Poetry anthology 2015 by Suffolk One

The Creative Writing Anthology 2014

Anthology 2015

ONE COLLEGE PRESS Write One The Creative Writing Anthology

“The way to write a book is to actually write a book. Keep putting words on the page” Anne Enright

We hope you will enjoy the “words on the page” in this year’s creative writing magazine. Inside you will find words used imaginatively and creatively for many effects – to bring over strong emotions, create comedy, develop a sense of place and, above all, to entertain. This has been another very exciting year for imaginative writing at the college. In December we were visited by poet Mark Brayley who worked closely with our students; also this year we learned that former student Charlotte Rowntree had been awarded a “Highly Commended” for her poem “DNA/ Making” in the prestigious Aldeburgh Young Poets competition. In particular, it has been fantastic to see the infectious enthusiasm and focus of the students working on the innovative new Creative Writing course pioneered by AQA at AS and A2 level. Whilst most of the work in this anthology has been drawn from students on this course, there are also pieces by other students from within the college - a clear reminder that the ability to put words on the page imaginatively is open to all of you, irrespective of what you are studying at One. Indeed, we would like to invite all of you to the Creative Writing Club which will be running again in September and which will give you the opportunity to develop your writing voice in a relaxed and friendly environment. We also, of course, welcome all of you who will be joining the AS Creative Writing course or continuing to study it to a full A Level. Keep writing! Catherine Mann and Pete Milwright English Department One College

Open Letter to a Politician Betty Fox To whom it may concern, I am disappointed. I am not only disappointed at the state of our current society, but also at the argument that some politicians propose – that society doesn’t exist at all. I know that society exists. The generosity exchanged between a commuter on their travel to work and a homeless person who has fallen upon hard times is society. The kindness exchanged between two nursery children who want to share their toys is society. The love exchanged between a mother and her new born baby is society. I’ve witnessed exchanges like this throughout my short life. Acts of compassion and companionship are occurring all around us, and yet some politicians still insist that the world is a cruel, two-dimensional habitat spiralling into inevitable doom. I know the truth. As a young person, my desires may be viewed as the daydreams of the naïve. But my desires are my own. I crave a society where we help one another. I crave a society where selflessness and empathy are expected from us, not a rare occasion that evokes surprise. I crave a society where opportunities are equal and fair – where education, healthcare and employment are all accessible and even better, compulsory for every citizen. I don’t understand what is more absurd – desiring basic human rights and opportunities, or that basic human rights aren’t implemented for every human in the first place. So, again, to whom it may concern, why are you not concerned? Just because your personal suffering may be minimal, the collective suffering of everyone in our diverse nation is surely great enough to be seen. Closing the blinds on the underprivileged and overlooked in OUR society does not make them disappear. The current lack of unity in society should not be inherited by the youth in this country, but instead needs to be addressed by the very people who created this disruption. Though I may be disappointed, there is something greater that I feel for the future of our society. I feel afraid. Yours sincerely,

Poetry Arrived Phoebe Sizer And it was at that age . . . Poetry arrived, The swirling words, The curling sentences, The turning grammar. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know how, Or why. Poetry was blown in my direction . . . at that age, Like a soft kiss from the clouds. It touched me, It started in my soul, Eager to scribble against paper, Eager to get every drop down. That’s when poetry arrived . . . inside my mind. I wrote. I wrote what I could. I wrote the nonsense inside. The first tentative lines Stood out on the white paper. But, Pure wisdom they were, Of someone, Who knew nothing.

Black Rat Samantha Whitby

Scurrying from one house to the next. Scampering up and down the streets. A coat as black as the sky at night, I slip through the shadows, unseen, and unheard. I ease my supple frame through the worn crevice in your bedroom wall; I see the subtle sink and swell of your breasts as you breathe in sleep. How lovely it will be, to impregnate those breasts with death’s odour, to see you ravished slowly beneath the claws of the rat. For I am death - the death of all; and for tonight, and just tonight, this Death will be yours. 3

A Night as Tonight Samantha Whitby

I like for you to be still On a night as tonight When the heavens unfasten And openâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; And the sky sings And the stars white the trees With their soundless voices. I like for you to be still On a night as tonight When a kiss can seal your mouth And lips And your infinite eyes Glitter with the constellations Unsound. I like for you to be still On a night as tonight When you can hear me And yet I do not speak; No words Pass by me, and Steal away the harmony of the night. I like for you to be still On a night as tonightâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; When you are neither dying Nor lamenting And it can be you and I In the star-silent space That I will cradle for us; When you are neither crying Nor leaving And you do not love me sometimes With those shattered tears, But always.

Freedom Samantha Whitby Does It seem So much to Ask, that I should Live my life like theirs? To be free from the hands Of God, and wander freely â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Till the golden end of Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s day. I ask no more than to be like them. Set me free from the chains that bind Me to the cruellest of fates. Let me fly free with them Like the new-born dove Flown free of its Nest. Please, just Let me Be.

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. 5

Your Garden Rosie Rivers

The garden. Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s recluse to overgrow, overtake. Because to cut a single stem, Would be to sever a limb, And to touch it is a crime, The garden is not mine to control. The trampoline. Worn away, silver metal, rusted. The springs broke late last year, When the autumn rain Withered away The remainder of the bounce. The bench. You promised you would use the wood, For bigger things, better things, Perhaps a new greenhouse To harbour your forget-me-nots. Yet it lays long forgotten in the tall grass. The pond. A coat of algae blocks the sunlight From reaching the depths Of the murky floor. No life inhabits the dirty pond, The stagnant water kills. The greenhouse. Broken glass, a broken house. The wooden frame once remained, Until the winter winds, Splintered the wood And it stumbled to the ground. A promise, You would never keep. Adamant it could all be saved Until we'd had enough, It's all broken, you see.

