The Wells Street Journal - Issue 12 by The Wells Street Journal

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright ÂŠ 2019 by The Wells Street Journal All rights reserved Published by wellsstreetjournal.com

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL ISSUE 12

MAPPING THE CITY

'Therefore a map, even if it’s static, requires a narrative idea behind itself, it is conceived for an itinerary, it’s an Odyssey.' — ITALO CALVINO

CONTENTS

1. A to Z 2. Rat or Pigeon 3. Vows of Love 4. Poems 5. Stationary 6. Oxford Street Dreams 7. Panic in Canary Wharf 8. Memories 9. Garden of Eden 10. A Narrow Bridge 11. London is a Cake 12. Promised Land 13. I don't know how long I've been in this car cemetery 14. Deptford’s Broad Way(s) 15. Robinson’s Wake 16. Meeting at the Langham Hotel 17. A Road Trip in Barcelona 18. Is this the Way to London Town? 19. A Beautiful Curse For more information

1 3 6 9 12 17 22 25 29 34 38 43 48 50 53 59 62 65 68 73

A TO Z BY S.B. BORGERSEN

A T FOUR O ’ CLOCK he stopped dithering. Bravado kicked in and he banished his earlier cowardly thoughts. Charles had no doubts at all now. Deter‐ mined, he packed a bag. Enough of everything: socks; underwear; shirts; a couple of books; his complete collection of Inspector Morse DVDs, all went into the green plaid holdall. Finally, he pocketed his mobile phone and left the house without writing her a note. Gemma would arrive home from work at seven and probably wonder where the hell he was, why he wasn’t standing at the sink in his blue-andwhite-striped apron proudly waving a paring knife over his freshly julienned carrots. Heaving the holdall into the car, Charles took one last look at the house the house where he’d lived, pleasantly enough, for 20 years, then climbed into the old Morris, slowly pulled away and merged into the traffic. It was one of those dense drizzly days, neither rain nor mist. Just constant dampness. Keeping to the side roads, Charles managed to avoid the early after‐ noon rush hour and soon found himself on the bypass, faced with the decision to take the northbound or the southbound carriageway. Love. Menacing emasculating love. No one had ever questioned him about the topic and he had never thought to explore it himself either, until recently. Open to suggestions last Thursday, quite out of the blue, he had asked Owen at the pub, “What is love?” and Owen had replied, “Charley, old boy, I had no idea you cared.”

MAPPING THE CITY Perhaps it was the way Owen had answered, or the way he looked at Charles. Questions like this didn’t very often pop up over a pint. Reaching across the beer-ringed mahogany table, Owen kissed him. Surprising himself, Charles had kissed him back. Turning into Maple Grove, Charles knew exactly where he was going and why. Until now his life had been safe, routine and humdrum. Voices had some‐ times skittered around in his head saying, “Charley old fellow, you’ve only got one stab at this life, why are you wasting it peeling carrots for the little wifey? Why?” X marked the spot on the page in the mini A to Z Owen slid into Charles’s top pocket that night. Yawning, as if to feign a casualness that was not foreign to him, Charles had pushed the map further into his pocket for security, knowing full well he would be needing it at some point. Zebra crossings had not figured in the map though, and while Charles did apply the brakes, the roads were slick with drizzle and he had no time to think, let alone swerve to avoid the man who, until a few minutes earlier, had been standing at the kerb anxiously, lovingly, looking out for his arrival.

S.B. B ORGERSEN writes, knits socks, and walks her boisterous dogs on the shores of Nova Scotia, Canada. Her favoured genres are short and micro fiction, and poetry. Her collection of 150 micro fictions has recently been accepted for publication by Unsolicited Press and will be launched in early 2021. Sue was featured in Wells Street Journal Issue 11 and is delighted to be here again in Issue 12.

RAT OR PIGEON BY NELS CHALLINOR

T OUCHDOWN AT S TANSTED at 23:20 and he groans, doing the maths, figuring he won’t be on a train until 23:35 at the earliest. Likely not till 23:50, putting him into Liverpool Street at 00:35, at which point Tube services will have closed for the night. He’ll have to take one of those creepy, nauseating buses that he detests and walk the half-mile from King’s Cross to his flat on feet that ache. And the whole way he’ll be snorting like a hog because one sinus keeps dripping down the back of his nasal cavity, and he’s determined not to let the mucus reach his throat and get him sick, though it’s probably too late. He alights, stands at the top of the mobile stairway for a moment, stunned to see a pair of idling buses rather than the roped-off path into the terminal he’s used to seeing after these short flights across the Channel. Apparently, there’s been some mix-up with air traffic control, and they’ve landed way the hell out there by the blackened model airplane that firefighters use to practise, which looks as though it has been constructed from wine-cask-sized toilet rolls. So now, because they have to bus to the terminal, he amends his schedule, adding twenty minutes to his subsequent ETAs and subtracting twenty minutes from the brief window of sleep he expects to get tonight. The bus smells of mildew, sweat and unwashed clothes. A man beside him mutters “fucking ridiculous,” and he wants to agree, except that he’s decided he hates this man. The man is well over 200 pounds, is positioned directly in front

MAPPING THE CITY of him, and will only hold him up further because you just know he can’t move with a purpose on those legs. He’s furious. The full and crippling indignity of his hour-to-hour existence has finally dawned on him. He feels like a greasy rat in a baroque maze, designed by scientists hell-bent on torturing their subjects. Modern trans‐ portation and the time-obsessed mentality that comes with it have turned him and everyone around him into smelly, mindless rodents, shuffling between boxes of various form and function, engaging in the most low-down, dastardly self-centrism in order to get to wherever it is that they are going one or maybe two minutes faster than they thought they would. Like the grandmother with the tiny piercing eyes who elbows him in the groin as they’re getting off the bus so that she can pull her obese, snot-nosed grandson to the front. And the boy is not even paying attention because his eyes are locked on the game system in his hands, which is just too damn important to set down, apparently. But what’s really bothering him is not the sharp pain of this old woman’s bony elbow in his crotch, or the ripe smell of the people, or the fact that everyone, including himself, looks forward with the ashen, droopy-eyed expressions of the undead. What’s really bothering him is quite a bit harder to pin down. Perhaps it’s the text that comes in when he finally gets service, from her, saying, “Love you,” and the knowledge that if he responds, she won’t get it until the morning, and he’ll be back in the air by then. Perhaps it’s the fatigue and the tendrils of nausea working their way up his oesophagus from the clumps of masticated ALDI sandwich, reduced for quick sale, melting in the turbulent acids of his stomach. Or perhaps it’s the realisation that in this maze in which he is just a tiny, insignificant rat, there is no THEY, no scientists who, sadistic or not, take note of what works and what doesn’t. In truth, he is both rat and scientist. In truth, he has no one to blame but himself.

T OUCHDOWN AND HE SMILES , feeling lucky to be alive. His head bobs up from between his knees, his ears red and rosy from being nestled up against the soft pleated legs of his trousers. His ears feel warm, but it’s a good warm – a fire‐ side, sweatered, Christmas Eve kind of warm – and he smiles even wider. He looks psychotically happy. Other people have started to notice and make no secret of their displeasure; nothing hates a good mood like a bad one. Doesn’t matter, he decides, they can suffer all they want. He’s going to smile and be happy. He checks his watch – 23:24. Stansted Express is still running, but maybe he’ll take the regular service to Liverpool Street, so he can watch the people of the night as they get on and off the train. He can decide when he gets to the platform. Either way, he’s on his way back into London. Back to her. As he steps out into the cold night air, perfumed with the scents of hot

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL rubber and asphalt and jet fuel, he feels like a pigeon released from its loft. The world awaits. He can go anywhere, yet he knows exactly where he wants to go, where he needs to go. This, he thinks, this is true freedom. The sounds and smells of the airstrip speak to him of all the places he could choose to go, if he wished. But Occam’s Razor has cut all the other choices away, leaving only one, only her. He is funnelled into one of the buses waiting on the tarmac, behind a large man in a tight T-shirt with a florid face, who leans over and says, “fucking ridiculous.” The discrepancy between the colour of this man’s face and arm skin is frankly obscene. He stifles a laugh and nods his head, agreeing with the large man, whose honesty he decides he loves. He loves the large man because the man reminds him of all the ways in which we try our best. Maybe the man is peeved because he wants to get home to kiss his daughter goodnight and she’s already up way past her bedtime. The bus won’t move any faster than a bus can move, but by voicing his discontent, he’s speaking for the rest of them, for all of them. He’s speaking for the old woman who elbows him in the groin as she hurries her distracted grandson off the bus. Maybe she hurries because she has a grown child, sick in hospital. And now, between the countless meetings and surgeries and consultations, she has to look after her child’s child. She loves him, without question, but maybe can’t relate to him, so she lets him park himself in front of screens all day. This prob‐ ably suits the grandson just fine, the screen being something of an escape from a reality that gets progressively grimmer by the minute. The look of concentra‐ tion and focus on his scrunched-up, little face suggests that he might be fully immersed in his game, that he’s not thinking of sickness or hospitals or the smell of 409, all too familiar to this boy. All these things remind him of the ways in which we try our best, but it’s not the only reason why he’s happy on this particular night. Perhaps it’s the text that comes in from her, saying, “Love you.” Just to know that someone is waiting for him, that someone cares whether he makes it home or not, even if it’s just for one night. Perhaps it’s the feeling of nausea in his throat, reminding him that he’s alive, that his body still responds negatively to the junk he can’t keep himself from putting into it. But he’s doing his best. He feels lucky and wonders who he should thank. If he’s a pigeon, should he thank his breeder for showing him the right path, for showing him what true freedom means? But no, because, in truth, he is both pigeon and breeder. In truth, he has no one to thank but himself.

N ELS C HALLINOR is a writer and musician from the Pacific Northwest of the United States. His favorite activities include hiking, swimming, and engaging in heated debates about art of all kinds.

VOWS OF LOVE BY BAGESHREE MEHTA

G ROWING UP , Varun and I lived in the same neigh‐ bourhood. While playing with him and our friends in St. James’s Park was a routine affair, it was my everyday walks with him up to the garden that I most looked forward to. During the summers, he would wait under my building everyday at 6 p.m., before we made our way to unite with our friends in the garden. One day, as I stood at the window on the second floor of my Charing Cross flat, my mother came up to me. “Tell Varun that I’m your mother and I have every right to feel concerned about my little girl, especially when she is alone with a young boy,” she said in a fit of rage, as a reply for our daily commute. “Mom, you know we are a group of children who play together. And you know you would never allow me to go if not for Varun’s presence,” I stated. It was two minutes past six and I was growing anxious. Even during times when my parents showed restraint towards our being alone and away from their glare, deep down they always found Varun’s presence reassuring. While my mother stood helplessly, trying to control her smile, I looked out the window to see Varun waiting for me. “Tell her I shall not leave you alone,” he gesticulated, pointing to my moth‐ er’s presence in the window, before I ran down. Our walks to the park were the same almost every day. That day barely seemed any different. Varun led me across the road holding my hand and

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL walked on the outer side of the pavement. I spoke to him about my day at school and how my mother refused to give me a few pence to buy a 99 Flake. Varun, on the other hand, shared that he would be taking a trip to the British Museum, as part of his History project. He also shared how he managed to sell some Pokemon drawings to his classmates, which he had made by tracing the characters on a butter paper, and earned 22 pounds. Even though the distance we walked was short, I always looked forward to the time we spent walking together. We were almost reaching the garden when I realised I was melting in the scorching summer sun. As I looked for our friends there, I lost sight of Varun. Feeling lost and scared among the large groups of people, I went and sat on a bench in one corner. Suddenly, popping a 99 Flake in front of me, Varun held up the 20 pound note he had earned at school. “Tell your mother, I shall never betray you,” he said gently, with a megawatt smile. The back of Varun’s hand brushed past my pink scarf, and I turned around, my legs continuing to work against the gushing winds, before my right foot crossed over the left one and I made way for a tearful end to our play. After moving in circles for what felt like an eternity, my eyes succumbed to the gravity of the earth before my petite frame. From what I could gather, Varun, who continued to take great strides around the fountain for almost five minutes, with his eyes firmly fixed on me, had become desperate in his attempt to catch hold of me, in order to win the final round of tag. Before I knew it, I was lying on the ground with bruises on my right knee. Varun went to the water fountain to fetch water in his cupped hands. He continued to pour cold water on my bruised knee until blood stopped oozing out of my wound. While my tears ceased to stop, I realised that Varun’s agony was probably greater than mine. He felt what I later understood to be a deep sense of regret. Holding me by the arms, he tried to help me get back on my feet. As I finally stood facing him, he brought his hands to touch my cheeks and gently wipe off my tears. “Tell her, I shall never hurt you,” he said, before embracing me in a hug. It seemed like the clouds had stopped moving and the air around me was talking in whispers. Amidst the sudden quietude that had taken over, the sound of his rapid breathing overpowered all my senses. My lips, raw and inexperi‐ enced, pursed in anticipation. The pressing of his lips against my forehead, strangely enough, felt comforting. He soon held my face to find my gaze, which was lowered. My eyes glinted at the reflection of the setting sun in Varun’s eyes. The eyes which had always reflected a world of hope, now gave me a glimpse of lasting loyalty. As I stood lost in the stillness of the moment, I felt a tickle of warmth pass through my body. Unwilling to lift my gaze, I leaned in to rest my head on his thin, boyish stature. His hands firmly clutched my arms in a bid to control the high-running emotions. Every emotion I had ever felt growing up with Varun’s friendship and our innocent banter felt conspiratorial in this very moment. It was in this very moment that we knew a new world of promises had made way into our lives.

MAPPING THE CITY “Should your mother know that you will always have a shoulder to lean on,” he exclaimed, laughingly, as I stroked the back of his head.

