The Wells Street Journal - Issue 11 by The Wells Street Journal

Welcome to the Wells Street Journal! Six years in the making, this journal has evolved and changed with each semester and new set of students. I have personally seen the journal grow so much in the past year, and I could not be more proud of my team. Now, you are here to read the culmination of that journey. You are about to embark on an adventure through cities and space, which will hopefully inspire you to go forth and think about your own experiences in the world. Where would we be without readers, anyway? Readers fuel our writing, intimidate us, encourage us, motivate and daunt us. We, the writers of the Wells Street Journal, give our words to you in the hopes that you may find a connection with something new under the umbrella of the Liminal Edition. To my team I say thank you and congratulations! You should all be extremely proud of yourselves and continue to keep up the good work. It is because of you that we are able to have this first print edition. Keep working hard in all that you do, and know that because of you and the support of our academics, we have been able to come this far. -Paige Murray, Project Manager

Pressing a Button in Me by Pauline Davenport

6 9

Meet me Beneath the Clock Tower by Paige Murray Mr Wood Goes Visiting by Dale Hall

16 Scene 1 from â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;The Cryptâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; by Simon Bracken 23 The Halo of Pride by Bageshree Mehta 1

27 Ares and Aphrodite Go to a Party by Daniela Kankova & Godric Rochlen

30 I am the City by Marta Kepite 38 58 Marylebone High Street by Camelia Birza 42 The Mirror by Nels Challinor 48

Selected Poems by Melanie Cope

50 The Next Leg by Jaya Ramsinghani 54 Prima Ballerina by Cory Nguyen 56 Daniel by Susan B. Borgersen 59 From the London sky by Arif Alfaraz 63

The Altar to the Jago by Antonio Serraino

67 A Short Walk off a Long Blockchain by Dawn Ostlund 71 Searching for Spotlights by Tara K. Ross 79 Maida Vale by Karen Steiger 82 What Florence Did for Me, Mr Grimstead by Dale Hurst 84 Poems by Craig Dobson

Pressing a Button in Me by Pauline Davenport

Something

desperate is clawing for release from deep inside of me.

1890, London

Not one person in our group of acquaintances can get their fill of the mediumship, sĂŠances, tarot and foreign mysticism that are advertised privately, whispered about at parties and yet widely available. However, when I last saw the manifestation of ectoplasm, it made me feel far from healthy, so today I am trying something different. Thus it is that I find myself in a rather motley queue. At nineteen, I am by far the youngest enthusiast of pastlife hypnosis. It is hot on the street where we wait to be ushered to the private venue. A short, suited gentleman with a soft Italian accent appears at the door and quietly beckons us inside. We walk down carpeted stairs, remove our shoes and then enter the chamber. The basement is lavishly decorated with candelabras, Chinese silk cushions, throws and Persian rugs. I notice a sudden drop in temperature. There are mattresses on the floor and oriental fabrics hang from the walls. We sit on the soft, prepared floor and patiently wait for our host to begin the spooky proceedings. A lady in a deep red, floor length gown begins to light candles. I tingle with excitement hoping that this event will be nothing short of macabre. The gentleman we met at street level comes back into the room but this time he is dressed in a long, embroidered kaftan. He welcomes us with a brief statement about what we will do, but gives no introductions to the men and women stationed in each corner of the room. I conclude that they are here to protect the chamber from troublesome or negative forces. He asks us to remove any pocket watches, crystals or jewellery that 3

we might have on our person because the work that we are about to do can break the mechanisms inside of watches and crystal can interfere with the process. I reluctantly remove my treasured pale blue amulet from around my neck. He starts to talk to us in a caring creamy voice. A flutist gathers our thoughts together as one. Music floats through the basement like opium and we begin to prepare for a group hypnosis as our host continues to talk softly. The sound comes from me before I have time to logically understand it. I yell out but it is a sudden, unnatural, and broken scream as if someone were pressing a button in me and switching me off and on. The hypnotist looks at me with surprise for we are not fully under his spell. Yet there I go again and again, I cannot stop it. I am afraid and shy. I try to catch his eye for his guidance but he offers none. The people standing in the corners of the room look nervously at each other. Something desperate is clawing for release from deep inside of me. My modern Victorian self is embarrassed but I reason that this is why I am here: to discover a past life. However, I have no control over what is happening to me. I release a high-pitched scream like a woman tormented. The screams get louder and more powerful, as though an internal volcano full of shock and trauma is about to erupt. I gradually disappear deeper into trance. I never notice when we actually begin.

*** I see myself. I am one of many men meditating in silence. Robed in orange, with our heads shaved, we sit in a long row facing a vast landscape of mountains with snowy peaks. I feel physically lighter as I breathe the thin air of a high altitude. Then it happens. A sword is plunged into my back. The shock is beyond my imagining. I die instantly. I do not see my attacker. When I die, it is with the awareness that I am one with all other souls on a vast journey. My being is rich, nourished from the silence of sitting in the Himalayas and reaching the same heights of flowering within my own mountain of self. ***

I hear a bell ringing. I am being told to awaken. Someone counts from five to one, then to zero as I open my eyes. The basement looks strange and I wonder if I will ever look upon the world with the same eyes I had before. One of the Italianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s assistants, a petite, blonde woman, strokes my forehead and I am aware that I am wet with sweat. My eyes fill with tears but I am too confused to talk. She hands me a silk handkerchief. My legs feel like lead and I wonder if I shall ever be able to move them. When I sit up, I notice that all eyes in the room are aglow with a ghoulish light and I realise that everyone has remembered their own story but few saw their fate.

Meet me

beneath the clock tower and tell me that I’m yours again.

Meet Me Beneath the Clock Tower by Paige Murray

Our time is short here, but with you, everything seems endless. The ticking is getting faster now and it feels like we’re running out of time, but it doesn’t matter when forever stretches on endlessly with you. We’ll watch the sea roll away again, this time on the right side of the pond, where the waters are warm and the grey city is only a dot in the distance. We’ll both miss this foggy, grey, city, trading one set of skyscrapers for another. Meet me beneath the clock tower and tell me what I’ve missed. Tell me about your travels to Alaska and how much you enjoyed spending time with your crazy, loud, and boisterous family. I always want to hear about your adventures and see the pictures you’ve taken on that old Canon. I’ll hate when you point it at me, since it will be my turn to smile for you and pose for an eternity. Meet me beneath the clock tower and I’ll say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be gone so long. I have so many things to tell you, but I wish you could have been here to see them. I’ll ask if you missed me and you’ll say, “more than anything,” and I’ll feel both heavy and light, hoping that from now on, we’ll never be apart ever again. You’ll say, “don’t worry,” and with you, I never will. How could I worry when you offer me a hand and drag me down the bustling street, laughing over your shoulder as we embark on our next adventure into the unknown? 6

Meet me beneath the clock tower and tell me about the time that’s already passed. Bring me stories of that dry desert where the palm trees sway and sometimes snow gathers in the mountains, painting the sky a dull white. Tell me about the land of a million smiles, where happiness runs endlessly from one corner to another, the air filled with cotton candy and ringing laughter, where you and I fell in love. We’ll go watch the water change under the shining lights and remember the times of the past, creating new memories for the future. Meet me beneath the clock tower and I’ll tell you about the time that has yet to come. We’ll talk about our plans and hope that they work out. I’ll say, “I’m scared,” and you’ll reassure me that there’s nothing to be scared of. You’re right; with you by my side, I have nothing to fear. We’ll listen to our favorite songs again and again while we zig zag our way across the sky back home. Our home. There will be so many people waiting for us and for a while there will be smiles and stories to share. And all the while you’ll brush your fingers against mine underneath the table, sneaking a grin and sending a kiss my direction when no one is looking. Meet me beneath the clock tower and promise me that we’ll come back and meet here again. We’ll leave together, a pair, a team. We’ll wander through the museums, haunted with ghosts of younger versions of ourselves, clinging to a time when our only worry was the cold weather biting our cheeks and shivering down our spines. Surprise me with that brilliant smile and tease me into bursting out with laughter. We’ll trade our old knit caps for baseball hats and don sunglasses that reflect the shining sun. Meet me beneath the clock tower and I’ll tell you I already miss it even though we haven’t left. I will miss the way we zoom beneath the city together, falling towards and away from each other as the trains shift and sway. I will miss the way we run from one platform to another, laughing and nearly catching our breath before we break into another run, worried we’ll miss that 9:40 train in the morning to the countryside. After this, there will be no more train rides, no more time spent staring into each other’s eyes, while those around us stare at their shoes. Now there will be private car rides and honking horns. You’ll miss the green light as you stare over at me and I’ll fall in love all over again. Meet me beneath the clock tower so we can pretend that time isn’t flying all around us. The rain won’t fall anymore, but we’ll wish it did, so we can laugh under an umbrella that does little to protect us from the wet drops diving 7

down from above. You’ll talk about the latest football match you saw, eyes lighting up with excitement, and I’ll tell you quietly about the book I read recently that threw me back in time in the very city we left our invisible footprints. Meet me beneath the clock tower and we’ll grow together once more. Our future may be unknown, but it is bright and I know that you are the constant shores to my ever-flowing ocean, drifting away time and again, but always finding a way back to each other in the natural flow of life. We’ll give the world beautiful shells and surge with the love burning inside us, but at the end of the day, you are the one I will fly home to and want to find lounging in the sun, with the sand beneath your toes. Meet me at the beach where time is a far and distant thing, and we’ll finally stand on the same shoreline, basking in each other’s glow, waiting for our eternity to start immediately.

One sees this

Mr Wood Goes Visiting by Dale Hall

Gloucester Terrace. Or Westbourne Terrace. Or Craven Terrace. Well, one or any of those streets leading north from Hyde Park. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all the same, at any rate. All five stories of regency stucco flanking either side, which appeared to Mr Wood at the time to be almost oppressive, but of course that could merely have been the driving London rain and its overcast point of origin. It collected there in the rim at the back of Mr Woodâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s trilby and left via the front in a sort of depressed, miniature waterfall as if in an attempt to erode the overzealous bridge of his nose. From there, it parted at the tip to follow natural gorges along the edge of often flared nostrils and found its home in Mr Woodâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wellplumped and carefully positioned moustache. The point of a hat such as this, after all, is not to protect the face from the elements, but to protect the emerging bald spot from ridicule. Mr Wood turned directly, in a fashion which seemed at once purposeful and arbitrary, to face number sixty-seven of Gloucester, Westbourne or Craven Terrace. He pulled a damp note from his satchel and brought it close to his face, trying desperately to decipher meaning within scrawled letters and running ink. Promptly, he sidestepped the entrance to number sixty-seven to stand before a gate leading down to its basement flat. In doing so, Mr Wood caught sight of his reflection in the rain-spattered window. He considered that he might not be welcome here, that his visit could be inappropriate. 9

breed of minor calamity daily in the capital.

This neighbourhood certainly wasn’t right for him, not fit for purpose. Not suited for Mr Wood, who was suited, as he stood before the window of number sixty-seven of Gloucester, Westbourne or Craven Terrace in an old dinner jacket, which fit him perfectly well, and a new pair of slacks, which did not. He lingered a moment longer before the gate, upon which his left hand, less one finger, which hung uselessly, and another, which had been lost many years earlier in an accident involving an at-home, table-mounted mincer, rested, along with roughly a quarter of Mr Wood’s weight. The rest of Mr Wood’s weight stood and waited for that initial quarter of his weight to apply itself and force life into a pair of hinges, which he fully expected to be old and stiff, but were, in fact, new and well-oiled, so the rest of Wood’s weight followed the first of Wood’s weight all too quickly through the now open gate and the whole of Wood’s weight found its way all too firmly, after a short tumble, to the cold, concrete ground. This, however, was London and the sight of a man falling through a well-oiled gate, tumbling down stone steps and landing on concrete is barely a reason to lift one’s eyes from one’s newspaper, even if he does have remarkably well-kept upper lip decoration, since one is busy and sees this breed of minor calamity daily in the capital. Mr Wood, to his great fortune, was largely unharmed and proceeded to extract himself quickly from the tangle of his own limbs. He rose to his full height, drew in a lungful of air and turned to face the black door of the basement flat at number sixty-seven of Gloucester, Westbourne or Craven Terrace, knocking over, as he did, a rusted steel bin and thereby startling a cat, who until this point had been watching with detached amusement from under the porch of number sixty-five of Gloucester, Westbourne or Craven Terrace. The figure who answered the door stood a good head and a half shorter than Mr Wood, but he lowered his head to offer a friendly and familiar kiss to her cheek. She, of course, pulled her face away and pulled a face to say, ‘Your visit is inappropriate and you kiss even more so.’ Her eyes tightened and her lips tightened and the lines upon her forehead and around her mouth tightened. She began to speak through the few clenched teeth she still had. “You’ve a nerve, coming here.” Mr Wood cleared his throat. It was true that his presence here displayed a level of grit even he had not imagined himself capable of. He cleared his throat

once more. “Mrs Evans, please. I wish to see my friend.” “Well,” she responded, unable, despite all attempts, to accurately mimic his entitled arrogance through deep roots stretching all the way from Swansea, “he doesn’t wish to see you and he certainly isn’t your friend.” “I think we’ll let him decide that for himself, shall we Mrs Evans.” She stood motionless, squinting, her small eyes full of suspicion and derision. Mr Wood cleared his throat once more, with greater purpose. Mrs Evans caught sight of scuff marks on his slacks and a tear in his dinner jacket at the elbow and allowed herself a cruel laugh. When finished, she stepped aside, bowing and spreading her arms in a gesture of affected respect, and Mr Wood pushed his way roughly past her into the basement flat at number sixty-seven of Gloucester, Westbourne or Craven Terrace. The basement flat’s interior was precisely what he had imagined from the street, if not from the knowledge of his friend’s opulent tastes. The floor of the entrance hall, into which Mr Wood now stepped, was laid with a diagonally checked pattern of black and grey tiles, which had presumably at one stage been black and white tiles, but were dulled now by over a century of grime. The hallway led out into a small paved yard at the back, but Mr Wood turned and found himself nose-to-nose, as it were, with a great pair of closed doors built from a sturdy hardwood, which revealed itself from behind cracked and peeling paint, existing somewhere between shades of blue and green, but not quite turquoise and certainly not teal. He placed the five fingers of his right hand and the four of his left gingerly upon a reluctant pair of brassy doorknobs and pushed. Thankfully for Mr Wood, he had retained the possession and position of his trilby and his assailant’s aim was unpolished at best, so the unplugged toaster which grew rapidly in his field of vision missed his rapidly thinning scalp by half an inch and instead knocked his waterlogged hat back into the hall. Startled, Mr Wood wrenched the blue-green, hardwood doors back into their original lodgings and took a moment to recover a healthy heart rate and a healthy posture, mocked all the while by Mrs Evans, who cackled gleefully as she bent to pick up the offending toaster.

