Icasm Magazine Issue #1

Issue #1 , Oct/Nov 201 1

Icasm

Magazine

"People have always been disappointing.

This generation is as drug-addled and drunk as the last, and the one before that, and the one before that. Ok, so, maybe, at the turn of the century people were more restrained, but at what cost? "

The people who made this issue happen Editor

Sapphire Mason-Brown

Contributors

Irene Amadi, Aida Amoako, Holly Braine, Jen Considine, Kirsty Dewhurst, Faizah Din, Adam Dobrik, Rosie Fox, Yasmeen Khan, Greg Needham, James Price, Dannyell Rowlinson, Hannah Sharland , Mark Sforza, Zara-Anne Sowah, Holly Standfast, Charles Stanley, Isabella Steel, Kate Tattersfield, Brandon Seager, Peter Wysocki

Many Thanks

Chase the Enemy, Clara Engel, Forms, Laura Hocking, IdeasTap, Ellie Jones, Grant Olding, Abigail Tartellin, V Inspired, Alex Winston,

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Icasm

def. figurative expression

Adopted from Save the Words

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Literature

Contents

5 Abigail Tartellin discusses her debut novel, Flick, antiheroes and her upcoming projects

Music

9 Alex Winston on her inspirations and lazy comparisons 1 6 An interview with upcoming Chelmsford-based band, Chase the Enemy

Arts

1 9 Upcoming Canadian musician Clara Engel talks creative processes, time-travel and what she would tell her younger self 27 London four-piece, Forms, discuss their music and The Riot on Redchurch Street

30 The man behind the songs of One Man, Two Guvnors: An interview with Grant Olding

1 5 Yasmeen Khan on acclaimed photographer Charley Murrell

35 Talent with a Heart: An Interview with Laura Hocking

43 Miriam Elia on the importance of radio and the plight of hipster culture

41 Kirsty Dewhurst explains why Mechanical Bride is one to watch

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Short Stories & Prose

Poetry

1 2 The Best of Us by Brandon Seager

26 The Egyptian Winter by Mark Sforza

23 The Curious Child by Jen Considine

32 Hasta Luego, Never Goodbye by Isabella Steel

34 An Interlude in Plum by Rosie Fox

33 Honey Afternoon by Hannah Sharland

40 A 'Lifetime' Later by Holly Standfast

39 Judged by Zara-Anne Sowah

49 Sixty-Sexen Days by Dannyell Rowlinson

44 Ode to the Architect; the Building of Beauty by Isabella Steel

51 The Storm by Jen Considine

45 On Seeing the London Riots by Mark Sforza

53 You Will Meet a Stranger by Charles Stanley

46 Sister I'm A... by James Price 47 The Scarlet Thread Anthology: Joie du Vivre and Fog of Love by Peter Wysocki 52 Untitled by Mark Sforza

21 On cultural diferences in the UK

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Abigail Tartellin

Interview by Kate Tattersfield To say that Abigail Tarttelin's CV is illustrious would be something of an understatement. At only 23 she is a published writer, actress, blogger... the list never ceases to end. And despite these accolades, this Grimsby born entrepreneur of the arts still manages to retain a refreshing air of modesty, coupled with a down to earth sense of humor. Her debut novel Flick was published earlier this year, and was dubbed ‘a slow burnt cult classic’ by GQ Magazine.

I have always been a fan of the gritty ‘social realism’ genre, and my experience of reading Flick was akin to that of watching, say, a Shane Meadows film. The novel is set in contemporary Marske –by-the-Sea situated in the North East of England. It tracks the (quite often stoned) musings of 1 5 year old protagonist Will Flicker and his entourage, who philosophise over issues such as ‘the art of the right amount of stoned’ and ‘the merits of Coke and Pepsi’. Suffocated by his hometown, disillusioned with a failing education system and with very little to do, Flick must overcome his demons in order to sustain his relationship with the enigmatic new girl in town, Rainbow and ultimately break free from Marske’s ‘circle of life’.

After having avidly read Flick and perused Tarttelin’s website and literary blogs, I met her in Camden to talk about the inspiration behind Flick and projects currently in the pipeline.

What inspired you to first start writing Flick?

I was 1 9 and I was spending a lot of time in the north east and I never intended it to be a book, I was just scribbling, something that I’ve always done. It’s more of a compulsion than anything else (which makes it really hard to write the second one). But as the book progressed it became obvious that it was a story that I was really passionate about- about somebody who has fantastic qualities and so much potential but is disenfranchised by society, the media and education. I really wanted to finish it and became committed to telling the story.

Did you always know you wanted to be a writer, or is something that you came to discover more recently?

I would say I always wanted to be an actress. I always knew I would write a book but thought I’d do it when I was 40 and had something to say. But then realised I knew a lot about 1 5 year olds and I’d read a lot of books about 1 5 year olds, and a lot were inaccurate, but because teenagers are generally disenfranchised by realist literature there’s no one to actually say that ‘this is inaccurate’. People who aren’t educated very well don’t read a lot so they don’t know what’s being written about them. So I wanted to write something about them and us, and have it be realistic, to be a voice for the voiceless.

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In the novel the protagonist Will feels that his small Northern community is underrepresented in British politics, and as you’ve touched upon, literature. Do you feel that Northern societies are somewhat side-lined when it comes to the arts?

Absolutely. I see it everywhere. I meet a lot of talented people, who work really hard, but they’re all from the South, and they do all have RP accents. It becomes really obvious when you hang around backstage at a festival, in the artist’s area in a theatre or when meeting other authors that they generally come from the South, people generally want to hear about the South. Something I've been interested to note when getting to know the literary world and publishing industry over the past few years is that there seems to be a tendency to buy books written about London. I think audiences are different. Publishers responded well to Flick but readers have raved about it.

In the chapter ‘Ramblings of a Coked Up Critic’, Kyle refers to Irving Welsh and Orwell to illustrate his point about the ‘anti-hero’s’ assigned role within society. How have these writers influenced you in terms of the anti-hero figure?

There was this great essay that stuck with me, it’s from the orange version of Trainspotting, and it’s about how the anti- hero always dies, because the anti- hero isn't acceptable to society. He must be punished in the end. Trainspotting was about an anti- hero who was disenfranchised by society, but is still alive and out there in the world, and I think that’s a completely truthful way to tell the story. Because generally, the anti- hero doesn’t die, they are still out in the world, and with Flick I wanted the ending to be realistic (I don’t want to give it away though)!

How did you go about getting the book published?

A lot of people ask me that, and I did it exactly the way it says on the agent’s website. I finished the book when I was 21 , and I decided to send that edit to the top 6 publishers in the UK, because why not?! Two got back to me and they requested some manuscripts. One read it and said he really liked it but it wasn’t his thing. The other one said ‘I love this, but I don’t represent YA stuff’, and then she got back to me and said, actually I’m definitely up for working on this. I then met my agent Jo, who is incredibly lovely and cool, understands the story of Flick and what I’m trying to get at, and I have a lot of faith in her as an agent.

How did you initially react when you heard that GQ had labelled your debut novel as a potential "slow-burnt cult classic"?

I once heard somebody say that the most successful people are those that don’t react to things, and I’m hoping that one day I’ll be really successful because I really don’t react to stuff, I just think ‘oh that’s really nice’! I think it’s because if you want to get anywhere in the arts you know have to work really hard and know that that’s what you really want to do with your life. So no matter what happens I’m going to work really hard, and I will work in the arts for the rest of my life.

As well as a novelist, you’re also books editor at Phoenix Magazine, a scriptwriter and actress. Tell me about any up and coming projects currently in the pipeline…

The September issue of Phoenix Magazine is out, my first one as books editor, we’ve got some really cool

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articles so I’m excited about that. The official launch was on September the 1 5th, to coincide with fashion week. I’m also really excited about a feature film script that my business partner and I are working on, it’s called Buddy Movie . It’s a boy-girl road trip movie. It’s really, really funny and irreverent and feels like it’s the sophomore project, after Flick, for me. We’ve had good reports from a major US studio and are looking for producers with their help.

As the books editor for Phoenix Mag, and the newly appointed Books blogger for The Huffington Post, can you recommend us any new or interesting reads?

The first book that I reviewed for Huff Post was My American Unhappiness by Dean Bakopoulos. It’s an amazing book. It’s really philosophical, and sweet, as it’s about a guy who’s really egalitarian, he’s liberal, he’s hot… I thought I fancied him! And I started reading it again today, despite having read it two weeks ago.

Finally, what advice would you give to any young aspiring writers?

I think one of the best pieces of advice that was given to me was: if you want to be a writer, write. The advice I would probably give people would be: if you want to be a writer finish something. Because everybody that speaks to me says that they have something that they’re halfway through. If you meet that publisher or agent, you have to have it ready. So in short my advice would be finish it, be ready.

Flick by Abigail Tarttelin (Beautiful Books, £7.99) is out now.

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Alex Winston

Interview by Sapphire Mason-Brown Michigan native Alex Winston has come long way since leaving her hometown and heading to the Big Apple to work with production team, The Knocks. A duo who've worked with such artists as Ellie Goulding and Rihanna. Almost immediately after the move, she began working on her Sister Wife EP which proved that Alex Winston was not simply another female singersongwriter in a sea of similar artists.

It's been a busy year for Alex Winston, in February she released the Sister Wife EP followed by a tour of the USA and Europe, one which included some of the world's biggest festivals including South by Southwest and V Festival. In September came the wonderfully catchy Velvet Elvis EP, preceding her tour with The Naked and Famous this Winter. In the midst of her busy schedule, Alex found the time to answer a few questions for us.

What inspires you musically?

I guess sincerity. There is nothing worse to me then music that feels uninspired and phony. I've been pretty vocal about my love for early rock and roll acts like Chuck Berry and Little Richard, but I also love country artists like Hank Williams and Townes Van Zandt. PJ Harvey, Nick Cave and Joanna Newsom are some other modern artists I really enjoy.

You had the opportunity to open for Chuck Berry who you describe as one of your influences, what was that like? Would you say that opening for an act that holds significance to you impacted your performance?