I T WAS 6 in the evening. It was July and the sun was hotter than ever before. Varun was nowhere in sight. I was sitting by the window on the second floor of my Charing Cross flat, with my eyes glued to the antiquated wall clock. My anxiety was increasing with every passing minute. I had already downed five cups of coffee and was resisting the temptation to pour myself a sixth. My mother was constantly fretting about the coffee spilling over my red-and-white outfit. A pair of ghagra choli with beautiful velvet drapes adorned what was now my enlarged frame, and I was every bit the bride in love, who could hardly wait for her knight to arrive. It was the day when the promises Varun and I had made growing up together would be solemnised into a lifetime of love and friendship. The steam from the “six” hot cups of coffee had managed to cover a sizeable part of the window in mist. Barely able to wait any longer, my fingers drifted towards the perspiring windows. It was in the moment of looking through the clear lines of the now heart-stained window that warmth breathed life into me. Varun stepped out of the car looking every bit the prince I had always dreamed about. The boy who once used to sheepishly hold my hand while crossing the road, was now a man waiting to hold my hand as we both walk down the path of life. As I stood up and waved at him, he pointed to my mother’s presence in the window and said, “Tell her, I shall always love you.”

B AGESHREE M EHTA dons the hat of a writer at most times, seamlessly manoeu‐ vring her fingers across the keyboard, to meet her blog’s deadline. Everything else that gets done serves as an inspiration for her words, including her furry companion’s licks.

POEMS BY ANTONIO SERRAINO

East End Suddenly dispossessed; No human spirit, Under a cosmic yoke, Resentful of alien morality. Breathes beside the loud lanes, The smelly backstreets, The filthy floors Constellated with pebbles Of blackish hue. Beneath a derelict shelter, Quasi-Banksy graffiti Splattered onto a crumbly wall, Sprawled across damp cardboard.

MAPPING THE CITY Beside a dishevelled dog, Donning a jacket, or a moss turf, Holding a cup with mere nickels. And a bottle, And a misspelt sign, And a boot with no laces. A colourless face, reddish eyes, Long porcupine eyebrows, Yellow tinged fingers Protruding from ripped gloves. A scarf, Or a cloth, Or a foulard Of inscrutable colour Around a stooped neck. Drowsy amongst wayfarers.

Hyde Park That shrill look, with a tired skull In a darksome coat black and dull With dragged eyes on a slack partner As the brine in Hyde Park snips Grass and trees and lips. Almost as that image of the white Vern, Covers herself with Mantles of wear and Mantles of cardboard and Mantles of plastic. Alongside the Thames she looks and envies all And recalls those mornings Facing the ornate mirror Beside that silver vase and derelict flowers Holding her sunken cheek, Her back to a window mirroring a mirror Overlooking that same park Where she now lies aloof.

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL Unforgiving of her lover’s betrayals, The love that melts flesh is lost forever. Her head frozen And oscillating a lost lullaby The memory of the bliss Still ensues her. As an oriental tapestry left In the sun, under water and ice Discolours and fades, her face needs Layers of plastering scents To regain life and gloominess. And as one who falls, And when he rises In the great anguish, And looking at his soiled hands, Laments his past, Sighs his present, Damns his life, his children who were not, And his lovers, and his mother and his god. And water runs a cascade through The canyons in the skin on her sulked galls Looking at her time; a pain In her dark places sunken with hate. And he opiates his own memory Digesting it In his hollow blue eyes As a thief of another day In the midst of time. They met and screamed and died.

A NTONIO S ERRAINO ’ S perpetual aim is to scrutinise memories, awakenings and places so that dwellings and emporiums of plots drenched in awe and compas‐ sion can touch that genuine awaiting soul.

STATIONARY BY JAYA RAMSINGHANI

W EDNESDAY , 20th July 9 a.m. London Shit, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m late again! Natasha jumped from her bed as she saw the time. She rushed out of the room wearing her same old blue jeans and the first blouse she could put her hands on and grabbed anything edible that she could see from the kitchen. Thousands of people rushed to the Tube stations like they do every day during their commute to work. With a cup of coffee in her hand, a bag full of brunch bars, makeup, scrunchies and books came Natasha, running through the crowd. On any other day, she would have cared about all the people around her judging and cursing her in their heads. But not today. Today she ran elbowing and pushing everyone around her, not giving a damn about the world, for it was a Wednesday - the day when she had to stand in front of the entire creative department of her office and present, impressing everyone. It

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL was her day to shine and she would give anything to be on time today. For the headstrong and dedicated woman that she was, this meant everything. Natasha entered Liverpool Street station, and went through the doors. She then climbed down the escalator turning right to the Central Line and further up ahead to the Westbound trains. She stood looking at the tunnel and checking her watch time and again as if the train would arrive sooner if she did that. As soon as the train arrived, she was the first one to board out of everyone standing on the platform. Unlike most people, she did not look around to find a vacant seat to sit in. She was too rushed to do that. She stood right in front of the doors, which she knew would open at Oxford Circus, among other stations. Standing in front of the door, she stared at her reflection and adjusted her uncombed but beautiful hair as the train stopped at Bank, the next station. More people boarded the train and she moved to the middle of the train. She stood there looking at what people were reading, adoring a woman’s outfit, and at times checking her phone. The train moved through Saint Paul’s, Chancery Lane and Holborn, bringing in more people dressed up in suits and dresses. With each station, the train kept on filling with several smells of a variety of perfumes. “The next station is Tottenham Court Road. The doors will open on the right-hand side. Change for Northern line. This station has step-free access.” The voice echoed in the train. At Tottenham Court Road, Natasha prepared herself to get off at the next station. She impatiently yet carefully moved through the now very crowded train and stood next to the doors. She waited for the voice to echo once again and announce the upcoming station to be Oxford Circus, but there was no announcement this time. Please don’t be delayed. She closed her eyes, praying. The doors opened and she got off the train. She bolted to the right and felt that something was out of place. Everyone was walking in the opposite direc‐ tion. She looked around and stood at the platform confused - this wasn’t Oxford Circus! She moved around looking for the name of the station. “Liver‐ pool Street” the sign read. What? It can’t be! She was appalled. She stood at the platform confused, but soon decided that she did not have the time to panic. She had to reach her office on time. Maybe I took the wrong train, she thought to herself, and without logically analysing the situation, she paced to the other platform. She carefully read the board. “Eastbound” it said. She couldn’t believe it. Maybe TfL has messed up the trains today. But is that even possible? She stood there in dismay. She finally walked back to the same platform and took the next train for Oxford Circus. Maybe I’m just too absent-minded and took the wrong train. Some‐ thing is very wrong with me, she thought to herself as she boarded the train. This time, she stood at the door studying the Tube map above it. She carefully mapped every single stop from Liverpool Street to Oxford Circus and checked

MAPPING THE CITY at least ten times if she was on the right train. After each station, she would check the map again to see if the train was still going in the same direction. “The next station is Tottenham Court Road. The doors will open on the right-hand side. Change for Northern line. This station has step-free access.” Natasha heard the announcement and prepared herself again to get off at the next station. She waited for the announcement to be made. The next station is Oxford Circus. Come on. Say it. The train stopped and the doors opened. She got off the train and looked around for the sign. “Liverpool Street”. She breathed heavily and started to shake. Maybe I’m dreaming. She pinched herself hard several times and closed her eyes. A man bumped into her and she opened her eyes to the same sight. She pulled herself to the bench on the platform and sat with her head in her knees. She checked her watch. It was already 10 am and her meeting had already begun. Her breathing became heavier and she started to cry. What is wrong with me? She looked up and saw the crowd boarding the train. Where are they going? They’re all going to end up back here again, aren’t they? Maybe if I board the train with them, I’ll know what to do. Wiping her tears, she got on the train. She followed a woman dressed in a green pleated skirt and white shirt. She looks like someone who knows what she’s doing. The lady got off the train at Holborn and so did Natasha. That’s right! I can get off here and walk to Oxford Circus. It’s not that far! She walked towards the escalator and stood as it moved upwards. That’s strange, I don’t see the ticket gates yet. She walked into yet another tunnel which led to another escalator. She stood on it again and waited. The escalator led to another tunnel and Natasha hesitated to walk through it again. She had lost sight of the woman in the pleated skirt and was now realising that there was no way out of the station. She walked back to the platform, which was on the left of the tunnel, and waited for the train. The door opened and she stepped onto the platform. “Liverpool Street” the sign read. This time, she wasn’t surprised. She only wanted to get out of the underground station and go home. She crossed the tunnel and stepped on the escalator. The escalator took her to a tunnel, and the tunnel, to an escalator. There was no way out. She felt trapped. She looked around her to see people rushing through the tunnel, in and out of the trains. Why aren’t they panicking? What is going on with me? She was horrified. “Natasha?” She turned to the direction of the voice. “Rohan?” “Natasha! How are you?” “I’m fine! How are you?” “You don’t look fine.” “No, no. I’m okay.” She smiled. “Where are you headed to?”

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL “Uh, Oxford Circus?” “Me too! Come, let’s go!” He gestured towards her and she walked beside him hesitantly. “How’s everything with you, Nat? How’s the job?” “It’s okay.” “Hey, relax. I don’t mean to start that conversation again.” “I know.” She smiled and looked at him closely. Rohan had been with her since the day she had moved to London. He was her home in this foreign city and had stood by her side like a rock through all her ups and downs. He loved her like no one else ever had - unconditionally and selflessly. It was only a few months back that she had moved out of his apartment. To fulfil her dreams, she had gotten too busy with her job. She no longer had the time to cuddle with him on the couch on Saturday afternoons, go out for Sunday brunches, or go outside the city for quick road trips on bank holidays. All of this was now replaced by corporate lunches, parties, and charity events with her colleagues. “To win something, you have to lose something,” she would say to Rohan. She stood on the same platform again, waiting. Fear dawned upon her as she heard the rumbling sound of the train approaching the platform from the tunnel. She didn’t want to go. Natasha held on to Rohan’s hand. He smiled at her and asked if she was okay. “I’m okay now,” she replied. This time, she did not look at the map or the people. She had Rohan with her and that was enough. She had never felt this lonely in a crowd. She glanced at him now and again to see if he felt awkward holding her hand as they were not together anymore. His expressions did not change. He was the same old quiet commuter as he always was. All he did was flash a wide smile at her when he caught her glancing at him. He held her hand as if it was an obvious thing to do. It felt like they had never been apart. Natasha wasn’t sure what was going to happen at the coming stations. And for the first time, she actually hoped that the train never reached Oxford Circus. The train was crowded and she stood close to Rohan. She moved her face close to his shoulder, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. The smell of his cologne made her go weak in her knees, just like it always had. She opened her eyes and heard the announcement. “The next station is Tottenham Court Road. The doors will open on the right-hand side. Change for Northern line. This station has step-free access.” It was time. “Rohan, I owe you an apology,” she blurted out. He looked at her strangely. “What?” “I’m sorry for everything,” she choked. “What’s wrong, Nat?” “You know what’s wrong, Rohan. Don’t act like it never happened!” she sobbed.

MAPPING THE CITY Rohan took a deep breath and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Listen, I know you’re talking about the entire you-moving-out episode. I’ve said this before and I’m saying this again. I love you unconditionally, Nat. I’m okay with you moving away from me as long as that’s what makes you happy.” He cupped her face with his strong hands. “But there’s no point in doing this if I don’t have you. Can you stop being so righteous for once?” she sobbed. Rohan laughed and hugged her tightly as the train stopped. “This is Oxford Circus. Change here for Bakerloo and Victoria lines.” The doors opened.

J AYA R AMSINGHANI is a travel writer with a poor sense of direction and an immense love for cities and landscapes. She also writes fiction with characters inspired by real life.

OXFORD STREET DREAMS BY CLAUDETTE BENJAMIN

“G OOGLE IS the worst thing ever; my toe’s bleeding – terminal illness!” I hear a distinctly British, masculine voice say from a group of well-dressed passers-by as I stand by an entrance of Oxford Circus Station at Christmastime. Seeing the Oxford Street Christmas lights was always a lifelong dream of mine, and here I was at twenty-five, watching them light up the night sky so festively, as if the North Pole were a row of streets and Santa’s elves had taken a day off to decorate them. Yet, suddenly, in a place so far from the usual banal sights of New York skyscrapers I’m used to, I am reminded of my sister and how I would always laugh and call her a hypochondriac whenever she would Google her flu-like symptoms and confess to me that she was “dying”. Up until now, the warmth of my reusable Starbucks Coffee cup containing what is left of my sixth cup of coffee of the day, the impatient jaywalkers, the flurry of tourists and the frigid feeling of sleet against my frizzing blonde hair were all I had that reminded me of home. It has been a week since I spontaneously booked a lonesome, transatlantic trip to London with my newly-granted trust fund; a week since I’ve heard from my sister. I decide to FaceTime her, phone in my right hand, coffee in my left. On the first call, she answers. “Look at the view,” I say before she can even speak, moving my front-facing camera around to give my sister a panoramic view of the frosty wonderland before me. Above the architecture, snowflakes fall onto a myriad of bright,

MAPPING THE CITY large spheres crossing over each other to impersonate baubles on a Christmas tree—if said Christmas tree belonged to Hollywood actress Allison Hayes in Attack of the 50 Foot Woman. Mariah Carey’s Christmas classic blasts from one of the nearby shops, causing people of all ages to get into the Christmas spirit and dance in the street. A young, aesthetically pleasing couple come into the shot holding hands, drinking what appears to be mulled wine—and I suddenly feel like I’m standing inside a travel magazine. I am reminded of home once again as floods of people continue to get in the way of the camera, making me feel invisible. I don’t care, though. This is London. This is where I am meant to be. Instead of swearing impatiently to myself as I would have done back home, I simply raise my phone higher, bringing a large H&M logo into the picture, along with a couple of iconic, red double-decker buses. The large forms of transportation remind me of a black and white London throw pillow I used to keep on my bed a few years ago, where only the bus was screaming in colour. “Wow, I’m so jealous, Aria!” my sister says ecstatically with a pen to her mouth; she’s clearly been procrastinating studying for the Biology exam she has coming up. “Is it snowing?” “Yeah, it is. It’s so beautiful here,” I say, focusing the camera on my face now, as vapour clouds billow out when I exhale. “But it’s even more beautiful at Self‐ ridges according to Isabelle from work, who came here last year; so I’m going there first.” “Sorry,” I suddenly hear a stranger say, wildly British, as he surges past me and almost knocks over the remainder of my two pound thirty-five coffee. My sister takes notice. “Weirdly polite there,” she laughs. “Sometimes,” I say, thinking back to earlier in the day, when I was on the Tube and a man stepped on the back of my shoe, causing it to flip off the back of my foot, before he walked off without saying a word. “Are you gonna get on one of those double-decker buses to see all the lights?” “Nah, I don’t think so. Isabelle was saying that when she tried that all the windows were steamed up from the cold and she couldn’t see anything.” “Why don’t you get a black cab? Be a proper Brit?” “Nah, I like walking.” “Weirdo,” she laughs, tipping the camera slightly to display a clock on the wall behind her. It appears to be two in the afternoon there – five hours behind London. “Anyways, go study!” I say. “Only if you take loads of pictures for the ‘gram!” she says, bossy as ever, knowing I haven’t uploaded anything to Instagram in about a year. “Deal,” I lie. “Alright, I’ll see you soon. Love you, miss you!” I say, meaning it