Mr Wood hurled a menacing look at the back of her head and replaced the trilby on his head. He turned back to the doors and once again placed the five fingers of his right hand and the four of his left more firmly upon the unwieldy pair of brassy doorknobs and pushed. Mr Wood re-entered the room with a good deal more conviction. The walls were dressed in hardwood panels, painted decades ago to match the doors, and across the room was a grand stone fireplace. It was the sort of room which deserved high ceilings, but the top of the doors fouled up against it and Mr Wood felt the urge to hunch his back. Seated at a small, felted table was Mr Sands, Wood’s erstwhile friend, and upon the table were two discarded hands of cards in a combination to suggest whist. Had Mr Sands and Mr Wood been conceived and born at precisely the same time to precisely the same mother, they could have been considered identical twins. Mr Sands had the prominent nose, the height, the growing bald spot and the proud facial bristles. The only real difference was where Mr Wood’s moustache tended to slope downwards at the corners, Mr Sands’ were trained into small, upward peaks. Mr Wood extended a hand to his friend. Mr Sands looked up from his cards in disbelief, holding the other’s gaze for a few uncomfortable moments before reluctantly forcing his chair back and clasping the open hand before him with just a little too much pressure. “I can’t believe you’re even touchin’ him, you buck eejit.” From the kitchen, striding purposefully towards them and carrying a food processor, was Mr Sands’ whist partner and Mr Wood’s toaster assailant. Iphigenia was the youngest of Mr Sands’ sizeable brood and looked very much like him, save for the thinning hair and the majority of the moustache. Mr Sands released Mr Wood’s hand. “Put down the appliance, girl.” And she did so, with attitude, upon the felted card table. She looked at Mr Wood and he looked at Iphigenia for the first time in what must have been nearing fifteen years. He had always pitied her.

There were many things he admired about his friend, but whenever he thought about Mr Sands’ daughter, he was reminded at once of Mr Sands’ loathsome, pretentious nature and of his many families across Europe. Mr Wood had asked her about it on one occasion, when she was in her mid-teens. “Can you imagine growin’ up with Ma in a town like Derry with a stupid name like Iphigenia?” And that, like many of Iphigenia’s interjections, ended the conversation. On this occasion, however, it opened one. “What the fuck is he doin’ here?” Mr Sands grimaced as if slapped around the cheeks with the back of an empty, leather glove. “Language, please Iphigenia. We do have a guest.” “Well, I didn’t ask him here. Did you?” “I confess, I didn’t.” Mr Sands looked Mr Wood up and down with as much repulsion as Iphigenia. You see, nearly fifteen years ago, Mr Wood eloped with Mr Sands’ second youngest daughter, Estonia, to, somewhat confusingly, Estonia. Estonia was the jewel of Mr Sands’ progeneic crown and had been promised by Mr Sands to a far wealthier and far younger friend, who was able to trace a number of direct lines from the Habsburg princes of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Mr Wood, on the other hand, was a largely charming opportunist, although his charm had faded over the years with Estonia in Estonia. “Well then, Wood,” Mr Sands used a tone mimicking the head prefect from their time together at Harrow, “what have you got to say for yourself?” “Aye, out with it, ya dick. What do you want from Da this time?” Iphigenia’s large hands were still alarmingly close to the food processor, so Mr Wood spoke quickly. 13

“Estonia has left me. Well, she’s left Estonia. Estonia has left me and I was in Estonia and therefore she has left both myself and Estonia.” “Good girl,” Iphigenia took a menacing step towards Mr Wood. “Well, is that you then? All you came to tell us? I have to say, it’s been an absolute pleasure seein’ you again. I imagine you’ll want to be gettin’ yourself off now?” Mr Wood took a nervous step backwards, “Well, I—er—” “Iphigenia,” Mr Sands said with authority, “Mr Wood and I would like tea.” Iphigenia cast her gaze between the two men in disbelief, “Oh and I suppose I’m the one to make it then?” The following silence answered her question well enough and she stormed from the room, taking the food processor with her. Mr Sands resumed his seat at the felted table and gestured for Mr Wood to take the other. He gathered the cards into a single pile and began dealing seven cards apiece before turning the top card – the queen of clubs.

“Have you any idea where she might have gone?” Mr Sands asked his opponent. Mr Wood watched him pick up his cards and begin to sort his hand and he followed suit. Mr Sands played the ten of spades and Wood lost the trick. “No, I assumed she would have come here, or at least contacted you.” The next trick, jack of diamonds trumped by a five of clubs, went to Mr Wood. “She did not and she has not.” Another trick to Mr Wood.

“Well,” Sands continued, “what do you intend to do about it?” Mr Wood was puzzled, “She’s your daughter.” Mr Sands was resolute, “She’s your wife.” Iphigenia returned with the tea, glaring at Mr Wood, “She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself. Boys a dear. Honestly, I’m surprised you even dare to show your face in London. You know Rogers is still out for blood?” Mr Sands won another trick, nine of hearts to a useless three of spades, “Rogers?” “Oh, did you not know that, Da? Aye, he stole thirty grand from right under Rogers’ nose. The big fella wants to string him up by the neck and it’ll be some real good craic when that happens.” “Well, you can’t be here, then,” Mr Sands hardened his face, “we’ve been mistaken far too many times before.” “I see,” Mr Wood allowed his eyes to drop to the table, losing the final trick. “You’ll let me know if you hear from her?” Iphigenia’s large hand dropped solidly upon her father’s arm, “He certainly will not. Now, good day to you sir.” Mr Wood and Mr Sands stood and shook hands for the last time across the felted table, under the steely gaze of Iphigenia. Wood gently closed the doors behind him and remained for a moment, listening to Iphigenia’s loud reproaches and appreciating the way in which they rose and fell, allowing room to hear Mrs Evans berating the cat from number sixty-five of Gloucester, Westbourne or Craven Terrace. In the hall, he stopped to retie a shoelace, then lifted Mr Sands’ characteristic bowler hat from the stand and replaced it with his waterlogged trilby He shoved open the heavy black door and stepped outside, pulling the bowler hat over his balding head and looking up to the sky. The rain had abated, but the thick cloud remained. Mr Wood imagined he could see a silver lining, but it was, of course, the result of a passing aeroplane. On the street, passing the railing at number sixty-seven of Gloucester, Westbourne or Craven Terrace, Mr Wood glimpsed a woman who looked almost exactly like Estonia, but he was, of course, mistaken. 15

Scene from ‘The Crypt’ by Simon Bracken

Scene 1 from a play entitled ‘The Crypt’ SCENE: A room with stone walls and pillars. It has a door on one side. The room is a squat, pretty clear even to those who have never been in one. It’s dark. On either side a couple of beds lie people under covers, slight movements. MATEO and AGATA are sitting on a sofa and smoking. AGATA has a hat on to cover her hair, and MATEO has a black hoodie on with the hood up. The room has a stained glass window and on one side there is a bar which is being used as a kitchen area. There Are loads of junk piled in one corner. The music playing is punk from southern Europe.

wonder where the bodies were?

MATEO: (Shouting over music) I think it used to be a ceremonial space of some sort. Or like a community centre. AGATA: I thought it was a church? MATEO: It is. It’s still is a church, just not this bit. Sometimes we hear the service upstairs when they sing. AGATA: Kind of weird. MATEO: I don’t mind that. That’s not the worst bit. AGATA: What? What did you say? Can I turn this shit off? (Turns off music)

What did you say? 16

MATEO: I said it’s not the worst bit. AGATA: Go on. MATEO: This bit used to be the crypt. AGATA: What is crypt? MATEO: (to himself) Vaffanculo, come si dice cripta? AGATA: Krypta! MATEO: ...Yes, it’s a bit creepy AGATA: Yes. Oh god. I wonder where the bodies were? MATEO: I guess there, where Aurelienne is, no? (AGATA laughs) Are you at the bookshop? AGATA: Yes… I can read and be an intellectual like I always wanted. MATEO: It sounds great. AGATA: How long you been here? MATEO: 5 months. You’ve never been here?! You’ve been travelling so long? AGATA: When is court? MATEO: Two weeks. Court, in Kennington. It’s just up the road from here. AGATA: You have a defence? MATEO: Martha thinks the papers weren’t served properly. It might work. Probably not.

AGATA: Who owns the building? MATEO: What do you mean who owns it? The Church own it. AGATA: (laughs at herself) What, like, the Pope? MATEO: No they have their own one here. The Church of England. They own it. They are going to rent it out as a restaurant AGATA: A restaurant! “Krypta!” MATEO: “il crypta!” AGATA: “...la crypte...” (attempts french accent) MATEO: Maybe i can get a job there. Making pizza. Or crepes… AGATA: La crepes de la crypt! MATEO: (Laughing) That’s quite good. (Pause) MATEO: (looks around) You know in the Vatican, there is a shop where every one in Rome buys their cigarettes ? AGATA: Why is that? MATEO: It is meant to be only for the clergy but each clergyman has 10 times as many cigarettes as they could need. So that’s how it is. Its like that but with everything… with property. With everything. They are the mafia basically... We have this tale from Abruzzo, my province, you want to hear it? AGATA: What’s it about? MATEO: It’s about a boy named Frankie... It’s about what we are talking about. The mafia and the church.

AGATA: What you were talking about. How long is it? MATEO: It’s not long. Not long, I promise. (Pause) So there is a woman, and she has a boy called Frankie, and she wants him to learn a trade, so she says, Frankie-boy - that’s what she calls him - you must go out and learn a trade. So he goes to see the shoemaker but he runs the thingy, the pointy thingy, you know... AGATA: nóz? (trying to find the right word in Polish) MATEO: ...through his hand, and he goes home and says to mama, shoemaking isn’t the right trade for me, so she says, “you better take this money and go and find your own trade.” AGATA: This better get good. MATEO: Wait, wait! So he leaves home and walks towards the town, but three hooded men come out of the woods and say: face down! (MATEO starts to act out the whole story)

And Frankie-boy says: how do you mean face down, like this, or like this? And the robbers think: hey what is this? This boy is cleverer and more sly than us, maybe he will make a good robber. So they take him on and he becomes the leader.

AGATA: How does he become the leader? MATEO: I don’t know, he is there for 5 years and the others notice he is the best. One day when he is leader he decides to take all the money and run back to his town, and gives it all to his mum and says, there is your money. And when she asks him what trade he does, he says “The Honourable Trade”. And his mum tells the local priest, who is suspicious, and so he asks Frankie to come so he can test him... he says, there is a hermitage way out in the Abruzzo hills and it houses a famous hermit who never sleeps, if you can take something from the hermitage I will give you 200 hundred lira, if not, I will execute you, so Frankie-boy agrees. 19

AGATA: He agrees! Why does he agree? MATEO: He does! It’s the 12th century or something, he probably expected to be executed some day. So the priest tells the hermit that there will be someone trying to enter the hermitage. Little does the priest know that the hermit’s trick is that he actually sleeps 5 minutes every night. So the hermit has to vow to himself that this week he will stay awake, and he manages it for 6 nights. Meanwhile Frankie boy waits and leaves it till the last night and thinks: whoa I better go now or it will be my head! AGATA: Pretty nonchalant MATEO: (continuing to act out) Yeah true... and then he turns up with a sack and a bottle of wine and he sees that the hermit has gone out for a pee. So he goes into the hermitage and he hides. The hermit sees that it is 15 to midnight so thinking he is safe, he goes to sleep. And as soon as he sleeps Frankie-boy goes and collects all the religious statues from around the hermitage and puts them in a circle around the hermit and places next to him the sack and the bottle of wine. The hermit wakes up after 5 minutes and he sees all the statues around him and Frankie-boy shouts in a booming voice: “the time of your salvation is nigh!” and the hermit shrieks and thinks he must be dead so he says: “what should i do lord?” and Frankie boy booms, “you must climb into the sack. But first you must drink the blood of christ!” so the hermit opens the bottle andAGATA: How does he open theMATEO: (continuing) shut up! - and he climbs in the sack. And Frankie-boy grabs the sack and closes it. When he returns to the priest, the priest says, “ah Frankie-boy, it has been 7 days now, I wonder what you have brought back for me, or is it to the guillotine with you?” and so Frankie-boy shows the sack and opens it and out falls the hermit, cold asleep. The priest hands over the 200 lira and says to Frankie boy: “You truly have learnt The Honourable Trade, we should be friends, or you will have me in the sack” AGATA: Szydło! That is the word. 20

MATEO: What word? Did you like the story? AGATA: I was thinking of the word for the pointy thing that shoemaker’s use, its Szydło. Like our prime minister. MATEO: She is a pointy thing? AGATA: Yeah, that’s her name: Beata Szydło, like Beatrice Knife, that’s actually her name. You couldn’t make it up. Fucking idiot. MATEO: Why’s she an idiot? AGATA: Fuck man, you need to ask? She is a fascist. They are all fascists now. She pretends to be poor but she doesn’t give a shit about the poor. MATEO: And did you like the story? AGATA: It was ok. By the way, the guillotine wasn’t invented for another 500 years. MATEO: Fuck off. And you, do you give a shit about the poor? AGATA: Well, I am the poor. You have mummy’s villa to go back to. I don’t. MATEO: It’s a country home, not a villa. AGATA: A country home. MATEO: A country fucking home. A home in the country. AGATA: Ok. Well that’s nice. We never had a home for more than a month or two, so that is how it is. Why don’t we go out for a walk or something? It’s stuffy in here.

MATEO: Stuff-y. Like ‘full of stuff’ AGATA: No, like i can smell Aurilienne’s armpits. It’s hot and there’s no air. MATEO: Stuff-y. I have never heard the word AGATA: It kind of stinks (holds her nose). MATEO: I don’t want to go out. I will just open the window a bit. It’ll be fine AGATA: So where are we sleeping? MATEO: We? I didn’t know you were staying. You take my bed. I can sleep here. (AGATA looks annoyed. MATEO gives her a kiss on the lips. Just one. Then starts to snuggle down and kicks her off the sofa. AGATA storms out).

