Vortex UoW 2012 by UoW Vortex

vortex 2012 Edition

Introduction VORTEX has become a really important part of what the Creative Writing team at Winchester do. We work hard to provide a worthwhile outlet for the creative energies of students at this university as well as all other universities that encourage Creative Writing practice across the UK. This time around, the Editorial Board, who read all the submissions carefully and diligently, was: Kass Boucher Glenn Fosbraey Judith Heneghan Joan McGavin Mark Rutter Judy Waite

Carole Burns Vanessa Harbour Nick Joseph Andrew Melrose Julian Stannard

The efforts of all of these members of the team are greatly valued by me. Judith, as always, has gone that extra mile and carefully proof-read all of the text; especially thanks to her. I very much hope you enjoy reading this edition of our magazine, and feel (as a result) encouraged to submit your own work for consideration in 2013. To have your work accepted is becoming an increasing feat of endurance and ability, so to NOT feature this time around is nothing to be ashamed of. Please check out the VORTEX archive for previous editions. It contains work of great wonder and joy: www.nxtbook.com/fx/clients/uow/view.php Neil McCaw Editor September 2012

Guide to Submissions Students wishing to submit work to be considered by the VORTEX Editorial Board should send all submissions to Neil McCaw (Neil.Mccaw@winchester.ac.uk) by 30th April 2013. All work should ideally be paginated, double-spaced, and in 12 font; prose should be no longer than 2500 words, poetry should be no more than 50 lines (or 4 discrete poems). For further information about VORTEX contact the Editor, Neil McCaw, at the above address.

Contents

page 02... India Roberts Clouds page 06... Curtis Batterbee A Package From The Ants page 07... Curtis Batterbee In Summer page 08... Harrison Bulman Susan page 12... Curtis Batterbee The Snakes page 13... Harrison Bulman Tom Waits Is My Ventriloquist page 14... Ashleigh Hull Truth page 18... James Walpole To Drive page 19... Kayleigh Quinn Needle Please page 20... Daniel Good Karaoke page 23... Kayleigh Quinn Rotten Apple page 24... Stephen Mizen No Sleep page 26... Madeleine Vaughan Kuroi-ame

Clouds India Roberts

I remember how he’s allergic to dogs. Have you got a coat? He has and boots too, even gloves. Maybe he knew that I wouldn’t want him in the house. I’m afraid I didn’t get time to hoover. There’ll be dog hairs everywhere and I can’t have you sneezing. Wouldn’t matter usually, but I’m about to send this manuscript out. I hope he understands; I don’t have a dog, but he does tend to have grubby fingers and a while ago I found coffee stains on my papers. I’ve shaved and so he makes a comment about my appearance, I look ‘well’ to him. I’ve never seen him with a beard. I’m going to have to get this door fixed; it looks like it’s grown so that I can’t shut it easily. This path is always muddy, making it quite a game to choose the rocks that won’t move when you step on them. James doesn’t suit the outdoors. It’s not a steep hill and behind me he’s breathing heavily. I came out here to think. I thought my hat would block him out, but all I can hear are his sounds. It’s interesting when the clouds are like this, all white. I’m never good at guessing outcomes: when I think it will rain it doesn’t and when I think it will stay dry it doesn’t either. Perhaps I could write a story about it. I could get it right then. It could be that only when it’s like this, all white – that some lucky character gets things done. Every other day he’s just confused. There’s always a hawk up there, circling round. He’s always above my head. I’ve never seen him dive to get something; I miss him every time, that’s what makes him so good at surprise. When I’ve taken time away from my writing, it’s usually been at night. It’s then that I don’t see, but feel bats fly right up close to my face. They could knock me down with their speed, but they change direction at the very last minute. They like to tease. I’ll have to come out later on to witness them again. One day I’m going to catch them. I don’t know how easy it will be and if I accidently kill one, they might respond like wasps and all swarm. Not to sting, but to ask something of me – ‘… Might have been a bit cosier if we stayed inside – ’ James wants me to talk now. ‘I was just asking where we’re going? ’ And I look at the hill to climb. It’s steep, but easier than conversation because you know what’s coming, most of the time. It’s worth the walk I tell him, but he’s sighing and doesn’t see the same as me. He’s been down there too long, in the town beyond view. It’s different here. My house is difficult to find. It stands several hundred feet up on the edges of the peaks of Derbyshire and the mist never leaves the brushing of my feet and hands. Again he mumbles something ‘monotonely’. Three notes? She would have told me the exact number of notes to his voice and she’d have played them on the piano with her long, pale fingers. He’d be a game, like everyone else was to us.