Meeting Chuck Berry was the one time in my life that I've ever been starstruck. I'm generally not that interested in meeting my idols for fear that they might not really resemble what I've built them up to be in my head, but Chuck Berry has such a presence that just sort of leaves you speechless. I also read that he punched Keith Richards in the face, so it was probably best I kept my mouth shut, smiled and just said hello. His performance was great as well. It’s really encouraging to see someone at his age putting on a better show than a lot of my contemporaries.

Who would you like to share a stage with more than anyone else?

Dolly Parton

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In recent weeks you’ve played a number of festivals with Berlin Festival still to come, before you embark on a number of tour dates with The Naked and Famous, do you find yourself approaching festival and concert performance in different ways?

I wouldn't say I've approached festival performances differently, I just think the audience responds differently. People go to festivals to enjoy themselves and let loose and though people go to see club shows for the same reason, festival goers seem more uninhibited...maybe its the ecstasy.

What’s been your most exciting gig to date?

Well I opened for Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros in August, that was pretty exciting.

I've been a fan of theirs for a long time and I finally got to see them live, which was a treat. I love the atmosphere they create.

Describe what your song ‘Sister Wife’ is about, is it as polygynous as the title suggests?

It might be. All I'll say is that its not about lesbians, everyone seems to think it is and its not.

Your vocal style has been compared to such artists as Kate Bush, what have been the most flattering comparisons you’ve come across thus far? Have you come across any that really made you scratch your head?

Most of them make me scratch my head because the comparisons rarely have to do with the actual music or vocals themselves. There are a handful of people I often get lumped in the same category as but I think they are lazy comparisons. Its just easy for people to place young women in the same musical clump when the fact that they are women is a moot point. I've just learned to except it and say thank you.

Who have you been listening to as of late?

A bit of Karen Dalton, The Black Keys, tUnE-yArDs, Girls, Blake Mills, The Beach Boys always....

What have you got planned for the final months of 201 1 ?

Well, besides the TNAF tour, maybe a bit more writing for my album and spending some time back home in Detroit! www.alexwinstonofficial.com

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The Best of Us

By Brandon Seager

I spend a lot of time thinking, “What went wrong?” That late Saturday saw this question asked firmly and furiously – it’s hardly surprising, you lose a job peddling overpriced stuffed peppers, olives and fusion chutneys, via email no less, and you can’t help but feel you’ve hit rock bottom – and in the face of all this, I asked, “What went wrong?” Julia had told me this is a negative way of thinking, and that I should have been asking myself, “How can I make it right?”, but I tend to play out my might-have-beens in these lovely little scenarios that all sprout from the point where something went wrong. Then I shout and stamp about because life didn’t actually play out like that, because, as we already know, something went wrong, which – I love Julia, I do, but I had shoved this line right in her optimistic little face – is exactly how I make it right, and it was my plan of action for this particular evening.

It’s not a question I’d asked myself during the day. The sun was out – early summer, this is, which means autumn will be horrible and prematurely cold, but sod it, look, the sun is actually out! – and I went to the park with Julia and we ate dirt cheap meal deals on questionable meat wraps and semi-flat soft drinks. I call it a park, it’s a wide stretch of grass in front of a church, separated from the roar of thousands of taxis by a thin strip of gum-encrusted pavement, and even that’s filled with ignorant tourists and angry commuters at the right time of day. But when you’re out there, on your patch of dying grass, London is very much alive, and it feels a bit humbling to know you’re a part of it. A bit. Don’t go overboard, you’re not Boris bloody Johnson or anything, but misdirecting one camera-clutching foreigner searching for the Tower Bridge meant I’d done my duty. I had a right to feel smug. I still had a job.

But then the evening drew in, and I came home to find the company for which I’d worked had abruptly gone bust. People don’t buy this rubbishy, pretentious vegetable food enough to justify basing an entire business around it, apparently, and, for the idealistic CEO who had not yet hit thirty, this was evidently an epiphany. I found myself beyond the realms of lividness – I could have told you that, I remember shouting, literally, at the computer screen, I could have told you your garlic and mango chutney is about as vomitworthy as it sounds! I’d hoped there was maybe some over-hyped organic restaurant he’d been supplying, but no, one-hundred per cent of the income came from this little stall in one of the least popular food markets in the city, food so pungent you couldn’t even force the free samples onto the few browsers who passed by. My fault, perhaps, for not caring enough to look into the business model, but I’m no LSE graduate.

Julia had apparently had enough of me hurling profanities at my computer screen, so she knocked meekly on my door and told me she’d ordered pizza, her treat, and I said I’d eat it, so long as it wasn’t riddled with peppers, olives or chutney. She looked a little upset – of course it had peppers and olives, if you ask for an everything pizza you sure as hell get peppers and olives – but the monitor tan wasn’t doing me any

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good, and since Julia was naïve enough to try to calm me down, the least I could do was humour her. I joined her in the kitchen, where we munched in silence through the tension, until Julia finally decided to shatter it with a remarkable lack of finesse by making the ever-astute observation, “You’re very angry.”

“Of course!” – I might have said it a little louder than necessary – “Of course I’m angry! And not just because I lost my job, that’s just part of it, but look around you. How can you not be angry? I’ve always believed things are pretty rubbish, but seriously – well they are, right, everything’s rubbish.”

In that moment, I really did mean it: everything was rubbish. The world, that was rubbish. People were rubbish. But I also believed, in all my irrationality, that it was destined to be rubbish. I’ve been told by friends to be sceptical of the concept of a golden age of Britain. My parents lark on and on and on about it – “When I was your age, schools were apparently in the middle of nowhere and we all made a six hour journey to the classroom, plus we only had one pair of shoes between us because your grandmother made the rest into soup” – that sort of holier-than-thou, youth-of-today style rubbish. It’s the mentality of the older generations that seems to assume manual labour gets you into heaven, because God loves muscles, right? Wrong. If there is a God, he hates everyone – or he should – because, actually, there was no golden age of Britain. People have always been disappointing. This generation is as drug-addled and drunk as the last, and the one before that, and the one before that. Ok, so, maybe, at the turn of the century people were more restrained, but at what cost? – oppressing homosexuals and hanging people from wooden beams, that cost. In my head I screamed, “I’d challenge anyone, past or present, to convince me things are not rubbish.”

Rest assured, I thought, in my internal diatribe, I won’t be telling my children, “When I was your age, things were better.” A golden age of Britain has yet to come. Because – broken record, quite clearly, but it’s oh so very true – something went wrong. When I considered the issue on a much larger scale, it became apparent that I would have to go back years and years to find the roots of these social problems. It’s entirely possible that the end of World War Two resulted in a night-of-passion baby for an ill-prepared young couple, who they struggled to raise, who struggled to raise her daughter, who in turn struggled to raise hers, who, as a result, was sitting opposite me trying to make me feel better with slimy pizza and the least insightful observations ever. So whose fault was it? Hitler’s? An overconfident recruitment officer?

Durex for its lack of availability? It was becoming harder and harder to find someone to blame – maybe, now, because there wasn’t anyone to blame, but I didn’t see that. I only saw red.

Julia looked hurt. And right then, I felt a twang of something terrible, and the angry voice in my head decided to turn on me, whispering in my ear: “You’re selfish.” And it was right, really. So what if things weren’t going my way? Somewhere in the midst of all these muddled, angry thoughts, this stream of furious consciousness, I must have been aware that, as much as I tried to translate things onto a universal scale – because I am pessimistic by nature, and I do notice the faults in the world – it was really just me.

Maybe because I’m some sort of sadistic bastard who likes to think other people are suffering too, I’m not sure, but I was sure as hell trying to make Julia suffer, as I could see, even inside, as I fired mental insults at her, her mother and her grandmother. I was convinced she’d walk out, like she’d heard what I was

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thinking, and immediately I’d forget this moment of sad calmness and simply add “Julia leaves me” as another stitch to my Bayeux Tapestry chronicling one awful, awful day, but she didn’t. She just rubbed my hand, and that was all I needed.

“It happens to the best of us,” she said, and, in spite of all the vagueness in her statement, I knew exactly what she meant. A man misses his train and goes, “What’s wrong with the world?!”, or a woman gets short-changed at the market and goes, “What’s wrong with the world?!”, or I lose my job and go, “What’s wrong with the world?!” Or perhaps my language had been more colourful than that, I’m not quite sure, but the point remained the same: at the end of the day, life was not a cancer. I was just angry. I was still angry – Julia’s simple words of wisdom or otherwise and her offering of pizza could not quell me completely – but I still went back to our Saturday lunch in the park, misdirecting tourists, in the seldom-seen sunshine, and the ranting and raving in my head fell down just a notch.

Make no mistake, being out of a job was a serious thing, and I still harboured a great deal of resentment to my stupid unprofessional ex-boss and his stupid unprofessional company, and I knew I’d soon be back to my world-weary frustrations, shouting, “What went wrong?”. But the words still rang true: “It happens to the best of us.” We were still again, Julia just gently grasping my hand as it rested upon the table, not seeming to mind that her little finger was just grazing the greasy crust of my slice, but now we were really still, because – as I’d realised, my epiphany, better than the sudden awareness of cruddy sales figures – it was just us. It was funny: suddenly I felt so small, yet it was just what I needed. No global scale, no mountain from a molehill – but I guess that’s just anger, isn’t it? It might sound like an unsatisfying conclusion, but, through the power of comparison, I felt pretty good.

“There’s always tomorrow,” was Julia’s closing statement. She was right: tomorrow would happen, regardless of me. And, despite myself, I couldn’t help but smile, just for a second.

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Charley Murrell

By Yasmeen Khan

Charley Murrell is a photographer, and Documentary Photography graduate. She is particularly renowned for offering something unique to the table with her immense talent and prowess as a photographer.

Throughout her career as a photographer, she has used photography as a powerful tool to explore and give insight into many issues that she strongly feels about.

Constructed Childhoods

is Charley’s most cherished and honourable project. This project successfully enlightens and explores the intense influence of images via magazines, advertisements, television, the internet, other media toys and some food products that are continuously succeeding in taking an upper hand over a child’s everyday life.

Her project depicts how these showbiz images are beginning to affect childrens’ mentalities through their aspirations, which compels them to perceive themselves in a negative manner in order to fit in a certain A-list category.