The Halo of Pride by Bageshree Mehta

ittle did I know, then, 7 April, 2002 that my father was holding “I shall take you wherever you wish to go,” my father finally back his made the promise to his ten-year-old daughter, who never tears. ceased to dream about traversing the world with her dreamy

eyes. It was the day when months of anticipation and persistent efforts had come together, to give me something that eventually set the tone for the rest of my life. My father was obliged to fulfill his child’s wishes only to see her give an outstanding performance in academics. My father had always been a man of his words. He was honest to the point where he would choose to get reprimanded over speaking lies to cover his mistake. He was a proud man, for he was one of those people that had achieved success with sheer integrity and goodwill. Growing up, his principles interfered even in the most innocuous of my actions. So clearly were the concepts of “Right” and “Wrong’’ embedded in my mind, that I had grown to fear any encounter with mistakes. But then, my father always stated, “All you must ever fear is fear itself.” Knowing full well my father’s regard for truthfulness, I mastered the art of keeping conditions in exchange for all that he expected of me. In May 2002, we took off to explore what urban dreams are made of: London. Having grown up in Mumbai, India, what I really fancied about the Western countries was the cleanliness, and the kind of space dedicated to public entertainment and refreshment. One of the best things about having a wish granted on a condition was that it entitled me to make many subsequent demands along the rest of my trip, with barely any objection.

Soon after we landed in London, I chanced upon some people riding their bicycles around Trafalgar Square. “Look, there are so many cyclists here! I, too, want to ride a bicycle. Please, Papa,” I exclaimed in sudden desperation. My first wish on the trip was agreed upon in a flash, much like the destination for our trip. The best part about the London summer is its long days. It was almost 10 p.m. and the sun was beginning to immerse amidst its plentiful rays. As the winds started blowing with more gusto, I began pedalling harder. For the first time, I was experiencing a sense of coming closer to my dreams and there was no way I was anywhere close to ready to let go of the fervour of freedom. The feeling of independence was indeed addictive. Everything around me soon started to get dark. Not realizing how far I had come, I turned around to look for my father. I was filled with trepidation when I did not find him anywhere around. People around seemed too occupied to even glance at my distraught face. With every passing minute, the shade of red on my face intensified. Little did I know, then, that my father was always going to have my back. I was almost on the verge of tearing up when I saw my father silently watching me from the corner of the lane. I shoved aside my bicycle and ran towards him. “You were so engrossed in soaking up all the excitement of your freedom, that you may probably not have realized that your father had not moved an inch from where you began cycling,” my father said, placating me, while I firmly clutched his hand. “But why did you not reach out to me when you saw me looking for you?” I asked, while my tears continued to seamlessly roll down my eyes. Wiping my tears, he said, “The reason you got scared was not because you had taken off in another direction, but because it got dark and you were unable to find me. In order to get a taste of thrill and success, you ought to step out of your comfort zone. Most of the times, we restrict our own success, for we fear that we might become alone in the journey of life. Through the rest of your life, I want you to be your own motivator. I want you to find solace in your company, for you can tap into unlimited potentialities if you learn to enjoy it. And if you ever happen to lose your way, you can always turn around to find your father waiting to show you the way.” As I tried to wipe away my tears and catch my breath, I promised my father how I would dutifully follow his advice, provided that he allowed me to stay in the embrace of his hug for a little longer. There came the second wish! Little did I know, then, that my father was holding back his tears. 24

Through the rest of our journey, I cycled into every by-lane of London, with every sunrise and sunset marking the start and end of my two wheeled expedition respectively. With every step that took me further away from my father, I was given an assuring smile, which allowed me the freedom to choose my own path. I realized how warm and eclectic London was. It had presented itself as a potpourri of world cultures. It was an unusual combination of countrysidelike beauty and unstoppable frenzy. The entire city felt like it was a part of systematic chaos. Whether it was the tall buildings that my ten-year-old self got lured into counting, or witnessing men and women dressed in the most elegant manner on the busy Oxford Street, racing against time, or just being in close proximity to Buckingham Palace, the enchanting landscape of the city was hard to miss, but there was one thing that I wasn’t able to get enough of. The British Library captivated my attention right from the time I set eyes upon its largerthan-life presence. Little did I know, then, that my father had well anticipated my third wish. The British Library was a world within itself. It looked every bit the biggest national library in the world. There was an air about the gigantic structure that was quite stimulating. I was quick to grab my favourite Harry Potter book and sit in one corner. The Harry Potter books had created a massive rage in India, then. It had become a common topic of discussion among the students in my school. For someone who was obsessed with literature and the arts, I couldn’t stop fantasizing about writing novels and becoming a famous writer. “One day, you will find my books in the British Library!” I exclaimed to my father with new-found pride. Little did I know, then, that my father was already cheering for my success. April 7, 2012 The moment I had most carefully envisioned had finally arrived. I was setting foot in London after ten years. London was still the same; warm and eclectic. Summer was settling into the city, while the sudden showers continued to add to the spontaneity of a Londoner’s life. Surprisingly, I was still the same girl who never ceased to dream about traversing the world with her dreamy eyes. Almost everything in my life had changed from the time I first visited London, but then, a lot still felt the same. I was still around unknown faces. Men and women were still dressed in the most elegant manner, and Oxford Street was busy as ever. 25

The British Library, over the years, had carefully nurtured my dream, only to bear testimony to the promise I had made to my father in its premises a decade later. After fighting countless battles and taking many an unassured stride along the years, I was back amidst the grandeur of The British Library and a frantic bunch of book lovers and aspiring writers who had turned up to witness my first ever book launch. As I was called upon the stage to launch the book, a packed auditorium roared to give me a loud cheer. This time around, even with hordes of unknown faces surrounding me, I did not worry about finding my father. All I did was silently look up for the skies to see my proud father smiling back at me and giving me an assuring smile.

I didn’t

Ares and Aphrodite Go to a Party by Daniela Kankova & Godric Rochlen

quite remember where I had been.

The space reminded me of home. The Stolen Gallery. Art. House. Drinks. Party. Free and happy people. I knew my brother was one of them, but I wasn’t. I was an artist, but I was a dancer. As any woman before leaving her place for a night out, I didn’t know what to wear. But I had these lovely bohemian shoes. Worn-out leather. Good for the occasion. Long, skinny dress with a V-neck at the back. Any time. And as I walked in, I knew I had chosen wisely. Because everyone was wearing these bohemian shoes. Except that guy. You could tell he tried, but he just stood out. I had a glass of red, and my brother read. His poems were astonishing, of great meaning, but calm, bucolic. I stood in absolute amazement. Since then, every time I’m with him, I can’t but clap my hands. Then, I went to fix that glass of red, and I bumped into the guy. He smelled of tuberose, jasmine, patchouli and black currants. He filled my glass and asked me who I had come to see. ‘My brother, Jason,’ I said. ‘Oh, I liked Jason’s poems, he’s great,’ he expressed himself. And then we got into this deep talk. He told me he was a painter. Apparently, he liked architecture. We were sitting in the patio, reflecting on the show, smoking. The tunes from inside the party were a nice, subtle background. I put my hand on his thigh. He turned around. He kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear: ‘Do you want me to fill your glass?’ We both knew what we wanted. I stood up, took his hand and we walked up to my studio. I woke up in the middle of the night, and he was gone. The window was half open. It looked like he had escaped through it. The laced curtains remained swinging in the chilly breeze, as if they had been watching my brassiere in the rhythm of our intercourse. I knew it was nothing serious. How could it be, if he already knew 27

everything about me? But I somehow felt down. As every woman feels left alone in the middle of the night. Since that night, every single man with thick glasses and a cigarette I saw on the street reminded me of him. Reminded me of home. I knew the heat of the night would soon pass, as every other affair I ever had passed. And then Jason asked me to come to see him read again. So I went, and I had nearly forgotten.. I didn’t know what to wear. Same? No, I couldn’t. But wait, that’s what bohemians do. So I put the exact pair of shoes on, and matched it with a coral tutu dress, long V-neck at the front. I was waiting for a taxi, already clapping my hands. ‘Brixton, driver!’ ‘Thank you, driver!’ I tipped him well and suddenly, I see myself waiting for the show by the bar in the venue. Déjà vu. Someone takes my hand. Patchouli. ‘Would you like me to fill your glass?’ *** There was this thing that I was going to go to and I was like, “All right.” And Helena was busy talking with some of the other writers, so I thought I would have two drinks, one in each hand (this is no big deal, I’ve done this before). And it was like whatever with her anyway, half the time she didn’t even seem to care. So there was wine and beer, wine on the left and beer on the right. Through a door and into another part of the place, because everybody was in the main room and only one other person was on the patio. That was Hayley. But I didn’t know that yet. If there was ever anybody who knew about the balance between the light and dark sides, it would be her. I didn’t know a thing about that, but I knew how to recognize it when I saw it. Her hair was really long and black, long like her limbs, and her skin was really white and pale. Since she’s like a ballerina, I always remember her wearing a pink tutu, but I don’t think that’s what she was wearing at all. This was the empty patio, her brother was in the other place talking to the readers and writers. Really, I thought she was nice. And I wanted to get out of that place because nobody was anybody I knew. Except Helena and Hayley, but Helena wasn’t even there now, it didn’t seem like it. So we left and we went to her place, which had a little, white piano. When I woke up, I didn’t quite remember where I had been and everything was either white or black or pink.

The British beer was too warm for me and the wine was too rare, and back on the eastern seaboard, these things weren’t so. And even though there was far more snow there, I had to go back, because writing wasn’t what filled my coffers. I thought of how I had told Hayley what I did for a living. This was one of the only things I remember saying between the time we left the empty room and the time I woke up. “I paint houses.” “What, outside?” “Yes,” I said, “I mean, no. I paint paintings of houses. Like, landscapes, but with houses. But when I can’t sell enough, I have to work painting houses.” I was pretty embarrassed to tell her that, but she didn’t care. Sometimes they really do care, but they don’t tell you. It’s hard to know the truth, but in the end, I think she really did believe me, and really didn’t care. I hadn’t heard from Helena in a long time, but I had started writing and I went back to London because they were having another one of those shindigs that the British are so good at. They had finally decided to put me in their magazine, and I think it was because they liked my name. “Written by Tex Turnbull,” it said, and when I passed through the door, the editor came up to me saying, “Tex Turnbull! How the hell are ya?” Lots of British people associate California with the US, but the rest of them associate Texas with the US. I think this is because it’s easier for a lot of Brits to imitate a Texan accent than a Californian one. But still, I didn’t know anyone, and even Helena was no longer associated with the group. But Hayley was still in London. And when I crossed the threshold onto the empty patio to see if anything else was there this time around, I saw her, and she was wearing a pink tutu and walking around the room, but it was a walk that feigned dancing. It was like an empty dance floor of her own creation and she was the art that needed no publishing. And I set both of my drinks down so that I could see her better and I could tell that some invisible DJ was putting on music nearby. The flags of all of our countries are the same colors because the flags of nations are in black and white so that color won’t inflame temperaments. This is one of the precautions for world peace. So that in this world, I could find something normal and correct for myself to be doing again. Because if it wasn’t painting houses or painting paintings of houses, I could put the houses, and the paintings, and the dances, and the dancer and everything in my words. And a little, white piano.

I Am The City by Marta Kapite

believed I could be crazy enough to belong here.

I used to dream of being here. Well, not exactly here. But here, as in this city. You didn’t think I actually dreamed of being right next to Sherlock Holmes, did ya? Neither did I. But here I was – almost half as tall as the legendary man. I stood by his feet, feeling for a moment absolutely insignificant and boring, like a slap in the face of all humanity. Then again, his presence empowered me.

“Yes, I am here, right next to him. I belong here,” I thought to myself as my ears filled with the sweet, sweet voices of ABBA. “Chiquitita, tell me what’s wrong, you’re enchained by your own sorrow, in your eyes there is no hope for tomorrow. How I hate to see you like this! There is no way you can deny it, I can see that you’re oh so sad, so quiet.” “I don’t know, ABBA. I’m just not feeling it lately, you know.” “Chiquitita, tell me the truth, I’m a shoulder you can cry on, your best friend, I’m the one you must rely on. You were always sure of yourself, now I see you’ve broken a feather, I hope we can patch it up together.”

“Well, there’s this guy… I just want to hold his hand again.” “Chiquitita, you and I know how the heartaches come and they go and the scars they’re leaving. You’ll be dancing once again and the pain will end, you will have no time for grieving.” For some people, ABBA might be a Swedish pop band that only influenced the whole of music history and became absolute legends. For me, they are the cure for sadness; ABBA has always been present in my life, even when I wasn’t really aware of it as my mother listened to “Dancing Queen” and danced around the kitchen. Like it or not, this band is just another thing that connects me with my mom. And, to be honest, ABBA can be the cure for anything, you just have to listen carefully and they will start to sound almost like a therapist. “So the walls came tumbling down and your love’s a blown-out candle. All is gone and it seems too hard to handle. Chiquitita, tell me the truth, there is no way you can deny it. Sing a new song, Chiquitita, try once more, like you did before.” The thing is, I didn’t feel like dancing or singing. Not that night. I Hadn’t felt like dancing or singing for a while. “Got a light, darling?” a deep voice disturbed my conversation with ABBA out of nowhere and for a moment, I believed it was Sherlock asking. “Sorry, no,” I replied with eyes wide in shock, turning my head towards the tall detective. “What are you looking at?” the voice asked, but the detective’s lips weren’t moving. Had I finally gone completely mad? Was I hallucinating? “I don’t know… What… How are you doing that?” “Doing what, love?” “That. How are you talking right now?”

“I… Well, fokin’ ‘ell, miss, I don’t know, I just… ye’ know, I just move my lips, I guess,” said Sherlock now just as confused as me, but he didn’t move a single muscle, just stood there like a stone. “I’m so confused right now,” I finally said, gazing at the detective’s face, hoping to see some movement. “So am I,” said the voice, and the moment I began asking if he was somehow trapped inside a stone sculpture, I spotted something moving in the corner of my eye. A homeless person came right up to me and looked at Sherlock. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who had heard the detective speak up. Maybe we were the chosen ones to witness something magical – me and a homeless guy, who smelled like shit and bananas. “Are you one of them crazy persons, miss?” the homeless man asked in the same deep voice that had belonged to Sherlock. I didn’t respond, just looked at him in bewilderment and then back at the Sherlock sculpture, and then back at the homeless guy again. There I was – standing by the Baker Street underground station, listening to ABBA and truly believing that the 9.8-foot-tall bronze sculpture of Sherlock Holmes was asking me for a light. I could have just explained all that to the homeless guy but instead I just burst out laughing and said: “Yeah, I guess,” and walked away. I heard one last juicy “fokin’ ‘ell”, before I turned the volume in my earphones up and let ABBA cover up my embarrassment. I always liked the idea of walking around in the night more than actually walking around in the night alone. Especially in London, where the traffic seemingly never ended, and the streets were never completely empty. Even on that night when I was walking all the way from Camden to Baker Street, my hand holding onto his in the warm pocket of his coat, thinking how wonderful it is that I can finally be alone with him, we were disturbed by two foxes in the middle of the road. I’m still not sure if they were fighting or fore-playing but I wouldn’t blame them if it was the latter, because there seemed to be something truly magical in the air that night. Something other than pollution.