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL but secretly wishing she was off the phone so that I could take my caffeinefuelled self to see more than just the crux of the street. “Love and miss you, too. Call me,” she says. “I will, bye!” I say, hanging up the phone as quickly as possible, cutting her off at “don’t get lost.” I know how much my sister loves to talk. Eagerly, I begin to eat away at my roaming charges to search for the direc‐ tions to Selfridges on Google Maps. It blinks a firm blue line at me to represent the walk I need to take before it vanishes to nothingness. Battery - 1, Aria - 0. “Oh, no!” I moan, realising that all I can rely on to find Selfridges now is my terrible memory and even worse sense of direction. I blame my loquacious sister for distracting me from noticing that my iPhone was running out of juice. Phoneless, I pray that I can trust my mind and the technology I depended on to get from one place to the next, as I recall a line pointing forward. Ever since Google Maps once cost me a hefty cancellation fee by making me miss a doctor’s appointment by turning a thirty-minute walk into a two hour one, I’ve had trust issues. I chug the rest of my coffee, tasting an earthy hint of CBD oil I had added earlier (I never did sleep well), dispose of the cup by throwing it into my brown tote bag along with my dead phone and set off on my journey towards Selfridges. Walking down the street, I crane my neck gazing up in awe of the utopia overhead, until the pain intensifies. When it does, I stare down at the gum-filled floor and remember the days when I used to walk around New York City as a child, stepping around it as I thought my shoes would get dirty. I see tourist shops to my left selling tacky London themed keyrings, magnets and sweatshirts and I contemplate buying myself a sweatshirt that reads ‘I heart London’ until I notice the price tag. I come across a few Extinction Rebellion activists surrounded by Metropolitan Police and the stench of marijuana, as well as another smaller group of protestors demanding people to stop wearing leather. Wearing faux leather shoes, I give one of the men a firm thumbs up, who returns the gesture. When I reach John Lewis, the snow has become rain and I am overwhelmed with the feeling that I am going the wrong way. The sweet sound of Lana Del Rey’s ‘Video Games’ being played by a violinist comforts me from my anxieties as it greets me outside the entrance of the store. It’s my favourite song, so I dig into my purse and throw two pound coins into the thankful musician’s violin case. The store is decorated with stunning blue lights in front of advertisements of beautiful actresses like Margot Robbie for Chanel and ridiculously goodlooking couples like Justin and Hailey Bieber for Calvin Klein. Umbrellas knock into each other clumsily and no one is paying any mind to the depart‐ ment store lights but me; the city girl used to the rain. Just past the bus stop where a 390 bus towards Archway picks up some

MAPPING THE CITY passengers, I see a taxi rank filled with only one black cab, which is taken swiftly by a drenched tourist. I decide to wait to ask one of the drivers for directions to ease my mind, humming along subconsciously to the sound of the violin as I do. “Bollocks this weather, ain’t it,” says a raspy British female voice from a rolled down window of a purple car illegally stopping in a taxi rank. She sounds like she smokes a lot. She must be about forty, but she’s dressed in a leather jacket and is casually smoking pot out of the window like a twenty-year-old. She’s white, with short, unwashed hair that matches the colour of her car. “You waitin’ for a taxi, darlin’?” she says, as I look behind me to see that she can only be talking to me. I feel a knot in my stomach, as the situation looks like everything my mother taught me to avoid. “Yeah, but just to ask for the directions to Selfridges. My phone died,” I say, cursing myself for not ignoring her as I probably would have done if I had my phone to distract me from the outer world. “That’s just up towards Marble Arch. I can give you a lift if don’t mind me bunnin’ a zoot,” she says, pointing at the roll-up in her hand. “I’m okay, thanks. I don’t mind the rain… I’m from New York,” I laugh. “Go on, love. You’ll get soaked standing there and it’s just a straight drive.” If this lady is correct, I am going the right way. However, the rain is quickly turning into hailstones, which even a New Yorker can’t handle when they hit them in the eye. I picture myself covering my eyes, forced to conceal my view of Selfridges to avoid looking up and blinding myself. I then picture myself seeing it through a car window, clear as day and cushioned by the feeling of the car’s heating system. There are carol singers in the streets and the store is deco‐ rated like a November firework which failed to fade out. It is prettier than any Christmas tree I have ever seen. Suddenly, the idea of getting into the car seemed like a good plan. After all, I wouldn’t hesitate to get into a taxi; what was the difference between getting into this stranger’s car and another stranger’s? At least this one was less likely to hit on me. “Okay,” I say, giving in to peer pressure as I get into the car with the stranger. As we drive past a 98 bus to Holborn, I learn that the lady’s name is Hallie and that she used to be a taxi driver who can recite all the roads in the United Kingdom’s capital. Passing Swarovski on our left, I learn that she talks a lot and smokes medicinal marijuana because of problems with her back. Passing a Disney store, I learn that she had to quit being a cab driver as she was getting daily harassment from the men she’d pick up. Passing Bond Street Station, I learn that she is a drug addict who has been sober for two years, as “weed don’t count”. Passing yet another H&M, I learn that she has an abusive ex and that she believes in all religions. At a traffic light near Russell and Bromley, I learn that she is a social worker and was in care as a child. Passing a Gap on

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL our right and an Adidas to our left, I learn that after all of this, she still believes in the kindness of strangers, picking up vulnerable women regularly without asking for a penny in return. When we reach Selfridges, although it is exactly how I’d imagined it to be, I’m no longer thinking about how my Oxford Street dreams are now my real‐ ity; instead, I am thinking about how the lights are just decorations over a shop I would never actually buy anything from and how I had once again gone by the cliché of judging a book by its cover.

C LAUDETTE B ENJAMIN is a short story writer from Milton Keynes, who loves to write about the city of London. She has a terrible sense of humour and loves animals, green tea, and sleeping.

PANIC IN CANARY WHARF BY DAWN OSTLUND

E VERYTHING

IS SPINNING .

The sun sets in a snowstorm and rises on stems, tomorrow and tomorrow again. Motorboats move through the tide of the Thames, And blood rises up in the hearts of men. Everything is spinning. Traffic wheels spin ‘round and ‘round, And if they stop or even slow down, Do we not shake our fist sand curse? With every death and every birth, It’s a principle that’s hard to refuse. And yet, so many people do. Everything is spinning.

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL How quickly the moneyed men forget: To the cycles of nature, we all live in debt. Markets that rise will eventually fall, Repeating the story of John Michael Ball. For a time, John was a market master, On account of his counting higher and faster. His portfolio grew by leaps and bounds, Up and up and never down! His indoor skin grew alabaster, His eyes grew blind to maturing disaster. Like a wave denying the pull of the moon, John Michael believed that he was immune: Cycles, he reasoned, are only for fools Unable to master arithmetical tools. By turning away from centralised trade, In blockchain he thought his future was made! A flawed calculation by our cocky, young quant Transformed him into a financial savant. The future was clear to his superior eye, With the press of a button he let his funds fly. Releasing the chemical madness of youth. Fate spun him around and showed him the truth: All markets move like water. When the flash crash lit up the news ticker stream, And the washing of weak hands turned the waterways green, Anaesthetized anchors confounded admission Of a rinse and repeat financial tradition. The word count was rising as the numbers withdrew. Johnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feet started moving; he ran till he flew. Trading out gas tubes for grey London sky, This broke, broken boy loosened his tie, And with one deep breath, hoping to refresh, His chest filled with damp. Where was his city? His organised streets? His Order displaced by the Chaos of feet!

MAPPING THE CITY The gossiping stampede and jumping of lemurs Brought tears to the eyes of our foolish young dreamer. Retracing the steps that brought him up short, He stopped at the spot where once sailed to port, Ghost ships and trawlers with sea-gutted dreams To offload their stories and fathom deep screams. His bloody-heart-pounding mind in a spin, Neck-prickle memories rose up within, Of fool after fool laid bare and laid down, Layered like stratum deep in the ground. Encircled by echoes, he paused silent, alone, Where dreams became bodies of blood and of bone. He spidered the walkways ‘round the Isle of Dogs, Looking into the faces he’d thought of as cogs, Searching for what this surprise loss could mean: Behind every number, a human machine. This humble parade through Canary Wharf shows How the blackness of coal mines towers up from below. Sky scraping skeletons of steel and glass Have roots in the deepest of human morass. Centuries later, the story’s the same. There’s no any ‘other’ John Michael can blame. We all move in cycles, are cycles and flow. Everything is spinning: You reap what you sow.

D AWN O STLUND writes about how technology is changing the ways we interact with each other and the world around us. She’s especially interested in the effects of technology on our relationships, rituals and traditions.

MEMORIES BY DAN VIEIRA

D EATH , Eleanor Willis discovered, had a transfor‐ mative impact upon those it touched; both the people whom it touched in the literal sense, and those who were left to suffer its mournful after‐ math. For example, prior to death encroaching upon her decades-long marriage to Harold Willis, at least half of what he said and did irritated her. Instead of the years softening the irritation caused by Harold’s peculiarities, Eleanor had found that they increasingly irritated her more. The list of irrita‐ tions was long – in fact, she sometimes forgot about a certain irritation until it had occurred – but two stood out in her mind. The first was his incessant snoring during the night, which was quiet but still intrusive enough to warrant irritation. The second was his predisposition to be as languorous as possible; the man did all things in a relaxed manner. Making breakfast? Harold would take his time. Changing a tyre after getting a flat on the way to a friend’s wedding? No need to rush, he’d say. Even a poker night with ‘the boys’ stretching a little late into the evening elicited the same response. Harold was a man of idle means, at least following his retirement – and boy, did he make sure Eleanor knew it. Of course, he used to just accuse her of being over‐ stressed and unable to relax. Ironically, they had always approached life with two different rhythms. Following Harold’s death, however, Eleanor’s memories of these irritations had morphed into a quiet nostalgia. At night, for example, as she prepared for bedtime, she did so in the knowledge that she would hear no snoring. She would not be awoken in the middle of the night, and she would not gently

MAPPING THE CITY (well, she tried to do it gently, anyway) nudge him. On more nights than she would care to admit, Eleanor had stared at the empty side of the bed with a desperate longing. It was the kind of desperate longing associated with teenage girls in the woes of first love, and at sixty-six, she didn’t think she would feel it again. In these sad, silent moments Eleanor thought of all the little things about Harold that had irritated her, and realised that, secretly, she had always loved them. She had always loved his snores, irritating as they were. She had always loved the fact that Harold’s composure would not break, regardless of the circumstances. She had always loved the laughter that emanated from the kitchen, when he had his friends over for poker night. This nostalgia was more painful than any irritation Eleanor had ever felt. The nostalgic memories were strongest on the day of Harold’s funeral, as one would expect. Eleanor had awoken hours before their son, Kyle, had agreed to pick her up. She had showered, dressed, and made coffee. She usually drank her coffee black and sugarless but, in honour of Harold’s love of sugar (a subject of contention at breakfast), added a sugar cube. As she sat drinking her coffee, she thought of all the places she would no longer be able to pass by without thinking of Harold. There was Soho, where they had first met at a party while they were both at university; she was in her first year and he was in his third. She remembered he had been dancing like a monkey who had been given an illicit substance, and the two friends she was with had made a comment and laughed – something about ‘riff-raff’. But instead of laughing along with them, she had just stared in wonder at this stupid being – this clown who seemed oblivious to the judgemental stares aimed in his direction. Of course, she would later find out that he knew he had been the butt of many a joke that night; he just didn’t care. Eleanor’s fascination with a man so uncon‐ cerned with the beliefs of others was indeed so great that when Harold approached her, flashing a charming smile, she hesitated for only a second. They danced like two buffoons, and she had loved every second of it. There was also Hyde Park, where Harold had insisted they go for a picnic one afternoon during their first summer together. She had been adamant about a nice restaurant, and was willing to slip him the money beforehand so he didn’t feel embarrassed about not being able to afford it. Her family were wealthy, and she thought nought of extending a helping hand – even back then, when times were different. Alas, he had not relented and instead, he insisted on helping her ‘enjoy the simple things in life’; and so picnic at Hyde Park it was. She packed bread, jam, scones, fruit and fresh orange juice. The latter, she later spilled on her summer dress and promptly blamed Harold for, because he’d insisted on the picnic in the first place. In response, he stuck his tongue out like a petulant child. She couldn’t remember whether they did end up eating all the sandwiches, but she did remember strolling and later getting hotdogs. It was, however, Trafalgar Square that would be the most difficult area to pass by, for it was here that Harold proposed. It was in front of the fountain,