The Constructed Childhoods project consists of a batch of images. Each image is broken down into two parts, exhibiting and dividing a child’s surreal and real world. In other words, it dives into the profound reflections of a child’s surreal world via the impact of showbiz images and how they wish to perceive their future roles as adults. The surreal world then contrasts itself with the child’s real world, which displays their glumness over their realist life due to the overshadowing negative effect of those showbiz images.

In 201 0, Charley was honoured with a Regional Salisbury Award to resume with this privileged project.

Her zeal towards this project was admired by many, which resulted in the project winning the Royal Photographic Society under-25 International Print competition with one of the prints. And as an additional brownie point, she was also shortlisted the Guardian Student Media Award.

Through these prestigious awards and nominations, Charley has implicitly proved her versatility as a talented photographer.

Her other prestigious personal projects include Brick Children, Music Videos, Child’s Play, The Road Home, Sweet Poison, The Face of Fashion, Re-create, Shepherds Hill, Nanna, Sidewalk, George and Travel.

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Chase the Enemy Interview by Holly Braine

Modern music is constantly changing, growing and adapting to the taste of teenagers all over the world, so when Chase The Enemy formed a band together in the small town of Chelmsford, it looked like we were in for a fresh, new contemporary group. An alternative rock band made up of Jessica Moore, James Buck, Josh Dawson, Tom Bellman and Tom Moore, they have worked outrageously hard to keep playing and gigging at many shows across the local area. With their first recorded EP under their belt and many appearances at Y Festival, Barhouse and a tour just to name a few, it’s no wonder they’re proud of their achievements. If you haven’t heard of them yet, look out for them in the future – they’ll be storming the UK and more.

The name of the band is quite interesting and unique, how did you come up with it?

James Buck: We liked 'the enemy' in a name and we wanted something before it so it was down to choosing the word that fitted the best with what we wanted to have.

Thomas Moore: It fits with the idea of standing up for yourself.

For a teen band living in Chelmsford, you’ve come far with an EP and a tour. What’s your biggest achievement as a group in your opinion?

James Buck: The biggest achievement I would say was playing with The Dangerous Summer, Who’s Driving? Bears Driving! and Underline The Sky. With one female and four males in the group, you must get a lot of comparison to other bands of the same format. What makes you stand out from the rest?

Tom Bellman: We are different because we have a rockier edge; we like to experiment with different sounds and try to avoid songs with ‘samey’ verses and big choruses which is like every other band.

The band itself has been through a few changes regarding members. Is this the fully formed Chase The Enemy now?

Thomas Moore: Yes. We’re very happy with the line-up now; we all get on very well. No arguments, it’s all about the music and having fun.

If you had to describe your style of music in three words each, what would you say?

Jessica Moore: Interesting, expressive, explorative.

Thomas Moore: Quality, enjoyable, well-good.

Josh Dawson: Energetic, powerful, unique.

James Buck: Better than spelunking

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Tom Bellman: Rocky, fun, sexy.

Which bands do you aspire to be like, and what makes them a good band in your eyes?

Josh Dawson: Young Guns, not to be like them music wise because it’s a bit different to us, but they are so tight live and all really friendly with each other, never getting bad vibes from interviews and obviously they have amazing music. Musically I guess we aspire to be like bands such as Biffy Clyro because they create music that is varied, from relaxed to upbeat. Then Muse, I suppose, because all of their songs are so different from one another and we're kind of after that - we don’t want our music to be repetitive because people will get bored of it. I think that’s what makes Muse a good band among other things, obviously.

What is the normal routine for creating a new song – do the lyrics come from real experiences?

Jessica Moore: The lyrics are a mix of different things. Some come from experiences I’ve had in my life personally and others are based on things I’ve seen and heard in other people’s lives or in the world.

Some will have emotions put to them and others more ‘themes’ or ‘ideas’. The normal routine is usually James has a riff that he’ll play to all of us and all the guys will work from that.

While they’re all piecing it together I’ll either be sitting looking through words and lines I already have or writing a new one from scratch. I like to write the words while I’m hearing the music because I want it to all fit and flow together. When the music mellows and slows down I want the words to fit alongside that.

What should everyone be expecting from the ever-growing performances of Chase The Enemy in the future?

Josh Dawson: Well we're going to keep playing shows and keep writing songs, get our merchandise out there and get as well known as we can on our own, so keep an eye out for upcoming events/updates.

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What advice would you give to ambitious bands like yourselves to keep them persevering?

Jessica Moore: To keep playing as often as you can and keep writing your own stuff. I mean a few covers here and there are alright but try to write and perform as many original songs as possible. Don’t be disheartened if you get criticism or if you’re playing to no one because those things happen with every band.

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Clara Engel

Interview by Irene Amadi

In recent years, Canada has constantly reminded the world of its place as a land oozing with musical talent with bands such as Austra and Timber Timbre gaining much acclaim. The flow of musicians seems to never stop, now with emerging musician Clara Engel. With songs described as "timeless songs that sound at home in the ribcage of rock n roll’s skeleton", Engel's music is such that anyone in its viscidity will feel the need to pay heed to it. Clara took a moment to discuss her new EP, her inpirations and the future with us.

How do you channel so much emotion into your music?

I feel very straightforward in terms of how I approach writing and singing. I need to feel compelled to sing, or I don't want to sing. It's like diving or throwing myself over a fence, I can't just go halfway.

What is your creative process?

It's sort of like gardening. It's also sort of like glass blowing. It requires patience and discipline, but it's also pretty hot and heavy at other times.

Who was Madagscar about?

It's definitely not about a single mortal individual. I hear it now as an invitation to be decimated and remade by an experience. I know what it is like to feel trapped and to long to be ripped out of your daily existence. I like the idea of an angel as a fearsome and unearthly force, not necessarily confined to a body, even. Being taken over by something (a person, an idea or experience, etc) - that idea is way more

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central to the song, for me, than the identity of the angel. An angel is such a cliched image, so I use it as a stand-in for something I can't express. Pain, loss, hurt, are inevitable. I hear Madagascar as a life-embracing and self-destructive song.

Where did you draw inspiration from when making the Madagascar EP? Those songs were already written... Colin Timmins selected them to release on Vox Humana. I love recasting songs in new contexts. Inspiration is another can of worms. I don't believe in inspiriation, really, but I believe in cultivating a receptive and open attitude.

What kinds of people do you think form your fan base?

I think my fan base is made up entirely of warm-blooded people. I like them.

Which genre(s) would you describe your music as? (different album’s can fall under different genres) It's some kind of sung-poetry I think... I don't relate easily to genre demarcations.

Who is your idol?

I don't have an idol. There are many people whose work I love, but idolizing people is unhealthy, I think.

Which artists’ works inspire you?

Robert Johnson, Meredith Monk, Fatih Akin, Jeremy Reed, Jean Genet, Violette Leduc, Dirty Three, Mary Lou Williams, The Judy Experience, Robert Lepage, Skip James, Exuma, Helene Cixous... more.

How would you inspire a young talented artist in need of direction and knowledge about navigating the music industry?

I would be at a loss for words, I'm still trying to figure that out myself. It's a cliche but I do think that direction comes from within. If you want to alienate someone, give them a whack of unsolicited advice. I have learned to recognize that rejection will happen often. I am open to failing and fucking up and continuing afterwards. Failure is necessary for growth, in any case, and sparks fly and things get less contrived after you relinquish some control on your original vision.

If you could time travel back to your younger self who’s just about to step into the music industry, what would you tell her?

I would have little wisdom to share. I would probably just give the younger me a hug and say i liked what she was doing, keep doing it and fuck all the noise that will inevitably come her way.

Which direction do you see your music going in the future?

The beauty is that I don't know. I've definitely gone new places with the songs I am readying to record on my forthcoming album, "Ashes and Tangerines." I'm really excited to record it. (and people can pre-order it now on Kapipal - hint hint!) www.claraengel.bandcamp.com

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Cultural Differences in the UK

By Greg Needham

The United Kingdom was formed in 1 707, initially made up of Scotland and Britain. In 1 800 a treaty was passed creating the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland before the Republic of Ireland became independent in 1 922, leaving the Northern region as part of the UK. The UK is a sovereign state, which means that it is under control of a Monarch, also known as our queen. Although the same Monarch controls the United Kingdom, there are still fundamental cultural differences and I am going to explore why this is the case.

One cultural difference is the accents that each part of the United Kingdom possesses. I have a very strong southern English accent, and I can understand the many different accents all across England and when I go up to Yorkshire, which uses a very Northern accent, my accent clearly adapts back to a Northern accent as half my family live up North. Why do we as human beings adapt the way in which we pronounce our language simply because we live in a different part of Britain, and although I can understand English accents when I hear a Scottish accent sometimes I need a translator, as what comes out to me is often a slur of fast and aggressive words which my brain simply cannot comprehend the meaning of. Historically, the accents come because, over the centuries, different peoples settled in the islands that now form part of the United Kingdom for example Celts, Romans, Norse, Anglo-Saxons, and Normans and these groups of individuals all had a distinct speaking style, which is now called an accent.

This cultural difference is something that an individual will get used to fairly easily when submerged in the culture, however it still poses a minor cultural obstacle nonetheless.

However language is a completely different story. The English language dominates the United Kingdom, however in some places of Scotland, however, you will find people speaking Celtic and this poses a real problem for a typical English person who does not speak the language. Sometimes trying to overcome a language barrier between two individuals is like trying to jump in to water without getting wet; it is too much to overcome, even with the use of sign language it will often just look like a scene of two mimes at a pantomime.

Another cultural difference is the currency adaptation. England, Scotland and Northern Ireland all use the pound sterling. This is simple enough, however Scottish currency is clearly different to English currency, the Scottish 1 0 pound note for example will say The Royal Bank of Scotland plc in the center of the top of the item, whereas the English ten pound note will have the ÂŁ1 0 sign tightly packed in to the top left and right hand corner of the note and also just above the middle. Why is it that the United Kingdom has to over complicate the tender with different currencies, if for example you walked in to an English store with a Scottish ten pound note, the lady at the checkout will look at you with absolute terror and call for

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her manager to see if they can accept the tender at their shop. It is completely ridiculous.