I thought it might be my love, but now I know it was all fox love – the kind that appears in the middle of the street at nights, makes you stop, cling on to the warm hand in his coat pocket a bit tighter and believe that all that crap about “dreams coming true” and “positive thinking” and “if it’s meant to be, it will be” is real. But foxes are tricksters, they outsmart you only to prey on you and since it’s nothing but fox love, you end up being the fool rabbit of the whole story – the one that gets eaten; swallowed up by all the emotions and unreal fantasies. I still passionately believe that foxes don’t belong in the streets of London, they should be running around woods. “Think about what foxes eat,” he told me in a very teacher-like manner. “London is like a paradise for them. Bastards of the streets.” I smiled. Bastards of the streets. That’s a name for book right there. Or a band. And just like that, the foxes had faded from my mind and all my thoughts drifted back to the hand in the pocket of his coat. Had I known that it would be the only time I would get to hold that hand, I probably wouldn’t have let go, but you don’t want to be swallowed up by foxes and their fox love, so you let go and if that street bastard comes back to you, then you greet him with arms wide open; if not – he belongs to the wild streets of this city. And not even ABBA can fix a part of nature like that. But a girl can still hope. “If you change your mind, I’m the first in line. Honey, I’m still free, take a chance on me.” “Please, ABBA, that makes me sound desperate!” “You want me to leave it there, afraid of a love affair, but I think you know, that I can’t let go.” Although I loved that ABBA song to bits, I reached down in my pocket for my phone and demanded Spotify to shuffle on towards the next song. “I’m nothing special, in fact I’m a bit of a bore. If I tell a joke, you’ve probably heard it before.” “What the hell ABBA?! Aren’t you supposed to cheer me up?” I shuffled again. 33

The words: “Somewhere in the middle of the neverending noise, there is a pulse, a steady rhythm of a heart that beats and a million voices blend into a single voice and you can hear it in the clamour of the crowded streets, people come and take their chances, ooh, ooh, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose a lot, come make your own contribution to this melting pot,” of the song “I Am the City” replaced the sweet “Thank You for the Music”, and as I made my way down Baker Street towards Hyde Park, I figured that the alternative name for this song might as well be “I am London”. A crazy smile appeared on my face, partly because of ABBA and partly because I remembered how I had thought the sculpture of Sherlock Holmes had come to life. I wondered what he would say to me, if he had come to life. Probably something like: “Pigeons. Bloody flying garbage rats! Can’t stand them!” “Dude, me too,” I would reply. “What the hell are those birds eating? How come their crap is so huge? Can’t they go and crap on George Orwell? I hear he’s standing not so far from here.” “Pigeons be like that. They crap on everyone. Just the other day one almost flew in my face.” “Hate them!” “Amen, Holmsey! A-bloody-men!” “And people are no better!” “Oi, careful now, I’m people!” “I mean, look! There’s a bin right there but they keep leaving beer cans and cigarette butts by my feet!” “Well, what did you expect? You’re standing right across from the underground station and a pub! And there’s a pub right behind you as well!”

“Oh, is there? I didn’t notice!” “For a detective, you aren’t that good at noticing a four-story building, where almost every night people gather around, shout at TVs and get shitfaced.” “Excuse me, but it’s quite hard to see what’s behind me since I’m a bloody statue and can’t turn my head!” “Ah, right, my bad!” “You’re not very bright, are you?” “Oh, wow, and you’re not very polite, you stone, pigeon-shit-covered snooper!” “Detective. The best the world has ever seen, for that matter.” “Yeah, in movies.” “Excuse me?” “You were made up.” “At least I was created by an actual writer.” “You really are a grumpy old bastard, aren’t you?” “I want to see how nice you would be after standing here for ages, getting crapped all over by pigeons that are full of that disgusting food people keep throwing on the streets!” “Right, alright, calm down, I get it, you hate being crapped on by the birds.” “You really think that’s the only crap I have seen? Said it yourself, I’m standing right in front of the station AND a pub. And apparently there’s another pub behind me.”

The more I thought about it, the sadder I got about all the sculptures that are constantly surrounded by tourists trying to climb them, hug them and use them as a place to take a piss. Sure, there are definitely sculptures that are protected at least from the latter tragedy like, the George Orwell one that’s placed by the BBC building. And only because it’s next to BBC; I seriously doubt anyone dares to relieve themselves anywhere near there. Then again, you never know. After all, it’s London. London is a city built on crazy. You walk around the streets, hearing stories that could make Sherlock Holmes’ sculpture come to life only to say: “Fokin ‘ell!” More importantly, once you land your feet on this island, you become a part of those stories, you become part of the crazy and there’s nothing more fun than that. Hyde Park, which I had finally reached on my nightly walk around Marylebone, never really smelled like a park. Maybe the deeper into the park you went, the more it seemed like a part of real nature. Not fake nature, the fox nature that was carefully designed and artificially planted all over the rest of the central parts of this city. I never really liked Hyde Park that much, I preferred Regent’s Park, which seemed much nicer. However tonight I needed to be in Hyde Park because I wanted to look at the horse. There it was, with its nose against the ground and ears pointing towards the sky, where you could rarely see any stars because of the light pollution. “Poor birds,” I thought, whenever I heard them sing during the nights. “They are so confused.” I almost felt the urge to write a manifesto about how all the city lights are confusing birds but then I remembered my non-existent conversation with Sherlock and how much we both hated pigeons and I focused on the horse’s head instead. I had to do something important. I finally realized that I wanted to be a part of this crazy city. I wanted to be a part of the people, who filled the streets, spent more than half an hour waiting to get on the bloody Central Line and spent Friday nights in pubs only to go and take a breather leaning against the Sherlock 36

Holmes sculpture. I believed I could be crazy enough to belong here. That is why I had come all the way to see this horse. Or rather, - it’s head. I stood right across from it, looking at it, studying it inch by inch, until finally I gathered up the courage to say what needed to be said. “Why the long face, mate?”

58 Marylebone High Street by Camelia Birza

It’s spring. The season when nature is resurrected in all its simplicity. The season when trees, grass, snowdrops, daffodils, tulips, everything whispers that change is not impossible. The season when the sun is more generous than usual and the wind is tamed by the beautiful cotton clouds. The season when everything gets back to life. Everything except people. Sad enough for a boy who is talking to a wall in the middle of the street. “Oh, dear gentleman, I am not going to say that you are ugly but you look very scary to me. I guess it’s because of your deep eyes. Or perhaps, you are too serious. Why are you not smiling? You must have so many problems. Aren’t you feeling cold? Well, you shouldn’t. The weather is not that bad now. Just a bit of rain sometimes, but I guess that’s why the flowers are so coloured all over the parks. Anyways, not that you care. Can I ask you something? Who are these people around you? I would like to meet the little boy. How old is he? Maybe we can be friends. Sir? Thanks for listening, this makes you a good friend. I wish you were alive.” People would think he’s insane but we know very well that he’s not staring at a simple wall. He is talking to Charles Dickens. Surrounded by his characters, the writer is as silent as a piece of rock, because he is indeed, nothing more than bricks and a bit of talent from the artist who sculpted him. “Sir? I forgot to ask you. What is your name, sir?”

Well,

Too curious and restless, the little boy struggles to read the plaque above the sculpture.

nice to meet you, Mr Dickens. 38

“While living in a house on this site Ch…Cha… CHARLES DICKENS… Oh I know now! Your name is Charles Dickens. Well, nice to meet you, Mr Dickens. You should wear a hat or at least have an umbrella with you. See you soon, sir. I hope that next time you’ll smile a little bit. Smile sir, smile! I am sure you’ll look younger.” And for the next ten seconds, the boy is staring silently at the wall. His face is pretty sad but above all, in resignation. He wants to say something, but this time, somehow, he knows that no one will answer. He looks around, turns his back and… and it starts to rain. The drops are painting a mosaic on the wall but not for too long. All the characters are washed by the cold water and if you look more carefully their faces seem not to detest the weather. Except for Dickens who does not care about the rain at all. His vacant eyes are way too stern to be challenged by a simple rain. The drops form tears on his eyes, the iris is flooded, is he really crying? The mirage of a spring sunset creates on the wall an impossible fusion of elements. But it is there, the fire is merging with the molecules of water and no one can contest that miracles do not happen. “I didn’t even answer your question and you are leaving already?” “Mr Dickens? Are you really here? This must be my stupid imagination. How could you even get out of the wall? Can you make your characters alive, please? I really want to meet the child next to you.” “Oh, naive little child! How would I do that? Can someone alive be brought to life?” “If they are alive, why I did not meet them? Are they hiding somewhere?” asks the boy. “They are just hiding between the covers. In the end, is not their fault that you never met them. The door is open.” “Which door? Sir, I really don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.” “You will see them in the people on the streets or by simply reading a book. Anyhow, they are all alive, that’s what I am trying to say.” 39

“If only I could read smoothly.” comes the sad voice of the poor boy. “There is time for everything, as long as you take the first step. Now, let’s make a few steps around London. I can barely feel my legs and my back is in pain, three more days stacked in that wall and I would have been completely dead.” “But you were already dead, sir. What can be more lifeless than a wall?” “Too many questions, son. Too many. Would you do me a favour please? No need to answer. During this walk I would appreciate if we will be as silent as possible. Not even a word. So, you think we can do that?” “Yes Mr Dickens, we can. I promise I will not disturb you with a word, just let me come with you.” “Come, young boy! Let’s do this!” And the boy is silent as he promised; not even a single word during their walk amongst the London streets. Baker Street, Oxford Street, Regent’s Street, Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square, Trafalgar Square and the final destination, Embankment. It is almost midnight now. London seems to be calmer and less hectic. The vibe of a peaceful night is enough for the child to sleep on Dickens’ shoulder. Here and there a twinkle star blinks, never too tired and never too busy. Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours and thus, the night is gone. Another sunrise is warming all the buildings in a pink-orange bath. By the time the boy wakes up, Mr Dickens is gone. A bit confused and still sleepy, the child tries to remember what happened the previous day. All the moments come back when he saw a piece of paper next to his hand on his own bed. It took him one hour and a half to read what is written on it. Not that he had something else to do. Messy handwriting and a signature at the bottom of the page, Dickens. London is not what it used to be. Though I don’t see any homeless children on the streets and the poverty has been reduced significantly, they do not seem to be so happy. I can recognise a few of the buildings. 40

The rest of them, the transparent ones, are totally unfamiliar to me. I saw people walking on the streets and talking to themselves, or with a strange small machine. Some of them still read the newspaper, wear suits and read books. The streets are very noisy because of the countless number of moving machines or whatever they are. They come, go, come and go, suffocating the streets. The bricks and the expensive wood has been replaced, the architecture looks very fragile and pretentious. I do not see black smoke rising out of chimneys and the old horse carriages are gone. I have no idea where the gas lamps together with the light brigade disappeared. Perhaps London doesn’t need them anymore. I don’t understand this society, probably I have never understood it. Everything looks too crowded and chaotic. No more hats, no more elegant dresses, no more chivalry and no more ships on the river. The Thames is completely paralysed, the docks are all part of an old reality and the wharfingers vanished. I am nostalgic and a bit sad. I don’t know if I could live here anymore. I cannot explain why, a part of me still misses the old times. I don’t think the old city was better. Nowadays London has been cleared of slums, no more small children working in factories, the housing has been improved, the streets are not smelling and everyone is welcomed. Why should I despair? Perhaps inside me, my human nature tells me that is slightly difficult to embrace the liminal moments of this life. At least, my heart is at peace with the fact that the boys of this generation did not have to face the life like Pip, Oliver Twist or David Copperfield. I hope this little boy makes his life worth it. Too bad that I did not even bother to ask his name. I can only wish that the tragedy of inequality, poverty, and deprivation do not even touch his soulful heart and he grows on to become a person of substance. I just wonder…What is his name? Signed, Charles Dickens “My name is Willy, sir. My name is Willy.” The boy cries out his name, but no one is there to hear him.

The Mirror by Nels Challinor

make something grand, baby.

My wife tells me that she can never see herself in my work so I say I will make her a mirror. She doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t laugh at my lame attempt at comedy, maybe because we actually do need a mirror. We both take our showers in the morning and I wake up before her most days so by the time she gets to the vanity to do her makeup, our bathroom mirror is one impenetrable blur of grey.