I can see the forest now – thousands of trees. I watch them when I come out here, always alone. I like to see how long they can stand still before they give in to the wind. James has limited patience. I can’t hear his footsteps any more. His hands are on his knees and his head is bent down. I give him what he wants. ‘What can I do to get your attention, Aaron?’ He’s now sitting comfortably on my rug. ‘Thanks, this is good tea for a non-tea drinker. When was the last time you made a cup of tea?’ He waits for my answer, keeping his eyes on his drink. For Laura.Three years ago, four weeks and three days (I count back as accurately as I can). ‘Have you ever thought of speaking to her again –’ James’ hair is longer than usual. It sticks out beneath his hat. ‘ – I saw her this week in the local shop in town.’ Now his hair blows forwards covering his mouth so I can’t see what he’s saying. But I can still hear it. ‘I suppose you haven’t seen her for a while amongst everyone else.’ I haven’t thought of her for a while. Is she well? I ask. He wants to tell me how she was, and then what he thought of her. ‘Well she’s always been quite fair skinned. But, of course, you know that. But yes she looked well.’ Did you speak with her? I turn my face back towards the clouds. It doesn’t look like the sun is about to show. ‘Yes, we spoke. It was brief, but, yes, enough time to hear about her three month old puppy and how he got a thorn stuck in his paw as she stepped out of her house –’ She liked her front doors to be painted blue even if it was rented property. ‘… She’s quite busy I suppose with all these old people she looks after!’ Old people. She’d do anything but work with old, forgetful, bitter old people. ‘She was really enthusiastic, talking to me about it – ’ I haven’t expected her to have changed so much. ‘…passion!’ Yes. Where would we be without it! I copy James and bounce a little as I laugh like he does. So what is it that you want to ask? ‘Okay let’s talk business. It’s good, but the subject matter… You probably already know. Are you over Laura?’ Laura my ex wife… ‘I mean this probably isn’t the right time. But I didn’t want to do anything or feel anything before first speaking to you about it. You know what the bible says about looks.’ Me and Laura can never work things out, I say. Laura asked me to marry her as soon as we left university. She got down on one knee when we were on a walk, swinging our hands together. I told her to stop it but she carried on. I always let her have her way. We were out in the middle of nowhere so no-one would see. I was very shy then. Laura always encouraged me to be free-spirited like her. She was like the birds that sit on the edges by me now. ‘Aaron… We can talk about it another time.’ I turn to look James in the eye and grab his hand in a firm grip, trusting him with