Sympathy Flowers (An Extract) Phoebe Sizer Prison sentences totalling more than 1,800 years have been handed out to rioters following the disorder which began exactly a month ago. There is a picture of a cracked window pane with the words 'Sympathy Flowers' above. I sit and read the shocking news. 1,800 years of prison sentences is insane. I'm sure most of the teenagers didn't even realise what they were getting themselves into. But the poor people that had to go through the horrific reality of this disastrous rioting right outside their homes and family businesses - I don't think I would have been able to cope. I look at the picture and think about getting myself some flowers for the room to try and cheer myself up. Sympathy flowers. I think Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be getting some of those soon from my friends and family. I hear a croak beside me and turn my head to my mother to see if she needs anything. But her eyes are closed and I guess that she is still sleeping. I don't want to disturb her, but I reach over from where I sit, and give her a little kiss on her paper thin cheeks. My behind is starting to get pins and needles from sitting in a hospital armchair, reading the paper for so long. I decide to get up and walk around a bit. As I walk to the end of the hospital bed that Mother is in, I see the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, rustling the bed covers that outline her body. It is not the mother I know and recognise, but this unfamiliar woman that looks like a distant relative of hers. She is still the same height as before and she sounds the same when she talks, but cancer has come and eaten her up, taking away the friendly plumpness of her body and replacing it with just bone and skin, turning her once beautifully tanned skin slightly yellow as the autumn light from outside begins to dim. Her cough is so rough, it sounds like a lawnmower erupting and cutting the grass. The lines on her face have become more recognisable; before, her skin was perfectly smooth and soft. Her hands outside the covers look white and delicate, as is they were made of tissue paper. Her face has deep lines set into her skin, and it looks like damp Papier Mache, almost dried, but if I were to touch it, the Mache would move and her face would become disorientated. I look at the room; disinfectant looking, like a hospital room should look like. White walls and unused, ready-made beds, looking highly uninviting. The floors are sparkly and I can see my faint reflection in the grey silica flooring, like a lighter version of the classic ballroom that I used to dance on in my late teens, with grand ceilings and magnificent chandeliers. Closing my eyes, I imagine I am back in the ballroom with my university friends, twirling, spinning and circling the room. I look at the ceiling in the hospital, squinting in the LED light, and try not to feel disappointed that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not back in the ballroom. I start thinking about how many different lives there are out there; how many different situations people are in at this very moment; how those rioters are being taken to court and locked up; how their families must feel about their children going to prison at an early age; how my life was so comfortable, untroubled and uncomplicated when I was younger, not like these teenagers. The fact is that we may learn a lot, but in reality, we will never learn how it 7

feels to live another life. You will always be stuck with just the one. I look at Mother. She has not moved since I last looked. I wonder why she looks less healthy than the other woman. Her face is extremely pallid, with dark circles under her eyes. Her hands are neatly placed on top of each other and have gone grey. Her fingernails were painted a nice silver colour yesterday as a treat: they are now chipped, and the nail colour underneath is grey too, with a slightly blue tinge. I touch her hands. She is as cold as Neptune. But I can still see the slow rise and fall of her breathing under the covers, so I get the gold hairbrush she has had since she was a little girl, and I sweep the remaining black-grey ringlets that is still on the side her head, out of her face. When I see her eyes flicker open, revealing her green eyes, I can see all the pain in her. The side of her mouth twitches, but I guess she does not have the strength to smile fully. I look at her, and she looks at me.

Good morning Caitlin Douglas The alarm sounds and darkness unfolds. My body shudders, the thick winter chill has bitten my body. Sunlight streams in, an unwelcome guest. My face is covered with patterns of light. My body feels limp The broken sleep takes its toll. Morning's voice, echoes in my ears. Birds, cars, clinking cups. The smell of hot coffee and warm toast. Day has come and Night is gone.

Royal Rain Caitlin Douglas The stars poked holes in the floor of heaven. Speckles of light in a darkened sky. A blue-black haze, with glowing pigments of gold. The stars fell from the sky like royal rain, or magic dust cascading Down from dark skies and reflected in rippling tides. Of wishing, washing water. The stars are slipping, preparing to drown, fizzling away in the depths of clear black water. They're fizzling, falling, drowning Loud, silent crackles submerged in crackling water. Glowing from hidden depths. Bright, but dark. They sink and land On sandy beds, as daylight hides. The last light, of the last night. Until tomorrow.

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 who work 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 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 drum beat of ‘learning to fly’ rang around the car for a second before being smashed by the striking guitar. A great song, but frankly it’s not right at the 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. This song goes away from the happy ‘Learning To Fly’ feel and goes back to the sounds similar to that of ‘Dogs’, but with a completely different meaning. Roger Waters’ cries for help make 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 was 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. 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, much like 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 10

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 drumbeat usually put me in a good mood. Another band similar to them is ‘Status Quo’. Good band, but some of their content is just a bit too old. 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 as their music makes me think the most. ‘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. With a wide variety of thoughtful lyrics and layers of endless synth, they create a totally different atmosphere to that of ‘Queen’. 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, much 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 coworker 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 lot 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 over the time I’d been there 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. 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, it’s 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. 11

** 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 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 ranged 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 in such a beautiful way that you don’t really notice. 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, of 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. Castleton had a very medieval feel to it. Its lack of brick and large stone content really emphasised the age of the village. 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. 12

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.

Thrive Sian Perry Ice- coated leaves cracked at the weight of bare feet. While frosted toes get bitten by the snow that will meet Her, every step of the way. Hair as dark as coal Covers her crystal- glazed eyes that betray the soul. An epiphany of vivid streaks, violets, golds Fill the sky with hopeful dreams which she holds. Determination fills the veins in her wrists, Dancing through trees and the branches that twist. A song in her head, how to stop the repeat, The beating of the drum, the numbness of heat, Drones on. The journey to find out the secrets of Frost. A critic of life revealed in his poems, now lost In her head. The need to live and the desire to be alive. ‘The Road Not Taken’ has ordered her to thrive.