The cultural festivals celebrated by individual countries in the United Kingdom are something else which differs. Although Christmas is a festival that is shared throughout the United Kingdom, Christmas is celebrated differently by the different cultures, for example Scotland has been known to celebrate Christmas and give presents on the first Monday after New Years day.

Clothing is another cultural difference within the United Kingdom, in Scotland for example wearing a Kilt is a common thing, however in England It is very rare I see anyone wearing a Kilt. If we want to sociologically examine these cultural differences, it is to do with the norms of that society; wearing a Kilt in England for example is not a normal thing in society, someone wearing the Kilt would be considered to be odd or strange. This pressures society to conform and is a negative aspect of cultural differences within the United Kingdom, and indeed all the world.

These are but only a few of the cultural differences which exist in the United Kingdom, although the United Kingdom is becoming more multi-cultural due to different ethnicities migrating to the United Kingdom, there is still the essential essence of a distinct different culture in each country in the United Kingdom. In my opinion it is a terrific thing that the different parts of the United Kingdom have different cultures, as it identifies who we are and many people have established a sense of pride and honor regarding their heritage, but as I mentioned the pressure of the culture will be a negative factor.

I am going to end this article on a question which I would like you to consider: the United Kingdom is unified soil, commanded by the same Queen, why do we have such variety in the different cultures that surround us?

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The Curious Child

By Jen Considine

Standing there, in the doorway, she looks different. Older; more relaxed. Her eyes shine like a thousand stars, not with fear, as before, but with love and happiness and anticipation. It almost breaks my heart. And although I know I will never face seeing her again, I am happy, because she is happy. That is the beginning and end of it. I turn and walk away, silent tears falling down my cheeks.

It was a cruel November; frost’s own true fingers had woven ice into the hearts of those who need not shiver, leaving the desperate creatures of the Earth to suffer in vain. A storybook setting, with the promise of snow and Christmas cheer, lay just out of reach. That was our reward. This was our disgrace.

I had taken to walking the length of the beach each evening at dusk, to teach stones to dance upon the shining grey surface of the ocean and to escape from the cold, pitiless web of destruction we inhabitants of this planet like to weave for ourselves. It is our reassurance. The ocean called me, and I, compelled by its glory, ran with a childish excitement more befitting to a being much younger than my nineteen years.

She was there, one day, all of a sudden like an apparition or a mirage from the desert. Day one earned me a smile; day two a nod of the head and day three gave me courage to approach the girl whose presence had haunted my dreams those two nights past.

“Hallo there,” I called, waving my foolish hand with a jealous kind of integrity.

Her words, although I cannot quite label them words; they had a melodic quality to them that separated them from my own clumsy vocabulary, cannot therefore be distinguished upon paper in the same mundane form as my own. She is an italic, for the contours of her face slanted towards the light in a heavenly fashion.

Hallo ,

she lilted, I thought I was alone. What brings you here to this desolate shore?

“I like the ocean,” I replied feeling suddenly nauseas at the concept of this child whose reason and position lodged itself somewhere inside the iris of my vision, just out of sight but uncomfortably and noticeably present.

I am the ocean, she replied.

The following weeks passed in a similar manner, with my efforts to make conversation with the girl utterly

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decomposed through her inability to make any kind of sensible, logical footing through the doorway of conversation. We would begin to talk, our separate worlds merging together in that I no longer felt disturbed by her curious statements. I asked her once, in a vain attempt to humour her, how it was the ocean found itself sitting upon a rock, staring longingly at itself.

I have been bound in this body; I have been separated from my love.

Conversations with the curious child often took on this bizarre form, so I thought no more of it and walked on home. I had begun to question my own sanity, my reason; my fascination with this (imaginary?) figure had started to chill me in places I never knew could feel fear.

Later that night, an enormous, compelling urge to visit the ocean swelled in my left breast from a mere yearning to an agonising desire. Slipping from the house undetected, I ran down to the seafront, expecting no human presence besides my own temporary madness.

The Sun is a teacher, an observer. Each day he demonstrates his immense power to his daughter, the Moon. And each night, he assists her in shining down over the world. It is his vain hope that someday, when he is burnt and gone, his daughter the Moon will take over his duty as prominent leader. His daughter, however, is a slow learner. The Sun bathes the whole world in light, whilst the Moon is only potent enough to weave a thin shaft through which she watches one segment of the world at a time.

Tonight, she chose to watch the ocean, not the entire ocean, but a fraction of the vast expanse I loved to walk by and toss stones across.

The fraction moved. The water splashed. I became very aware of my own heart beat, as I noticed the pile of clothes, the chill of the atmosphere. The Moon personified herself as a watchman, that night, as a saviour of sorts. I personified myself as neither; I obeyed her compelling demands as I slipped off my shoes and coat and waded into the icy water.

The curious child had, for no reason known to me, decided to take her situation into her own hands. The separation from her love was obviously too painful for her to bear. The separation from her sanity, perhaps, more a cause in reality.

I surprised myself at how long it took for the trance she had over me to break, the time it took me to start running, shouting, to start seeing her from the outside, from the comfort of my own sanity. For it was not my burden that wore away my reason, but her sickness that stole away the marble gateway into her mind.

The shaft of Moonlight followed me, reassuring me and holding my hand. The child was not large, but she was a dead weight; not dead, but unconscious, the only apparent substitute to her subconscious she could envisage. I had learnt to swim in this ocean, as a young’ un (as the elder, worldly wise folks of the town describe those who have not yet entered puberty), but never to save. That was not my calling. Not up

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until now.

Once I had laid her upon the sand, resuscitated her, held her, I made phone calls to the police, to the ambulance, to my mother. The situation was messy and complicated, and the professionals, the paramedics who came to take her into their care, the police woman who produced a flask of hot chocolate and wrapped me in a blanket, my own mother in all her terrified splendour, exuded discomfort and disillusion from every pore in their grounded, stable bodies. They were on the outside. They had always been on the outside. I was in a liminal state.

I was with her. I understood her. I was with them. I knew they were right.

Of course there were questions; why was I at the beach so late? Why hadn’t I reported the missing child? Had I not seen the posters in town, stating her name, her address, emphasising her mental status, her fourteen short years on this planet? I shook my head. I don’t know, I don’t know. No, I hadn’t seen the posters. No, I didn’t know what I was doing.

She was let from the hospital after some time, and sent back to her home where her father and auntie could take care of her. She was still fragile, like a moth or a lullaby, but she was recovering, they said.

As for my humble self, I never forgot the curious child and her imaginary, impossible impact on my mental health. I knew then she had changed my life, saved me in some bizarre, disjointed way. This life, the one which welcomes me with every step I take towards its faraway-close, suits me much better than any I could have composed for myself. I am to be a therapist, a mentor, one who understands and relates, one who can rationalise and keep distance. She taught me to be this. She showed me the way.

Many years into our futures, I will find myself driving to her home, one cruel November perhaps when the stones refuse to dance, challenging me, bribing me with their entertainment, and I will settle my inner-conflict. Standing there, in the doorway, she will look different. Older; more relaxed. Her eyes will shine like a thousand stars, not with fear, as before, but with love and happiness and anticipation. It will almost break my heart. And although I will know, then, that I will never face seeing her again, I am happy, because she is happy. That is the beginning and end of it. I will turn and walk away, silent tears falling down my cheeks.

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The Egyptian Winter

By Mark Sforza

After the mass of disaffected youth After the tortured cries for liberty After the sickening crunch of the truncheon The long-suppressed spring had finally broke Perfumed lotus and jasmine filled the air With young hearts charged with inviolable hope.

He who was once so loud is now quiet They who were once so quiet are now loud.

The songs of spring wrung high in the air.

Yet now, very now, the lotus trembles And the jasmine quivers as the harsh winds Buffet the Spring and let in the cruel Winter.

Thus, emerging from the opaque shadows They demanded Sharia in Egypt Reverberations were felt in the air.

Salafi Jihadism, screaming in mirth Flew out of the prison, so eager, as when Ravenous vultures scent fresh carcasses A Copt stood by, his wrinkled fingers twitched A stony expression adorned his visage He went inside and sat, so savagely still.

Here there was no lotus or jasmine Only sweltering air and driest rock No sweet song, just a monotonous chant.

Who was the Spring fought for? For all Egyptians Be they Sunni, Shi’ite, Copt or Jew Stop the winter, and let the spring return!

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Forms

Interview by Adam Dobrik Forms are a new 4-piece band that started out in March this year. They have just released 4 new tracks including the song ‘Considerate’ and they play the band in feature film ‘Riot on Redchurch Street’; a story about the music scene in Shoreditch.

I caught up with them on the film set to find out what they and the film are all about.

On the Band: They are sitting on a brick wall, 3 with their tops off absorbing the sun. There is an uncanny resemblance between the two brothers Rhys and Owen. Mark sits back relaxed and James is the sole band member with his t-shirt on.

How would you describe your music?

They all sigh in thought looking down before an answer comes

James: I think it is has got an old school vibe to it like punk and rock. It’s not trying to be fashionable.

A few of them laugh as they hear “old school”

Mark: It has got bits of Iggy Pop, Bloc Party and Joy Division in it. Not many people get the Bloc Party link but they are all influences.

How do you want people to respond to your music?

Mark: We want them to say, “Ooh, that’s really grabbed me by the balls and shook me.”

Owen: It’s not got political messages or anything like that, at least not yet.

Rhys: Not Yet!?

More laughter. Owen tries to defend himself but the he gets ridiculed instead for the suggestion

Mark: It’s all about love and squalor, not politics.

How did you come up with the name ‘Forms’?

Owen: We didn’t come up with the name; Trevor Miller (director of Riot on Redchurch Street) suggested it.

Rhys: The idea came from the fact that in America they call park benches ‘forms’.

So we are named after park benches.

Cue laughter

Mark: We didn’t like the name at first but we’ve come round to it.

Rhys: [Looking at Mark] Well, since we put it on the posters we couldn’t really change it so we had to like

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it.

How did you guys meet?

Owen: Well, I popped out of mum and he was already there. [Pointing at Rhys] James: I started working at Old Blue (a pub in Old Street) with Rhys and he went to university with Mark.

Rhys: I saw Mark with a bottle of Fanta Fruit Twist at university looking hung-over and I was also worse for wear. I decided there and then that this is a guy who could be my friend.