her. It’s okay. His pickle sandwich drips black liquid onto his shoes. And I smile. There’s not many animals out at this time of year. They wouldn’t survive. James is rolling up the blanket and packing the utensils away. We’re near where there’s a small warren of rabbits. It didn’t take them long to show themselves. I dropped a long trail of carrots on a walk. I’m sure they’d never tried them so there I had the advantage. And then they came in their numbers. Nothing breeds like rabbits except people. James doesn’t have any children. And Laura doesn’t any more. Toby. ‘Now we can talk about what we’re really here for, Aaron. I’m sure you know that your work hasn’t been as well received as before. You just seem to be… repeating yourself that’s all.’ I pull my hat further onto my ears and count the pebbles at my feet. One, two, three, four. There are four. One has a thick load of moss clinging on like a matted lock of hair.The rock beside it glistens with the tiny grains of salt, like a thousand eyes staring at the rock that’s covering its face with hair. Wet hair that she ruffles dry with her fingers wearing only her soft dressing gown… Her hair was sweeter than any fragrance. More like dirt: fresh and earthy. There was no artifice about her. She always spoke her mind, not like James. ‘What’s wrong honey,’ she asked. James never looks up from his sandwich. He trusts his surroundings. Doesn’t question the stones he stands on. There are many stones, and many more I cannot see. They’ve been pressed under by the many feet that have trodden this way. Many pebbles like my stone-fi lled drive that Toby used to run up and down, always tripping for he was so very small. Laura would come down beside him and she’d always know how to help. I’d just stand there and tell him to stop crying! She’d dress his cuts with white cream and seal them with a plaster. White cream stood in jars along our drawers and she’d dress the day with cream, start the day with pressing cream onto my lips with hers. Toby would run into the room and push between us. Separating us. He didn’t mean it. I want to take fl ight and leave this idea of decaying bodies in mist behind and grow peaches in orchards, no matter the weather, as long as I’d have something orange to look upon through the day and wait for the night when they glow. ‘You need to try something new, Aaron, or open up. That’s it. I don’t think you’re opening up.’ I want to grow peaches in orchards right here in our garden. Take away the stones and cream and fi ll the house with fruit. Eat peaches night and day, my eyes will be widened – seeing new things, writing new things. Night vision. He asked for it. And so Laura and I bought glow in the dark stars and stuck them on the ceiling. ‘It’s Victorian and so we’ll buy it,’ she said, ‘paint the door blue’ and ‘give Toby night vision’. The ceilings were high so we needed a stepladder, but before I began to climb Toby squeezed my leg and said ‘let me’. I let him climb. James is mumbling something as I watch Toby climb. He’s climbing here now because I’ve built him a tree house. It’s made from only the best wood there is, oak. But that’s not the problem. I’m feeling pressure at my ribs and don’t know the hands that are pressing there. I turn round to see that James is frowning, squinting up towards me. He’s breathing heavily again, making sounds. I keep them as sounds and nothing else by not listening properly. He’s not watching my son climb the ladder. I don’t want him to come up. Don’t want him to climb any further. His eyes are small like James’, oriental like the flowers growing in our glass house that I worry people might smash and break. People are going to break into my house and take my mind. They’ll leave the pretty oriental flowers. They’ll shout,

layering their voices one over the other, loud as rubber bands stretching and snapping, stretching and snapping! The curtain rings scream together as they are dragged across the metal letting in the light. ‘It’s okay Aaron – ’ It’s not okay. I tried to help. He was always falling down. Lost forgotten remembered and then forgotten. Tree house. It’s strong, I built it and it won’t fall down. That doesn’t matter. She isn’t watching with those glass eyes. She can’t see. James still holds his sandwich as he walks. The black liquid drips. Black against the green grass and grey rock. A mouse runs across before me. I could seal it in a pickle jar and kill it. ‘If you like. I can come back another day. Or you could come to town, might be nice to see the place again.’ I sincerely thank him for the suggestion. I see a lady standing in the distance wearing a red dress. I’ve always wanted to take part in an experiment where I am given a placebo and am told otherwise; then I’d know how real my reality is. I’ve never seen anyone out here for three years. Is it all in my head? I ask. Is it all a mesh of coiling snake wire that destroys. Destroys like I want to destroy the scream in a baby’s first moment. How much do they hear and see and should we close their eyes at birth, train a baby never to open its eyes. He thinks I don’t realise what he’s trying to do. He thinks he knows me but he doesn’t know the first thing about me. I turn around to see James is frowning deeper. He brings a hand to his forehead like he has something worse than a migraine. As though there was a pounding, something pushing from the inside. Something trying to get out. The clouds are moving fast. ‘Dad what did you say?’ I look down to see Toby. My boy Toby, he’s frowning deep, anxious and then his eyes go white. Toby, I whisper. I cannot raise my voice. My throat closes up and now I cannot repeat his name. I watch him climb the tree house, but then I look past Toby. Laura stands behind him dressed in red. I know it’s her, but it’s like a metal spoon has pulled her skin in all directions digging grafting deep lines into her face. ‘You didn’t watch him.’ My legs begin to shake. I hear a loud hitting noise as I drop knock a nail into the oak wood further and further and deeper. ‘You were watching your hammer, but not your son. Always your tools and your projects, but never our son!’ I lose balance and begin to move forwards, my feet wobbling over the unstable stones. ‘You let him go!’ Laura spat at me. I couldn’t speak. She’d never blamed me before, never told me it was my fault. ‘It’s all your fault, you practically murdered him.’ I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t say no, I could only fall forwards, my hands outstretched reaching out for Laura. But all I could see was Toby. Eyes open, white and blind and still crying and wailing. He’s in pain. ‘You killed our son!’ my wife shouted. My feet carry me forwards and I run, screaming towards her, but she changes direction right at the last minute. Toby steps in the way, right in front of my arms and I don’t stop running. ‘AARON STOP!’ Toby and Laura have gone. James stands at the cliff’s edge, his face white. I can’t stop running.

