their shoelaces together and slung the shoes over their shoulders like odd fashion statements. Two entered seaside, and sat down on a patch of sand soft and pale as flour. “I have some fruit pastilles,” she said, extending a battered tube towards him. “Would you like one?” “I’d love one,” he said, and took a purple one from the packet. She took a green one, and for a while both chewed in the absence of conversation. Afternoon thinned out into evening. Salt breezes whipped strands of hair around like playthings and stung at their eyes. A few children played on the edge of the water until they got bored and left; our two remained. “I feel like I should say something,” he said. “You don’t need to say anything at all,” she said, “Not if you don’t want to.” She offered him a green pastille, which he accepted, and took a yellow one for herself. The situation was agreed upon. They sat on the nameless beach on an obscure part of the coast, and they said nothing.

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Untitled Katie Harling-Challis Up above those stars shine bright And, amongst the bustle and noise of city life They are lost to the dim and dark But these lights which are not on fire by human power shine bright out in that old universe in which we dwell But this old universe is new to us Just as an elderly neighbour may be a new neighbour while that young neighbour may be an old neighbour and so.

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We dwell and walk and light up this world of ours with our own little stars But maybe we should once in a while remember To look up.

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A Resource for Writers and Teachers All you need is a pen and paper and a text or image to get you started. Whether you’re a lone writer or part of a writing group we hope that you’ll be inspired to have go. Start by reading an inspiring text; a good poem or story Consider what you find interesting; perhaps key themes, and particularly effective writers’ techniques. Write. Share your work, read it aloud (to someone else if you’re brave enough) and offer constructive feedback to your fellow writers – we all need to know what works well for our readers, and what might not be so clear. Other writers can give you great ideas to improve your work. Helping them to edit their work will build your creative muscles too. Edit. * The following list gives the key content of the workshops where these poems were created: ‘Cygnet’ by Maddi Hastings, ‘Packed Lunch’ by Matt Varley Read: ‘Mother, Any Distance’ by Simon Armitage. Consider: Shared, everyday activities that reveal relationships Techniques to try: experimenting with line-breaks & layout ‘Aubade’ by Rhiannon Culley Read ‘Aubade’ by Phillip Larkin, ‘The Sun Rising’ by John Donne, ‘Dawn Revisited’ by Rita Ora Consider: explore contrast between day and night, qualities of daybreak Techniques to try: Aubade form, linking emotions to a time of day Skirt Sonnet’ by Jo Castle & ‘shall i compare thee to a cup of tea?’ by Zoe Hammick Read: ‘Sonnet 18’ by William Shakespeare Consider: extended imagery, careful comparisons Techniques to try: unexpected comparisons, the sonnet form ‘Here’, ‘Apartments’, ‘Almost Saved by Vivienne’ by Shania Richards Read: ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’ by T S Eliot Consider: rhythm and narrative Techniques to try: enjambment, setting the scene through key images, inventive with layout

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‘Photograph’ by Rosie Rivers, ‘Machine Wash Only’ by Jessica Jenkins Read: ‘Second-Hand Coat’ by Ruth Stone Consider: emotionally loaded everyday items Techniques to try: extended imagery, repetition of a key line ‘Chasing the Wind’ by Arianna Dobell Read: ‘Ode to My Socks’ by Pablo Neruda, or any other ode Possible Discussion: what is awe-inspiring, deserves praise Techniques to try: Ode form, or more simply diamond formation (increase syllable count by 1 each line, up to 9 and then back to 1) ‘The Little Mermaid’ by Beth Ford, ‘Part of Your World’, ‘Juliet’ Courtney Chilvers Read: ‘Rapunzel’ by Liz Lochead, ‘Mrs Beast’ (or anything from ‘The World’s Wife’) by Carol Anne Duffy, ‘Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf’ by Roald Dahl (from ‘Revolting Rhymes’) Possible Discussion: the joys and flaws of fairy tales, symbolism Techniques to try: repetition, resonant words & phrases from fairy tales Poetry from Art: ‘Van Gogh’s Cornfield’ by Tash Royal Read: ‘Just Passing’ by Francis Barker, ‘The Artist, Arles, 1890’ by Colin Rowbotham This workshop was based on an activity in Michael & Peter Benton’s fabulous book ‘Double Vision’ which has exciting paintings and accompanying poems. Consider: What do you particularly notice about the image? What can you infer about the artist’s thoughts and feelings? Techniques to try: precise imagery, repetition. ‘Blossom’ by Betty Fox Read: ‘Under the Waterfall’, and ‘The Darkling Thrush’ by Thomas Hardy Consider: setting, pathetic fallacy Techniques to try: go out and write about the natural world around you, setting, pathetic fallacy ‘12.03’ by Gabi Stones Read: ‘Homeland Security’ by Geoffrey Brock, ‘Let Them Eat Chaos’ by Kate Tempest Consider: how line breaks shape meaning, withhold information & make us think Techniques to try: exciting line breaks, spoken rhythms, internal rhyme, repetition

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‘Perspective’ by Courtney Chilvers Read: current news articles, ‘Mathematics’ by Hollie McNish Consider: the turn or twist in a poem, Techniques to try: repetitiom, undermining popular sayings and phrasings, famous quotations, experimenting with structure and layout “Stanza Stones” by Megan Riggey Read: ‘Stanza Stones’ by Simon Armitage Possible discussion: personification, unexpected imagery, sound & rhythm to evoke nature Techniques to try: personification, alliteration * Writing and developing an effective story will present a number of challenges as the writer is always juggling with ideas of how to maintain the interest of the reader. The starting point for most stories might be to decide on your setting, choose some characters (often only two but rarely more than three or four) and decide on a voice to tell the story – and then get writing! Often a plot or direction will develop as you write. Key then is reading –aim to read other stories by professional writers to help you find your direction.