Why not Dance to Work? Sian Perry Headphones blaring and dance moves so wild that eyes fixated on her as she skipped and twirled through the town centre. Fuse ODG’s new song ‘Tina’ burst through her eardrums and danced on her brain creating moves so daring while a smile spread across her face in an instance of hearing the beginning notes. F# then E as his low but gentle voice poured out of the small musical device which fit snugly in her jacket pocket. The smell of the local bakers lifted into the air; fresh bread recently baked invaded her nostrils as B then F# played with the background beat punching its way through the pleasant notes. Head swaying right then left as the chorus sang loud, “She hurt my head oh mama! But my eyes won’t leave her!” 13

Making her way towards the barber shop, her desired location, she released one headphone from her left ear to let it hang loosely below her collar bone. Luckily her music was replaced by a local singer on a street corner, guitar chords ringing out of his amps. Repeated G chords rang happily, high pitched and loud. She paused the music on her iPod shuffle to admire the courageous pair performing before her. The Black Eye Peas ‘I Got a Feeling’ seeped into the atmosphere, encouraging the heat of the blaring summer sun to fall down on bare shoulders. “I got a feeling! Ooh hoo! That tonight’s gonna be a good night!” A group of girls stood dancing and singing along in the corner of the gathering which slowly formed. Hips moved and hands clapped in unison with the beat - as the girl slowly walked away she started singing along. The barber shop was in front of her now, not far. She could slightly hear the music playing from the speakers that boomed from inside - the owner always loved to listen to the local radio. Nelly played “Hot in Here” with the official video glowing from the flat screen television screwed to the wall. “It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes!” Her feet tapped approvingly on the tiled floors as she threw on her apron so her hands could dart around her next patient’s hair to create a new and fabulous cut. Em then G chords played throughout the chorus along with C then D chords to create the catchy tune; the continuous beat and vibrations of the loud music encouraged movement and overall enjoyment. The fluorescent colours of the barber shop seemed to become more vibrant and hum as heat waves rolled throughout the hairdressers.

Come with me Rhiannon Culley There is nothing to be found where you are, No chance of happiness hidden in the dark, There is nothing to be seen where you are, Only the glare of a pixelated screen, There is nothing to be heard where you are, Not even a flicker in the silence around you, There’s still time to escape from where you are, To find the things that you haven’t found. There is so much to be found beyond it, You can walk every step of the world, There is so much to be seen beyond it, The kiss of the star-littered skies, There is so much to be heard beyond it, Paper rustling with a story to tell, There’s still time to travel beyond it, To find the things that you haven’t found.

Three Location Poems Rhiannon Culley Orwell Country Park On endless Sunday afternoons, Lost within the trees, A stone, Thrown into glittering water, Socks filled with sand, Grazed knuckles from swung branches, Watering eyes from bracing wind, Smiles on faces, From birdsong heard, On endless Sunday afternoons. Felixstowe The waves feel safer from a distance, But you can’t quite stay away. Splintered wood and peeling paint, Can’t reach you on the shore. The air seems brighter where sand meets sea, In this sleeping town, The horizon that sprints across the sky, And steals away the day.

Minsmere A signpost placed on speckled ground, Finite feathers in a breeze, As a thousand beaks make a home, In the city of Redwood trees.

Arabella (An Extract) Rhiannon Culley I’d only seen her once before. Of course, back then I didn’t realise she was who she was. See, I’d been a little early that morning to meet Cable with my next story, so I stopped off in this little side street café to pick up some breakfast. I went inside and ordered whatever on the menu had the most bacon and strolled over to a booth by the window. Sitting to the right of me was an old guy, probably mid-70s or so, making grunting noises at the newspaper he was reading. Apart from that the place was empty, save for the two people 15

sat three booths down from me. One was a real beefy guy, what Cable and I would call a “meathead”, with a brown trench coat and a trilby shoved so far down onto his roast ham of a head I thought it might swallow him whole. The other was a woman. She had hair the colour of black ink that was cut to graze her angular cheekbones. I could tell by the expression on her face she meant business. She pushed a brown envelope across the table which the “meathead” preceded to place inside his coat. He came back out of his coat with a wad of cash in hand and pushed it across the table towards her. They exchanged some quiet words and he got up to leave. His hand touched the door handle just as she shouted “Hey!” He threw her a reluctant sideways glance. “Don’t you change a single word.” She watched him intently until he disappeared from sight. Her eyes then darted to me and I realised I’d been staring the whole time. The awkward eye contact we were locked in was abruptly broken by the delivery of my food. Between bites I would glance up at her and see her scribbling in a beaten up notebook.

“Fulcher!” I trace back the bellowing voice to the broad lips of Henry Cable. He’d been one of my closest friends since the 5th grade. Coincidently he also happened to be my boss. “You ready to go?” “Sure thing, I’ll be right there. Is it okay if we swing by the office? I gotta drop off some papers.” “You better be damn fast. It’s not often she’s in New York, you know. Doesn’t like to travel much apparently.” “Yeah I’ll be quick. Huh, I would have thought she would have to travel, you know to meet and sell and…stuff.” He lets out a chuckle. “She’s a woman, what do you expect? They never make up their damn minds. That’s why she sells and doesn’t publish. Doesn’t want to attach her name to something in case she changes her goddamn mind about it.” He taps his temple with his finger and pulls a face. “Mmm.” I ignore Cable. It’s not like he knows much about it. In all the years he’s been head of the New York Journal I’ve never once seen him write anything with any kind of passion. Any love. The only reason he wants this story is because of the hefty sum attached to it. It’s probably best that I do the writing. Arabella Dufont is her name. In the printing industry she’s just known as “Her” or “the woman”. She writes the most amazing things. Not that you’d ever know that of course. Articles, stories, poetry, you name it. Then she sells them off to be published under the name of the highest bidder. No-one really knows why. She’s become sort of a superstar in the industry but she never talks to anyone. People clamour for interviews and lunch dates but with no such luck. Me? I’m going to find out why this secret author chooses to remain secret. 16

The Twisted Pages, from the outside, is a shady looking bar downtown. I used to walk past it occasionally on my way home when I would work late. The people spilling out of the mahogany panelled doors at whatever time of night didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look like your regular club-goers though. Instead of a rowdy crowd stumbling around in a drunken stupor yelling for cabs and Jesus knows what else, they came out calm and classy, always engaged in seemingly intelligent conversations. Their outfits were always something else too, pressed suits in greys and pinstriped blacks, women dripping with beads and gems, exotic furs draped around their shoulders. These guys were in a different league altogether. This is where we knew she would be tonight.