We were in a room full of microwaves I darednâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t touch anything. A small capuchin monkey came in, Then a few more. There were over twenty. They left through the cat. Then came the Policemen. Twenty-one Policemen. We were in alot of trouble.

A Package from the Ants Curtis Butterbee

In Summer The last time it meant anything, I was still learning to swim.

The light was different then And it reflected well on both of us.

Three days in a hundred, Not a minute lost. We kissed in and around water And fell asleep on your floor.

The last time I booked a room And we sat bleary-eyed on the bed, You, misled, mistreated, decorated. I, taller. We drank, smoked and fucked And lied about how much we both still mattered.

Curtis Butterbee

08/09

Susan Harrison Bulman

Susan could only think to be broken. She moved her fingers, her toes, turned her head from side to side. They all moved. Maybe her eyes were broken. Maybe when she opened them they wouldn’t work and she wouldn’t see a thing; but she did. She saw the ceiling and she saw Mr Boscombe. Her nose wasn’t broken because she could smell the man come to wake her, a smell almost like lilies. And she knew her ears weren’t broken because she could hear him. ‘Are you getting up Susan?’ Susan considered it. Getting up seemed to be something for people who were in full working order. ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ she offered in reply. ‘I’m far too broken for getting up today.’ ‘Broken?’ asked Mr Boscombe. ‘Yes.’ ‘Can you move your fingers and toes?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Can you turn your head from side to side?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Can you see me? Hear me? Smell me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So how are you broken?’ ‘I don’t know – but I must be.’ Mr Boscombe took a moment to think about this; he furrowed his brow with the effort. ‘Well,’ he ventured. ‘We don’t know how you’re broken. We must do tests and the first is to get up.’ Tests made sense. Tests were a very clever idea and it was hard to think of a better one to start with. ‘You’re right,’ said Susan. ‘I shall take tests and this shall be my first.’ Moving her fingers and her toes, then flexing her elbows and her knees and, finally, taking two deep breaths, Susan decided she was as ready as she could be to leave the bed. She slid beneath the covers to the edge of the mattress and pivoted her legs out from under the duvet, where chill air quivered and sparkled along her shins.

That same chill raced in and out of the spaces in her nightdress, peppering her skin with goose-bumps as she lifted the bedclothes away. The carpet on the floor was slightly rough against her feet. ‘So, how does it feel standing up?’ asked Mr Boscombe. Susan looked down at her legs with some puzzlement. It had worked. She’d gotten up and hadn’t noticed a broken bit. This was going to be irritating if she didn’t find one soon. ‘We’re going to need more tests.’ ‘I think you’re right, Susan,’ he agreed. ‘You seem to be fine. If something is broken, it must be hiding from us.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What would you like to do next?’ Susan thought. ‘I want to go to a mirror. Maybe if I look at myself, I can see the broken bit.’ ‘I think that’s a very good idea. Why don’t we visit the washroom? There are plenty of mirrors there and you can take your shower, too.’ Mr Boscombe led her to the washroom a few doors down from her own. The hall outside was colder than her room and the chilled linoleum was more unpleasant than the scratchy carpet. Mr Boscombe stood behind Susan at one of the many basins along the wall while she carefully examined her face. ‘We are here now,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you wash yourself? You might as well.’ Susan turned away from the mirror and explained to him why she could not. ‘I must look first,’ she said clearly. ‘If I don’t look at myself now and just go into the showers first, I could wash away some clue. Don’t you see? I might lose a clue to how I’m broken. I wish you wouldn’t rush me like this - I thought you wanted to help.’ ‘I do,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry, Susan.’ ‘It’s alright.’ She turned back to the mirror again but her face was showing nothing of interest. Her eyes were still blue and her face was still pink with a nose in the middle. She opened up her mouth. There was the black fi lling at the back and a couple of crooked teeth at the front. She ran her tongue along them; there was nothing new here. Apart from some yellow specks of sleep her face was just the same as it had been yesterday. She was sure that she hadn’t been broken yesterday. When she pulled off her nightdress, Mr Boscombe’s eyes fell to the floor and he turned his back to her. ‘Will you be taking your shower now Susan?’ he asked. ‘No, not yet,’ she replied, standing on tip-toe to try and see her reflection below the shoulders. ‘I need to see all of me first. I did tell you, I can’t lose any clues.’ ‘Oh,’ said Mr Boscombe, still talking to his shoes. ‘Will you take your shower when you’re done?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you promise me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well then, I’ll leave you to it. Afterwards we can get you into some proper clothes for today.’ ‘Thank you Mr Boscombe,’ said Susan, vaguely; she was more interested in trying to look at her own back. She let Mr Boscombe leave without anything else but did think what an odd man he could be. In a corner there was a plastic step to reach higher over the basins, which she brought to where she stood to see as much of herself as possible. Now, twisting and turning to catch her back in the mirror, Susan almost despaired. She looked exactly the same as every other day, though she’d never paid such close attention. Her behind seemed normal. Exploratory fingers found nothing in any crevice. She exhaled slowly when she finished touching herself, then stared at her small, skinny body and wondered what was wrong with her. She didn’t hurt or feel any pain; all she felt was broken. She was sad, which hurt in a way, but she was only sad because she was confused. She knew she was wrong somehow and nothing much else, like what to look for or