The following list highlights some of the ways in which the writers of a selection of the stories developed their ideas: ‘Mocha Afternoons’ by Maddi Hastings, ‘Desertium’ by Ryan Lenney, ‘The Armchair on the Bradford Road’ by Zoe Hammick and ‘Silent City’ by Kat Finch These stories in particular reflect the importance of finding a setting as a way a story. The idea for “Desertium” came from a classroom activity in which students were asked to decide on unusual places to set a story. “Mocha Afternoons” was initially inspired by the writer’s reading of a selection of extracts from Wuthering Heights by Charlotte Bronte and was then developed through her reading of a range of other texts as varied as The Ballad of the Sad Café by Carson McCullers. Quarantine by Jim Crace became a definite influence in the development of Ryan’s piece. ‘The Funeral’ by Jo Castle, ‘Mr Nobody’ by Jay Kent and ‘Forged in Fire’ by Amy Wallace

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Specific poems and story extracts can often be a key inspiration. Seamus Heaney’s poem ‘Mid–Term Break,’ for example offered a key central idea for Jo Castle’s story. An initial inspiration for “Mr. Nobody” was a reading of the opening to Restoration by Rose Tremain. Awmy’s historical text was initially inspired by a reading of an extract from A Song of Stone by Iain Banks and later developed through a reading of old Icelandic sagas and the writing of George Martin, amongst others. ‘The Tunes of Life’ By Dom Brock and ‘A day in the life of an unburdened free-thinker of independent means’ by Archie Gault Listening to music can be an important way of finding ideas. Instrumental music in particular can often offer inspiration – listening in class to “Ira Furore” by Norwegian band Lumen Drones clearly suggested a whole character for Archie’s story. Dom’s love of particular music is integrated throughout his piece and it also suggested the story’s four-part structure. Nick Hornby’s 31 Songs is an excellent non-fiction text for anyone interested in reading about music. ‘Seal-Breaker’ by Beth Cope, ‘Cell 56’ by Willow Butler and ‘A Face and a Name’ by Charlotte Humphrey Genre fiction in particular can benefit from a key idea – to choose a confined setting and introduce two characters who are in obvious conflict with each other. Sparks will fly! Beth and Willow’s stories both take full advantage of this idea. As well as being informed by her reading of a number of dystopian texts such as Margaret Atwood’s ‘Oryx and Crake’, Charlotte’s futuristic piece benefits from the study of another key idea – the plot twist, inspired here by the ending of Roald Dahl’s story ‘Skin’. There are many books which offer help about storywriting. Two texts which we would unreservedly recommend are ‘The Art of Writing Fiction’ by Andrew Cowan and ‘On Writing’ by Stephen King. Kazuo Ishiguro’s 2017 Nobel lecture (published as My Twentieth Century Evening and Other Short Breakthroughs) is another thought-provoking and very short read about the nature of creativity and the writer’s own path to developing his work. In this text, Ishiguro writes of his epiphany as a writer – that the key focus of a story should mainly be on the relationships between characters. This is a quality of many of the stories highlighted above and also of “Tea” by Tash Royal and “Foxgloves” by Phoebe Sizer.

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Final thanks and acknowledgements We would like to offer our sincere thanks to: Dean and Naomi at Poetry People and everybody at Woodbridge Young Poets for their support of our students’ poetry in their annual competitions; “Fake” and “Pictures of Nusch” were both written in response to ideas developed in a Poetry People workshop. Colin and everyone else at the Suffolk Poetry Festival for giving our students the invaluable opportunity to read their writing in front of a wider audience of supportive poetry lovers. Several of the poems included here were read by the students at this exciting annual event. Lindsey, Antonella and Amanda at UCS for their inspiring workshops and for helping to judge our new poetry competition for High School Students. Writers Mark Brayley, Katie Ward and Jeni Smith for visiting the college to lead inspirational workshops. Special thanks also to Jen Pierce and Anthony Dee for their support of Creative Writing at One. “Newborn” by Cheyenne Dunnett was first published by HEBE magazine, Issue Five, 2018.

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Anthology 2019

Articles inside

Untitled

Resource for writers and teachers

Juliet

Like Dreams Or Drainpipes: A Meeting

The Little Mermaid

Librocubicularist

Mr Nobody

Blossom

Portrait of Nusch

Machine Wash Only

The Tunes of Life

Recuperations

Villanelle for a Dementia Patient

Payday

Two Bowls

A Face and a Name

Back To The Pen And Paper

The Harpa

A Villanelle on Inferiority – Fool’s Gold

Seal-Breaker

Storm

The Mad Side

Cell 56

The Figurative Café

Gracious Tempest

A Day in the Life of

Bus Stop

Fake

Station Four

Another Dance Competition

Dwarf

Silent City

Humphrey

Harpenden

Mocha Afternoons

January II

Almost a Confession

Small

A Point in Time

Tea

The Skirt Sonnet

A Backwards Wish

Photograph

The Armchair on Bradford Road

DNA/Making

Forged in Fire

Newborn

Part of Your World

Fear Like Waves

Desertium

Chasing the Wind

Van Gogh’s Cornfield*...........................1

Like Dreams or Drainpipes: The Funeral

Foxgloves

Packed Lunch

Fresh Clean Bedding

Shall I Compare Thee to a Cup of Tea?

Temptation

The Squid

Perspective

Ode To The Reader

Basketball in the skies

Advice

Cygnet

Aubade