Van Gogh Starry night Georgia Slinn Burning suns and swirls of blue, shining lights reflecting. Two small people, who? Houses curve around the sea, stars dance happy. Up in the sky and down low. The sand cuts open the watery below. Night is now, clear and cold. Burning fires of old and new. Houses warm and families silent sleep, The shining stars in the night. Rippled waves cut in paint, Light rays from stars and homes. Shapes of the oceanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge. A beach-side town staring at sand. The yellow warms the blue, Until morning due. Lights dance and midnight blue, burning suns and swirls bend. Old boats broken, Left on the edge. Leant on the mound of sand, Waiting to set sail again.

Whispers of sleep Georgia Slinn The sweet whisper of sleep when dreams greet. Cuddled up and nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s call as thoughts grow tall. Soft snores of nights keep as animals drop to sleep. Dreams float around, Waiting for all to lie down. Nightmares strike some, Turning their bodies numb. Their minds surrounded by fences. Hope calls to wake before terror reaches the gate. Midnight touches the peak now all are asleep. Wrapped up in covers. Time drifts endless, once kept so precious. Wasted but used through the night as dark and light continue to fight. Sleep now boundless, and the world soundless. As dreams call and weep to the world of nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sleep.

Wartime partner Kayleigh Gissing Beaten rough and old. Through wartime mud and dust, Soldier, my old friend.

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.

Ode to face paint Kayleigh Gissing I went and brought myself, yet more face paint. Which will shield me, once again. Coating myself in thick oils. Blacks and whites, Smudged, defined. Preparing me for my next fight. You make me stronger, confident in mind, stiffer in soul. Oh how I admire you, my one true friend. You become who I want, do as I say, swirl and dance as I choose, without a word of protest, I thank you.

Woman in cafĂŠ Petar Milenkovic Who is she? She moves with the grace of an aristocrat. Perhaps she is visiting from Paris. Her clothes are colourful enough. Who is that empty chair for? If she is waiting, she has been waiting for an hour and a half in the cold. I find her lips a luxury-red. Set off by the rosy fruit bowl beside her, they shine in her pale face. She coldly pulls an expression from her face. It makes her look so very delicate. A porcelain doll and so finely made. She looks fragile but the cuffs of her emerald gown exude a rare confidence. She looks like a forgotten queen. I ask for my check and take my leave of the cafe. As I walk out I feel eyes on the back of my neck. Not malicious but searching. The door opens and closes and I am on the street. A few steps down to the street and I look around. Rue de Champ is so pretty at Christmas. *** I read once, in a book written by an ancient Chinaman, that without stirring abroad one can know the whole world. My window seat can see the whole of this square. I am sure that if one looked hard enough, you could find every person you look for. Pedlars, merchants, bankers, beggars, holiday makers, tourists, wise men and stupid men, rich and poor. My mirror strips my opal beauty, and jewels diminish it rather than extenuate. I feel underwhelmed and waiting for this day has taken too long. On my forehead the lines of stress are building. I reach out a gloved hand and turn on the tap. Pulling the golden strands of my hair together I plunge them into the water and begin to run a comb through them. An hour later breakfast is served on a silver plate. One fresh croissant and a short black coffee, served Turkish style with the grind poured into the cup. I eat the croissant hungrily. Through its coat of gilt, a portrait stares at me mournfully. A string of silken-shined pearl beads hung around her thin neck. I clutch at my own, and try to finish my coffee. The service comes and takes the empty plate away and now I am alone in the breakfast room. The colours of majesty surround me and I feel encapsulated inside the subtle colours of inherited pride; with the rays of sunlight finally beating down on my forehead I feel wide awake and proud of my own sentimentalism towards anarchy. I think there must have been something in the coffee, and walking back to my chamber I hardly hear a thing but the beating of my own heart and the sound of quickening breath. The mirror is no help. I look perfectly fine and besides, why should I care anymore? The moments after this are a blur to me. I remember the smell of petunias mingling with the golden light and sound of voices permeating through me. I remember being in a park surrounded by grass that had overgrown me and trapped me in it spiky-soft cage and I remember drinking water from a marble fountain which grew and twisted before my eyes until it became a giant tangle of rose and bramble. I remember picking a blackberry. Very clearly... 20

The first conscious thought I can remember having was something to do with the dress a friend of mine was wearing. Bowed, tassled and it looked like a particularly tasteless but expensive pudding. Perhaps a trifle.

Youth Elliott Goodyear Youth, A torch light Concealed by a blanket A world of your own, An old swing set Beneath your favourite tree An imagination Free to roam Unbound from right and wrong, Total freedom From a world of chaos, Innocence was lost Restraints were forced Social normalities ordained. A dying torchlight flutters through the dark, A decaying swing hangs Beneath a dying tree. You grew up.

A Steed for Saint George Elliott Goodyear So small you are Yet so cumbersome I hope you know Of the backache You shall be held accountable for You care not though Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll sit upon me Shiny both in body and in face Are you here to make a statement Or to save this fairest maiden? Either way Why should I be here When all is said and done What credit will I be getting? Absolutely none 21

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. 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 we’ll be together But oh, so far apart And I’ll still miss you. 22

Second Best Jessica Jenkins Your lips, they tasted Like regret. Immediately I knew, I meant nothing. I was only there to catch your tears; nothing more. I refuse to be second best, but even if you were to pierce my chest, I know I’d use my last breath To apologise For being in the way of your knife.

You Left Charlotte Gayfer

You left, the wind rustling, leaves blowing violently, shrieking almost; silence so thick and strong you could cut through it. Time froze, waiting, tick, for, tock, you. That day forever remained – you had everything so I guess you didn’t need me. You whispered, you loved, but the rest flew away like scraps in the wind. You left – did you even care? Or was it your conquest? To win another trophy, place it in your cupboard for everyone to see, just a name no-one knew about. The castle was so bleak, so dull, so big without you. You left; now the trees blow wildly reflecting the pain and heartache of life. Life is living, life is having something to fight for. Life is love. You left.