Mark: Yeh, Rhys and I started a band together last September with a guy called Rob Brick. However, he was a bit too “folky” for what we wanted to do.

You’ve all been in bands before. What’s different about this one?

James: I was a guitarist in previous bands but a bassist in this one. Being a bassist is like going back to my first band because all we played were riffs and all I do as a bassist is play one note.

Rhys: I used to play the bass for ages but this is the first time that I am the front man.

To the brothers: have you been in the same band before?

Rhys: No, this is the first time actually.

Owen: I started playing guitar before he [Rhys] started playing anything.

Rhys: We were never in rival bands either. Sibling rivalry is not a thing we have ever had.

Owen: We always used to play music together. We spent lots of time in our bedrooms making and recording music.

How would you define success for your band?

Mark: I want a record on my wall.

Rhys: I want a theme park all about us.

James: I want a video game like GTA with us as the main characters.

Rhys: Yeh, I think it is important to mention that we are a crime-fighting band.

Somehow, I think they have not thought that far ahead

On the Film: You have all got roles in the feature film ‘Riot on Redchurch Street’. What’s the film about?

Owen: It is about a band and also the love triangle between the band manager, the front man to the band and a girl singer.

They all start joking before James breaks the laughter with something more to add

James: The band’s on the cusp of being signed but they mess it all up because the main characters cheat on each other. There are lots of drugs and sex scenes as well.

How did you get the roles?

Rhys gets up to get some tobacco for a roll-up. He got the starring role as Danny so he’s got a lot of talking to do.

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Rhys: I got into the film because they asked me to play in the band during the auditions for the main characters. But the actors auditioning for the film were not really up to it. That’s not surprising considering they were trying to get actors to play in a band when they had never been in a band.

James: But then they got a band member who had never done any acting to play a starring role in the film!

Rhys: They invited me to have a go at an acting audition. It went well even though I thought I was going to be a quivering wreck during the audition. Then everyone else in our band got roles as well.

Do you enjoy acting? And if so what do you prefer: acting or playing music?

Owen: We enjoy acting but making music is more our thing.

James: There’s a nice little buzz after you have shot a scene but the waiting around can make it tedious.

Rhys: I enjoy the acting but music is where I feel strongest. But you get to meet some really cool people that you would not get to meet otherwise on film sets.

What’s the hardest thing you have had to act out in the film?

Rhys: The delightfully awkward sex scenes.

Mark: The drunken scene. The hardest thing is to act drunk without any alcohol.

Rhys: There is a scene where I am covered in blood. It was not hard to act but the fake blood was sticky and horrible and I got loads of awkward looks when I was waiting in a pub for the film crew to be ready. It didn’t help that the scene was shot just outside a hospital!

James: Les Mckeown made me laugh throughout a scene. I couldn’t keep a straight face. If you watch the film you will see me fighting back the laughter.

Why should people watch ‘Riot on Redchurch Street’?

James: I don’t think anyone has done anything about the current music scene in Shoreditch, so that makes it interesting and unique.

Mark: It’s aimed at young people and has got heavy subject matter.

Rhys: It’s a black comedy and will be especially funny to people who know the places. Trevor [Miller] has got a wicked wit. He is infinitely quotable and I think that comes across in the script.

A dog then approaches the band and takes their attention away. Which was just as well because that’s when the memory card ran out of space

‘Riot on Redchurch Street’ is due to be released next year. You can find out more about the film at www.riotonredchurch.com You can also listen to new music from Forms at www.myspace.com/forms.

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One Man, Two Guvnors: An Interview with Grant Olding Interview by Faizah Din

A series of unstoppable laughs is all I heard from the Lyttelton Theatre when watching the production One Man Two Guvnors. Taken from Carlo Goldoni's 1 746 classic comedy A Servant of Two Masters, Richard Bean has turned this production into one of the biggest comedy the National has seen. Set in 1 963, Brighton, this production is centred on Francis Henshall (played by James Corden) a hungry man surviving on little money. The turning point of this play is when Francis Henshall finds himself working for two guvnors, one of which is Rachel Crabbe (played by Jemima Rooper) who has disguised herself as her dead twin brother who was head of a gang. The other is snooty toff Stanley Stubbers (played by Oliver Chris) who has not only killed Rachel’s brother but is also Rachel’s secret lover. Neither guvnor is aware that the other is in Brighton. A scene which the audience particularly enjoyed was a dining scene in which Francis had to serve dinner to both guvnors simultaneously.

There are two parts to the dining scene which, joined together, made this scene one of the best in the play. The use of an audience member who is constantly collecting food for Francis in a tray so that he can eat it later and the use of a very old waiter played to perfection by Tom Edden who is always bringing the soup from the kitchen. The use of physicality and brilliant dialogue in these parts makes this play one of the best comedy plays at the National Theatre.

The music from One Man Two Guvnors brings the play together and reinforces the mood that is created from the dialogue. Grant Olding's music not only put emphasis on the dialogue and the mood but showed us different sides to the actors. The Craze Band showed great passion towards skiffle music and this passion was depicted greatly in their performances during set changes and the interval.

I got the chance to ask Grant Olding, who wrote the songs in One Man Two Guvnors, some questions.

This is what he had to say;

How did your band form?

I had the task of forming the band. One of the privileges of being the composer and musical director of One Man Two Guvnors was being able to choose which musicians I wanted to work with. I had worked with all the members of The Craze before, they had all played in the pits of musicals that I wrote or scored the plays of and it was an easy task to put The Craze together as we all already knew each other pretty well.

Could you tell our readers more about the term “Skiffle”?

Skiffle is a form of music which peaked at the end of the fifties and was virtually killed off by the musical

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revolution that groups like The Beatles brought about. British Skiffle took American roots, folk and country music (by popular by the likes of Leadbelly and Woody Guthrie) and played them on instruments such as acoustic guitars, washboard and tea chest bass. Later artists like Lonnie Donegan developed the form to be a kind of variety/skiffle hybrid with songs such as 'Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight' and 'My Old Man's a Dustman'. But the original skiffle songs were rough and ready. Not a great deal of skill was required to play Skiffle. Not even proper instruments were required.

But an attitude was necessary. Skiffle was the punk music of the 50's.

How do you feel about working with James Corden?

I love working with James Corden. He's very musical indeed and an incredibly hard worker. He's respectful of the text and generous to other performers and he loves playing the xylophone.

What were your main inspirations behind the songs?

I just listened to a lot of songs from the era skiffle-wise, that was mainly Lonnie Donegan but also bands like the Vipers and Chas Mcdevitt. The beat group stuff was influenced by early Beatles and Kinks songs. I wrote the songs in the rehearsal room whilst the main rehearsals were going on and I based them upon themes that are found within the play.

What do you feel was the difference in the music that you have created for One Man Two Guvnors and other productions such as Simply Cinderella?

There's no difference really. In both musicals that I've written and plays that I have scored you're trying to fulfil a brief. It's just that in a musical I tend to have more say over where the music goes and what that music is. I have to say though on One Man Two Guvnors, Nicholas Hytner gave me total freedom to write whatever songs I wanted. Ultimately though I am trying to deliver songs that I think will fit his production so understanding what he wants to see onstage is the key.

Could you describe a moment that was the most difficult during the rehearsals of One Man Two Guvnors?

Hmmmm, this is a difficult question. We did a rehearsal in front of 1 00 sixth-form students. That was quite tough as it was only our second ever run-through of the play, so it was a bit scary. They loved it though which gave us a lot of confidence.

Could you describe a moment that you most enjoyed during the rehearsals of One Man Two Guvnors?

I loved our second band call. The first one was quite difficult as the band were all playing the songs for the first time and the sound system wasn't the greatest and I was trying to remember all the words and keep an ear on what the other band members were doing, trying to correct and direct them... there was lots to think about. The second rehearsal though went brilliantly and I remember thinking the band was going to be great fun.

What are the future plans for The Craze Band?

Well we're with the show for the foreseeable future after that who knows? Rehab?

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Hasta Luego, Never Goodbye

By Isabella Steel

Though the summer’s ended The sun’s not gone away It’s hiding round the corner Brightening your day Just as, when I’m not with you I lie within your heart I’d follow you to hell and back I never will depart You make me proud to love you And you always will I’m so glad I’m with you I think that you’re just brill So as one chapter ends A novel will unfold A tale for generations That needs to be retold The story of a parting That didn’t last for long Because the love between them Was powerful and strong.

You are an inspiration A light to guide my way And though you may not see me By your side, I’ll stay.

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Honey Afternoons

By Hannah Sharland

The afternoon was ripening, As clouds bruised the sky a dapple shade of aubergine, While the sun blossomed at the pinnacle of the ether-world.

Stargazers grazed in the meadow, As the sky set like honey crystallising; only to shatter When dusk would glare upon the frail life.

Sometimes one might glimpse The empyrean of dimensions, Parallel portals of paradox predicting The inevitable.

As if the sky was stained, Golden like nectar, A honeycomb complex of paths Leading to other worlds, Withering out to the horizon.

It becomes peaceful in the afternoon again, So I open my honey jar and let the evening trickle Inside; drop upon drop.

This silence is golden, Let my heart stop.

When this day ends.

But as the twilight melted, A lingering bitter aftertaste of adventure, Would spark the heart of many a mind.

And they would dream this night, Of far opalescent seas, And exploring evanescent lands.

Many would be flying, Until magenta mornings Strangle their sleep.

And the gentle cooing, whistling, chanting Of voices as the dream fades, While the last whispering wisps whisk away on the wind.

The sun shall brandish those swords again, The light taunting us, A warning so we will battle Through another day.

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An Interlude in Plum

By Rosie Fox

The gawp of suprise forces the lips from D to O. Then scrunched forehead presses eyelids in to ‘I don’t want to see this’ closed. The sensation of violence expected but somehow not anticipated. Breaking apart along invisible corners, all that skin rupturing from inside out. The confusing mixture of textures.

This softness utterly exposed, touching it and feeling a shift. Nothing settles but oozes, accumulating but not yet drips. The boy blushes, squints and runs off. I look down at the fabric over my breast aghast to see such plum centred destruction. Now what?