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL while the lions loomed majestically above them, that he lowered onto one knee and held out a ring. It had taken her a few seconds to process what was going on; it seemed to happen in a blur, as glorious moments often do. She had wanted to dance. She had wanted to cry. She had wanted to berate him for proposing to her in such a public, well-known place; what if she said no? Did he not think of how embarrassed she would be? She had wanted to ask him to repeat the question, just so she could hear it again. She had wanted to go eat a hotdog. She had wanted so much, but most of all she had wanted happiness. She said yes, they kissed, and then they went to get hotdogs. She said she wasn’t going to allow her first time wearing the ring to be while she was eating a mustard-filled hotdog, so he waited until after to slide it on her finger. Eleanor finished her coffee and wiped the tears that had been falling with the back of her hand. Remembering the places in London that had been so pivotal for her and Harold was like mapping their relationship. When Kyle arrived, a plan had already begun forming in Eleanor’s mind, and, by the time they reached the church, it had been cemented. Eleanor had decided that she would have to scatter Harold’s ashes in the places where her memories had homed themselves. It was the only proper thing to do. After the funeral, there was a small get-together at Kyle’s house. Eleanor had fought hard against the idea of any kind of post-funeral get-together, but Kyle insisted it would be a good idea. An opportunity for people to show their love and support, he said. Eleanor, who had cried on the ride from the church to the house, had exhausted her tears and had instead fallen into a tired haze. She moved from person to person, nodding and thanking and shaking hands. At one point, she began remembering all the mean comments Harold had made about some of them – a highlight was Arthur, a neighbour, looking like a pigeon – and she began to giggle. Kyle promptly took her arm and led her out of the room. ‘Mom, what’s wrong?’ He asked, still holding her hand. ‘Nothing, nothing; it’s just that...well, Arthur: he looks like a pigeon, doesn’t he? Your father always said so. And, you know, I really see it now, is all,’ replied Eleanor, her voice lowered. ‘I suppose he does.’ Kyle looked at his mother intently, and Eleanor could see that his eyes were red; he must have been silently crying whenever people weren’t looking. Eleanor took his hand in hers and squeezed. ‘I love you, Kyle. He would be so proud of you, I know that. Can we do something, just us two? It’s important, and it won’t take long.’ She explained her plan to Kyle, and slowly watched his face form a quizzical look before morphing into one of agreement. They waited until all the guests had left, and later that evening, mother and son set about their task. Eleanor carried Harold’s ashes in her bag, in a small leather box. It was a

MAPPING THE CITY vintage Chanel bag, gifted to her by her mother about a decade before her death. She felt like her mother was beside her and Kyle, as the two walked along the Strand. The memories of Harold that had been flooding her mind seemed to pave the road for memories of other deceased loved ones. She remembered her mother’s long hair, her strong perfume, and the shopping trips the two would have. As she and Kyle passed a coffee shop, the smell of strong coffee reminded her of her father reading his morning paper, chipped mug of coffee in hand. He had been a stern man, but loving. Eleanor glanced around her and, having asserted that no one’s eyes were on her, slipped her hand into her bag. She opened the box, dipped her hand in, and then continued walking. She allowed herself a few seconds before she unclasped her hand, and let a hand-full of ashes drift behind her. ‘Is this even legal?’ Kyle asked, staring straight ahead. ‘I don’t care. We’re only scattering a little bit. Your father would approve, that much I do know,’ Eleanor replied. When they reached Trafalgar Square, it felt like time had come to a stand‐ still. Eleanor felt like the area was alive, like the memories she and Harold had shared there were floating all around her. She looked up at the lions, one of which had a couple posing against it, and imagined them all breaking their silent reverie long enough to give a quick, approving nod. Kyle squeezed her hand, and she instinctively knew he was teary-eyed. She squeezed his hand back, and the two walked to one of the stone benches on the side of the square. They sat for a few minutes. Then, slowly, Eleanor reached into her bag. ‘You were right, there was never a need to hurry,’ she whispered, as she lifted her hand. She unclasped her fingers and watched as ashes were swept away, joining the memories that surrounded her. She glanced at the lions, majestic as ever, and then looked up at the sky. She hadn’t realised, until then, how powerful memories are. It was like they were made of glue, and stuck themselves to all the places and buildings that had birthed them. Perhaps it was this that people thought of when they said one can never truly lose someone. Physically, they leave, but a part of them lingers in all the places they once lived, loved and laughed. Eleanor and Kyle would sit there a while longer, while all around them swirled memories of a husband, a father, and a life well-lived.

D AN V IEIRA is a writer who focuses on prose fiction, and his work often explores the underbelly of urban life. He likes caffeine… a lot.

GARDEN OF EDEN BY JACQUELINE AHEARN

T HE K EW G ARDENS T UBE station was uncharacteristically deserted that fading summer evening. As he walked briskly toward the platform, he noted the eerie silence that had overtaken the place. He had never seen it empty. He turned, as he did almost every day, onto the eastbound platform, and pulled out his phone to see if there was some delay or holiday to explain the disturbing lack of people. Nothing was noted in his calendar. No mention of it from his wife as he had left the house, no casual “dear, don’t forget the Tube is shut down today,” as she helped him into his coat and kissed him softly on the cheek. He glanced instinctively toward the information board and saw that a train was five minutes away. Just then something moved in the corner of his vision, another person stepping quietly onto the platform just a few feet from him. A woman. She looked young and glanced around in the same perturbed manner he imagined he had just done, before alighting on a bench and pulling a book from her bag. It was poor etiquette to stare on the Tube. Glancing at his watch, he allowed himself the thrill of a peek in her direction during the downward glance. She wore her dark hair loose around her face, floating like storm clouds around a flash of lightning. He glimpsed a dark leather jacket and tall black boots before his eyes confronted the face of his watch. Perhaps it was the weighty silence of being the only two people in the station, but everything about her called to him. Each languid movement of her wrists and fingers as she shifted the book between her hands or flipped each

MAPPING THE CITY page, the way she intermittently twisted her hair against her cheek and tossed it aside, and the way her shoulders rolled slightly, barely noticeable out of the corner of his eye, each time she took a breath. Since he couldn’t look directly at her, he pretended to read the adverts by her head. He glanced toward the infor‐ mation board once more and squinted at announcements he had already read, before edging closer under the pretense that he had bad vision. Now, closer to her, he angled his body, loose and some facsimile of relaxed, his body tilted toward her in a casual way. She was, in a word, fit. The very definition. Seated below a large poster for perfume called Allure, he thought there was no more natural place for her than right on that bench. “There is a District Line train to Upminster one minute away,” came the cool and calming female voice that made all such announcements. The girl barely glanced up. As she flicked her wrist to turn a page, he saw a tiny tattoo on her right wrist. A small, green, cursive E. Entranced, he barely noticed the whoosh and whir and wind of the train as it pulled up, focused so completely on a floor tile that let him keep her in his line of vision for just a while longer. He pretended to hang back, checking the side of the train for confirmation of its ultimate destination. She strode ahead of him and stood poised on the dirty yellow line. When the doors opened, she chose a seat on the deserted train with confidence, not a moment of hesitation. But he hesitated, wondering if he had the courage to sit next to her. Too much, he decided, settling in across from her instead. He pulled out a book himself, one he kept in his bag but never read, hoping that perhaps it would be enough to strike up a conversation. He left it on his lap for a moment, then opened it to the cover page. For a minute, he sat there on that page. Not believable, he chastised himself. “This is Gunnersbury,” over the train’s speaker system. “Please mind the gap between the train and the platform,” the disembodied woman droned on. The beautiful young woman didn’t glance his way as he opened it to a random page and furrowed his brow with more concentration that he had ever mustered for a book. While he stared intently at the words, “He feared us so much—and within reason—that he caused himself to be represented as dead,” he considered what the E could stand for. A name, he thought. Her name, surely. That was certain, for she looked like her name started with an E, with only that font. That letter was her, and she was… he simply couldn’t decide. Not Elizabeth, nor Elaine. Too simple, too common, too proper. From a great distance, he heard the detached voice of the announcements. He couldn’t focus to hear the stop, too busy eliminating Erin from the list of possibilities. After a moment it came to him. Evelyn. That was her name. A more certain thing had never existed, a more perfect creature he had never seen. Evelyn perused her book more slowly now than she had on the platform, seeming to savor each page. Her hand would

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL hover, uncertain, over each corner of the page as though she was not so sure it was time to turn it over. And still, she never looked up. “This is Westminster,” came the announcement, seeming much closer this time. “The next stop is Embankment.” He was shocked at how far they had gotten, as he had barely noticed the regimented stop-and-go of the Tube. From this angle, he could see the way her hair tickled her neck and brushed the top of a translucent white shirt. The shirt was tucked smoothly into dark blue jeans, skin-tight, with a small rip in one knee. In her hand, the red cover of the book couldn’t compete with the red of her lips. They were parted now, slightly and with a show of concentration, to show bright white teeth. Evelyn shifted forward such that she had to be able to see him over the top of her book, and could lock eyes with him if only she would look up. Frantically, almost manically, he turned a page. It did not catch her atten‐ tion. A moment later, once more with significant force. Nothing. He settled himself back, instead, so that he could see all of her with his eyes still on the book in his lap. He tried once more to turn the page loudly. A sharp ripping sound emanated from the page, but still she did not respond. Giving up page turning as a bad job, he simply let his mind float away in the presence of her. Each turn of the page was a musical accompaniment to the rhythmic move‐ ment of her hands, eyes, shoulders: all perfectly synchronised in her singleminded pursuit. Still, she seemed to be reading slowly, eyes often pausing toward the top of each page for a long time and merely skimming the bottom. He tried to remember to turn his own pages, move his own eyes, and appear to be engaged in his own endeavor. “This is Tower Hill,” and suddenly Evelyn glanced up. “The next stop is Aldgate East.” He glanced up too, eager to look Evelyn in the eyes for the first time. Her brow was furrowed as she stared above his head. He opened his mouth to ask if she was lost, but then she shrugged and returned to her book. The moment was gone. He could not pretend to concentrate on his book any longer. He threw it back into his bag. A moment later the train lurched to a halt again and he realised his leg had fallen asleep. The pricking, painful pin sensation running down this thigh made him uncomfortable. He shifted, then stood for relief. “This is Aldgate East, please mind the gap between the train and the plat‐ form. Change here for Circle and Hammersmith & City lines.” Evelyn stood, one hand cradling her book to her chest and missing fingers used to hold her place. She strode off the train. Oh no, he thought. Aldgate East was a rough neighborhood. No place for an angel. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t late, but the sun had set. More momentum than intention, he suddenly hurled himself off the train just as the doors whirred shut behind him. He had been intending to go to a pub in West Ham, but James and his other friends could wait. There’d be no complaints from them as long as they each had a pint to hand.

MAPPING THE CITY He followed her up the steps and out into the air. Somewhere between the train and the pavement, her book had disappeared back into her bag, and she now walked with a frenetic energy that he was almost too old to match. She seemed to dodge onto streets at random, a sharp left, crossing the street at an angle, then a right. At least she stuck to the well-lit ones. Smart bird, he thought to himself. He kept a healthy distance between them. Twice, as she waited by zebra crossings, he had gotten close and almost spoken. But the timing wasn’t quite right. He realised with a start that he didn’t know where he was. He looked around to catch his bearings, glancing in each direction. Aha, he could ask her for directions, he realised. His moment was upon him. But when he turned back, she was gone. He turned around in a circle, once, twice, thrice. Nowhere. She had aban‐ doned him. He turned back the way he came, but at the intersection, he realised that he was lost. So focused on Evelyn that he had not noticed which way they had turned through the maze of streets and shops, he now despaired of finding his way back. He turned left for no reason, then right. He was having a wander, but he hoped he would recognise something. Then, almost embarrassingly late, he realised he could use his phone. Fishing around in his pocket, he kept walking and pulled it out. He barely glanced up at the dark shapes approaching him until a sharp cry caught his attention. “Oy!” One of the shapes resolved itself in his vision into a skinny blonde kid, no more than seventeen. “Give us your phone, mate.” “I’m not… giving you my phone,” he replied, wishing he could muster more bravado. To the left of the skinny blonde boy, another young man pulled out a pocket knife and brandished it. “You sure, there?” Without another word, he handed over the phone. “Bag too, innit, and the wallet.” “No wallet on me. Some cash in the bag.” He lied quickly, praying they wouldn’t check. He tossed his bag to the ground and a third boy scrambled to pick it up. “Eh, check this, fifty quid,” whispered the boy holding the bag. “Alright then, move along,” said the blonde. He paused for a moment, surprised, then stepped toward the group of boys. It was an impulse, desire to move, rather than any desire to go in that direction, that drove him. But just as suddenly, the blonde cocked a fist and punched him square across the jaw. He heard a crack and staggered backwards. “Don’t take another step toward us, mate,” said the one with the knife. Light still exploding in his vision, he didn’t move, and after a second, the boys turned and ran.

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL Jaw clenched against what felt like blood threatening to trickle between his teeth, he staggered back the way he came and wandered, this time sticking to well-lit streets. He didn’t run into a soul, but quickly found a Boots with a helpful store clerk who called the police. He stood by the door with his eyes closed while he waited for them to arrive, the image of Evelyn still firm behind his eyelids. “Ad-man?” he opened his eyes to the sound of his old nickname, “what happened to you, mate?” It was Charlie, an old friend from primary school. “You look awful, innit?” “I got mugged, man,” he replied tersely, jaw still clenched. “Someone call the cops already?” “Yeah, thanks.” “Ain’t you live south of the river? What you doin’ round here?” He thought about the question. “I was going to see some bird, mate. Always it, yeah?” Charlie nodded wisely. “Girls are always trouble,” he continued to nod. “Nothing but trouble. Always lead you astray, yeah. More’in they’re worth, like. Listen, you take care, yeah?” And with that, he was alone again. Just himself, and Evelyn, and now Char‐ lie’s words, “always trouble,” flitting around his brain.

J ACQUELINE A HEARN is an attorney, originally from Boston, who moved to London from New York City to pursue her hidden love for creative endeav‐ ours. Her work focuses largely on speculative fiction and on psychology and trauma.