Skin Ellie Sampson Art is permanent, whether the mark be on your soul or body is irrelevant. To remove this art is more painful than having it crawled upon you A scar made by ink, punctured into your skin A picture, a poem, a person. Art on canvas is never as beautiful as art on skin. The beauty and simplicity of this art is that although it is permanent, you are temporary. Whatever you choose to be etched upon your body dies with you.

New Year Ellie Sampson Another year passed knowing you. Like every year before it had an explosive end. If the year coming can’t treat us any better Then I’ll stay here, Because although we’re unhappy We still have each other. My new year’s resolution is not to leave you behind But to not want to.

Relationship in Reverse Betty Fox The Broken The glass jar has broken and it rests on your aching floorboards where we both once rested silently and absently. Transparency is hollow, I question if you know. Because I learned it during my fall, How I ache The Bruised Hide, they said: “Stay alert and you won’t get hurt – fight or flight is your natural process.” But when the impact strikes me, and when the seas confine me, will I care anymore? The answer must be waiting at the bottom of this vast tide. The Bright-eyed As I wake I embrace your loving dawn and gentle morning as it escapes your eyes. But as you wake I see that the very eyes that capture me are fading towards dusk.

Ode to the Internet Betty Fox The only celestial light I see is the glow emitted from my screen and I only feel quite heavenly existing within your virtual dream of images and identities that we have chosen with the purpose of escaping reality. How could one ever feel alone? A glossy mirage of pixels, frozen because in all actuality my dreams surpass skin and bones. So let the lyre play on, and the harmonies drift in my ears and may they find a home, a land the one you built me through these years. And may the false home we have made be one that keeps us safe and warm, and God forbid that the golden light burns your skin before it fades. The words that leave you torn Will not bury in your mind at night. Living in this holographic dream leaves me with an image, clear. When unstitched at the seams through my screen you seem near. So if this light that I drown in is asinine and unsound and is polluting a generation, my mind, and will leave burns in my skin, I do not care, for I have drowned â&#x20AC;&#x201C; This celestial light has left me blind.

Art Room Chloe Burwood-Webster

A floor, Spat on with the sinister Trace of crimsoned acrylic A scalpel blade, Awaiting its repetitive purpose But lays untouched A rag, Tainted by experimentation Driven by withheld emotion A door, Fortified with newspapers Forced closed A wall, Its first colour faded As if a spectre itself A hanging rack, Rusted and weak Misleading by intent A chair, Confined with endless tools Defining individual art An art room, Its function overlooked, Strangled with expression

My love for you Chloe Burwood-Webster Is like an Egg. Simple but pleasing You may laugh, But be careful my dear For eggs break easily So please don’t let them fall too fast, As like an egg I am putting my heart Within your firm hold, So please cherish it.

Lilac Connor Noble Every strand of grass was reaching towards the warm yet dull sky as the day came to a close. An overpowering cloud watched over us, slowly passing our garden and across the skyline, making room for the powerful moon. The sun beamed down on the scenery around us before it went to sleep; tree branches were swaying in the wind before resting. The back gate clashed into its lock over and over before settling; the group of water droplets that followed each other down the lilac lay down gently on the pavement. Rolling to the end and glistening from the sun’s rays just before it set. The lilac was always calm, never stressful but full of life, reaching outwards to life and breathing the fresh season air. “I’m just going out to hang the washing, Mum. You stay here and watch telly.” “I can help you dear. No need to do it alone,” she answered. She started patting the arms of her chair, murmuring to herself. “Honey, have you seen my glasses?” “I think you’re looking for your stick, Mum. It’s just behind you. Your glasses are on your chain, just where they should be. But really, Mum, I don’t need your help. I’ll just go hang it by myself.” “You’re hanging the washing? I love to hang the washing. Just before your dad gets back, always, you know that.” She had a slight hesitation as if she knew for a second, then she continued. “He should be back in time for dinner tonight. The wind is so calm today; he’ll pull all his traps in no time and be right back to us.” If only he were coming home. “Maybe…” I paused as I didn’t know what to say. “So, Mum. You just sit here and watch the TV, and I’ll be back in ten.” “Where are you going, dear?” she asked. I sighed. “I’m just going to hang the washing Mum, remember.” I turned towards the door. 28

“Let me help you. I’ve always loved hanging out the clothes, just before your dad gets back.” “I know mum, I know. But The Chase is coming on, you love that show. I’ll put it on the right channel and you just sit here and enjoy it – okay? I’ll get you a cup of tea when I come back in.” I turned towards the door again. “Where are you going, Fluff?” This time I didn’t answer. I just continued towards the back door. Luckily The Chase theme tune started and my mother’s attention turned to today’s contestants. I considered putting on the kettle for her tea before heading outside, but decided against it. It was best not to leave water on the boil if I wasn’t in the house. I tucked the basket of wet clothes under my arm and headed to the far end of the washing lines, as my mother had always insisted. I could just hear her saying, “To do it properly, start with the end farthest from the house and work your way back, just overlapping the edges to save pegs. Then when you’re done, you’re back at the house and ready to move on to something else.” I stood, looking back across the empty lines towards the house. Through the open window, I could hear Bradley saying, “Here’s your next question, Andy.” I swept up the basket and headed back towards the lilac bush by the back door. I liked to start by the house; “backwards” my mother always called it. I would start right by our lilac bush - it stood proudly for years, taking beatings from the rain and the wind, but it was always strong, and didn’t break down until we let it. When I finished, I’d end up at the far side of the clotheslines, away from the house, hemmed in on one side by dangling sleeves and on the other by a broad shed and pines. I could smell the trees and the shaded earth beneath them on one side, and the damp cotton, on the other side, already giving in to the wind. And if I was lucky, no one could actually see me. It was like those forts my brother and I used to build beneath the willow tree; they were only a success if we were completely hidden, isolated from all the troubles of junior school (like that was hard). It was strange, really, her calling me Fluff; she hadn’t done that in years. I don’t know how it came to mind. In fact, it was my brother who called me Fluff when we were children. I finally insisted that he call me Nathaniel when I reached high school. “I’m no longer a child,” I’d say. But even then he still called me Nat. Now I’d let him call me Fluff all the time, if he could cope. He came every few weeks and took Mum out for lunch when she first got ill. They’d leave me at home, saying, “Have a rest. Enjoy the break.” But I always ended up doing those jobs I couldn’t manage if she was home. I’d be even more exhausted when he came back. He’d be anxious to leave having spent two whole hours making conversation with her, but knew that the memory would just be his. What I wouldn’t give for an afternoon to myself. I’d go to the bookshop in town and browse for at least half an hour before choosing a book, a mystery probably. Then I’d go to the café next door, order a cup of coffee and start the first chapter. I reached the end of the first clothesline, filling the last bit with socks and underwear so that they were hidden from view by the garage. “No need for the neighbours to see your smalls. Better to leave it to their imagination,” my mother always said, laughing. Oh how I miss the sound of her laughter, the giggles until she could barely breathe, the loud chuckle that seemed to be endless, until now. Bradley’s voice rang out again “Unlucky Andy, you’ve been 29