It was a plum he’d thrown, sprouting without malice in to a viral stain on the blouse I’d hesitated to buy in beige. Such recrimination, such anger, a desire to flail wildly in the streets and cry. To gaze at that youthful face and tousled hair with why. To turn and ask myself why. Stood, at last to pause, in the street incredulous and surrounded by others like me. They didn’t stop, didn’t even laugh, just strode on and tutted at the inconvenience of circumnavigating. A focus I’d admired and now reborn a vision in fruit carcus hated. It repulsed me suddenly, the imperative to move on, the callousness of city life. So I began unbuttoning my shirt, fingers seeking out the point of affixed closure, tracing round and pulling apart.

Until it fell open, the breeze stroking through and underneath. A gentleness at last, I breath, I breathe.

Hold the top in hand and wonder at the madness of it all. Find myself. Find myself strolling and laughing.

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Laura Hocking: Talent With A Heart Interview by Jen Considine

It is difficult to capture the essence of a person, and to express them in words so that others can truly feel a closeness, a connection with them. To define somebody within a strict word count, to pick and choose elements of somebody to create a brief overview, in some cases even to weave fiction to fashion a particular image, all of this can drain the life out of a subject.

Luckily, capturing the essence of Laura Hocking did not pose this problem. Laura is not your average folktinted freak pop singer-songwriter (although I’ll be honest and I’m sure you’ll agree, it is pretty tricky to find an ‘average’ to compare her with). Beautiful, brunette with a cut glass voice that could easily have been a gift from an angel, her song-telling (if there is a clear cut distinction between song-writing and storytelling, it is safe to say nobody has informed Laura of this, and thank goodness!) is of a certain standard of imagination and technique that we struggle to find in the mainstream music charts. Her songs tell stories of love, stalking, female wrestling champions, forcible tattooing, theft, hypochondria and the notion that the best revenge is an unflattering portrait. Laura says that she takes a lot of inspiration for her songs from films; ‘specifically, Two Thirds is a Dream was inspired by Mulholland Drive (Lynch). Talented Tailor was inspired by a short story by Roald Dahl’. A stylistic feature of Laura’s song-writing is her ability to create ‘brilliant freaky characters who mould their world around them’, inspired by film makers like Ingmar Bergman, David Lynch and Stanley Kubrick. Another characteristic of Laura’s songs which makes them so uniquely interesting is her interest in the theory of the mind. She likes to ‘mix a bit of psychosis and delusion in wherever I can, it keeps things fresh’.

However, the song that I feel really captures Laura as a person has to be ‘Strongmen and Acrobats’.

Written for brother, Daniel, who has Autism and sees the world very differently, Laura seeks to thank Daniel for teaching her so much and also to educate others about the condition. The song ‘starts off with a scene at fireworks night, and then goes on to look at bullying and the different diagnoses we had from various doctors, quacks and therapists’. The title is not as abstract as one might first assume, Laura explains ‘at the time (of writing) I had the view that people get on in the world by being either pushy (a strongman) or adaptable (an acrobat), and there's not much provision for people who just need to be themselves’.

For those of you wondering, Autism is a life-long developmental disability that affects how a person communicates with, and relates to, other people. It also affects how they make sense of the world around them (sourced from the National Autistic Society Website). It is often seen as an illness, where the symptoms include difficulty socialising; finding it hard to cope with change; having a very literal viewpoint

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(not understanding jokes and sarcasm) and heightened sensory awareness. However, being autistic doesn’t have to be seen as a negative thing. As Laura puts it, ‘it's sad when people focus on the limitations - can't do X, trouble with Y. It always seemed to me that it was about feeling some things more intensely than anyone else, not having the filters which make reality easy to digest. Experiencing bright colours, loud sounds and sudden movements as totally unique each time, and not being able to slot them into a matrix of experience. Not having a mental map of how people relate to one another with eye contact, body language and voice tone. There's a lot of coded information in the world that we take for granted, and sometimes it takes someone who can't read it all to show you how complex it is.’

On the 2nd April 201 1 , World Autism Awareness Day, Laura donated 20% of the profits of her CD sales plus income from radio plays of ‘Strongmen’ to the National Autistic Society.

Laura says ‘I fundraise for them when I can, and sometimes I get involved with their campaigns.

Autism has come to public consciousness a lot more in the last decade or so when my brother was young nobody really knew what was different about him for ages, so we didn't get the right support. So now when I see great charities like Hope (helphope.org.uk) and the NAS, I want to help them give other people the support and assistance we missed out on’. Her kind donations helped and still help to fund various projects run by the society. For example, the National Autistic Society runs training programmes for professionals, educating them about the nature of Asperger’s Syndrome. Training programmes such as this aim to eliminate the negative attitudes of the ‘psychologist cynics’ Laura sings about in ‘Strongmen’, so that young men and women like Daniel will not have to face the same uphill struggle as he and his family did.

One of the larger projects run by the National Autistic Society are the six schools for children and young people with aspergers syndrome. Due to the nature of the students and the specific training of the staff, children can enjoy a prejudice-free education suited to their needs. The ‘bad girls and bully boys’ Laura sings about in ‘Strongmen’, although present elsewhere, cannot alienate the children at these schools in the way that Daniel and many others like him were bullied and alienated by school children at mainstream schools.

As a short refrain, Laura sings ‘you taught me to tend towards clemency’, despite the fact her mother said he ‘tried the patience of saints’. As well as educating her listeners, Laura seeks to thank her brother for all

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that he taught her. Laura’s advice is both accurate and heart-warming; through my own experiences with family members who have Asperger’s syndrome, I fully support her notion that clemency and patience are the best ways to go.

So, in capturing the essence of Laura Hocking I believe I have discovered a true star; a star that burns bright with talent but also a star who is able to use that talent to financially and educationally support an extremely worthy cause.

The definition of Laura Hocking? Talent with Heart.

Laura Hocking’s EP ‘Laura Hocking and the Long Goodbye’ is now available to purchase. Find out more at www.laurahocking.com.

More information about Autism and the work done by the National Autistic Society can be found at www.autism.org.uk.

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Judged

By Zara-Anne Sowah You look and judge from what the eye can see, But the eye can’t see what’s underneath.

The hurt that’s growing in my heart, The pain and sorrow tearing me apart.

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’, And yet I’ve done that to another.

Is it fair, the wrong I’ve done?

Is an apology enough, just the one?

I know how it feels, walking in stormy weather, A second goes by and it feels like forever.

I know how it feels, to be in your shoes, A day passes and you feel like you lose.

Because all they care about is what’s on the surface, They don’t look deep enough to judge you for just being you.

So look at me now, What do you see?

Look with your heart, your soul, Look for the real me.

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A 'Lifetime' Late

By Holly Standfast

I hesitantly traced my skin with the very cusp of my finger tips. The texture felt leathery, unkempt, and quite frankly, old. Every wrinkle, mark and imperfection felt like a crevice that would most likely be found on the moon rather than on a human being’s face. I had absolutely no recollection of how any such blemishes had been formed. It felt as though a whole lifetime of memories had been erased entirely from my mind, 24 years (as I’ve been informed) simply wasted. Each imperfection must facilitate some sort of story, whether that be one of love, hate or laughter, I had missed it all. Upon being handed a mirror, I stared into its glaring reflection absentmindedly to find that the person staring back at me...was not me. Lifeless silver hair hung limply either side of my furrowed features. Burdensome bags sat awkwardly under the same sea-blue eyes that had once been so full of life and vigour. It was an entire portrait that I did not recognise in the slightest. A sudden pain stabbed at my heart. Not an anatomical pain of course, but an ache of realisation – I was a completely different person now. I felt a hand placed upon my own. It was Frank’s. He’d told me that I once loved him very much.

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Mechanical Bride Written By Kirsty Dewhurst

Mechanical Bride is a singer-songwriter, who is set to create shockwaves in the music industry. Lauren Doss, a 25 year old musician from Brighton, is certainly one to look out for.

Lauren Doss had a very musical upbringing; one of her greatest influences was her mother, a professional singer who was key to Lauren being introduced to big name musicians in her own home. Thus, Lauren developed an interest in the arts and went on to study for a degree in music and visual arts whilst doing an internship at a major production company, which explains why much of Lauren Doss’ music has a theatrical edge whereby a story is always told with Mechanical Bride playing the main role.

Lauren has been greatly compared to Florence and the Machine, Laura Marling and the like, however, she is easily identifiable by the unique edge she creates in every song, making the contrast between eerie and beautiful seem non existent. She is influenced by life experience saying ‘I’ve learnt a lot from my upbringing, people and loss in the last few years.’

Lauren made her debut with a mini album back in 2008 that covered a variety of hits including Rihanna’s smash Umbrella, turning it from a dancing beat into an almost spooky melody. Other hits include a more jazzy, up beat track ‘A head of my time’ and the heart-warming ‘Poor Boy’.

Mechanical Bride’s debut album, Living with Ants, shows how far Lauren has come from the young budding artist she used to be to the flourishing singer, song-writer she has become. Each track tells its own emotional story and each melody is a rollercoaster ride in itself. The opening track ‘Magpie’ is a beautiful, lullaby-like track that uses trumpet and soft piano to create a relaxing tune and fits in with the animal theme created throughout. ‘Lakes’ is a very soft track, almost acoustic with a minimalist use of instruments to show Lauren’s stunning voice and soothing tones. The animal theme is continued in ‘Walk into the Forest’ where Lauren sings of monkey choruses with a message of finding light in the darkest of places whilst the piano led track plays on.

Lauren: ‘I love the feeling of being immersed: looking at something wonderful and hearing something wonderful’ Mechanical Bride is a refreshing, new arrival to the music scene; every song is a breath of fresh air with true heart-felt lyrics.

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Miriam Elia

Interview by Aida Amoako In a society where many seem to hold baseless, generalised opinions, it was certainly refreshing to meet the award-winning, controversial comedienne and conceptual artist Miriam Elia. Sitting in a Cafe on Camden’s Parkway, she tells me assuredly that comedy is a device for communication and it is used to create something meaningful. Meaningful, to Elia, means not gag based or obvious but affected with the aspiration to do great things. She cites Arthur Mathews’ ‘Father Ted’ and John Sullivan’s ‘Only Fools and Horses’ as examples of these, stating the latter to have conveyed a ‘whole world of expression through the writer that needs to be appreciated’. I saw nostalgia for the standards of past entertainment which Elia believed had disintegrated with the ‘dumbing down’ of comedy in the 1 990s.