A NARROW BRIDGE BY SHLOMO GLEIBMAN

S OME SAY , the whole world is a very narrow bridge. Of course, this depends on one’s perspective. You might say, it’s a very large gap or the borderless surface of the deep. You might also say that the hill on the other side is one of those heights, the ones for a burnt offering, where God demands that fathers and sons sacrifice each other, sacrifice themselves, or sacrifice their journey together—until a pretty angel from your heaven calls you, “What’s going on, babe? We are getting late for dinner!” You don’t know where the bridge leads you. You have no idea why you are there. You don’t even know if you want to walk on it, but the most important–yes–the most important challenge is to have no fear. None at all. Not even a fear of yourself. It has been suggested that invisible spirits connect human galaxies; the heavenly sefirot mix and mingle in unpredictable ways on the tip of my tongue. Before I was born, my God knew me. And we both saw that it was good. After I was born, an angel placed his sweet finger on my lip. He said, “Forget it!” I was to grow up as a Jewish boy who liked other boys. The boy did not know it, nor could he say it. He wrote poems about the beauty of other boys, so close and so unreal. And so it was: God and man. For 35 years. Recently, my father in Worms became obsessed with the mystery of my intimate life. He called me every day from his small town in Germany to discuss possible reasons for my loneliness. He shared with me his techniques of attracting women. “You know, I didn’t have to learn this stuff: I just did it. You

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL have a desire for a woman, and this desire is so strong that you search for women and go after them… but you are not doing this. Don’t you have any desire?” I was silent. The theme of desire and lack of desire persisted. After several days, I admitted that I had no desire. The following day, my father called again. - It’s almost summer. I want to buy you a pair of shoes. - I have shoes. I don’t need any more. - No, I want you to have good, European shoes. What is in fashion now in Toronto? - I don’t know, Father. I’m not one to think about fashion. - Then please go and find out. I want to know what kind of shoes you like. I want you to look stylish. - Ok, Papa, will do. - I have another request. - Which one? - I want you to start taking male hormones. - What! What on earth are you talking about? - Ask a doctor to give you a prescription. It’s called testosterone… - I know what testosterone is! Are you out of your mind?! - You lack sexual desire! You lack the hormones! Go and see a doctor! - Papa, I have all the hormones I need. I don’t desire women, but I do have my desires. I am totally healthy. - How can it be? You don’t want women, but you still have desires… what desires? - My desires. Silence that questions itself. I know that, deep inside this thin silence, the voice of God and the voice of the pretty angel from my heaven compete with one another. Two people, father and son. They begin to cross a narrow bridge from opposite sides. The meeting point is far. The bridge is rickety. The void lies far below. - If you are healthy, but you don’t desire women… Maybe you are… gay? - Maybe. - No, it can’t be! Had you been gay, you would’ve liked men, but you don’t, right? - I do. The bridge, rickety bridge, trembles. Our steps are getting surer. What is below us? Maybe the firestone and the wood for the burnt offering? - You… like… men? How can you like men? What is there to like? They are the same as you! - Maybe that is precisely what I like… - Oh no! Why do I deserve this? You must see a doctor! Go tomorrow, say it’s an emergency, and ask him to change you!

MAPPING THE CITY - Papa, I can’t change myself. This is how I was born. - Do you know what they did to gay people in America and in Europe? - Yes, I do. - They imprisoned them–by law! - I know. Do you know why? - No. - Neither do I. What crime did these people commit? Who did they harm? - Well… Of course, governments have always done things that make no sense. But homosexuality is a pathology, it’s abnormal, it’s unnatural! - That’s what many people used to think. Contemporary science disproves it. Gay people are now totally accepted in all civilized countries. They can get married in Canada. It’s legally sanctioned. - I know… Thank God, they are a minority, otherwise humankind would go extinct, without procreation. Tell me, do you want children? - Maybe. Listen, gay couples can have children too now, through adoption, surrogate mothers, artificial insemination… - Yes, I know. But it’s not the same as having a child that is both yours and your partner’s! - No, it is probably not the same. - And you know… most gay men have AIDS. - Not most. Some. - Yes, I’ve heard that sometimes gay men fall in love with one another… I still don’t understand how you could have these feelings for another man! - I don’t understand it either. I just have them. Silence… A breath is sweeping over the surface of the deep. Alright, here are the fire‐ stone and the wood; but where is the sheep for the burnt offering? And where is that angel when I need him? - You know, women have a kind of aura. When I hold a woman in my arms, it’s such a special feeling… I don’t want to let her go; I am the happiest man… - I feel exactly the same way when holding a man in my arms… - But men don’t have this aura! - Do you think the woman feels the same way when she is in your arms? Is she happy? Does she feel your aura? Does she have this special feeling? - Of course. I’m sure she does! - That means that men can have this aura too, doesn’t it? It must be up to the partner to feel it or not. You can’t feel a man’s aura. A woman can. So can I. - Umm… Have you always had these feelings? - Yes. - So why do you say “maybe”? “Maybe I am gay!” You don’t need a doctor, then, and there is nothing to ask about. It’s clear and obvious: you are gay. - I don’t know, Father… I don’t know. What if it’s not true? Maybe I am not gay… Papa, I don’t want to be gay. I want to be normal, Papa…

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL - How come you don’t know? You had these feelings your entire life, and you don’t know? And you never told me? Why did you hide it from me? Why did you lie to me when I asked you about women? Why did you ask me for all those tips about dating women if you didn’t even want to date women? - I never asked you… - Doesn’t matter! Why did you waste years of your life? - Well, what else could I have done? What do you want me to do?! - I don’t know… Just go to a gay club, find someone! Live a healthy sexual life, healthy emotional life… Find a partner to share your life with! Why stay single all your life? If you like men, find a decent man, someone who would love and support you! I don’t want you to be alone! - Dad… Dad… I don’t know what to say… Thank you, Dad. - Don’t forget about the shoes. Let me know which ones you like. I’ll call you tomorrow. The narrow bridge connects two human beings. Over the surface of the deep, there is a voice: “Hineni. Here I am.” … Oh yeah, and where is that angel?

S HLOMO G LEIBMAN is a Ph.D. candidate at York University in Toronto, Depart‐ ment of Humanities, specializing in the intersections of religion and sexuality. Shlomo writes poetry and short stories that reflect his experience of being an academic, an immigrant (from Ukraine to Canada), Jewish, and gay.

LONDON IS A CAKE BY VALERIA RYRAK

B EFORE YOU LAND , you’re greeted by the weather Grey, moist, implacable, the rain splattering The windows of the plane; fine, then, I’ve come here to begin again, Which I will do through obscured view But counting on the rainbow bursting through. Step off the Tube at Westminster Get swarmed by city types, Genteel, busy faces Clutch the Guardian and frown. Centuries ago they would’ve galloped off, Swords in tow, to bloody the fields for King and Country, Now they all don Savile Row instead of suits of armour, Do nothing more than lift a hand to vote, or strike the gavel,

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL Thinking themselves kings of the world Yet noblesse oblige they follow not. But you, of course, know better, Are made of simpler cloth: You know the value of the masses, Their lives’ exact measure and cut. Then Big Ben strikes his timely tune, you make your way Towards Embankment, banking on a riverside stroll To clear your head, make you believe in something. Come to the river—Thames, the city’s great lifeline, And all the secrets that it hides Are only known to God, whereas you and I, Mere mortals, can’t see past its murkiness, And hydromancy won’t do when searching for the future. All you can do is wonder at how many, here, on these banks, Have cried, and laughed, and loved; How many have been murdered, drowned. Yet still its tidal lull rocks the city to sleep every night, Its morning boon waters the roots of the shoots So flowers can bloom. Walk further on with the river beside you— Embankment outlines its contours like a hug, Look, there’s Cleopatra’s Needle A stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square Where, like some military deity The one-armed Nelson surveys all Despite the loss of arm and life He managed to preserve. Now he dwarfs King George IV, while the twin galleries Like ships at harbour, crowd round, welcome the hero home. Walk on still, and now there’s music It lives day and night at Piccadilly Circus, Eros pierces someone’s heart, then they sing— Dylan, Sheeran, Cohen, Springsteen, Drake and Kings of Leon— And you think: yes, love should be requited, flame eternal, Redeem life, be a memorial to once upon a time You having been alive. Ah, the twin circuses, the white Lutetian stone, The streets open like another world before you Roaring glory, roaring glory;

MAPPING THE CITY You look up and there’s a cornucopia above: Stucco, sculpture, ancient wisdom done in Latin, Faces, such expressive faces In the audience above Watching the humans rough it out, Live their daily melodrama —which one of us Is better, smarter, faster? Find yourself at Marble Arch Where money speaks the language, Listen, can you hear the whirring of the wheels Of every plutocrat’s backhanded deal? They are not long for this world The ten-foot-high wall and marble-floor New aristocracy. Now hear the protests gathering Footsteps on the cobblestone clamouring, Heavy gales that’ve come in from the coast A tempest millions strong To right the country’s shameful wrongs, Set the edicts down on paper: We shall speak without a figurehead We proclaim to be this nation’s true Crown Jewels; Each person—an embodied GDP, A city ain't a city without human industry And the multitude of talents All compound to reach the zenith Saying: remember, remember, Guy Fawkes and November, Take heed. A city’s swirling masses Give it life, feed the seed. The Lion and the Unicorn Have rarely gotten it wrong for too long, And now we have a swarming metropolis 8.9 million strong, and forever growing. This city’s mad for life; you hear Memento mori at the hour: The Liberty London Clock exhorts: No minute gone comes ever back again Take heed and see ye nothing do in vain. You hear the bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral They make you come to, take stock of where you are, The joy of it just sweeps you under

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL You hear the city’s rhythm, join its rhyme, London’s grandeur, its majesty Has you always asking—oh, where’s the time? Walking through London Town Your head is like a merry-go-round, Follow the compass rose every which way The end result is just the same: History’s a cruel headmistress, She promptly puts you in your place; Scan the streets—there’s Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, Then Classical, Victorian Revivals, What are you compared to all of that? The truth of your own startling insignificance Now echoes off the flagstones of the past; Who are you? Why are you here, among such greatness? Here, you’re just a speck of dust, a tiny drop of rain, The city lords it over you—a monarch who won’t repent. What to do, what to do when faced with such greatness From Westminster Abbey to BT Tower; comprising Wren’s monumental Temple of the Souls, London Eye and Tower, Tate Modern, the Gherkin (modern, too), the Walkie Talkie, Tower Bridge, Big Ben in the west, but now its younger brother— Albeit built by a foreign power—glinting, towers over it, Pierces the firmament, and laughingly drains it. Yes, indeed, there’s been a marked uptick in rain and sleet Since the haughty Shard was built. Defeated, you amble home, re-take the Tube And there you see him, a few paces before you, His face—a dust jacket, but aged, Julian Barnes is riding the escalator with you And you think, this is it, there are giants outside, Giants waking in my midst; But he’s got an umbrella like yours, his mackintosh, too, His wellies do make the very same noise As yours do, and then it suddenly comes Like a tsunami or God’s burning bush, Like some wildcat Andromeda igniting a city, Repeating its history, repeating its history. In the end, it’s all rather uplifting

MAPPING THE CITY The writing’s on the wall—you read it, think it’s a joke, Don’t you know that London is a cake? Tell me, now, which layer will you bake?

V ALERIA R YRAK likes to think of herself as a soul-searcher. It has taken her a long time to finally find that yellow brick road, which has led her to end up studying for her MA in London, practising yoga, and writing poetry. Her only real wish in life is to be allowed to continue her searching, writing, and ques‐ tioning without interference.

PROMISED LAND BY KAIXIN HUANG

"T HE LAST MAN on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door..." 1 A beautiful, long-tail comet from nowhere flew beyond the earth. Under the influence of that celestial body, thirâ&#x20AC;? teen people were endowed with a superpower. Those people were chosen randomly; an artist, a forest guard, an office clerk, a school child, etc. They were of different nationalities, genders, and ages. One person had the Sahara covered by the Siberian coniferous forest. Another person connected the Antarctic and the Arctic through the Great Rift Valley. Someone else forced the time on clocks and watches, even on those digital clocks on phones and computers to stop forever. If, in one moment, the cities were run by codes and numbers, dots and nets, signs and protocols, they were paralyzed the next moment. Then the rural areas were cut off from connections with the outside world. Finally came the war: two nuclear bombs exploded, before the third one was prepared to give the final shot to the poor planet. One of those thirteen people prayed that human beings as a species become extinct for the sake of atonement. In the end, twelve of those chosen people used their exuberant imagination to lead the whole civilisation towards a dead end. But there was still a human being breathing painfully. It was Bai Rui, one of those thirteen people. He became the only human being on Earth. Before he could become aware of his extraordinary gift, he had already lost his conscience. He was a poor immiâ&#x20AC;?

MAPPING THE CITY grant, white-collar worker with advanced lung cancer, being tortured by a huge tumour in his left lung, lying in his apartment located on Old Street, London. Before that, neither did he have the nerve nor any money to step into the hospital of this foreign land, and thus he’d lost the final chance to wake up and get trapped in his conscience and dream forever and ever. If humans had not become extinct, things would have been much easier; his boss would have found him missing in the office and sent the ambulance to his location - N1 6HG, and one day later, he would have died in the hospital from natural conse‐ quences. But since his conscience was not dead then, the superpower helped him thrive with the leftover things. The air was stagnant in his room, for his windows had been shut for too long. Water vapor had condensed on his window and small drops dribbled down, the trace of which made the blurred sight outside the window clear again. Clothes, shoes and underwear left on the street looked like someone had placed them there purposely, while bricks, wreckage and dust seemed like the time during the Blitz. Beyond the cloud, a huge mushroom stayed motionless. Clearly, one of those chosen people just wanted to stop exploding.

2 Time flows easily, especially when human beings don’t analyse and consume it. Nearly 200 years passed by. Bai Rui still coexisted with the tumour harmo‐ niously. He was still trapped in his conscience, ignorant of his superpower. So, this must be the real hell then; no women, no ghosts, no trial and no punish‐ ment. He thought this was the end of atheists. Are we even deprived of the right of reunion with our families? Why are the lungs still very painful if I've died? Time passed. Bai Rui needed no food nor excretion. Later on, his legs, vocal cords, eyes, ears, and various senses degraded. He just lay in bed, waiting for the end of time. But the fact is, even if the earth exploded, he would float naked in the universe, because he had the power of Immortality. He began to think of real death, the complete decomposition. Since time couldn’t destroy him, he imagined that in a distant place, new human beings may appear on the earth, they evolve, multiply and form their own civilization and how, eventually, one of them comes to N1 6HG and ends his life.