caught and for you, the game is over.” As I worked my way back towards the lilac, my mother called out from the kitchen window, “Would you like some tea, honey?” I hesitated in shock and then ran for the door. “Thanks, Mum, that would be lovely. Let me help you okay.” “Oh no, Fluff, I insist. You do so much for me; let me at least get you a cup of tea dear.” I don’t know how she acknowledges the work I do for her. She stood there with two empty mugs, as if each one represented the memories of love we have together, surrounded by a solid comfort but empty inside. She longingly gazed at the tea bags elegantly hugging each other in the tin, as though there was nothing in there, trying to scoop up sugar with the handle of the spoon. “We’re running low on sugar,” she said, as the handle couldn’t grab a single grain. “Don’t worry, Mum, I’m sure dad will get some.” I said to reassure her. I turned off the tap that was running into an empty sink. The kettle sat expectantly on the draining board. “That’s funny, I think I smell gas.” She said. I lunged for the knob on the stove. “You go on through, Mum. I’ll just open some windows.” I’d have to remember to turn off the gas at the wall before leaving her alone again. Mum turned back into the kitchen, away from the television. “Are you making tea, dear? I’d love a cup.” “Of course, Mum, I’ll just bring it to you in a second.” “That will be a fast service.” She said with a smile, proud of her little wit. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her smile; it was a nice feeling. “You’re so good to me, darling. What do you think about pork chops for dinner tonight? Your father loves them.” “Perfect. Here’s your tea, Mum.” “Oh thank you, dear, how did you know? Just what I wanted; a cup of tea.” She turned back to Bradley and his questions, and I headed back outside. It was one of those days again, when he was haunting us. She’d keep mentioning him, waiting for him to come home, getting supplies, what he wanted for dinner. If I could just wait to tell her until after her supper, then she’d eat something before the grief started again. Sometimes I just wanted to tell her first thing in the morning, “By the way, Mum, in case you don’t remember, Dad passed away two years ago. I’m so sorry.” But she wouldn’t remember more than five minutes anyway and I would have to go through the agony of telling her more than once that day. I couldn’t do that. Not more than once in one day. I finished hanging the last of the clothes and stood, looking out to the stars. The closing theme tune of The Chase trickled from the window. Only another minute and twenty two seconds before I had to go back in. I closed my eyes and breathed in the cold air. A blackbird flew overhead, calling for its lover, probably to settle in until morning. I listened to the leaves breaking on the branches up above me. If I stood quietly enough, maybe she’d think I was back in my old apartment and she’d forget that I even lived here. Maybe she could 30

manage without me. Maybe, just for tonight, she wouldn’t need me. Maybe she wouldn’t even notice that I wasn’t there. “Oh dear, Fluff, I’ve spilled my tea! Fluff, where are you?!” I hesitated a moment, feeling the cool summer breeze blow across me. “I’m here, Mum, hanging the laundry. I’m just coming.” I stood a little longer, the corner of the sheets slapping greedily against my calves. Then, leaving my sanctuary, I turned and made my way through the lines of too bright blankets and went back inside to my mother, leaving my fort for another night. Those winds were calm as ever that night, brushing against our lilac bush. As they are now, sweeping symmetrically against one another, little lilac children sleeping by each other, a lilac snippet for dad and a lilac snippet for mum, gently sitting on the ground above them. The sad belief that those snippets won’t last long and wilt away is unbearable for me.

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.

Ode to the Pizza Man Jay Kent Oh how I worship thee, bringer of dough Thou who hast the power to deliver joy If you were depressed, no one would know You separate the pizza men from the pizza boys Your philosophy is like that of Socrates Why are your goods packaged in a square box While its shape is as circular as the Sun? Your wisdom brings customers to their knees How you get your skills, I am flummoxed Whilst you still find a way to make bakery fun You are always there for me, just a phone call away You know what I like and I despise You are always there, come night or day For Dial a Pizza is where true happiness lies Nobody can top you like the toppings of pizza Whether it be tomato or ham Or chicken or pineapple You bless my welcome mat like Mother Theresa Accompanied by circular dough topped with spam And you get all the ladies saying, Dayum he’s fine-apple” So I ring my order before my memory slips And I expect the food to be sexy As I demand a pizza and portion of chips Sprinkled with cheese and accompanied by Pepsi For your wondrous food fills one with such delight Because it’s just so damn fine So to you, Mr Hemingway – first name of Dan. I shall make the square box a shrine In commemoration of your godly might For you’re not only a great friend, but a great pizza man

The Fisherman A Poem of Forgiveness Dedicated to God Jaime Gray It’s not unusual for the odd floating maggot to appear, As if we believe maggots can swim, And for the Fisherman to continue insulting us. Only the Fisherman has his own maggot. Like the warming glow of the sun, it is central to all in his world, But even through my rippling window, I can see this maggot for what it is; Seemingly creating a sense of calm, like that of today’s sky, when all it brings is thunder. Yet still the Fisherman waits as though he is the one with the upper hand, with his bait, and his lure, Despite his idleness in thought – failing To recognise his own absence both in life and refuge.