where to look - she didn’t even know when Mr Boscombe was coming back. It made her feel like crying. The shower was deep relief from the cold tiles of the washroom. A few squeaking sobs had gotten out but they’d washed away with the water, running down her chest and pouring between her thighs. Susan blew her nose in her hands, rinsing them in the stream. Here, the defective feeling seemed stifled inside her and it felt good to close her eyes and enjoy the heat. So good, that when she heard the sound of feet scuffing on the floor, she returned to the world aware she’d been lost, but with no idea for how long. Susan left the water to run, pulling back the plastic curtain and stepping out into the washroom. No one else was there and beyond the open door, she couldn’t see a soul. The sound of movement had now stopped and all she could hear was the shower behind and the water dripping off her own bare skin. She walked, wet feet slapping, towards the toilet stalls. Most were open but some of the doors were closed and Susan got down onto her hands and knees. She couldn’t see any feet, with tell-tale knickers around ankles. The washroom, it seemed, was empty. ‘Hello?’ No one answered. She thought she must be right, but when she was on her feet and padding back to finish her wash she saw the nightdress still lying on the floor. She thought to place it on the basin instead; she wasn’t supposed to let it dirty like that. But then it moved. A bulge in the folds was probing gently in all directions. Susan took care to be quiet as she approached her gown and knelt down beside it to watch. A mouse she thought. But mice weren’t as big as that. The thing in her nightdress was too big to fit in her cupped hands. She tentatively nudged the fabric with her finger and immediately the movements ceased. Whatever it was tensed under the dress and the bulge began to quiver gently. Susan took a corner of the gown between her thumb and forefinger and slowly raised it, lowering her head to peak underneath. Looking back at her was a small face, with a nose even tinier than hers and eyes like saucers. The face just stared,unblinking. Deciding it was safe enough to try, Susan pulled the nightdress away even more, and then entirely. Hiding underneath was a furry, fat little creature, with a long curling tail and large pointed ears. It stayed hunched on the floor and kept on staring, almost fearful, at her. She simply laughed at the funny thing and lay down on her side to join it. ‘Hello.’ She grinned. ‘What are you?’ As she lay on the floor, it seemed to ease and uncurled a paw to touch her arm. She giggled again at the feel of the thing. Encouraged, it unfurled another limb, creeping onto her shoulder. She marvelled at what a friendly thing she had found and turned onto her back so it could walk on her front. The creature seemed pleased with Susan’s reaction and explored with more energy. Its feet moved up and down her torso and its nose snuffled all over her. Once it parked its stomach on her face, muffl ing her laughter while it poked a wet snout in her ear. It probed her navel just the same, and the snaking tail was like a feather tickling her every inch. She had done her best to stifle the giggles and stop herself from squirming but eventually she released great bursts of laughter and writhed to get away. When she did, she must have frightened the creature, because its eyes widened even further and it scurried to the far wall of the washroom. ‘Wait!’ she called and sat up as it climbed and squeezed through a gap in a vent cover. ‘Oh come back, please.’ She could see two great eyes behind the slats of the vent. ‘Please come back. I can’t follow you in there.’ Then she paused. She didn’t think she could, she was broken. But what about the tests? What a test it would be, following it through there. If that didn’t show what was broken, then maybe nothing would. Maybe, if she did it, she wouldn’t even be broken anymore. Maybe this little thing could fix her. Susan grabbed the plastic step and placed it underneath the vent. Then, with great effort, she worked at the gap between the cover and the wall. It hurt her fingers a lot and her nails bent back, but after a while, the cover dropped from the wall. ‘Come on little thing.’ It wasn’t there anymore. It must have gone further in. Only a really broken person wouldn’t follow it now, someone who wasn’t going to get fixed. Pulling herself in was easier than pulling the cover off, but although she was small, it was still a tight squeeze. She thought what it must look like to anyone watching - a pair of legs and her rear disappearing into the wall. Inside was quite horrible. The air felt dead and all around was dust. She could feel it sticking to her skin,