3 Somewhere in the south of China, the wasteland is now covered with dawn redwoods. At the top of the city, there is a public stadium, where the arch is like

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL an eggshell, and protects it from being encroached by vegetation, especially the vine. Seemingly out of nowhere, a group of houses appears on the grassland of that stadium, and a group of youngsters leave at noon. On the evening of the same day, they go out and, for the first time, see other humans. They just glance at each other and return to their own houses at once. On the second day, two hungry beasts step into the stadium through the east and west gate; they roar proudly and hunt joyfully, and they split the bellies of two youngsters. Upon hearing their screams, other youngsters just close the door tightly, tremble and pray. On the third day, the youngsters go out at dawn . They gather in the centre of the circle formed by the houses. They hold each other's hands and talk a lot. At night, every young man is paired with a young woman, and they mate.

4 The first group of 12 people have a clear picture in their minds, far west lives their God. There is strong telepathy in their hearts that God is calling, but they feel quite scared. Instruction echoes in their minds: "Come to me." They just choose to suppress the thought, and live, mate, multiply and create with a sense of sin. The population of emerging human beings has increased rapidly. The first batch of youngsters died soon, and their descendants shouldered great responsibilities. But only a few of these descendants could feel the inspiration of God. So, very few people became prophets. As the first batch of youngsters, the prophets can see Bai Ruiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s memories in their dreams. They see the world that Bai Rui once saw, hear the voice that Bai Rui once heard, and feel the strong senses that Bai Rui once had. They call the world they see through Bai Rui's memories of the "Promised Land". In the meantime, their descendants spread their territory out of the stadium. God has a rectangle that displays strange symbols. And a thin line extends from the rectangle and splits into two, connecting both ears. They are convinced that God sends instructions to them through that rectangle. So, they pick out a squareshaped, thin piece of stone, take down the leaves of the willow tree and put them on the stone. Then they tie flowers to the wicker and stuff the little flowers in their ears. They believe that by imitating God, they could strengthen their connection with Him. Every time Bai Rui forgets some memories of the past, the prophets will get more. Whenever the prophets dream of new things, they will raise a bonfire, play the drums, and gather everyone around the bonfire. Everyone sits on the ground and listens to the prophets for what's new about their God. The more memories Bai Rui loses, the more the prophets get. Then generaâ&#x20AC;? tion by generation, the new human beings get more information about the Promised Land. The pretty pictures have been rendered into more exuberant scenes in the brains of generations. They are proud and awestruck, united and

MAPPING THE CITY harmonious. They firmly believe that, as long as they follow the instructions from God, those vegetations and plants intertwined with the tall empty build‐ ings would one day retreat and die down, so they can live in the tall buildings like God. Those crows that hover in the sky would become the humble servants, they can sit in the stomach of the birds, they can fly as God flies. Those mysterious cunning symbols on the wall and boards would be the clear voice of echo in mind, so they can perceive what God is thinking. The prophets cannot answer the question of who they are. They only know where they are going. They are afraid to think about where they came from. Perhaps they have a faint hunch that the truth would ruin the civilization. Knowing the truth is far more frightening than knowing nothing. Day after day, every morning, people pay homage to the West in the hope of seeing God one day.

5 Dream is something sly that crawls in your brain for treasures. When you close your eyes and sit in the auditorium of the theatre created by your own dream, the dream will drive the residual memories onto the stage. After the performance, the dream never fails to show off: look, they no longer belong to you. After the curtain falls, the dream will randomly throw the memories on the ground just before you. So, even if you are already awake, you feel you are still sitting in the theatre and feel lost for a long time. Bai Rui just had a long dream. He dreamed of his mother. She asked if Bai Rui feels happy in London and when he would visit her in China. But Bai Rui could not open his mouth because his vocal cords had deteriorated. His mother was wearing a red ribbon that Bai Rui gave her as a present for her 36th birth‐ day. Bai Rui has a strong urge to wake up. He tries for quite a long time, and finally opens his eyes; the sun burns his eyes, the black shadow of the sun sticks to his sight. His lungs, together with his heart, are in severe pain.

6 The prophet had a long dream. He wakes up, and this time, he doesn't raise the bonfire or play the big drum. He doesn't even wear his shoes. He runs through the door and knocks on the door of a house. A woman with hair tied up with a red ribbon opens the door, and the prophet breaks straight in. He pulls the sleeping kid directly and drags the kid before the fireplace in the middle of the house. He holds the face of the kid. Through the fire, he sees the unpleasantness on the kid’s face. The cold is mixed with fear and stretches from the heart to every cell of the body. The prophet suddenly has the urge to grab the kid's feet and throw him into the fire, but the respect of God's authority makes him quickly dismiss the thought. The kid, named Ba, does look like God. To be exact, they're just from the same mould!

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL On the dark night, Ba’s father rushes to the stadium and sounds the alarm. Apparently, after a long period of adventure, they’ve acknowledged some ancient, elaborate techniques. All the people walk through the gate and gather in the stadium. Ba stands in the farthest west of the crowd. All the people are kneeling on the ground. They worship Ba again and again, with all their hearts. They see off Ba cheerfully.

7 A pilgrim's journey finally began. Soon, Ba found out that the Promised Land he arrived at was merely a wasteland. All the totems in his home are the rough imitation of the sceneries of his place. In Ba's home, red and cyan yellow fruits are hung above each road leading to the stadium. Along the way, Ba sees countless round balls like this. They are shining green lights, leading the way to God's room. Ba begins to doubt, wondering if all the stories told by the prophets are lies. The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door. The door opens automatically. Ba enters the room. Ba sees God lying in bed, a man suffering from cutis laxa and amyotrophy without any hair. The appear‐ ance of God, which the prophets had portrayed to generations after genera‐ tions, was compassionate and not horrible. Such an idea makes Ba tremble. He does not know whether the fear is from the offense of the prophet or if he fears fear itself. Whatever it takes, he just wants to destroy the man with the knife he carries. But finally, he kneels down because of his fear towards God. Bai Rui could not open his mouth; he just conveys his will. "Kill me." This makes Ba more frightened. He remembers his father and mother, their civilization that is thriving and flourishing, everything they believe in; their daily pilgrimage, their drums and their bonfire. And finally, he recalls the panic in the eyes of the prophet. Finally, Ba ends his life and the knife drops on this Promised Land.

K AIXIN H UANG is a person who has always been good at being a chameleon. Writing is the only way to split herself and attach some part of her to the world.

I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG I'VE BEEN IN THIS CAR CEMETERY BY TS HIDALGO

N EW Y ORK IS like a cage, isn't it? I sing, here, from far away, to the city that never sleeps, to the beard of Whitman full of butterflies, to the roar of the big city in anarchic polychrome, to no million dead. I find myself a clown's nose, and scrap. How many perspectives of the skyline have I done so far? As many as there are towers,

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL of the world's invisible hand? I hear a conversation, about the price of ice. You (Madam Death) and I are on an embankment.

TS H IDALGO (46) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), a MBA (IE Business School), a MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in the USA, Brazil, Canada, Mexico, Argentina, Colom‐ bia, Chile, Puerto Rico, Venezuela, Cuba, Nicaragua, Barbados, Virgin Islands of the USA, Germany, UK, France, Italy, Spain, Turkey, Sweden, Ireland, Portu‐ gal, Romania, Nigeria, South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, China, India, Singapore and Australia. He has currently developed his career in finance and stock-market.

DEPTFORDâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S BROAD WAY(S) BY JOHN RICE-MURPHY

H IPSTERS , crackheads, roadmen, Equals Deptford. Where, when It pisses down, The streets are streams of dye, running Down faces dripping, off ledge of lips. Where, On Friendly Street, The scarecrow looks anything but friendly as He contrasts the sunset, in its queer colouration

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL To the storeyed box that headbutts its shape, To the hair of the Renaissance re-en-actors, Screaming into themselves from the Home Counties, In Adidas. As if ghosts of casuals (but markedly better-phrased) Musing at the sirens of the lower world Flashing by in orbs of yellow-blue, orb-ish In their celestial body - of minds, star-striking Exhaust fumes of Billy’s kid’s whipped 125, Before snaking up side-roads off Lewisham Way, Into Brockley’s jungle, Waitrose-green, Where birds tweet, derisive Views more well-informed than yours. Where kittens float, purring smoke In wisps from trap house doors, Layered in that old gold, Dutifully delivered, By Midas’s shady brother, In the back of a puffed up Nissan, whilst fishing, Where Hanni of the homeless, fishes Faces under lamplight glow in the hope it radiates, Cracked like canyon in her desperation, Cluttered-ly stuttering: ‘Please! Please! Ten pound for the gas!’ ‘Twenty pound for the slap of life’s wass!’ ‘Thirty pound for electricity!’ ….to a slideshow of shrugs At the fly-trapped duplicity, Of which The tattered nymphs of Tidemill, The garrison of The Birds Nest And their mud-smeared intellectualism, Pretend to know positively nothing. Dole-ling out this careless beauty, To the trodden indigenous, In posters scrawled and urbanised Capturing purity of their design, Drunk in punches of purpose, Sparring thickening fences with sharp retorts, Kitted in khaki, To seamlessly slip,

MAPPING THE CITY Into shivering souvenirs of blazing green Albion. Yearning to save, waiting Sniffing up impulse, To ambush life in its high viz Waving its eviction order Coming to colonise the conquistadors As Tidemill roundabout becomes A hedgehog of justice A cannonball approaches the fortress wall, Screaming ‘get a job!’ To which Cora, Yells that ‘Your monotony! ‘It ain’t stopping me!’ ‘Not now that I’ve gotten out of Coventry!’ The pigeon flock, Quoting, quizzing: unstopped At the bleaching of hair on Tidemill’s blocks. And as I walk past The Flower of Kent, I hear The dying throes of ‘Armageddon Time’ Foster new meanings in its windows (but you’ll never hear them play The Clash version) The pesky matter of identity, it’s All getting on top of me, Then a skinhead waltzes past In a dungaree-choked tracksuit And a frazzled, careless look. On seeing the Nike tick drawn on his boots The epiphany: This bit of linen, This crusty handkerchief, This rag stained with engine grease, Is tye-dyed No matter how you look at it.

J OHN R ICE -M URPHY is a 21-year-old aspiring poet from Reading, who now resides in London. He studies English on an MA course at Roehampton, but also holds a strong interest in the study of culture and anthropology.

ROBINSON’S WAKE BY DALE HALL

29 TH M ARCH 2019 C ALDERÓN IS DISAFFECTED . When I tell him again that some of the railings south of the river are made from stretchers used in the war, he repeats that he knows. He discovered it himself watching Patrick Keiller’s London yesterday, as I prob‐ ably had years before. He was struck by a line in which the narrator notes that the pair ‘seem to be attempting to travel through time’. Calderón’s depression has built following the narrow Tory victory in the 2017 elections and as Britain prepares to leave the European Union. Brexit is supposed to happen today, but the government’s position is weak and it seems unlikely. Calderón is yet to decide if he is a Brexiteer or a Remoaner, but he knows that indecisiveness is

MAPPING THE CITY the cause of both his and his nation’s maladies. He should very much like to travel through time. He declared to me last night that the problem Robinson sought to uncover in England was still unsolved, so we met early this morning at Vauxhall station under a light London fog to try again. Our expedition begins, as did Robin‐ son’s, in a corner of Vauxhall Park, at the confluence where Fentiman Road and Miles Street trickle into South Lambeth Road. Robinson stood here and listened to the gateposts, hearing faintly Dickens, but also Holmes, who trav‐ elled here on the number 2 from Baker Street. He worried about the future of this bus: London, he says, is a city under siege from a sub-urban government, which uses homelessness, pollution, crime and the most expensive and run-down public transport system of any metropolitan city in Europe as weapons against Londoners’ lingering desire for the freedoms of city life.

Twenty-seven years on and the number 2 is still running, so I tell Calderón that this could not have been the problem with England. I am sceptical about Robinson’s process. Keiller’s Robinson undertook his personal investigation into the problem of London in 1992, during the most devastating year of attacks by the IRA on the English capital. Later, this time paid, Robinson delved into the problem of England in Robinson in Space and, more recently still, into the problem of Earth in Robinson in Ruins. All three attempts failed and Robinson was left more damaged by each expedition. I worry for Calderón because he mirrors Robinson in so many ways, and this problematising seems quixotic. Although Calderón plotted our expedition to the birthplace of English Romanticism on his phone, he refuses to look at it. This is where he wishes to best Robinson, through the practice of Debord’s dérive, in which he encourages the situationist to ‘let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there’. Calderón hopes to drift through the psycho‐ geographical contours of the city, as dictated by his interpretation of Debord: he will turn when he finds a street aesthetically pleasing, or when encountering a vortex which encourages entry, safe in the knowledge that he will reach Strawberry Hill. He carries a small spinner, ripped from a game of Twister, reborn in the shape of a tadpole, which he will spin to determine his direction, should aesthetics and vortexes fail him. As usual, Calderón has not read Debord’s theory thoroughly, becoming distracted late at night by the prospect of crafting an amphibious spinner. For Debord, the spinner is an imbecility. It represents the limitations of chance, which ‘condemned to a dismal failure the famous aimless wandering attempted in 1923 by four surrealists’. I won’t tell him, because I don’t want to add to his malady and because I am more interested in Keiller’s psychogeography than

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL Debord’s. Debord is theoretical where Keiller is practical. He walks through the architectural currents of the city, bringing Robinson and his narrator along to use as punctuation for his thoughts. Robinson is Keiller’s capital letter, pulling him into debate and partiality, and the narrator is his full stop, drawing his arguments to a close and leaving space for mulling over in the lassitude of the softly lapping Thames. I am keen to see the model boats on the Long Pond at Clapham Common, but Calderón is becoming steadily more agitated, so we continue. He seems to regret bringing me along. He told me, when he called last night, that Debord says ‘the most fruitful numerical arrangement consists of several small groups of two or three people who have reached the same level of awareness’. On Clapham Common, however, it is painfully clear that we are not two people who have reached the same level of awareness and when I look at his disap‐ pointed expression, I find myself disappointed in my own failure to understand him. Calderón shows me a photo of the bust of Charles I over the door to Banqueting House and quotes from London: The failure of the English Revolution, said Robinson, is all around us: in the Westminster constitution; in Ireland; and poisoning English attitudes to Europe.