She is reduced to standing in the hallway where there is a small, rhomboidal mirror by the door. She hangs her makeup bag from one of the coat hooks on the wall and goes through her routine with her free hand planted firmly against the locked door. My wife is terrified of someone breaking into our flat while she is home alone. She keeps the window across from the mirror in the hall perpetually shuttered so that stalkers wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be able to see which flat she lives in. Her anxiety is higher in the morning because of her compulsion to do her makeup in the nude with her thighs and back lobster-red and steaming. Ripe and ready for a serial killer, she always says. I have offered to move the mirror from the hallway to our windowless bedroom but she told me not to bother. She said she doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mind, but I know she does. My wife is the kind of person who refuses to go into stores less than 30 minutes before they close. She is constitutionally incapable of inconveniencing anyone; the only exception being herself. Whenever I remind of her of this fact, she sighs and pats the top of my head, a gesture that I find patronizing in the extreme. I grimace. She smirks. And then I say I dropped something and jog back to the store to buy whatever it is she needs. Other people call this kind of behaviour passive aggressive. On those mornings that I sleep in, I awake to see her through the doorway, standing at the end of the hall. In her left hand, she holds an 42

eyeliner pencil; the right dangles at her side. Morning light leaks through the shutters of the hallway window, casting soft golden bars across my wife’s salmon-coloured body. The light shimmers and throbs, bursting with the potential to mature into the pale ubiquity of day. I like to sculpt in the mornings when the feverish impatience of morning light falls on the marble, iron, and wood in my studio, provoking the raw materials to change into something else. My wife leans in to the mirror to get a closer look at her eyelid, then lifts her chin, pulling her mouth into a frown. She drags a fingernail a fraction of a centimetre along the corner of her top lip, where the gloss has spilled over. Then she wraps her left arm around her head and finishes drawing on her eyeliner. She became ambidextrous when we moved into this flat, now preferring her left to her right even on those days when I am home, when she doesn’t have to hold the door closed. She inspects her work, herself in the mirror. She smiles. She grimaces. Then she tilts her chin up, eyes wide and curious, lips slightly parted. Everyone who knows my wife thinks of this expression when they picture her face. If it were possible, I would want my mirror to capture this moment, to preserve for her not only the image, but also the freedom and selfawareness that she experiences on those mornings when she hasn’t yet felt the familiar weight of my gaze. She turns and sees my open eyes. She walks back into the bedroom and opens the closet doors. She clicks her tongue a few times, then speaks to me over her shoulder. She tells me that her clothes are hideous and that she looks fat and ugly. I tell her that’s not true. She says which? I say both and she says yeah, but you’re biased. And then I can’t find anything else to say. This is your classic no-win situation, what my Father called a Kobayashi Maru, and even after a combined total of sixty years of marriage, neither of us have figured out how to get out of one. I know that my wife doesn’t actually believe that her clothes are hideous or that she’s fat or ugly, at least, not all the time. She says these things because it triggers the same conversation every time and that kind of consistency can be comforting. I do the same thing when I ask her what she thinks of my work. I will ask her opinion of something and she will say “Oh, D, you know I think all your stuff is marvellous.” 43

The only time my wife has ever told me the truth about my art was when I had a piece commissioned by the Seattle Sculpture Garden. I constructed a loose tepee of telephone poles, interspersed with boulders, at the far corner of the garden, where the grass falls away to a rocky beach. I wanted it to look like an abandoned bonfire, like man’s hubris reduced to refuse, destroyed by the tides. I remember showing my wife the design the night before the unveiling. She was sitting on my lap, taking liberal swigs from my beer. She looked at the plans for a long time. “What’s it called?” she asked. “I don’t know yet, thinking about just calling it ‘Untitled’… thoughts?” “How about… ‘ode to phallus’?” She looked back at me, and, on her face where I expected to see levity, I saw only that look of calm curiosity. She thought that the title would be appropriate. My wife saw the piece for what it would be: another monument to man’s love for his genitalia. She didn’t seem particularly bothered by the heavyhandedness of my approach, but then again, she had been confronted by the image throughout her life. What was one more sculpture of a penis to a woman who had spent most of her life in cities? I didn’t tell her that I had intended the piece to express the opposite of virile masculinity. I saw it as an ode to the pull of the moon, that temperamental goddess who can destroy any man she wishes, ripping his structures and statues to shreds with pressure and time. I didn’t tell my wife any of this, but when I spent the evening of the unveiling drinking flute after flute of prosecco and sulking beneath an enormous red Chihuly elsewhere in the garden, she recognized her mistake. She didn’t apologize—my wife never apologizes unless she thinks she’s wrong—but she made the decision to abstain from commenting on my work. The morning after I tell her that I will make her a mirror, I wake up at sunrise next to my wife. I rise from the bed carefully, trying not to wake her. She moans as my presence leaves the warm enclosure of our sheets. I go to the bathroom, shower, shave, and come back to the bedroom to get dressed. As I button my shirt, I look down at my wife’s troubled brow; she has never been a good sleeper. I lean down and plant a dry kiss on her temple. Her weary arms raise on invisible marionette strings, wrapping themselves around my neck. 44

“Go make something grand, baby,” she mumbles. I break out through London’s bitter morning air, heading for Queensway Tube Station. I take Inverness Terrace rather than the more direct route down Queensway because the trees waving above my head make me feel like I could be anywhere else. I don’t dislike London but I do feel out of place here. My wife acclimated immediately, inserting herself into her rigorous studies and picking up a gaggle of good-natured friends in the process. The crowd of artists and intellectuals that I continue to meet at galleries and theatres bores me. They wax philosophical about the bourgeois sensibilities of the modern precariat, trying to find the most obscure and esoteric way to express themselves. My wife says I don’t like these people because I see too much of myself in them. She’s probably right. While my wife has built a life for herself here, I have occupied myself with my work, which ironically translates to the production of fewer and fewer pieces. My art is becoming increasingly theoretical. For example, my last piece was a discarded Costa Coffee House cup, crushed beneath the wheel of a garbage collector’s truck on a deserted street off Primrose Hill. No one would see the mangled maroon remains of the cup and no one would care. But it was art, and beautiful, nonetheless. Despite my reduction in output, I still keep a studio. It is a small office beneath a vegan restaurant off Bond Street. The rent is atrocious but I need somewhere other than our flat to keep my materials and tools. I reach Queensway and descend to the platform on the crowded lift. A husky, unshaven gentleman peers blearily at the other occupants. His XXXL T-shirt is stained with grease and I can smell the vinegar and bitter on his clothes and breath. Beside me, a young woman taps at her phone in an uninterrupted stream that sounds like small raindrops pattering against a skylight. A boy with a black bowl cut clutches his mother’s hand. He looks up at me with pure curiosity on his face. His green eyes remind me of my wife’s but before I can smile at him, the doors open and we all alight from the lift. On the tube, the darkened tunnels darting past the curved Plexiglass windows create a funhouse mirror that morphs my fellow passengers into grotesque amalgamations of limbs and features. The large man sits next to me. His cranium has disappeared, replaced by a shrunken, inverted 45

reflection of his whole body, which sprouts from the crest of his CroMagnon brow. Two sets of eyes, divided by one set of eyebrows, gaze into the middle distance. The woman, standing between the row of seats, has been reduced to a pair of double sided-legs, leopard-print designer heels on all four feet. The boy with the bowl cut and green eyes giggles as he elongates his features one at a time by exposing them to the curve in the glass. His nose bulges out, then his mouth, then his chin. I notice that from where I am sitting, my eyes are invisible in the reflective glass. They have been consumed by a second pair of cheeks, resting comfortably atop their clones. I try to sit perfectly still and merge myself with the thing that I see in the glass. Like an embarrassing memory from childhood, what I see is both an image of me and not an image of me. I shudder because, in some other world, I could look like this. My wife and I share the same fear that maybe we are hideously deformed in some way. She tends to think in terms of mental disabilities whereas I can only picture the physical. I think about how life would look to someone who looks like I do in the reflective window of the Tube. I don’t think it would be too bad if you knew that that was how you looked. The crux of our fear is that the whole world has created a conspiracy, complete with doctored mirrors, in order to keep us in the dark about our deformities. We are terrified that we are the only people who can’t see how hideous we truly are. I think about my wife waking up and going to stand at the door to do her makeup. I think about how she teases me for taking myself too seriously, for being too self-important. I love how she can tease me for this and then tell me with a straight face that none of her friends like her and that they’re all just pretending. My wife and I always come to the same conclusion about our fear— that it is unwarranted. We tell each other that we are normal in looks and intelligence. We remind each other of our faults and our virtues because we draw no difference between the importance of these things. We decide that we can trust each other because we can be honest with each other, even when we can’t be honest with ourselves, even when being honest means never telling someone what you 46

really think. Ruth and I are two mirrors, facing one another. When I look past her, past the two of us, I can see my face repeated ad infinitum. And each repetition is both an image of me and not an image of me. As the train screeches to a halt at Bond Street, I take one last look at myself in the reflective glass. I smile because I look ridiculous, vertically doubled into a misshapen hourglass of a human being. I smile because I can never see myself as well as I do when I am with my wife. And I smile because she makes a better mirror than I ever could.

It’s my new rhythm. It’s my new beat.

Selected Poems by Melanie Cope Catch

Catch me boy. Don’t be coy. You know I need you, I can’t read you. Sometimes. You are a mystery. But you are so kind to me. Bringing me chocolates, And bringing me tea. Making me smile, And setting me free. Up on the eighth floor. You knock on my door. But little do we know what’s in store. . . My heart you have stolen. But you have not yet won. Oh Boy, I know our story is not done. . .

On Regent Street The jazz it plays. As I sit and gaze, Across the street. You never know whose eyes I might meet. My new favourite place to be. A Holy reverie. Café Nero on Regent Street. It’s my new rhythm. It’s my new beat. WHIMSY Who is this poem for. . .? Beautiful clouds going by. I am looking at the London sky. After the rain, And my ride on the train. And now I am taking aim. For the stars, And that book deal. Up on Mars. With Agent Wellbelove, Oh, Heaven above! Don’t push me, don’t shove. I love. The text in your hand. Some things are grand. And you, are one of them. 49

The monuments, the

The Next Leg by Jaya Ramsinghani

people and the city had changed their ways of love.

Even though the weather prediction said it was going to be a sunny day, it was raining. She stepped out of Westminster Station to see tourists like her standing in the shade and waiting for the rain to stop so they could go and see the London Eye. And so she waited. A woman standing in front of her took out raincoats and gave one to each of her kids. Looking at the woman made her miss her mom. If it wasn’t for her mother, she would have never forgotten her umbrella. The rain stopped for a while and she was able to take a walk and ponder over the beauty of the London Eye. She was quite sure this was what she wanted to do on the weekend but she no longer wanted to do the same. Looking at the magnificent London Eye, she pondered and realized what had changed. Even though she stood in the glorious city of London, she no longer felt like going to a cafe, sipping on coffee and lighting a cigarette by herself. Or spending her day on a bench in a park reading a book. She wanted to go out on dinner dates with him. She wanted to cook his favourite dish and go sunbathing with him in Greenwich Park. And she wanted to travel and go places with him. And that was what had changed - she missed him. Her phone beeped. “I’m on the bus,” said the message.

Even after all these years, she would still get excited like a little girl when he was on his way to see her. She admired the view for a while and impatiently took a few pictures on her camera when it started to rain again. She rushed back to Westminster Station to save her camera from getting wet, not knowing that she was only using the rain as an excuse to get to him early. A feeling of serenity took over her face as she saw him. It was almost dusk, and the city lights were slowly brisking over the sun. They sat at the parapet of South Bank, watching the transition of Thames from a grey, harsh river to a soft black one, reflecting the twinkling city lights like stars. The air was filled with the distant chatter and laughter of the tourists. An artist sang a happy song while playing his ukulele. She could see his face, half lit by the dim street lights, staring into space, zoned out as he was most of the time. And she stared and adored him until he turned to her and smiled. Two years back, this would have been a completely different scene. The silence would not have been comfortable. He would have felt an urgency to persistently entertain her, make her laugh and hold her hand. And she would have found it obligatory to hold on to his arm and leave soft pecks on his cheek while walking. But it was two years later and they weren’t doing any of it. They resumed their walk towards Southwark Bridge and further to London Bridge. On arriving at London Bridge, she announced that this was it. They were officially standing on it. He laughed and said, “This is not the London Bridge! That one is.” He pointed towards Tower Bridge. “No, it’s not! Come, I’ll show you.” She pulled him to the end of the bridge and pointed at the painted wall which said, “London Bridge.” He pushed his phone in her face showing the images of the Tower Bridge when he googled “London Bridge”. They argued their way to the centre of the bridge and laughed out loud at the subject of it. “If this is London Bridge, my whole life was a lie.” He tried to win her attention back, as she had zoned out staring at the magnificence of Tower Bridge. 51

She transitioned back and smiled at his adoring ways of seeking her attention. She would have kissed him if it was her a few years back. But she did not kiss him, she only stared and smiled. Passion was taken over by care, lust was taken over by comfort and the two were not the same anymore. In the bustling walkway of London Bridge, they stood staring at the glittering city lights in the distance. The monuments, the people and the city had changed their ways of love. It felt like it was a degrading transition at first, but it wasn’t. It was the start of a new phase which came with provocations, challenges, adventures and happiness. *** “This might have been the most peacefully I’ve slept in my entire life,” he murmured, rising from her lap. “Happy Birthday.” He kissed her. Her phone rang for the nth time and she gave out a deep sigh. Unlike every other year, her birthday did not involve cakes, gifts and parties this time. He saw a different version of his girlfriend. His pampered girl was not excited by all the attention and material gifts she was going to get. She did not even want to do anything special; it was just another day for her. He had asked her a million times about what she’d like on her birthday. And every time she had only asked to be with him, and said that it was enough of a gift for her. He lovingly held her in his arms and asked what she wanted to do for the day. He knew she must have a plan, for she always did. Her day, her career, her life - it was all planned. She always knew what she wanted and how she was going to get it. And he loved her for the headstrong, unshakable woman that she was. “I don’t know. I don’t have a plan, we’ll just see how it goes,” she said. He knew she wasn’t bluffing or joking around. She really didn’t have a plan this time. He knew how her sudden change of careers had transformed her into a spontaneous person. A few years back, she had thought of teaching at a university or working in a lab somewhere in the States. But here she was, in London, doing something entirely different.

But he still loved her. Even though she was not the same woman he fell in love with, he still loved her more than ever. The adamant woman transformed into an ad lib one was now his companion in spontaneous adventures and unplanned expeditions. He couldn’t have been happier about it. The day passed and the two slowly cuddled their way into an afternoon nap. He softly moved out of the bed when he woke up in the evening and tiptoed to his bag to take out her gift. She woke up confused to find him sitting with a grin at the side of her bed. “What is it?” she murmured. He pushed the box to her and sat excitedly waiting for her to open it. “I told you not get me anything!” she chirped and opened her box. A board game of Monopoly. That’s what it was. He remembered how much she loved playing the game with her brother and how much she missed him. She opened the board to find different areas of London in each box of the game. “London themed Monopoly. This couldn’t have been better.”

She continued to feel

pain, so she was still a ballerina.