Miriam Elia won a Sony Award for her radio show ‘A Series of Psychotic Episodes’, co-written with her brother Ezra, gaining recognition as an upcoming surrealist comedian. However, Elia states ‘I don’t make art to be a celebrity’ and attributes this to the reason radio is her chosen media. ‘One thing I love is the anonymity of radio; breaking off into a little world and then sharing it with those willing to listen’. She values sincerity and quality as opposed to ‘marketing the shit out of something before it’s written and it turning out not to be any good.’ She also describes radio as a blank canvas where she displays her attempts to understand what is going on around her. One thing which appears to irritate Elia is the apparent double standards in comedy. She comments on the libertarian approach many comedians take, appearing to be open-minded and politically correct but then taking the opportunity to rubbish certain groups, one example being those who hold religious beliefs.

Commenting on rise of the Hipster culture, Miriam likened the admiration of artists to that of worship.

‘People today worship artists, not for their work but for their character. There is an endless obsession with the self which has led to a narcissistic and fragile culture.’ Her hero, Tony Hancock’s film ‘The Rebel’ for Elia is significant due to it satirising ‘romantic intellectual pretence’.

Elia’s comedy is not only limited to radio. She has a keen passion for art, animating her witty BBC Radio Four series Edward the Hamster and creating her piece ‘I fell in love with a conceptual artist and it meant absolutely nothing’. Miriam says she is returning to art after radio saying ‘after two series’ I have achieved what I wanted to.’ I questioned her on the future of British comedy and she expressed a desire to combine both art and comedy and ‘make comedy acceptable in the world of art.’ She made a comparison to the 1 960s and Pop art which sneered at popular culture. Miriam feels it’s ‘time for popular culture to sneer back.’

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Ode to the Architect; the Building of Beauty

By Isabella Steel

Each single brick a sentence A tonne of heavy stone A weight on aching shoulders The grinding down of bone As every colour merges Into a haze of black To mirror the desperation Of an insomniac For though her eyes are open She often fails to see That what she has is perfect A thing of true beauty It needs no alteration It has its own allure You do not need to change it; True beauty has no cure.

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On Seeing the London Riots

By Mark Sforza

Red Sky at Night, the rioters’ delight Flushed and adamant, they assault at once Egregious hands encounter no defence.

London Bridge is falling down, falling down Hooded hoards swarming, like rats sensing flesh A rush of wind feeds their whirlwind of flames They watch, and they smile. Their work here is done.

London Bridge is falling down, falling down.

Hear those noises crackling high in the air Hear those feral beasts, laughing with such joy Hear those, sitting on the pavements, weeping.

London Bridge is falling down, falling down.

Look up, rise up, and see what I can see Shards of glass, stolen shoes, beer cans, bottles Bricks, broken doors, stolen clothes line the streets London Bridge is falling down, falling down.

Acrid smoke fills the heavy air Temporarily clouding the cobwebbed glass A woman screams: “I’m taking back my taxes!”

London Bridge is falling down, falling down.

You are not an anarchist.

You are not an anarchist.

You are just a thug.

My Fair Lady.

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Sister I’m a…

By James Price

He’s happy in the haze of a drunken hour And his bedroom always smells of flowers, ‘James can I borrow you for 1 5 minutes?’

He doesn’t say yes but he wouldn’t say no.

‘I mean now James.’

‘But Laura how soon is now?’

Oh please, please, please help me Ignore this ponce Whose fragile life I’ve destroyed Twice, not once.

He’s annoying and don’t I know it Apparently he’s living his life as a poet.

The bicycle punctures, he weeps And begs for someone to sing him to sleep, A train passes by, he cries, Then leaps in the ocean with a look of surprise.

Many a time I’ve had to wonder About the girls who’ve had Morrissey for a brother.

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The Scarlet Thread Joie de Vivre Clutching my fate, I stare out of the window with a start, And as I bob into a quiet reverie, I notice the darkness in my heart.

All love has gone, all hope has died, My sanity scattered, my dreams were denied.

Feeling cold, feeling dead, My heart is black, no longer red.

And like Pericles’ sword, Like Bellerophon’s hat, I cut the cord, between This life and that.

My eyes are a maelstrom, Raging and dark, against the sharp Rocks in my head, That drown the ships with A siren’s song of bleak and blue.

I conclude my war, my strife, And I sign the legacy of my life; Trails of red on the wall, I slip off the edge, and tumble and fall.

Crimson graffiti, art: ‘Love and Repent’ Leaves its mark upon the cement.

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d Anthology: Part II Fog of Love In the crib of a lonely silence, In the arms of a morning mist, Lies the beauty of this world.

It is not the emerald grass that has been burnished by dew of day, It is not the dulcet harmony of the little sparrows that sing and fly away.

It cannot be the rhythm of the breeze that brings everything to dance, And it cannot be the whippoorwill that leaves everything to chance.

Alas, it is none of this, which touches a heart so many, and then drifts into disrememberance. No, the essence of the wind and the earth and the rain, Does not lie in grass or oats or even grain.

It lies in the smile of the bonnie lass on the horse, Whose smile and laughter are beauty’s very source.

If she is not there, then do tell me please; It would put my heart to yearning ease.

But if she is there, with her horse and her smile, Tell me again and again for a while.

For you see it is hard for me to ponder, to see and to know, Why an angel came down to these lands below.

By Peter Wysocki 48

Sixty-Seven

By Dannyell Rowlinson He stood in the doorway and I felt his eyes look intently upon me; however, I did not turn around to meet them. I was unsure if it was because I didn’t want to encourage already present emotions or because I knew that my actions were contradicting themselves.

Since I had been just short of a fortnight at my new job, and all my university friends returned home for the summer, people on the friends scale had become scarce. Walking half an hour to work everyday and back after completing a six hour shift became routine. My evenings consisted of endless hours of various television programmes, four cans of lager and recalling the last time I’d had human interaction.

Out of sheer desperation for money, I had taken it upon myself to get a job in Newcastle over the summer and succeeded; only to be hindered by homelessness.

Whilst he was checking into the airport, I was dragging my limited possessions up Osborne Road. He was boarding his first class flight, and I was taking residence at a friend’s neglected student digs. This is a place where abominable and inhospitable had become compliments.

I’d been smoking at the back door because I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to smoke in the house; it was peaceful standing outside in the silence, strangely peaceful for such an urbanised area. Endless time was spent watching ants bustle around my bare feet, staring at nothing in particular, with my mind blank. As the sunlight came to a close; I found myself in bed with the door locked and the light on, trying to ignore what was clearly someone climbing the stairs, slowly, but making their footstep known on each tread.

There were exactly thirteen steps to that staircase; I’d counted every night. Every half hour interval, one at eight minutes past and one at thirty-eight minutes past, I’d hear them come up, but never back down. I tucked myself further into the duvet as the thirteenth step approached knowing that then they would be stood right outside my door. I slept with the light on. I slept with the door locked. I slept with fear on my chest.

The ex-residents would return to the house to collect their belongings, and although unacquainted, they appeared just as glad of my presence as I was of theirs. They quickly gathered I was the sort of person that considered home to be anywhere I was living. They would invite me places; nights out or to a friend’s house and I was glad of the company. They, like me, enjoyed a good drink. I was offered a line of coke or two, and as I consider myself an opportunist, opportunity was knocking on the right door. They gradually started moving their possessions from the house, away. I knew the tenancy on the place was due to run out in the next fortnight and when my friend had questioned me on where I’d thought about living thereafter, I told her I hadn’t. I still had thirty-three days to fill with temporary accommodation.

Both our suitcases packed, his taking him to southeastern France and mine binding me to the place I’d run

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away to.

I had avoided speaking about our relationship, there was never any concrete ending; but I still knew as I powered up that road, suitcase in tow, there was a visible path on my face, bottom eyelid to top lip. I had forgotten how bitter tears taste.

That evening, I spoke to him on the phone. I forget the details; but evening was quickly morning. He’d list names of people I couldn’t even put a face too, name places I’ve never heard of. I lay back and listened to him telling me things that those thirty-nine days ago I would have witnessed myself. I could hear his voice but couldn’t see his face; it left an empty feeling in my stomach. I smoked countless cigarettes, watched the smoke swirl up above me, distancing itself from me, disappearing in thin air and even though I knew it was still around somewhere but still had no control over where it was heading. As I stubbed it out on the window ledge I considered how that cigarette was now worthless, pointless. How that was one cigarette, one bit of money, one bit of my life that I wouldn’t get back. As I said though, I forget the details.

I’d been socialising with my colleagues outside of work in a pub nearby. It was a moment of sanctuary sitting in a beer garden; surrounded by people that weren’t necessarily pretentious students with University being the only reason they’re in Newcastle and cheap drinks not being the only reason to be in a bar.

When I wasn’t in the pub, I was sat at home over-thinking scenarios regarding my decisions, feeling like a free spirit that had been grounded by life’s priorities.

I’d managed to sort a new place to live. The circumstances however differed; I needed to pay rent to stay here, something I wasn’t doing here in Jesmond, my financial situation posed difficulties.

After brief negotiation, I found myself dragging behind me for the last time what could only be described metaphorically as my life.

It consisted of familiar faces; however this house held a different atmosphere. It had now been eight days since I spoke to him, so I intended to leave him a message. The truth is that when one door opens another closes.

One must first commit actions to derive consequences; I might have been free, but I was poor. I might have been surrounded by people, but I was alone.

That night I slept with the door unlocked. I slept with the light off. I slept with the window open.

After work I returned to the beer garden, on the wooden picnic benches that the sunlight beamed down upon. Lined up in front of me were twenty cigarettes, two lighters; one pink and one blue, two pints of lager and a tin of lip balm. Opposite me is my best friend. I’d only known her a month.

It is the sixty seventh day. I am heavily intoxicated by the time I return home, and as I strip off my clothes and clamber into bed, I receive a message from him.