wet from the shower and her eyes watered as she disturbed even more. As Susan blinked the tears away she saw her furry friend, his tail disappearing round the next corner. Dragging herself forward was difficult and she cried out when something jagged caught the skin of her thigh. From the hot pain she was sure she was bleeding. She kept going, though. Only a broken person would stop. Just before the corner, she realised she’d reached another vent that led to a room she’d never seen before the lounge where Mr Boscombe went when he left her alone. She could see him reading a newspaper, looking at a woman exposing her breasts. Susan considered this woman’s bosom and her plump, curving legs. Susan’s legs were skinny and covered in blood. She moved on, wincing, hoping to catch her friend. Then, when she turned the next corner, she fell into a box. There wasn’t much light in the box. From the feel of things, itwas fi lled with sheets and blankets. A laundry hamper. Dirty or clean laundry, she didn’t know, it was all dirty now. Things soon made sense. Above her was a hole in the ceiling. Some of the foam tiles were missing, and the others were covered in blossoming damp. Susan groped and scrambled to prise herself from the basket and as she raised her head she gasped to see dozens of the saucer-like eyes staring at her. There were more furry creatures now; so many, all crammed into a room barely bigger than a cupboard, on shelves, in bins and poking from cardboard boxes. Now she was free of the linen, she saw that they were all gathered around two of their number. One was very small. As Susan approached them, the larger creature nudged the small one towards her. ‘Hello,’ said Susan. The small creature was nudged again; she thought its big counterpart may have been the one she followed here. The little one crept reluctantly towards her, lying on its back at her feet, proffering its stomach to her. ‘What should I do?’ Susan asked. ‘What do want me to do?’ The one she had followed pointed its snout towards the smaller. ‘Do you want me to take him?’ The furry fat thing didn’t offer much in reply, but stopped gesturing. ‘Okay.’ Susan bent to take the tiny animal into her cupped hands. She looked at it and thought it must be a baby, small as it was. She lifted it to her face and stroked the delicate fur of its belly. When she did, she saw it shudder but it didn’t turn its stomach away, or even look at her, it just retained its submissive posture, still offering her its body. She looked to see the room fi lled with eyes fixed on her, looking so expectant. She was afraid of what they wanted. And yet, just as she began to panic and her breath came quick, she noticed the smell in her hands. The baby cradled in her fingers smelled sweet as a ripened peach. This reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day and, tentatively, she ran her tongue along the soft belly in her palm. The baby shuddered again but it still didn’t move. It felt just like awarm peach, soft fuzz on soft skin. The furry fat thing had given her this baby, and she’d followed because somehow she knew it could fix her. She realised this was what would fix her. She needed to eat this little thing because it was the only way that she could stop being broken. She licked it again; it still wouldn’t move. She pressed her teeth against it, and though it uttered the smallest of squeaks it remained prostrate. The eyes still watched expectantly, but as she moved to bite, a door opened into the room and Susan was briefly blinded by the light of a corridor beyond. The sound of a shouting woman almost hid the sound of tiny feet scurrying away. Susan looked at her empty hands. ‘No.’ The woman was still talking loudly.‘Oh my goodness – Susan?’ Susan looked for eyes; for a pair hidden somewhere in a corner. ‘What’s happened to you? What have you been doing?’ But they were gone. ‘Will someone find William? Dear lord where has he been?’ ‘They’ve gone.’ Susan knew it. ‘They’ve gone!’ She began to shout. ‘They’ve gone and I’m not fixed!’ ‘Susan, stop shouting dear. Tell me what happened.’ Susan kept shouting.‘I’m broken! They’re gone. They’re gone. I’m still broken!’ ‘Please-’ Susan screamed at the woman and hit her. She had been so close but they’d left. They’d left her still broken.