Prima Ballerina by Cory Nguyen

She wanted to become a dancer, to bound across the stage as the prima ballerina. She dreamed of being beautiful, of being loved, of being someone she could not be. She dreamed and dreamed and dreamed as she twirled through the shattered glass and barbed wire until she had forgotten that she couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t dance at all. She was meant to become something she deserved to be. Anything but a dancer. She tried to stand on sickled toes, a place of transfiguration undergone. Hopeful and ignorant, she laughed. How lovely did the stale gasoline feel on her skin. How sweet was the sound of distant bullets. The best part of it all, she felt, was the gravel that pierced through her calloused heel. She had heard that ballerinas feel pain when they perform; she, too, felt pain. She smiled, for pain was a luxury that she often longed for but never had the chance to suffer. Against the asphalt cocktail, her shoes screamed and cried and split open. But it didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bother her. She continued to feel pain, so she was still a ballerina. She pirouetted on gritty cement, chafing her own toes, letting the pavement swallow her dripping blood along with pools of fetid urine from nearby sewage (there was rain). The pleasure she experienced brought her away from the mess of oil rigs and telephone wires that would otherwise choke her to death. She spun and spun and spun and she danced for herself and herself only. She danced in the shadows, full fathom five from the sight of God, shining as the prima ballerina that she wished so hard to be. She jumped and kicked and flew until the birds came and ripped out her heart. Even then, she could not dream of anything else. 54

She twirled, though vehicular shrieks drowned it out. Another twirl. Crows picked dandelions lost in a concrete jungle, gnawed under black beaks. Here, she danced. This was when she felt most alive. Yes, she was alive. Living. Breathing. Being. For once in her life. And without concerning herself with the peculiarities of living, she spun. She spun and spun and spun until the birds snatched her away, carrying her by the two toes on her right foot. Towards clouds. Towards love. Towards aluminum cut skies. They flew high, but still, she danced, arms held en haut. She smiled once more. For one last time. And as she fell, she wondered if the orchestra had already begun to tune.

Daniel by Susan B. Borgersen

The postcard was the first indication to Margaret and Hugh that Daniel was still alive. They had just about given up all hope. He was fourteen when he went missing. Margaret cried every night for months. She wouldn’t leave the house in case there was a phone call, a message or, what she really prayed for, Daniel standing there on the doorstep with his school bag, in his green t-shirt, his mop of blond hair flopping into his blue eyes. She couldn’t sit still. She lived with a duster in her hand, polishing, forever polishing. The house reeked of lavender, but Hugh said nothing. He didn’t know how he could help her through the loss of their only son. He made phone calls and popped into the police station once a week. Posters were put up and Daniel’s grainy face appeared on the back of visa statement envelopes: Have you seen this child? But they heard nothing. Until the postcard arrived. “It’s a clue,” said Margaret, “look, he’s given us a clue to where his abductors have taken him.” Hugh looked at the picture of London at night time, the lights reflecting on the black waters of the river. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Is it his writing? The boy always had difficulty with handwriting no matter how much I instilled into him how he needed to do so much better.” “Yes,” said Margaret, “I think it must be. But it has been so long.” She wiped her face with a lace trimmed hanky and breathed deeply. “We are going, aren’t we Hugh? Tomorrow? To find him, and bring him home?”

***

Daniel stood on the river bank with a group of young men. They could see the 56

was fourteen when he went missing.

middle-aged couple standing, bewildered, looking about them: Margaret in her Laura Ashley pink coat, clutching her old brown handbag. Hugh in his green Barbour jacket, fumbling in his pocket. “Is that them?” said the tallest of the group. “Yes,” said Daniel. “OK,” said the tall guy, “we’re right behind you Danno.” *** Over the months, Daniel had told them all about the life he’d left behind. Why he’d run away. They’d seen the scars on his back and in the end he told them how his father beat him for the slightest thing. Lashing at him with his belt. For not getting A grades, thanks to unreadable handwriting, for swearing, for talking at the table, and for wetting his bed. “The fucking slime-ball, no wonder you wet the bed,” they said, “didn’t your mum stop him?” “The bitch,” said Daniel. “Afterwards, she would stuff my mouth with chocolates and make me drink her bitter homemade lemonade. She would kiss me on top of my head and say things like, ‘there-there, all better now’.” Over the years, he had grown. The hostel had a gym where he worked out every morning. He learned how to stand up for himself. Daniel stood, dressed in black, tall and strong before Hugh and Margaret now; his head shaved and shining in the lamps that lit the river bank. His once watery eyes were now hard as steel, and he knew that he had no feelings for these two people. These pathetic, cruel people. No feelings at all. He had a backpack filled to the top with sickly, softcentred chocolates and bitter lemonade in four large plastic bottles. And he had a belt with a big metal buckle. Daniel also had his gang to back him up. 57

He wanted to see their fear, wanted to smell their horror. To hear Hugh scream ‘’please, no more’’, as he lashed his father’s disgusting white, bare back while the gang held the man down, forcing Margaret to watch. He was ready to see his mother gag on the chocolates as he crammed pound after pound of brown sludge into her sorry, lipsticked mouth. As he poured the grey lemonade, pint after pint into her, letting the bitterness reach her gall. To watch her puke. And he was ready to say, ‘‘There-there, all better now’’. But Daniel did none of these things. He tossed the backpack on the ground before them, turned, and walked into the black city night with his people.

London

had always been in my mind.

From the London sky by Arif Alfaraz

No colours. No light. No darkness. Nothing. But everything beyond that you could never imagine. It was the twenty-eighth of May 2012, and cats and dogs fell so hard from the cloudy Avilés, as the city indeed not recalled. My boyfriend— My ex-boyfriend, could not bear the breakup. Do you remember that movie with Jack Nicholson in a massive hotel at the end of the world, isolated in the snow with his family? Same. No axe, no kids and no snow, but everything else. He did not mean it, but that flask of perfume did not just destroy the wall. Of all the little pieces, my eyes got a few. Let’s skip the disgusting and painful part of the story. All begins and ends with water.

I was a swimmer, swimming teacher and a swimming pool lifeguard for over fifteen years. I used to dream I could swim when I was a kid, and I did not stop crying for lessons until my aunt paid for them -my parents could not afford it. I competed. I won all the prizes a professional swimmer can win. I made life around that but every time I got close to the seashore, I froze. Every time I got close to the river shore, I froze. Every time I got close to any open water, I froze. I felt confident and safe in a swimming pool. That was my place, my comfort zone, my home. On that day, it was difficult to peel off my 90s baggy swim costume from my legs. Sweat ran all over my body as though I was made just of water, boiling water. There I was, looking at the endless sea. My peers were jumping to the calm deep blue from a higher rock every time. I looked, I read, I drank my beer and theirs. That confidence and safeness I felt in the pool, faded away as soon as I looked on the river depth. My friends got tired of insisting soon, but there was a guy who did not. ‘Your friends don’t deserve you’. ‘Eeerg... I am just afraid of open water, and they have asked me thousands of times. I understand that they—’ ‘I wouldn’t stop asking.’ I was not even twenty, ok? That made me feel cared about and neglected at the same time. But his eyes... and his warm body hugging me so hard that it seemed we were going to melt and become one person. I did not jump. He carried on asking me to do it during the whole summer. He took me to beautiful places, telling me how great I was, and how bad my friends (and family) were. I believed that. All. I started seeing what he said. I started doing what he said. He stopped asking me to jump. I did not see that until years after, remembering the past.

I never jumped, but little by little, my soul felt as though my feet had gotten stuck in the mud, in the deepest ocean . I could not come back to my friends and family after all the shit I gave to them. I have learned that after the first month, you can tell whether a relationship has a future. When it does not, a strong force takes you like a wave, allowing you to breathe only every now and again. The rest of the time you are somewhere under the surface, carried by a current that changes its direction without prevision. In one of those breathing moments, I found the courage to jump from the scariest cliff. He could not take it. He even blamed me for his need to fuck all those guys. It was my fault. I was disgusting, unworthy, nothing. I ran away. Rain. He followed me. I slipped on the wet road. He took me home with a broken leg. I rang the ambulance while he begged on his knees. I breathed. I said no. He threw all he found. At me. He smashed his grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s perfume. Its little crystal pieces flew in the air. My eyes. A few times in my life I have gotten to the same crossroads, where there are just two options: end your life or carry on. London had always been in my mind. My mind. My. Mine. Me. I. At first, the world was overwhelming. There was too much noise. I was reborn. I had to build another human being from adulthood. 61

I could not see it, but I could feel it, I can feel it. London. Mum still calls me every day after five years, to convince me to come back to the countryside where the trees and rocks would be my only obstacle. During all this time living in the city of my dreams, I have learned to see. No colours. No light. No darkness. Nothing. But everything beyond that you could never imagine. Today it is raining. And there is nothing I like more than jumping into those dirty puddles, leaving them empty to be refilled with clean and clear water from the London sky.

One must not

The Altar to the Jago by Antonio Serraino

engage with a past one has been forced to obliterate. This is me, in an unsurmountable and unpredictable undertaking to walk over the ruins of a place that once was, or still is, or has never been, or forever will be; in an attempt to entertain through the exercise of electing the Boundary Estateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Bandstand at Arnold Circus as the Altar to the Jago.

For most people, the poetic significance of the East End of London is absent. It possibly elicits only vague remembrances of the absurdist aspects that a business quarter plays on todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s existing materialistic concerns, probably not the fairest legacy for one of Londonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s foremost talked and written about parts by poets, novelists, historians, researchers, and short-story writers and, alas, now by me. As a chary character floating alone around those streets and markets, I am interrogated by a gilet jaunes, no, it is a police officer on my wanders and questioned as to why this side of London would be regarded as possessing any relevance to a drudgery of writing. One must not engage with a past one has been forced to obliterate, which we perceive only through the eyes of others; one must see reality for what it is now: a stall, a bar, a restaurant or two with blasting neon signs, another stall, a plastic cup on a muddy pavement, a food kiosk, another stall - green this time, a glass edifice, an office or two, or three, or many, a roadworks sign, a moped, a florist pruning stems off scentless roses, a pavement, a Deliveroo cyclist carelessly chancing to run over a parent and child, an impeding dome of a solitary church against the skyline, amongst skyscrapers, a fast food outlet, an unnecessarily warm, blue sky on a February afternoon, two waiters smoking outside a black door, gesticulating about nothing, a road worker holding up a traffic cone as if it were a megaphone and lambasting to his bemused colleagues as though a chanting politician, hordes of people walking the blackest streets, and young and old, aimlessly ambling, some rushing, some obstructing, comingled smells of coffee and fried foods, barricades, and an old car, two old cars, a yellow door, a loud, speeding 63

blue SUV, large gates to a brewery, fences enclosing roaring road machines, a family in the alleyway with stacks of food, and us, a group of lost souls, sauntering up and down those narrow streets in Tower Hamlets, now Fournier Street, now Princelet Street, now Brick Lane, now Old Nichol Street, now Boundary St. and so on and so forth; in a place which does not distinguish us from the crowd and which cannot be recognised in those memories that we have unwillingly retained from our fading present or recent past. Yet for this bold place, a nifty revival of a scenic graffiti art that we all cherish, as it were, or as it were not, East London is the locus where one once opiated a tangible life; during its catastrophic curse as the slum of London, the East End never possessed any national or international prestige as, say, Mayfair or the West End, or London as a whole, so the slum was never broadly spoken about outside the slum as anything more than a slum. Just as a person who cannot ever be described as more than just a human, it had no other identity: it was just a slum. This part of the East End formerly brimming with compassionate, quasi contemporary actors, some barely getting by or barely upholding their selfrespect under strained circumstances which, dare I say, were much worse than those now befalling so many in our London of today; some just dying, some just being killed, some just departing or arriving. Others now strive to get by in a society perhaps suffocated by racism and hate towards anyone or anybody who cannot and wishes not to postulate themselves as anything else but human. Undeniably, in this London, their lives float in a limbo, awkwardly observing their dreams, dashed by events beyond their control, their situations rendered precipitously precarious by the perpetually pointless pomposity of political parties. These dramatic characters of a faraway past are now alive yet again as invariably common folks, women and men plagued by problems that one, in a real life, must find absurd in this 21st century of ours. Beggars, refugees, the homeless, mendicants, gipsies, drifters, vagabonds, stateless persons, immigrants; call us what you wish. If all this doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make the past of the East End relevant to Londoners now, it is difficult to understand what could. The East End has thus been and now becomes more than significant to a Londoner, to anyone, and the revisiting experience can be esoteric and personal. It is the one place that once re-entered, can provide much needed guidance and propel people back from the brink of conceding on humanity. It is not for spiritual reasons, of course but the consummate narratives of the past writers, once revealed, will undoubtedly alter the outlook of oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life in ways that no spiritual pundit can. Conceivably it does remind one of those lives in the south of the continent, which were perhaps miserable yet, clement climate considered, to a lesser extent. 64

A thought must always be spared for those one feels have entered this world with the sinister scar of misfortune, who are progenies of a mayhem, and who, at birth, and perpetually thereafter, cried out twice if not many more times. Alone in London. And who is not in this mob of madness? Deprived of the emotional support of family and friends, it is easy to become morbidly, perchance groundlessly, obsessed with suspicions about others; signs of a mental weakening that would kill oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s faith in humanity as a whole, a spiral out of which a feeble mind dares not to venture. Thus, now it is our hero who dwells in this place. It is our hero who breathes beside the lurid lanes, the smelly backstreets, the filthy floors constellated with pebbles of blackish hue, beneath a derelict shelter and a quasi-Banksy graffiti splattered onto a crumbly wall, sprawled across damp cardboards, beside a dishevelled dog, amongst plastic bags of obscure content, buried in a bristly beard, donning a black hat and a jacket resembling a moss turf, holding a cup with mere nickels, and a bottle, and a misspelt sign, and a boot with undone laces, a colourless face, reddish eyes, long porcupine eyebrows, yellow tinged fingers protruding from ripped gloves, a scarf or a piece of cloth, or a foulard of inscrutable colour around a stooped neck. Possibly an individual with no documented existence, a series of predicaments must have befallen our protagonist, the assuaging of which demands that one must now produce required certificates to the government, to the police, to the council, so as to ascertain oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s identity, had one one. This, our hero, cannot do, for one cannot also continue to deceive oneself in this life with no dawn. There is only one way out: our hero must die and must plan for imminent death. Likewise, the slum; what else is there for one who is just a human being? A suicide; by jumping off that austere bridge into the Thames. But one truly does not want the hero to end in such a way. Our hero will be resigned to living the part of a ghost gorged by gore, as it is demanded by indifference and aloofness. Now, sitting there on top of the Altar to the Jago, our hero stands crouched and silent under a green hut of some sort. The monument built with the rubble of the Old Nicholâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s slum is the centrepiece of the enchanting, new estate and remains, thus, a testimony to a demolished past, which could not totally be eradicated from London. But the Altar does not annihilate the slum. Our hero knows that. It celebrates it. It will live there for the slum, with its history and a resemblance to the building of a nation and an empire beside it; and our hero wonders what the real Altar to the people 65

of the Jago is, those people who once were people and not people of England or of the world. The building of the bandstand is consequential to a pronouncement to not move debris outside the crowded London. Demolishing the Jago and turning its remains, as a feature at the centre of the new enlargement, have however morphed it into a unique tombstone; a peaceful and romantic grave of ancient historicism. The large cupola on which the green wooden pavilion stands, is the tomb of the Jago and peaks as an avertable, eroded pyramid, it remains an everlasting reminder of a past, perhaps obscure yet still alive, Jago. This Altar will thus be the Jagoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, as well as oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own tomb and the tomb of all those who cannot willingly submit their intellect to a false peace of an apparently non-existing war and want and suffering and wants to, and necessitates the denunciation of the loss of humanity outside of its own true habitat and time; and the only human touch, which was not meant to be so, remains a reciprocally fake conversation with the gilets jaunes, as if that was the only unexpected and unnerving event of the afternoon in the life of yet another vagabond; and it and our hero are already forgotten, rehabilitated in my own impression of them, in the comfort of a warm and welcoming dwelling from where my mind only departs to touch upon and pollute, those places that once were a Slum as I know them from an alien mind - just for the delight of writing and pleasing my intellect. The Altar to the Jago, with or without its hero, once told, is no more. It is just a story by which its pure existence is slaughtered, as anything else ever told in written words and an author, to come to be strictly authentic, must desist from writing.