When Keiller was filming in January 1992, he encountered the royalist commemoration of the 343rd anniversary of the king’s execution. This year, the 370th anniversary passed us by with no lasting resonance, but the poiso‐ nous failure of the English Revolution permeates still, and the rot is deepening. Robinson was a committed Marxist and Europhile; I am a committed Europhile and Calderón is a Marxist. I tell him that Brexit represents a total lack of respect for a century of political progress and he tells me that progress is a false, Victorian doctrine. He scowls because we are both members of a Middle Class, but he dislikes me more than he does himself for my grandfa‐ ther’s claims to bourgeois nobility. Like Robinson, Calderón sees his purpose through the lens of his truth, which is work. Daniel Defoe’s Robinson was self-reliant and self-regulatory; his life on the island was managed by periods of work. Michel Tournier’s Robinson worked even when the work was purposeless. Keiller’s Robinson worked parttime to support his research projects, which themselves became work. Calderón hates me because, as he attests, I have never worked. I was born with a silver spoon which has been replaced by a fountain pen. He tells me there is no truth in art anymore, but I have read Apollinaire and I know that art is now another name for work, which is truth. Calderón knows his work here is vital in some way, but he does not understand that the psychogeographic method through which he completes his work is art, just as the stones for Amphion’s wall around the Cadmea were compelled into place by his lyre. I quote Apolli‐

MAPPING THE CITY naire to him: “Vous fiasiez l’amphionie sans le savoir”. Calderón does not speak French, so instead he scowls again, and we continue to Wandsworth Common. On the common we finally encounter Keiller’s palimpsest. At nine minutes past seven on the morning of 10th March, 1992, a small explosive device was set off beside the railway line which bisects the common. It came just weeks after a larger device exploded at London Bridge Station, injuring 29 people. Nobody was injured during this attack, largely due to a coded warning received by Westminster Hospital at half past six. After 10th March, there were 36 further terrorist incidents in London attributed to the IRA. Today, a woman walks her dog over the bridge and an elderly couple sit on a bench. Today, Calderón and I stand on the bridge Robinson and his companion could not cross on 10th March 1992, and all we know of the IRA is what it stands for. Just beyond the Northside Field is the Royal Victoria Patriotic Building. Initially, it was an asylum for orphaned girls of servicemen who died during the Crimean War, and is said to be haunted still by the ghost of one such orphan. In the First World War it became the South Western General Hospital, where a temporary railway line brought thousands of wounded soldiers for treatment. During the Second World War, it was the London Reception Centre, a cruel euphemism for an alien processing station run by MI6 and Colonel Pinto, where European refugees would be interrogated. Here is a place where ‘events might take place’; a historical palimpsest and a place of contemporary mythology. If, as Debord wrote, cities have ‘psychogeo‐ graphical contours, with constant currents, fixed points and vortexes that strongly discourage entry into or exit from certain zones’; if one can feel, as Louis Aragon felt, ‘the great power that certain places, certain sights exercised’, then that power must come through history, or perhaps history which, through art, has become mythology. I should like to visit the Royal Victoria Patriotic Building, but Calderón worries that I will distract him from his purpose by ranting again about English attitudes towards Europe and the post-war foundations of the Union. Instead, we stand on the bridge which halted Robinson, and Calderón spins his tadpole, which sends us south west toward the cemetery. Calderón believes the problem of England might be found between here and Twickenham, since Keiller skipped over this leg of the expedition. He believes there is some secret Keiller did not wish to be revealed, something that Robinson could not comprehend. Because of his purpose, Calderón likes to see parallels. Rather than seeing the text scraped from the parchment and replaced by other events, as Keiller does, he likes to see the text gone over with a ballpoint pen again and again until the page is rife with thick, black figures and occasional tears. History, he says, will repeat itself until the problem is solved and the wheel broken. He likens this, occasionally, to the perpetual oppression of the proletariat and their promised revolution. In London, our narrator is shocked to find such an

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL increase in people sleeping rough in London while he has been away. Calderón carries statistics which say that homelessness in London has increased by 173% over the last decade. I suggest to him that this perhaps is the problem with England, but he responds that it is one of many symptoms. He also mentions a sequence in the film during which the narrator comments on the miners’ strike following the newly re-elected Tory govern‐ ment’s plan to close a third of Britain’s deep coal mines in October 1992. I’m keen to point out that the coal industry has contributed significantly to the climate crisis, but Calderón will have none of it. He marvels at the will of the working people, but was overcome with grief when Keiller showed the crowds departing from Speaker’s Corner: dispersed, individual, powerless. Last week‐ end, a vast host gathered on Park Lane to call for a People’s Vote on the final Brexit deal. After the rally, the crowds departed: dispersed, individual, power‐ less. A strong and stable government which has always been clear in its inten‐ tions, deaf to the will of its people. Tinker, Tailor, Major, May. That’s not the whole problem, Calderón tells me. It’s another symptom of the rot. We don’t find the problem in Keiller’s hidden leg; the cut is practical cine‐ matography. In Ham, though, Calderón finds what he perceives to be a target for Robinson’s crusade: He argued that the failure of London was rooted in the English fear of cities, a Protestant fear of Popery and socialism, a fear of Europe that had disenfranchised Londoners and undermined their society. He denounced the anachronisms of the city and its constitutional privileges.

In Ham Common we find an English village green, surrounded by actual Georgian mansions. Calderón looks ready to spit. The goal of the Londoner is to get out, but the money lives in London. The richest live in villages protected from developers by a high wall of cash and the local councillors sitting on top. These people dislike the city and the people who live there, but they commute to the civic void daily. It’s where they earn, where they drink, where they argue and where they see their mistresses. They are blind to the psychogeographical contours and vortexes of unitary urbanism. Calderón is already down in the dumps when we stop for a few hours to watch the river at Teddington Lock. Unless the key to the problem lies in Twickenham, he will not find it today. Keiller talks of a place ‘inextricably bound up with the state of mind of the characters who inhabit or observe them’, but this place is calm and easy. The lock-keeper laughs with the skipper of a canal boat and a seagull laughs along with them. I am calm, but Calderón is a brooding storm. The fog has not lifted by the time we reach Walpole’s castle. Calderón can’t decide here whether he agrees with Robinson on the essence of a Romantic life. He thinks Robinson too self-centred. He will continue his work tomorrow at

MAPPING THE CITY the library of St Mary’s University and in Poe’s grotto, so we stay the night in Twickenham. The next morning, I woke at five thirty in Europe.

D ALE H ALL is a London-based writer from the rural depths of the Jurassic Coast with an overactive imagination and a narcissistic need to force it on everyone. He works mostly with prose fiction and poetry to explore themes related to queerness, art and England. That said, he’s also written poems about menopause and a novel about pirates.

MEETING AT THE LANGHAM HOTEL BY OPHÉLIE RAYMOND

30 A UGUST 1889

I AM in London for only one day and for one sole reason. I have a meeting today that could drastically change my whole life and help my career. This man I have to meet, this Joseph Marshall Stoddart, could very well be the catalyst to the novel of my writer’s life. I still have no idea how I managed to draw the attention of that famous American editor. You can thank me for that. Ignore him, Arthur. Ignore his voice. Anyways, I’m quite delighted that I did. Luck is with me. My train is on time this morning and the sun is in the sky, smiling at me. If I’m being honest, I’m quite nervous, but above all, I’m thrilled. I mean, I am in London to meet with an editor. I can’t complain. Walking down Oxford Street, enjoying the noise and the agitation of the city, I know exactly where I have to go. Quickly, I arrive in front of that majestic white-bricked building: The Langham Hotel. I have some time to kill. I could enjoy a walk in Regents Park or— It will start raining soon, Arthur.

MAPPING THE CITY How could you possibly know that? You simply cannot. I know you are clever, of course you are, but you’re not a psychic. You don’t even care about the paranormal. I begin my walk, quite resolutely, and then rain starts to fall. Of course. Told you. So, I go directly to the Langham Hotel. Electric light in the entrance welcomes me. Now, that’s modern! As I stare at the lights, one young man, even younger than me, heads toward me with a polite smile. “May I have your name, sir, as well as the reason for your visit here?” I introduce myself, and the man smiles at me, before pointing to a round table at the end of the huge restaurant. Joseph Stoddart, an old man with a glass of wine in his hand, is laughing. Two men, both dressed elegantly, are sitting with him. One of them looks strangely familiar. I walk toward them, suddenly feeling shy. Joseph Stoddart sees me and stands up to shake my hand. He takes my arm and makes me sit on the unoccu‐ pied seat at his left. “Please, meet my friends, Oscar Wilde and Thomas Patrick Gill.” I’m not feeling shy anymore, I’m feeling amazed. This is Oscar Wilde. Oscar Wilde, the champion of aestheticism, is going to have lunch with me. And T.P. Gill, member of the Irish Parliamentary Party, is also going to share my table. Who am I already? Have I become someone as important as these two men? It feels like it at least. All of this because of me, do not forget, Arthur. “My friends, here is the talented young writer I was telling you about: Arthur Conan Doyle.” “Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle,” I correct him, automatically. Oscar Wilde whistles, impressed. I offer him a smile. “Anyway, Doctor Doyle here is the one who created that unusual detective!” He seems intelligent enough. Please, Sherlock, be quiet now. I am trying to make a good impression of myself, don’t start to distract me. T.P. Gill tightens his black tie and stares at me. “I’ve read your Study in Scarlet, Doctor.” “Did you?” “I find that Sherlock Holmes quite amusing.” Amusing?! “Well, thank you,” is all I can answer to that. I would have answered something else… “And I have read your short story Micah Clarke,” says Oscar Wilde, drinking wine at the same time. “I utterly loved it!” I am feeling overwhelmed by their admiration of my work. Truly, I am starting to think that I can write anything and be good at it. I can write about

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL the Hundred Years War if I want to. And I want to. I want to write about this period, about France, about chivalry! This novel that I am currently working on will be my masterpiece. I feel that this meeting will be a crucial moment in my writer’s life. I can write and write and write again. I am utterly unrestricted, I am— “So, Doctor Doyle, the reason why I invited you here today is quite simple: I want you to write for my magazine!” This is it. This is the moment when I become a real writer, a famous one even! “Of course!” This is it, now I just need to— “And I want Sherlock Holmes.” I lose my smile for a split second. “Oh?” I manage to say. You were saying? “Does that seem good to you, Doctor?” I force a smile and raise my glass. “Excellent, actually.” Well, Sherlock. I suppose we’ll have to spend more time together in the future then. Well, I find that is, as you said, excellent, Arthur…

(N OT Q UITE ) T HE E ND .

O PHÉLIE R AYMOND is a lunatic French writer from Paris. She is also a Holme‐ sian, a real fan of Sherlock Holmes stories. She studied cinema in Luc Besson's School and wrote her first short film about Arthur Conan Doyle called "The Final Problem".

A ROAD TRIP IN BARCELONA BY DANIELA KAŇKOVÁ

H E WALKED out of the Mercat de Santa Caterina. Trotting slowly towards his bike, which he had chained to a banister by the entrance of the market, he looked up in the sharp midday sun, and for just a minute, was blinded. That very minute, he complimented the beautiful day and thought about his twin brother, who was now working on a sailing ship in Costa Rica. Only three more weeks and he’d be there with him, drifting in the ocean and fishing. He unchained the bike and rode to the Parc de la Ciutadella to meet up with his new date. Would she possibly visit him in Costa Rica? She was waiting for him by the lake. It was pretty obvious that she wanted to paddle one of the little boats. He leaned the bike on a tree and prepaid for the boat she’d chosen for them to use. He paddled, of course, while she sunbathed. ‘Would you like to go, later on, to the bunkers? The view from there is nice, and we could see the fireworks of the Fiesta de Sant Joan from up high,’ she asked. ‘Yes, why not, the view from there is lovely indeed,’ he responded.

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL They paddled on, enjoying the sunshine and the fresh breeze of the water. And when she was about to take her shirt off in order to tan her belly, Carlos noticed his bike wasn’t under the tree anymore. ‘Susana,’ he said, ‘my bike’s not there...’ ‘What do you mean my bike’s not there?’ ‘It’s just not there; someone must’ve stolen it.’ He paddled towards the bank of the lake, still pretty calm and confident, as he didn’t want Susana to see him angry. ‘Did you see anyone taking my bike?’ he asked the older man who was selling the paddle boat tickets. ‘Oh, actually, yeah... I didn’t know it was yours...’ ‘Where did he go?’ ‘There.’ The man pointed a finger to somewhere unknown. ‘ ... station,’ he added. And Carlos ran off in the direction of the station like an Olympic sprinter. Susana, still sitting in the little boat by the bank, reasoned that he wouldn’t come back. He was not the man for her anyway. She needed a man who would take care of her, who would protect her, who would go out of his way to make her life fabulous. Someone who would never lose his bike. But Carlos had just abandoned her in the park, chasing after some stupid culprit, whom he likely wouldn’t be able to catch anyway. She really wanted to go to the bunkers, though, and thought about just going on her own. She was a strong woman, after all, someone who needed no man. She bought a bottle of wine and set off uphill. It was already getting dark when she reached the bunkers. The Parc de Guinardó was silent, but the bunkers were full of life and good hopes. Short skirts, alcohol and pot. Was this another lost generation? Susana sat with her bottle on the flaked front wall, legs hanging dangerously over Barcelona. The city was slowly lighting up its candles; ships and cruisers were arriving and leaving the port, and she, all of a sudden, saw all the despair disappear. She wished to stay in this very minute forever. She wished to forget that she was once unhappy. In the meantime, Carlos found the goddamn ladrón de bicicletas. He beat him up and got his bike back. He left the youngster sitting, pale and mute, in a puddle of blood: ‘Do it again and your mum will have to carry you around on a wheelchair!’ he said as he was quickly riding off from the incident. He had to leave immediately, as he couldn’t be seen here again by the police. No, not again. He feared that if he were, then he’d surely be prohibited from going to Costa Rica. Only now did he remember that he’d left Susana in the park, but when he arrived there to pick her up and to apologise, she was already gone. Where did she say she wanted to go afterwards? Somewhere for the view? In the furious rage, he blanked it out. He then went to the nearest bar and drank all

MAPPING THE CITY night, only to find out in the morning that he had forgotten his bike in the park.