That night I cried with the door unlocked. I cried with the light off. I cried with the window open. I cried knowing my love was unrequited.

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The Storm

By Jen Considine

It was approaching dusk. The world lay silently, in wait of its next victim. Tiny beams of light lingered patiently on the still serene waters as the sun kissed the ocean farewell. Even though darkness was falling, the land embraced a golden glow like wildfire. The tranquil skies, close enough to touch, enfolded the world in spherical security. Embedded in the still, dense atmosphere, angels lay in false slumber, unmindful of the sinister game they had become subject to playing. It was too calm; too quiet. The world smiled secretly to itself as the man with no name hurtled round the bend and into the deluded sanctuary. He ran in silence, barely breathing, barely touching the ground as the skies erupted into sadistic laughter.

The storm hit like a bullet.

Ruthlessly, the once peaceful ocean swallowed rowing boats with wild satisfaction. Thunder possessed the sky. The waves towered before the man, casting the world black under its tempestuous spell. Helpless, he ran; the storm leered at him like a psychotic demon and the wind stalked his every step. Hail and ocean spray cut through him like glass. He couldn’t move; imprisoned by thunder and oppression.

The wind built a cage around him, robbing him of his liberty. Thunder cackled overhead. Lightning mocked. The faceless man stopped believing in love. He watched the tempest without eyes, writhing beneath blood-red skies and praying desperately to a God in whom he did not believe. He clung passionately to the last threads of a madman’s sanity; the final moments of hope before he surrendered to the storm.

He fell; a man destroyed by merciless temptation. Unwillingly, angels rose from their deceptive slumber and embraced the infant man with concealed compassion. Love wept; no stranger to the act of madness upon the desolate stage of insanity. Eternality understood the mournful sighs of forgotten dreams and burning desires locked tightly in a cell and lost to the relentless anguish of a man in hell.

Lightning danced victoriously as the ocean devoured its sacrificial offering. Beyond the darkness, the thunder clapped in appreciation. Then, reluctantly, they subsided, leaving the world innocent and peaceful once more. The man with no name lay placid in his watery grave.

It was approaching dawn. The Earth lay silently, in wait of its next victim. The tempest lurked, patient, just beyond the grasp of insanity; ardent, silent, and hungry for dispirited souls and the tempting essence of a spirit tainted by madness.

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Untitled

By Mark Sforza With battered brushes I unleash her sorrow Upon the world. She stares at the bleakest sky: Seeing neither ivory moon nor jewelled star; The ragged crimson flag flutters in the wind While she waits for her last friend, death, to consume her.

Yes, that is a most exquisite painting that I only purchased a fortnight past.

What a femme fatale is she! She wears a mask.

Look! Her wandering eyes, her haughty countenance.

Like the princess of the Phoenicians, she applies her finery.

At the Earl’s Hall I noticed a rather fine painting.

A woman, of great beauty, staring into the heavens.

Her lily-white skin like a candle among the dark caverns, With beguiling eyes and lustrous hair Far beyond pearls is her value!

Psst! Maggie! Look at tha’ paintin’ over there!

Don’t she look powerful? Bit like a queen, All, dress’d up, watchin’ over ‘er land Lucky ‘er, Tom’d nevva even let me join them suffragettes.

Best look busy, the Earl’s returned.

Now, beside this Georgian table we can clearly see This most priceless painting. Bought from a Venetian painter, It has been gazed upon since the time of Leonardo.

Who is she? None other than that tortured soul, The Greatest Consort England ever had: Anne Boleyn!

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You Will Meet a Stranger

By Charles Stanley

Every Morning he leaves the station attracting the attention from the passers-by, with a newspaper below one arm and a smart phone that shines like a minimized star in the other hand located just below his watch. How lucky was he. Born and raised in England, his father was a stockbroker who created a path of gold for his ambitious son. Pictures of those he so dearly loves in each slot in his wallet. Little Nancy Grace who had such a wise head on young shoulders. Edwin, Sabrina and of course the ever beautiful Summer Patterson. The day was young and there was still much work to attend to, there is no time like the future. The sound of birds chirping and children humming stuck in his head like a catchy tune, the noise from the train tracks vibrated in his mind as he left the station, like a lioness leaving the habitat to hunt, he would strive for better things. Maybe Nancy Grace needed some new shoes, or perhaps Edwin required a new tutor for the fifth time because this one made fun of his scruffy low cut hair style and the tape he always attached around the centre point of his glasses where the two eyes meet.

As his glided up the high street he turned near by the huge stores made of marble and roof tops reassembling sky scrapers with huge windows which appeared like giant mirrors. Ladies’ shoes produced a clicking and thumping sound as hundreds battled for space on the solid pavements. Bicycles attempting to overtake buses in their own lane and cars piled up as if they were participating in a daily monster-trucking event. Squeezing through the many, he identified a small group of people in a corner located beside a large bank, trembling and shivering still wet from the rain of yesterday. He saw a woman covered in her own suit like a chimney sweep, with two knees attached to the floor and her piercing eyes trying ever so desperately to attain the attention of passers-by, but this appeared to be as elusive as another top bank being called into administration. None of them stopped. Two young children laid beside her becoming increasingly pale and thin, perhaps due to the ice like weather. The girl held the boy tightly on her back wiping away the frozen tearless waters than drained down his cheeks. Distinctively, she was singing.

Perhaps making do. Gripping a dark grey teddy bear in her hand swinging it from left to right and running her finger through its hair. The ears were eroded like a weathered rock, one ear handing slightly off and what was left of the clothes was merely patches of material now. if only someone would buy her a new one.

Never has a place in Westminster appeared so bad.

The family remained in his head that day as he left the bank coming home. He had been recently promoted. But of course there was the downside as well, like the time Edwin’s little brother lost his life in the environmental blank hospital ward. The picture of anguish and despair remained on his disheartened face. Well, it was only natural as a parent. But why did it have to be him? That day he vowed to always

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gives his all to protect, supervise and provide for his children the best he knew how.

The day grew young and the familiar pattern of leaving the windy station to the windy streets once again followed. Life was good no doubt, but he felt it to be repetitive, just like a hamster running on its wheel and always re-discovering a familiar sense of DeJa Vu. He passed a corner to see the same child from the bank family playing in the road, using sticks for goal posts and a empty bottle left helplessly like a small animal on the side of the road as a ball. Did his eyes deceive him? The boy was bruised, perhaps from all that excitement. Rough around the edges, visible holes in his sporting track suite and a scarf, which resembled a torn trouser leg folded to fit its purpose. Carrying on, he saw a harsh looking shadow on a wall of a corner. He watched a small group huddle around a lit fire in an empty black can. Fumes entered the air, the essence of burning wood attached to his nose like a cold, and he heard the pitter-patter from the trickling rain on the hard floor. Well good thing he carries an umbrella around with him. Also, he has the forecast delivered to him directly on his newly bought iPhone recommended to him by the lovely Sabrina, his first born. Wonderful girl really, very pretty and fun to talk to. However, was not all that obedient and still needed to learn a lot about this world and it’s male inhabitants. Rain began to fall.

Smoke began to appear as the light rain had turned aggressive putting out the tame fire. On he went considering what charity he should pick to donate a week’s wages to. He had recently been elected as the head of the Charitable Commission over at work. He was new to this, perhaps he should leave it all to his loving wife back at home. She had always been very good at the old mathematics.

He continued through the narrow roads and masses of heads, to see a woman, the same woman, sobbing and wailing in a secluded corner of town. Waking souls with her cries of anguish. His face lit up like a match being struck as he watched her tears fall like hot wax. As he slowly drew himself closer to the alienated corner of which she occupied and noticed she was hunched over a young girl, the same young girl who had once appeared cheerful and vibrant despite being a custom to stone cold floors and wintry air that swept passed highlighting the frailties in the human skin. The girl didn’t speak, instead her lips trembled and her eyes became clear as day. As she laid there she was covered with a dark green blanket, that every so often she was offload in order to leap up to hurl every now and again. He stood there idle, unreceptive and noticed something wasn’t right.

“Please, would you help? She has not eaten for days, none of us have”.

For a split second his eyes became filled, yet tears didn’t drop. His shoulders arched over bringing down his overall posture and he shivered in an silent moving of the lips . Perhaps praying. We were the lucky ones. Time flies even for those who own the planes. The mother searched for eye contact, but his eyes were elsewhere. Checking his watch, in a flash he was gone. After all he does have a family to provide for!

Someone else with less time could lend a helping hand. Where could he possible take them? The night’s moon remained in the morning sky and the roads were silent. No birds, no people. Only the towering buildings overlooking the minimal population of the hungry.

The clouds from last night remained in the pale grey sky, leaving a dark imprint on the weather. White frost hardened and became attached to vehicles like a sticker to a good student. The chirpy birds had

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gone quiet and the ever-fond singing was now replaced with groans, now the ravens ambushed the skies leaving everything black in its wake. Off he went with a paper under one arm and an umbrella in the other. Leaving the warm though compressed to the cold and never vacant streets. Passing by the towering buildings, turning corners, pavements, long black jackets and of course masses of street invaders. The hair on his neck stood at once like a saluting soldier. He quizzed himself back and forth in his mind whether he made the correct decision last time around about the family. Coming towards the large concrete bank he decided to rectify yesterday’s fiasco with the old woman. It was so unlike him. If there was one thing he liked to do was give, charity was his middle name. Unfortunately for them however, charity starts at home. As he entered their usual spot he saw the woman camped on the floor beside her innocent son. Her legs were tucked in underneath her dark moist blouse. She stared back at him.

Not a word. Not a glimpse. Not even truly acknowledging his presences. Suddenly he noticed a cold pale face beneath them. The eyes remained open and the teeth appeared decayed like an ancient artifact lost for centuries and found by these two archaeologists. The eyes were glued to him and were the only thing that acknowledged him. He took off his new designer hat and placed besides his chest. His eyes filled with regret and his mind entered a mild period of stagnation. The skies began to clear and the masses of cars began to part reducing the narrowness of the roads.

Every Morning he leaves the station attracting the attention from the passers-by. With a newspaper below one arm and a smart phone that shines like a minimized star in the other hand located just below his watch. How lucky was he?

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Next Issue: 5th December www.theicasm.com