A Short Walk off a Long Blockchain by Dawn Ostlund In the short walk from Sloane Square to Battersea, I discover a hidden spring. The air feels as bitter as any winter day, but the parks I pass tell a different story, with their soft budding trees and delicate flowers dotting the woods with rainbow colors. The dew hangs on the fresh grass whispering the secrets of frozen time. I slink past the curtained widows of Chelsea mansions, brown brick tops and white plaster bottoms rising up out of the ground. A homeless woman is shooed away from tiled steps and my thoughts follow her to the place I stash unwanted email, which I record as â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;spamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, but never delete, in case one day I need it. Passing what remains of Grosvenor canal, (now shortened and cemented into its very own gravestone) incalculable figures advance toward the link spanning the dark.

Floating now

on Battersea bridge, my gaze falls into the Thames. 67

Floating now on Battersea bridge, my gaze falls into the Thames. I am mesmerized by the face of the city rippling below, winding out to the wide-open sea. This current runs in twisting flows, broken only by a solitary longboat. The cox calls to his worn-out team to keep pace, as they row past old roman coins and abandoned fiats. They glide from moment to moment, mind and body-blind to the eel conducting itself up through the murky water, who will, one day, devour us all. I reach the far side of the river, glass Berkley boxes stand stacked like southside sentries at the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge. Resting my bones on the first bench, I pick up a discarded paper and find Harvey Nichols has on offer the latest version of Uberman: A heterogenial body, both man and machine, flesh and foil, they parade as a gender-neutral being ready to help, with 10 times the testosterone of an ordinary man; he is as close to being woman as any male has ever been. Double D breasts hiding a heart like Halâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. I put down the paper haunted by echoes of Vorticist dreams Blasting into the Now.

Restless, I return to the road. I feel it moving like a snake, as the soles of my feet meet the sidewalkcement squares open like windows as I move above, through the London that was and feel tomorrow writhing below. Beneath the feet of the men and women rushing to work, under the nanny with the stroller and a well-bred dog, moving down below the nurses and patients, chains are being dragged through the city in tube lines and sewers and ancient passageways. A new life is growing. A new world has been born. The future shines like a distant star that remains unseen in daylight. Reclining in the shade of Buddhas and bells, I can almost feel the universe expanding, like magnolia buds blooming at quantum speed. Sleep overtakes me. I dream up an army of trustless machines. Ringing bells cut through the silence like the light of distant planets, flickering to life in our most secret places, in corners of rebellious or embarrassed ignorance, where the world is darkest, where you are far from home and have lost your way. Arms flailing â&#x20AC;&#x201C; failing to decode the blackness before you, searching for danger but also, for something to guide.

You long for connection, and when the first links graze your shaking hands, you will recoil in fear and then reach out again, to finger their steely cold line. You will grab hold in an instant, sensing stability. And the stars will agree, taking credit and a 51% cut for confounding umbrella with post, or the net with the line. ‘It will save your life!’ they say, ‘Be Smart’ and ‘Ride the Chain!’ ‘Footloose and fancy free!’ ‘Life is better on the Chain!’ But prise open those links and you might just find manacles. Who is this chain, this snake, this eel? Who writes this future that cannot be undone? Beware the killer of middlemen. From Cheapside to Threadneedle to Shoreditch, Like Canary Wharf in a coalmine, It’s do or die, code or be coded. Now is the time we must decide To be the chain or the chain-gang? Oh London! Global leader and ghost. I cannot forget the shape of you. Your narrow streets invade my mind, driving fugitive thoughts down darkened alleyways. Surveilled and surveying, I am constructing a map I will call it: London Smart Contracts A-Z. 70

My heart pounds

Searching for Spotlights by Tara K. Ross

in my ears faster than the beat of the song.

The sun leaps along the rooftops of low-rise apartment buildings, flashing the streets below with the glow of a perfect, late-summer night. Goosebumps travel along my arms. I can’t believe this is happening. I glance down at our e-tickets for the fiftieth time since we found our seats on the train. Half an hour before the meet and greet starts and only a thirteenminute walk to the theatre. Lots of time.

Graffitied factory walls begin to intermix with streetcar-wired lanes. I text Eve with a gritted teeth cat emoji. “Almost there. Look up.” She glances out the window from her seat across from me, copies my stressed-out kitty face, while eyeing the business-suit hottie sitting next to me. A GIF pops up of a flash mob dancing down a city street. “Let’s do this.” She shoots her hands up and down almost in sync with the song on my playlist. We keel over in silent laughter. Business boy doesn’t flinch from his newsfeed. I turn up the volume on my Night Owl playlist and get sucked back into the scrolling view. Ridgefield can’t even hold a matchstick to Toronto. A ding breaks through Bastille’s newest anthem. “Is your mom meeting us there?” I text back. “Nope. The girls can go wild.” The train curves south and light flashes between the influx of glassed condominiums shooting high above us. Reflections of the sun hit countless windows – thousands of mini homes stacked to support the penthouse. I squint up to the top. One day Malin. That will be you. I lower my gaze back to the people and cars flashing past. Every one of them with purpose and direction. We curve again and the train rattles deeper into a jungle of metal-bridged walkways and towering office buildings. The sun is engulfed by the core of the 71

city. The announcer’s voice crackles over the low hum of the Go Train. “Union Station, last stop, Union Station.” My heart pounds in my ears faster than the beat of the song. I smile at Eve’s dazzled expression. Since landing my agent, I’ve been in the city most of the summer for casting calls and auditions. Yet it still stirs up all the good feels – especially tonight. But for Eve, it must be like a kid’s first trip to the park after the snow finally melts. With my stiletto, I nudge at Eve’s foot. “Let’s go.” I hold out my arm for her. She unglues her focus from the skyline and takes hold of me. We rise in unison as the train enters into the station’s tunnel. For the first time since arriving on the train, business boy looks up. He swings his legs out for us and stares for more than the socially acceptable amount of time. From behind pressed lips, Eve suppresses what would have been her typical school girl giggle. Neither of us has mastered three-inch heels and the unsteady rocking of the train doesn’t help. But we link arms and strut down that train aisle like we are anything but the completely green seventeen-year-olds that we are. At the exit doors we grip the metal bars in time for the train to jerk to its final stop. Eve leans into my ear. “You know where we’re going, right?” “Left and down the stairs,” I say with parent-like authority, having memorized the directions with the same fervor as my two lines from the movie. “Stellar. Just don’t lose me ok?” Eve grasps a hold of my arm with a clammy hand. “Yeah, don’t think that’ll be happening,” I glance sideways at her sequinned mini dress that could double as a disco ball. The doors disappear and passengers funnel us down into the belly of the terminal, Eve still clamping to my arm. A gust of warm air scented with cinnamon buns and body odour fills the stairwell. I watch as Eve scrunches her nose at what has become one of my favourite scent combinations. We push through to the main terminal and are joined by three other streams of travellers. A mosaic of cultures and social standings all come to one place. With purpose. With passion. Eve attaches a second slimy hand as we pass through another set of exit doors and are greeted by a 72

tinny piano rendition of Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. A woman reminiscent of a raisined Madonna pounds at a plastic keyboard. Eve reaches for her wallet, her sympathetic puppy dog eyes out for the world to see. “Don’t bother. She’ll make more money than you do in a month at the Living Arts Centre.” She glances behind as we pass through the final stairwell up to the street. “Then why is she missing a shoe?” “Effect.” I link arms with her and quicken my pace. “Come on. We only have twenty minutes before the doors open.” She trips forward and matches pace as we reach the final steps to Front Street. A squeal escapes her mouth when the row of hot dog vendors comes into view. “Mae, we have to get street meat.” “After.” It’s like she’s a kid on a sugar high. “Think. Sausage breath while greeting Bradley Winters?” “He’s going to be there?” Her face brightens and she quicksteps to catch up with me. “I thought it was just the director and some of the no-name…I mean lesser known actors…” She gets my best stink-eye. “…yet-to-be discovered actors?” “Thank-you. My mom heard from one of the other parents that he was seen in Yorkdale earlier today.” “Are you kidding me?” She takes out her phone and turns the camera on herself while walking. “Why did you let me wear this? He’s going to think I’m easy.” She scans her body and arrives back at her hair. With a determined palm, she then flattens the enviable volume she worked so hard to achieve in my bathroom two hours ago. “Hold on.” I stop and pivot in her direction, stopping the human conveyor belt of absent-minded walkers in our path. 73

“What?” She turns around while tugging at her skirt. “You don’t see the irony here?” I shake my head and step past her into the intersection. “Just ‘cause he’s gone public as a church boy doesn’t mean he’s got spidey-sense over your shared Jesus obsession.” She chases after me, awkwardly tiptoeing over a subway grate. “It has nothing to do with that.” “Oh, I think it has a whole lot to do with that. Come on Eve, you flip flop who you are depending on the day of the weekend. This is no different.” “Malin, you know that’s not true. I just don’t want to…you know.” “Well if you think I’m a no-name actor, you’ll be non-existent to Bradley, whether you are dressed easy or not.” She hunches inward and slows her pace to a half step behind me. Whatever. She’s not going to ruin this night for me. We walk the remaining blocks without talking. The rows of bulbs marking the theatre on King Street appears just as the swell of perfume and cologne overpowers the thickening crowd. Eve fortifies her efforts to appear invisible by wrapping her scarf around her shoulders and licking off her forty-dollars-a-tube MAC lipstick. I roll my eyes. “Look, I’m sorry Mae. I don’t do the spotlight like you do.” Eve catches hold of my hand, and I consider shaking it off. “This is your night. And I’m messing it up for you. Can we forget what happened and get back to more important things? Like people watching?” She jerks her head in the direction of a frozen-faced woman in an ankle-length, fake cheetah jacket. This is what I hate about Eve. She lets things go no matter who is at fault. “Yeah, we can do that.” I pull up the tickets for the VIP entrance and we saunter past the weaving line of theatre buffs and artsy posers straight to the roped entrance. I straighten my shoulders, smooth my dress and walk into the spotlighted entrance. In the lobby of the theatre, we people-stare as members of the cast and crew pose their way to their seats. I whisper into Eve’s ear the names of the casting director, the teacher from my school scene, Bradley’s love interest from the first 74

half of the movie. She’s excited about each person who walks past, but when the cameras flash like an explosion of fireworks outside the doors, I know she’s been restraining her true giddiness. The doors open and screams from the twenty-people-deep crowd overwhelm the acoustics of the lobby. Eve steps back and I step forward as Bradley Winters enters the theatre. He greets a line of people who have been loitering around the front doors. I grab hold of my clutch to avoid wringing my hands and pray that Bradley arrives at our place in the convoluted line of unofficial greeters. His skin is radiant against a clean white dress shirt under a tailored black suit. He smiles at each person with teeth that must have been chemically whitened that morning. I shush Eve’s squeals as he greets the casting director right next to us. I wipe away a drip of sweat at the corner of my straightened hair. Eve nudges me forward and his gaze lands on me. I freeze in the smile that I have perfected for headshots and tableau scenes. “Hey, Malin right? From the school scene?” He remembers my name? “Yeah.” Chill Malin. “Didn’t think you cared about us anymore.” I spout off my line without thinking. Heat rises up my neck. Oh no. This means blotchy skin all over. He nods with a tight smile and then fixes his eyes into a smouldering stare. “Who said that I did?” From behind me Eve begins to giggle and Bradley joins her with a silent shake of his shoulder. “Have a great time tonight ladies.” My mouth remains frozen in its all-teeth smile. Words will not come out. “Thanks. We will,” Eve fills in as he saunters on to the next group of people. “Oh. My. Word. Malin, he’s cuter in person. And he remembered your name. And your line. We have to find a way to talk to him again.” I have managed to close my lips, but know from the drip of sweat now travelling down my neck that I am likely still beet-red. “Am I a blotchy mess?”