Albeit immersed in unforgiving workloads and impossible deadlines And still reeling for an answer to his prayers, The Fisherman never fails to inspire. The Fisherman has hope. Casting and reeling, casting and reeling nothing, The Fisherman moves round the lake every day, only to return with nothing. Time is no factor – time is nothing. Without his catch, the Fisherman is nothing. Quite the contrary my feathered friend, The Fisherman is everything.

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.

Antique Candlestick Katie Foster Upon the mantelshelf, Once adorned as a centrepiece, Transfigured through dusty cobwebs No longer standing polished as it was. Taken from its honoured position, Upon detailed floral lace cloths; Once used for a graceful light in the gloom, Transfigured into something with no meaning. No further wind could blow against a flame Taken away before the object was removed. Upon the curtains the wind now reigned Once in power, Sustained. Now that modern technology has taken charge No more flame is needed.

This is just to sayâ&#x20AC;Ś Eleanor Wilkinson You remember the Chocolate bars You so desperately craved For yesterday? I stole them And kept them Upstairs for me. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sorry But do you Forgive me? I never ate them. But boy they look good!

Chilli Eleanor Wilkinson No red rose. No rose garden. For you, I give something special. It is a unique outlook on our love. Ready? I give you…A chilli! A red chilli full of heat. The heat that sparked us as two. One look. One smile. That is all it took. A chilli with a passionate red skin. Deep with my love when you are near. Deep like my ache when you are gone. Will you still love me tomorrow? But a chilli has a bite. It enflames the mouth. The senses. Like my temper. Short. Sharp. How do you deal with me? But, like the cool drink of milk You are always there to calm me. Comfort me. Through good and bad. What I am trying to say is… We work together. Like a chilli dish. Heat vs spice. I am your little chilli. Our love will never be dull.

Coffee India Steggall Kiss my lips And awake me Three little sips And oh baby Prince Charming? I’m Sleeping Beauty! Awake me, good sir It’s your duty! 36

Universe India Steggall Death and life have been in love, Since Uranus has lain above, Life wore a cloak of water and stars, And kept gifts for death in soul-covered jars, Death wore a cloak of nothing at all, He doesn’t stand, doesn’t walk. Death. Crawls

Life sends death countless gift, Tigers and men and pretty little swifts. Death and life cannot ever be together, So she values his gifts and keeps them forever

A Raindrop’s Journey India Steggall Side by side, With the huge white Sun, Up with the Gods , And the dead and the gone I saw your loved one, With great white wings, And by the moon I sat, With all the dead kings My brothers and sisters, Around and below, Lay in oceans and plants, And the mountains that grow

Sleeping Beauty Samantha Whitby No one hundred days or nights. No one hundred years. But in one hundred words, you shall abide by this curse, and see death by the lock of our passionate kiss. Red curls shall weave about your shoulders as you sink into the swell of the tomb. Your precious white skin, flawless as ever, my love – but no longer embellished with those glimmering green eyes. Your voice… but a ghost. 37

Now rest, my fair prince, my forever sleeping beauty. And your kingdom shall know of the wrath of this fair maiden, seduced by evil and the curse of a witch.

Loving Treachery (An Extract) Zac Howe How things came to pass? Easy enough…One day, my childhood friends and I – Vasco (“Repo”), Tina (“Two-Tricks”), and Napoleon (“The Midget”) – were having a casual drink in our favourite pub and place of “legitimate business”, The Vaillancourt. We were regulars there. Repo – being the tough guy he was – always had a Kauffman. A top of the range vodka produced in Russia in limited quantities. I never asked Repo how he managed to get it into the country – or how he paid for it. But hell, he was the kind of person who’d rip your throat out for no good reason and I’d hate to think what he’d have done to my scrawny hide…Two-Tricks always loved company; that’s why she’d never buy her own drinks. Instead she’d get some unlucky punk to start a drinking contest with her – shots preferably – so he’d wake up the next morning with a killer pain in the membrane and an even more impressive tab to pay. Napoleon the Midget looked like a kid but he was older than me, angrier and more resentful too. He hated people who looked down at him and he didn’t have many friends. He had us though and we had him, each other, forever. We were a family…We were the family. No petty thieves messed with us and as long as they paid their dues we wouldn’t mess with them. If they didn’t…well, let’s just say the Midget and Repo would have to find out how what their internal organs were worth on the “Secret Market”… When we got back to our little hideout, I told everyone to take a seat in the living room. Two Tricks could read me like a damn book…She knew when something was up and she did not appreciate secrets. I went to the bathroom to compose myself like I always did before I pitched ideas to the group. I opened the door to the living room and stepped through it. Repo nabbed the remote off Napoleon and switched off the TV behind me. “Hey you! Give it here!” Napoleon snarled towards Repo. The forever silent brick wall of a man simply smirked at Napoleon. “Peace.” I spoke up. “There’s no fighting here you two, you know that. Good families don’t fight, they love!” I gestured for Repo to move over. “Show him some love, Repo,” I instructed the tanned seven-foot tall beast. Repo moved over and wrapped his arm around Napoleon’s shoulders. “Lily-livered sack of….” Napoleon muttered as he leant into Repo. “Come on, Boss!” Two-Tricks spoke up, “Don’t hold out on us!” Sitting at the end of the sofa was Two-Tricks; she had her head rested on a pillow atop the arm. “I…” I paused for dramatic effect, “Have foreseen our ascension…” “You don’t mean…” “I do,” I cut off Two-Tricks’ interruption. I moistened my lips. “Don Donovan Donnerson, head of the Donnerson crime family, as you all know, is expecting a large shipment of guns tomorrow night.” “And we’re gonna take it?” the Midget asked. 38

Starry Night over the Rhone Zac Howe It is bright tonight, The stars in the Heavens Did swim to us from the void. But it is bright tonight. Couples watch the watery Reflection, pondering, hoping To pluck stars from the sky. Even together, it is bright. Tonight they watch the stars Only to see each other’s faces. They might not see tomorrow But they see tonight, Together.