D ANIELA K ANKOVĂ , alumni of the University of Westminster, is a poet, short story teller, and newly a novelist, who recently self published her first novelette 'The Winner'. She's Czech, but currently lives in Barcelona.

IS THIS THE WAY TO LONDON TOWN? BY PAULINE DAVENPORT

A M ESSAGE from Anne Bodenham (Deceased 1653) A cunning woman hanged for witchcraft in Salisbury. ‘X’ marks the spot, like a tilted holy cross, of a wart on the chest mistaken for a third nipple, or a boil on the groin mistaken as a sign of sexual exploits. Mapping pain and predicting torture is easy because, if you’re looking for a Devil’s mark, you will find one. Seek and ye shall find, and all that stuff. I could find a spot on you if I mapped your body for moles and oddities. Ah-ha! Yours will be a morphological adaptation at the base of your skull, from staring into your smartphone for media prophesies and sex. Neither of which will fulfil you, but will keep you hankering for more. What do I hanker for? Revenge? Nah. Too simple. A good, honest rant will do for me. When I died, I was old. In death, I am not alone. There is a young woman who pesters me with a children’s rhyme. Which is the way to London Town, to see the King in his golden crown? With one foot up and one foot down, is this the way to London Town?

I roam from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, over landfills, down B roads, along footpaths and ley lines, until I find myself in London so that I might remind you of the Edinburgh midwives, Pendle Hill, the Assizes and Northampton; for these histories are our tragic landmarks. Let us not forget,

MAPPING THE CITY Anne Boleyn had six fingers and, what it means to be singled out, to be strange. There were not that many of us, but we were the social outcast, the widows, and the single people. John was from Southwark. He survived the pillory and escaped the noose. Margery was accused of witchcraft and burnt at the stake in Smithfield. Most cunning folk were governed by a good spirit and were excel‐ lent in virtue, as Henry VIII required. My downfall was that I was guilty through connection with Dr Lambe. Guilty before proven guilty. Get the noun to match the clown who wants to put you in the ground. So what will it be, what shall thee do to drive out demons? Drown us, hang us, burn us? The ducking ponds and heaths are still on your maps. But the markets have long since changed - the ashes from the fires long swept away by rain. Joan of Wapping was famous for her cures of ailments, but for those not familiar with the lore of herbs - she had to hang at Tyburn. Furthermore, it is not safe for a woman to know too much of the pantomime of war. Hence more recently, Jane from East London was found guilty, for her in-depth knowledge of war affairs. And yet, what are the rumours I hear about Churchill’s magical battle of Britain? So what’s it to be my dear? Love charms or weather spells? Here she comes again. Which is the way to London Town? To see the Queen in her silken gown. Is it left, right, up and down? Soon I’ll be in London Town, for soon I will be hanging down. Shall I wear a red gown like the Queen of Scots or shall I wear brown?

You can ask and it shall be given: The Great Healing Mother does not first judge those she helps. She does not first recite incantations, but heals with abundance. Her hands are the sluice gates of Richmond, old Windsor Lock and the sails of barges, once a common sight on the Thames: Her grace far outreaches cures sought in the candescent, candlelit corners of Cathedrals. Mother’s efficiency is her undoing. Soon I’ll be in London Town, for soon, I will be hanging down. The people will jump up and down.

You can knock and the door will be opened unto you. In truth, a witch lives in the topsy-turvy – all thumbs, thimbles and threads. She’ll wear socks to bed and walk barefoot on your lawn. She’ll drink hot orange juice and gulp cold tea. She’ll work in the evening and sleep all morning. She’ll know your crevices and caves before you do, your dark attic and cold basement – your desires, your fears. She’ll have mapped you out before you’ve finished your beer. You will wonder if she knows what drives you, how you feel, what you want, whom you love, what you need to say, what you see, what you think and why? Sometimes, she will answer, but in truth, she knows.

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL Give me your hand that I might hold it and cast a circle. Join me, in a great throwing-out of things: quills, biros, pots and pans. Bottles, baubles and letters. Blood, ink, and phlegm. Lay before yourself all the things that are not needed. Your holster, your whip, your wallet, your worm’s-eye view of the world, so that we can start again. For at the end of days, we will see ourselves stripped bare; moles, warts and ‘X’s. And yet, we cunning folk know - the earth is our body: The sewers of our waste, the side streets and shortcuts of our longing, and the High Streets of those pretending they aren’t lost. Let us walk upon England’s mountains green and celebrate all the little things; the green and the brown - beads, buds and tree bark, more than we celebrate the grand - the red and purple of gowns and crowns, and see the majesty of the world in a single blade of grass. Let’s celebrate the scent of flowers in June and a father’s love for his newborn daughter, as he cradles her emotional uncertainty upon the fragility of life. Countenance divine; shine forth upon our clouded hills. Is this the way?

P AULINE D AVENPORT is currently studying part-time to earn a Creative Writing MA from the University of Westminster. She is a full-time mum, a part-time artist, and an aspiring writer.

A BEAUTIFUL CURSE BY SUZANNE CROMBAG

W HEN YOU WALK through the grass and feel the grass on your feet, you feel as if you are alive. The coldness that comes from the ground feels liberating. When you move your feet, you feel the grass tingling under your feet and going through your toes. It sends chills down your spine. When you hear the wind moving through the grass, it is almost as if it becomes a song. And when the birds sing along, you just dream, and drift away. I open my eyes and I am back to reality. I look at the field. This time I walked further into the field than usual. It is a different view to what I normally see. It starts to get dark, but the beautiful twilight sky makes the landscape mesmerizing. I sit down and watch the sun disappear behind the trees and the mountains. I know I need to go back home. Lady Annabel will get worried, and I do not want that. I get up and start walking back home. I walk up to the front door and sigh. Right when I touch the handle, the door flies open. I take a step back. I look in the angry eyes of aunt Annabel, or Lady Annabel, as she likes to be called. ‘Where have you been?' She shouts. I look down. ‘I went to the field, Ma’am. Sorry, I lost track of time.' I start twisting and turning the rings on my finger. Lady Annabel is the sweetest aunt, but she is a tough one. She has her rules that you need to follow. If you don't follow them, there are consequences. One time, she locked me up

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL in my room for two days. Another time, she didn't let me have dessert. These were for the same thing that I always do: come home late from the fields. I don't know why I keep going to the fields till after sunset. Especially when I know Lady Annabel is not happy with it. But the fields give me a feeling of being home. A feeling that I am free and can do what I want. I can close my eyes and dream. ‘You do this every time. Why do you keep disobeying the rules? It is simple, young lady. You come home before it is dark,' Lady Annabel rambles further. I try to listen, but my thoughts start wandering. I close my eyes and try to figure out what I felt, heard and saw. I open my eyes and stare into the darkness. I feel tears on my cheek. I wipe them away and get out of bed, trying to remember where I put my slippers. I start walking to my closet and almost trip. ‘Here is where I left my slippers,' I think. I put my slippers on and walk to the closet to get ready. I pick a shirt and pants, hoping that they look okay. This is the biggest struggle every morning: picking my clothes. I run through the hallway. It is raining outside. Lady Annabel won't let me go on the streets. She probably knows I will end up rolling through the mud. She hates it when I do that. I'm smiling at the thought of Lady Annabel’s face. I love going outside, especially when it's raining. Feeling the raindrops on my face, I can imagine running through the streets, jumping in puddles of water and seeing how everyone is trying to stay dry under newspapers or whatever they can find. It is funny to see their faces, all grumpy and not amused at all. Some do enjoy the rain, like me, but most don't. Because Lady Annabel keeps me inside when it is raining, I run around in the house and play with the dogs. They are always happy when I play with them, especially Mylo, who always has a smile on his face. Sam smiles some‐ times, but most of the time he is a little bit jealous. I love to have the dogs around, as the house doesn't feel as empty with them in it. I walk towards the kitchen, wondering if anyone else is awake. I like walking in the house when no one is awake. When everyone is awake, they keep an eye on me, as if I can't do anything. They come and guide me. I get it; believe me, I do. But I am not helpless. I can do things on my own. I take a deep breath. While I'm walking, I can hear my heart beating. I reach the stairs and start walking down. Step by step. Holding the wooden railing. Sliding my hand carefully over it and making sure I'm counting the steps. Then, I feel the knot, which means it is the last step and I am on the ground floor. Just two more turns and I'm in the kitchen. Trying to remember the map of the house in my head, I start walking again. Lady Annabel and I are walking with Mylo and Sam on the streets. We mostly talk about being good young ladies. I feel I can connect with her on these walks. I get the feeling that she thinks the same. We have been going

MAPPING THE CITY out more often lately. I try to behave as she expects me to, but sometimes I can't resist a twist and twirl, laughing as I try to dance. I always see her smile from a distance. Then the smile disappears, and she says to me that young ladies don't do that. I know she likes it when I do these things, and she loves me for them but at the same time, I know she just wants to look good for everyone else on the street. She knows a lot of people. Sometimes we stop, so she can talk to them. I cannot figure out where I went wrong. I have the map in my head, and I counted the steps. I must have miscalculated. One minute there was complete silence, and the next minute I bump into something and I hear it shatter all over the floor. I try to remember what it could have been. I walk carefully, but then I remember what it was and where I am. I feel the chair next to me as I reach for it. I sit down. My legs feel weak. I hear footsteps running towards me. ‘Oh no,’ says Joseph, confirming what I was afraid of. 'Don't move Maria. I will clean it up. Are you okay?' he asks. 'Yes, I am,' I say with a lump in my throat. I hear the butler's footsteps walk away. I remember when Lady Annabel and I went together to the store to pick out a chair and a stand. We had so much fun just running around and sitting on every chair they had. It was the first time I saw her having fun and laughing. She didn't correct me for not behaving like a good young lady. She let me pick the chair and the stand. I went for the Bordeaux velvet chair with wooden details that matched with the staircase. It was so comfortable and so soft. It shimmered when there was light on it. Lady Annabel was happy with my choice. Next to the chair was a wooden stand that also matched perfectly with the staircase. It was big enough to have her bust on it. After we bought everything, we went to the ice cream store. I got lemon-flavoured ice cream and Lady Annabel got a straw‐ berry-flavoured one. We walked to the field with our ice creams and sat there, listening to the sound of the wind. We sat there until the sun started to set. I hear footsteps approaching. ‘I am sorry Maria. I know how much you loved the bust,’ Joseph says. I nod, as I hear the broom gathering the broken pieces of Lady Annabel’s bust. Tears start welling up. I remember the day when we got Lady Annabel’s bust. We were so happy when it arrived. The way the sculptor had made Lady Annabel’s face, looking like her actual self, was remarkable. Her small nose was impeccable, and her hair draped perfectly around her shoulder. She had the most beautiful hair; golden, like cornfields, when hit by sunlight. Her lips had a berry colour which matched with her gorgeous blue eyes. Every part of Lady Annabel matched. She was beautiful and the bust showed that. Even without the colours. The bust stood in the corner next to the staircase and the window that looked over the street and the fields in front of the house. It was the perfect

THE WELLS STREET JOURNAL place to have the statue. I sat in that chair so many times, just to look at the children playing and the people walking by on the street. Sometimes I sat there just to read or write. It was the perfect place. Suddenly, I wake up from my thoughts. ‘I cleaned everything Maria. If you want, I can take you to where you wanted to go to?’ Joseph asks. ‘No, thank you Joseph. I will stay here for a bit,’ I say. I hear Joseph walk away. I can’t shake this feeling. The same feeling I had on the day of the accident. Lady Annabel and I went for a walk, but this time we went out of our neigh‐ bourhood. I remember that we were walking in Regent Street. While we were walking, Mylo and Sam saw something. The moments after that went by in flashes. I remember that Lady Annabel and I started running after them. Suddenly, a honk in the distance, squealing tires, a smack and then nothing but darkness followed. I heard voices next to me. I tried to wake up, but everything was black. I could swear that I opened my eyes, but as hard as I tried, there was nothing. I started to panic and call for help. ‘Maria! Maria! Calm down,’ I heard. I didn’t know where I was or what had happened. ‘You have been in an accident. A car hit you and your aunt. You hit your head to the ground and that caused some damage to your brain. We are sorry Maria, but unfortunately, you can’t see anymore.’ ‘What about my aunt? Where is she? Is she okay? And Mylo and Sam? Are they okay?’ I asked. ‘Unfortunately, your aunt didn’t survive the accident. We are very sorry Maria. Your dogs are fine; they are back home with Joseph, you need to rest; I will come and check on you later,’ the doctor said and left. I was alone in the room when it hit me what had happened. I started crying. All I could do was cry. I was broken. I felt empty inside. I had never felt so alone as in that moment. I grab my walking stick, knowing that Joseph had put it next to my chair. I walk towards the door and walk down the little stairs in front of it. Holding the stick in front of me, I walk towards the street, making sure no cars are coming. I cross. I turn right and start counting my steps, so I don’t miss the entrance. After fifty-eight steps, I am where I want to be. I take off my shoes and pick them up. I take a step and I can feel it. I can feel the coldness under my feet. The tingling of the grass. The breeze over my skin. I start walking into the field. I can see it in front of me. The grass moves. The wind makes the trees dance. The clouds create figures in the hills. The smell of roses. I can forget everything and see what I want to see. In a way, being blind makes me see more than I ever did before. It makes me see things differently. It is a beautiful curse in which I

MAPPING THE CITY am searching for my way. My way of finding myself and focusing on the beauâ&#x20AC;? tiful things around me.

S UZANNE C ROMBAG is a contemporary media student, originally from The Netherlands, currently pursuing her film career in London. She has traveled to a lot of places and learned about several different cultures, which help her develop narratives and films.

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