Eve scans my scooped neckline and tilts her head from side to side. “He probably didn’t notice.” I raise a hand to play with my borrowed pearls and attempt not to stare at Bradley three feet from us. “I hope not.” “Do you think he came with the girl in the white dress?” Eve asks. I glance at the back of a slim woman in a full-length backless gown. “She came in right after him.” Eve recounts the obvious. A confident laugh travels across the short distance between us. Before the platinum blonde even turns, I cringe. “That’s Nia, an extra from the fight scene. A very well-connected extra without a lick of talent.” “That’s a little harsh.” I blow air through my lips. “She only got on set because her dad was one of the editors.” I nod at an equally-platinum-haired fifty something next to her. “She hung out with the principals instead of in holdings with the rest of us.” Eve’s classic pout starts to form. “Don’t worry about bible boy being taken by her. She’s anything but pure.” Bradley passes his gaze momentarily over Nia. Did he hear us talking about them? I lower my voice. “Unless he decided to stray from the flock.” “Well, if he’s straying, I bet he doesn’t remember the names of all the black sheep in the neighbouring herd.” She pokes me while raising her eyebrows in his direction. He flashes his whitened teeth at me again. A wave of heat travels down my arms and the blotches grow. I flip open my clutch and swipe my phone open to our tickets. “Let’s go find our seats.” “Really? What if he –”

“He won’t.” And even if he did, I need time to think about what I would say. I strut toward the opposite set of doors to the theatre from the growing crowd. My heart pounds in unison with my steps. Inside, the dimmed lights frame the velvet curtains, and a single spotlight shines on a podium in front of the screen. We take our seats five rows back and I greet the surrounding cast members with my prepared small talk. I reset my headspace with the mindless banter. Eve leans forward from her shadowed position and elbows me in the side. Nia walks into the row ahead of us. Alone. An unknown weight lifts off my chest and I match her queen-like wave. “Hi Nia.” Eve gives me a cautious look. Be nice. I can be nice. “How did your audition go this week?” A huge smile brightens Nia’s entire face beyond the layers of bronzer. “Amazing. Brad put in a good word for me. I already got a call-back.” I can almost feel Eve’s body go tense next to me, as though she is waiting for me to crack. I plaster on my headshot smile. “Wow.” Eve finishes what I should be saying. “Congratulations. Bradley seems like a great guy.” Like she would know. Nia glances over at Eve and her outfit, wrinkling her nose as if the sequins carried the scent of Union station minus the cinnamon buns. “Yeah.” She shoots a smug smile in my direction and glides further across the row. I shoot daggers back at her but the lights dim before she can receive them. A final rush of attendees scurry to their seats. The spotlight brightens on the podium and the director and Bradley walk on to loud clapping. After a short speech, they take their reserved seats in front of us. Near Nia and her father. Eve leans into my ear. “When will you be on?” 77

“Should be near the start.” I grip into the plush armrests and stare straight forward, refusing to check the final seating arrangements. “You’re going to be great.” Eve grabs hold of my now clammy hand. I force a weak smile and wait. For one hundred and forty-three minutes I keep my eyes on the screen. Even when the final credits start to scroll and roaring applause fills the theatre, I wait. Dim lights return. Murmurs turn to easy laughter. Laughter turns to a stream of accolades. Accolades for everyone but me. Eve waits also. Silent. She pulls out her phone. She glances over after a few minutes. Watches the final credits and then turns back to her phone. Everyone exits from our row. The remaining conversations begin to travel out in groups. Nia’s fake hair pauses under the screen. She pivots in my direction and waits. She knew and didn’t say anything. She knew I would never be on that screen. Now she is waiting for me to meet her eyes. To break down. Not a chance. I put on my headshot smile for anyone but her. I straighten my shoulders, fix my hair and rise. Eve puts her phone away and follows behind me. Silent. We walk past the front of an almost empty theatre. The spotlight flashes on, like lightning slapping my cheek as we walk out the back door. Teasing me, but not staying on. It likely never will. That would require me to be someone, even a no-name someone. But tonight, I was invisible.

Maida Vale by Karen Steiger I fall in love with a boy with grey eyes, the color of centuries-old headstones with somber letters worn away in an English graveyard. Staring into his silvery eyes while he exhales a cloud of smoke and tells me about his screenplay. He hasn’t written it yet, but he wants to, and I haven’t written anything yet, but I want to too. We are really young still, and we don’t doubt that we can do anything we want. “Are you lost?” Everywhere I go in this city, people keep asking me this. “Huh?” I respond. I’ve always been a little hopeless like that. “Tea with milk, please.”

When

it rains in London, the sky is slate. 79

Cadbury Fruit and Nut from a vending machine in the Warwick Avenue Tube station. I’ve been spending all my money on train tickets, so I get chicken sandwiches from Burger King. No one’s eating red meat because of mad cow disease. I buy dried pasta and spaghetti sauce at the grocery store, the only thing I know how to cook. He wears a grey t-shirt the same color as his cigarette ash. It looks really soft, and I wish I could touch it, but that would be weird, and I’m trying so hard not to be weird. I like the bands he tells me about, and I pretend to have seen the movies he quotes. We see Trainspotting in the theater with our friends, and I’m talking too loudly on the walk home. He shushes me, and I grow quiet, betrayed and embarrassed. When it rains in London, the sky is slate. I splash in dingy pools on the drab sidewalks. I am never alone, but never at home. I step into a bookstore to get out of the rain, wander through the rows slowly, browse the titles with wide eyes. 80

“Are you lost, love?” I try to draw in the men I meet but almost immediately after push them away. If I have any power over men in my life, it is now. My body small and fit, long blonde hair and blue eyes. But I am nineteen and have no idea what I’m doing. I can barely cross the street. That might be Liam Gallagher over there in a pub in St. John’s Wood. Or maybe not. I use the red telephone booths to call my boyfriend back home. He’s not been writing me like he was supposed to. Everyone here seems mad about their mobile phones, sitting alone in their parked cars to talk to friends and lovers. I think they’re very strange. When the grey-eyed boy loses interest in me as a confidante, he moves on to another female classmate and then another. But he’ll still ask me for cigarette money. I know he doesn’t care about me and never will. But I am really young still, so I don’t mind.

What Florence Did For Me, Mr Grimstead by Dale Hurst Dear Mr Grimstead, It may surprise you to learn that I write to you from Florence. Given that I have up till now been afraid to step out my door to get on a bus into town, it’s anyone’s guess how they coaxed me onto a plane! I suspect bludgeoning or bribery with beer – one way or another, the flight’s a bit of a quasi-concussed blur. But all that notwithstanding, I’m in Italy. A bleak and blustery Italy – far from the Tuscan summer weather you read about in the brochures. The reason, I suppose, I find this recent sojourn so newsworthy for you, Mr Grimstead, is that this trip to Florence has transformed my opinions on a number of things. Only some for the better, I fear you will discover. First and foremost, I have come to a realisation about the company I keep. Those creatures borne of love, joy and harmless curiosity that I could not help but adore. People in whom I recognised qualities of a life I should have liked to lead. You failed in seeing all this, I know, and you frequently voiced your pejorative opinion. And I know I attacked it at the time; now know that, in light of events on our first night in Florence, I have come to share that very same view. That the people with whom I associate are nothing more than spoiled, petulant and irresponsible children. And it was unfortunate circumstances that led me to this epiphany. The legal drinking age is sixteen over in Italy, you may or may not be aware. It’s a fact that the bars are at the ready to exploit. Like flies to shit, the kids were drawn to the cheap liquor, blissfully unaware of what they were ut getting themselves into. To cut a long story where love short, Mr Grimstead, the first night ended is removed, it is with two in hospital, a third missing in the restored elsewhere. city for several hours, and a fourth passed out naked in the bath.

Even though you never were fond of them, perhaps you may think my change of heart, the cooling of my love towards these people, may be a bit harsh. “They’re only kids; they don’t know any better,” I can hear you saying as you read this. But it wasn’t the mistake they made that led me to lose my good opinion, only the petulance and arrogance they showed following the matter. I speak particularly of one of the hospitalised creatures. The Lady Amelia Herring – daughter of the local Marquess or some such; you may recall her strutting around like an ostrich with her “Daddy gave me this” and “Daddy bought me that”. I don’t know how common sense can have evaded a person so. After having her stomach pumped, she thought the entire experience something worth laughing about. And cried when she was told otherwise. A routine she, no doubt, practices at home on a regular basis. Be pleased to hear, Mr Grimstead, you won’t ever have to meet her. If there’s a moral to that part of my story, Florence has proven that, as you shouldn’t give a chainsaw to a kitten, so it is with strong drink and foolish teenagers. But where love is removed, it is restored elsewhere, as I have come to discover. You always said, Mr Grimstead, that, should I ever be brave enough to make it down the end of my road, travel would be the making of me. And like so many times before, I will not begrudge you the admission that you were correct. Being shown around the Duomo by someone who I can only name as Signora Führer – who knew there could be such a powerful and shrill pair of lungs on someone so small? – and climbing all the stairs to the top. A little stroll down what I call Bling Bridge with their genuine coral jewellery – some of it still priced in Lira. And, of course, sampling lobster and linguine on the same plate. I don’t mind telling you, Mr Grimstead, I love travel. And even now, writing to you about it, I sense a strong yearning to see France at last. I’d rather avoid a plane if possible, but I’m sure I could be persuaded onto a ferry. Baby steps with this whole travelling confidence thing, I think. Perhaps you’ll bear that in mind when we are together once more. Only pray it doesn’t leave me bitter towards the young people. Ever thinking of you, Geoffrey 83

Poems by Craig Dobson

River View Never one to eschew a cliché, the river displays a supermarket trolley half-submerged in mud. From its handle a carrier bag dangles, bulbed with dark water, the thin winter sun picking at its details. Cormorants fly upstream, low and fast. A breeze ripples the tide’s incoming tin. This tenancy of grace, this never knowing. From every window bare light stares back. Traffic troubles the air. A ferry crosses the bend, its faint wake soon dissolving. The sky’s pale linen widens; details crowd and merge its margin beyond which, somewhere, the cold grey sea beats in.

This

tenancy of grace, this never knowing. 84

From Charing Cross Summer ends over London, uncertain above the lake of roses behind St. Paul’s, the river running its reflection away. Between the Eye and Parliament, over the water’s terse reluctance, pilgrims pose for the brash, shallow shout of now. Through steel, glass, streets and parks, till the country spreads its memory before the mists and cold of autumn. Stars settle on the Downs’ leaf-flare, darkening like seeds falling towards the spring, where they’ll lie among the dead like memories. Cavendish Square Flawless from the dawn, it took swaggering young starlings to ruin the day’s sublimity. Not the city, hauled into August’s discomfort, the bruising noise of Oxford Street, the slash light off everything, the helicopter hovering its suspicions above ours. Nor the man folded round his bottle on the grass, his head almost in the flowerbed, his jacket’s pale patina of stain. It was the birds, their feathered pattern exact round their grey-brown crowns, their eyes busy for scraps among the litter, there… and there… Not to be distracted from instinct. Without even knowing winter. 85

Pauline Davenport is an art teacher originally from Scotland. She likes Gothic and enjoys writing about the invisible – ghosts and witches. She has a BA (Hons) in Drawing & Painting from Edinburgh College of Art. paulined.home.blog Paige Murray, originally from the States, is an explorer at heart and lover of both books and bacon. She loves to write about the worldaround her, either in fiction or creative non-fiction. thepaige-turner.com Dale Hall is a writer and English teacher from the rural depths of the Jurassic Coast who writes queer fiction, poetry about menopausal women and Kevin McCloud and novels about pirates. dale-hall.com Bageshree Mehta dons the hat of a writer at most times, seamlessly manoeuvring 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. bageshreemehta.com Simon Bracken is an experimental writer, of poetry and fiction and things in between. He’s originally from London and writes a lot about the city. urbanality.wordpress.com Daniela Kankova is a realistic dreamer and discoverer with Czech artistic roots. She likes morning coffees and evening wines and meanwhile she likes to write, poetry and fiction. danielakankova.com Godric Rochlen is a writer from California whom nobody knows anything about. He is tall, has blue eyes, likes books, languages, and Catalunya. A lot of other Americans mistake him for being English. godric.rochlen@gmail.com Marta Kepite is a Latvian journalist and a passionate music lover, who likes to put her feelings into words. Will they turn out as poems or a bigger story? Not even Marta knows. martakepite.com 86

Camelia Birza is an ambitious, budding writer with a great aptitude for absorbing the beauty of this world through her Romanian eyes. She likes to write creative fiction and non-fiction. camislondon.home.blog Nels Challinor is a writer and musician from the Pacific Northwest of the United States. His favourite activities include hiking, swimming, and engaging in heated debates about art of all kinds. wombclef.squarespace.com Melanie Cope is a fiction writer and world traveller. She is passionate about exploring uncharted waters and terrain, in the world, and more importantly in the creation of the text. melotwothree@gmail.com Jaya Ramsinghani 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. sabaism.in Cory Nguyen lives in Portland, Oregon. He has previously been recognised by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and was a semifinalist of both the Blank Theatre’s Playwriting Festival and the Eugene O’Neill Young Playwrights Festival. corytnguyen@gmail.com Once described in the writing world as a ‘third space inhabitant’, S.B. Borgersen, originally from England, writes and makes art on the glorious shores of Nova Scotia, Canada. She is published internationally in anthologies, and arts and literary magazines, in print and online. She’s currently re-working one of her eleven NaNoWriMo novels into a novella-in-flash. Sue is a member of The Nova Scotia Writers’ Federation, the expat writers’ group Writers Abroad, and a founding member of The Liverpool Literary Society. Sue was a judge for the Atlantic Writing Competition (Poetry Category) 2016 and Hysteria (Poetry) 2017. sueborgersen.com Arif Alfaraz is a Slytherin who lives through art, and believes it’s a means to change this world into Wonderland. Born in Asturias (Spain), he likes to write prose fiction and plays. arifalfaraz.com 87

Antonio Serriano‘s perpetual aim is to scrutinise memories, awakenings and places so that dwellings and emporiums of plots drenched in awe and compassion can touch that genuine awaiting soul. Dawn Ostlund writes about how technology is changing the ways the we interact with each other and the world around us. She’s especially interested in technologies incursion on long standing rituals and traditions. dawnostlund@mac.com Tara K. Ross is a perpetual Toronto suburbanite, despite her best ef-forts to escape. She works as a school speech-language pathologist and mentors with local youth pro-grams. Her debut novel, Fade to White, will be published by Illumi-nate YA (an imprint of LPC) in spring 2020. When Tara is not writ-ing or reading all things YA, you can find her rock climbing the Ontario escarpment, planning her family’s next jungle trek or blogging. hoperose.com Karen Steiger is a poet in chaumburg, Illinois. She is the sole contributor to her poetry blog, The Midlife Crisis Poet. Her work will also appear in future editions of The Pangolin Review, Kaleidotrope, and Arsenika. She shares her life with her husband, Matt, and two beloved retired racing greyhounds, Giza and Horus. themidlifecrisispoet.com Dale Hurst is a novelist, restaurant critic and former radio presenter from Dorset. He loves history and high culture, both of which he transfers into his writing, including his novel The Berylford Scandals: Lust & Liberty, which he self-published last year. When not writing fiction, he also runs a copywriting and proofreading business called Hurst Words. d_m_hurst@hotmail.co.uk Craig Dobson has had poems published in The North, Stand, The London Magazine, The Rialto, Agenda, Poetry Ireland Review, New Welsh Review, Under the Radar, Acumen, Orbis, The Interpreter’s House, Butcher’s Dog, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Frogmore Papers, Crannóg, The Journal, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Antiphon, Magma, Runcible Spoon and Lighten Up Online. He has work forthcoming in Neon, Eye Flash, The Poetry Village and Riggwelter. He has lived and/or worked in London since 2013. c.dobson@live.co.uk

The Wells Street Journal - Issue 11

Articles inside

Mr Wood Goes Visiting - Dale Hall

Meet Me Beneath the Clock Tower - Paige Murray

Pushing a Button in Me - Pauline Davenport