Flowers and Alcohol Rosie Rivers I Wish that You could come Back to me and Stay this time around. You left us with the hope That things could get better yet Your absence refuses to go. We have missed you since you've been gone. Mum told me she bought flowers for you, I told her you'd have preferred wine But she told me that the Dead can’t drink away Their sorrows, dear, They’re already Gone.

Urgency Solomon Holmes Recreational dependence he called it. A so-called acquired taste that he Felt was so unforgivingly bittersweet. He drew from her experiences as much As he knew they were his downfall. But Oh so divine was the spectacle; Insatiable was the ascent. He couldn’t let go of the moment returning Increasingly frequently after almost certainly Gone. It became a considerable part of his person He couldn’t bring himself to cut the ties Between him and the beautiful people Atrociously shameless in the plight of his own urgency.

Absent Minded Solomon Holmes He’s there, but not entirely Misdirection personified. He’s there but he longs for His absence to be applied. Productivity is sparse A gift for the special occasion He’s present, but not entirely Thought process on vacation. Effort seems inappropriate. Perhaps even insulting. Standardized units of boredom With no sign of them halting. He approaches, thinks sparingly He barely even tries. He’s there, but not entirely Misdirection personified. He’s there but he longs for His absence to be applied.

Listen Harriet Tricker You can hear the breathing Of the twenty-two thousand, on the day of Remembrance The sound of the marching officials And the silent instructions they’re discretely given If you listen You can hear the pounding of the players’ hearts The reflection in their minds And the anticipation in their feet. The whistle’s blown An expanse of applause fills the silence Kicked by two in the centre circle The sound of the ball in play The silence is filled but they will always Remember.

Our Girl Part 1 – Autumn Isabella O’Reilly Leaves Falling Like burnt flesh, Ribboned and red Patching on a grey Concrete quilt that slaps that Girl's feet: the one over there Who paces the park as the sun Bleeds out the dark. Her name is a plea, Like an aged man who whines for Death's Release. The cold sings and the Clouds smother the stars. Child then, woman now, Ophelia, Brotherless For ten Years

Still doesn't know what it means. The park Quietens in the waning of Heat and light, but the wind won't Sleep and wars with the night. The cooked umber of Autumn still roars In the shade But it Rots In a Different Way. How can they Say his honour will Never fade though his bones Turn to dust more and more each Day? His uniform joins the blaze With the calm of his sister's childhood

Days And nights That danced hand In hand with their Parents' fights. She stands At the edge of the lake And pulls from her pocket a Metal crucifix that was his. He was given it on his sixteenth Birthday. Their mother wanted him To pray, though he did not care For a God who was as Silent as his own Mouth. He spoke of Nothing to Any Man

And he liked it that way. His sister Clutched at his silence to be near Him by the water, for it Was all she ever had Of him. But his stark Absence was worse Than his soft, Living Breath. She could Feel him then. His warm kindness She found nowhere else. The metal of the cross Was a cold, cold remembrance Of how his empty room became, For a hollow, pointless loss, a tomb.

Now, Something Caught her eye. At her feet a Black caterpillar Rippled on by the Water's edge as a little Storm cloud made his slow rounds in the Red park, over Ophelia's head. How it writhed in the mud and shook And coiled like a spring that was Ready to snap! Then a Shudder. Then a stop. The wind struck the Shaking world With a Howl.

Ophelia stared as it started To rain. The drops splashed on eyelash Like lace. And she pondered the Earth â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a peculiar Place- where to watch life, Once spitting, go Out like a Flame is Fine. Normal. As normal As age and time, And falling leaves that Autumn plucks from the lines Of gnarled trees. Winter was near. That's why the caterpillar died. Winter has no time for butterflies.

Cold, And cruel Winter was Panting nearer, Rageful breath colder Than the yesteryear passed. Ophelia cast her Eyes over the water and saw Her there. Winter. Looming in the mist. And her callous claws were scratching At a place hidden deep down, Cloaked in years of loss. Under lock and key And binding chains, She waited For the Frost.

Beauty Ellie Sampson Though there is ugliness in the world, There is hidden beauty. It comes in the form of a child’s laugh, Or an old couple smiling and talking. You see it in the eyes of those lost in books, And hear it in the voices laced with passion. It’s on display across parks, And lights up the night sky. You hear it on the radio And hear it in museums. There is beauty in everything, But most of all there’s beauty in you.

That Moment Phoebe Sizer That moment when, after many hours of hard work, and a painful hand, you look back at your short story, poem, prose, novel, wanting it to last forever in history. That is the same moment when the pen slips out of your clasped hand, the paper crinkled in the middle. Then it is discarded to the corner, the once beautiful black words etched into the white paper, now brown with age on a moulded yellow sheet. No, it whispers, it won't last forever, I will be forgotten over time, thrown away, unimportant, like you sitting there, pen in hand, just a visitor in this world, like me, always wanting.

Featured Writers Dom Brock Chloe Burwood-Webster Rhiannon Culley Caitlin Douglas Katie Foster Betty Fox Charlotte Gayfer Kayleigh Gissing Elliott Goodyear Jaime Gray Solomon Holmes Zac Howe Jessica Jenkins Jay Kent Petar Milenkovic Connor Noble Isabella Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Reilly Sian Perry Megan Riggey Rosie Rivers Ellie Sampson Phoebe Sizer Georgia Slinn India Steggall Harriet Tricker Samantha Whitby Eleanor Wilkinson Cover Artwork Stella Woolnough (produced as part of her A Level Art submission â&#x20AC;&#x201C; many thanks for permission to use it)

The following poem was awarded a “Highly Commended” in the 2014 Aldeburgh Young Poets Competition – one of only two sixth form poems highlighted by the judges:

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 get 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).