10/11

The Snakes The snakes in my suitcase have become impossible to disentangle, They fight back every time I try. I watch them in the mirrors behind me, Biting at the lids of my eyes And I have no desire to see all through the day and night. What are you doing? ‘Don’t ask questions!’ they hiss, ‘Lean back that we might speak better.’ I turn and tug at them again And they split, Leaving me holding two heads.

Curtis Batterbee

Tom Waits is my ventriloquist.

}

When I go to speak he speaks for me.

I try to ask for tea; my lips teeth and the tip of my tongue shape the words with precision.

But Tom Waits is my ventriloquist and he doesn’t want tea.

Instead, he wants to sing ‘Little Drop of Poison’ and leave me thirsty.

Harrison Bulman

Truth Truth

Truth

Ashleigh Hull

The snow doesn’t crunch like I’d expected. Instead it crackles, veined with ice. I take another step. It sounds like freedom. Looking back at the house I realise I’ve left the lights on in the hallway, in my room upstairs. I consider going back but the snow is snapping beneath my feet. The night is silver and folds around me. To go back would be to lose these things. I discover that the night has its own music. The trees creak and the sky whispers and my crackling footsteps act like a drumbeat - the rhythm of the night. It takes a while for me to feel the cold. The first sting of it comes when I see his footprints glinting beside my own in the white ice, heading in the opposite direction to mine. We converge for a moment and then his tracks veer off to the left, the direction he came from. I’ve stopped walking without meaning to. I close my eyes, and there is more than silence. Zephyrs breathe out the wind; trees sway in a dance they perfected a hundred years ago; my own heartbeats in my head. I can’t hear him, but I think that I can. I can’t see him, but I imagine that fl ickering shadow is his. His footprints are old, but they seem so new. He is here, making his way past me in the dark, in the now. The sound of him humming rises and falls with the wind. If he finds me he will make me go back and I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to forget what is real. I hear more than silence, more than whispers. I think he is calling to me, voice riding thin on the air. I run. * The first time I heard Linkin Park was in Dex’s car, driving through Europe. The car was some sort of classic Mustang, red with a roll-down top and one long seat in the front that could fit three people at a squeeze. Dex had jacked in his iPod that morning, half smiling, and then turned up the volume so loud I couldn’t hear my own protests. The music thrummed into me like a heat wave. He played through the entire album, drumming on the steering wheel and batting my hands away from the controls. He was grinning behind his sunglasses. Eventually I accepted that I couldn’t beat his reflexes and settled for shouting apologies to startled-looking passersby. I never told him but after we got back from that trip I had the album on repeat for about four days straight. It wasn’t really the music that I liked – it was more the memories it unlocked in me. In every song I’d hear the undercurrent of the Mustang’s growl,Dex’s tuneless humming, the wind that sprayed over the top of the windscreen and ran its fingers through his hair. Eventually I had to play that album to see him clearly. My memories of him were laced into the music so tightly that I became unable to separate the two. The echoes of his laughter fi lled the spaces between the songs.

* He stops calling to me eventually. The trees turn against me; their swaying waltz becomes something brutal, something greedy. They grasp at me and pull me down and raise their roots to trip me over. I fall headlong; my face cracks against the snow. I lie hereuntil sunlight makes the world come alive with diamonds. The song around me changes with the light, his voice winding through it all again, still searching. I no longer remember why I’m running. The world is full of diamonds and their beauty gives me strength. He gets closer, crunching ice with every step, calling my name. I try to call back. The sound I make surprises me; the ice has closed my throat. I try to stand instead, to meet his eyes. Diamonds shower from my hair, my arms. They weigh on my back, too heavy. ‘Alice!’ He crashes to a halt beside me, heavy black boots fi lling up my vision. He falls to his knees and his hands ghost over my face, feel for a pulse at my neck. They are smaller than I remember. Softer. His voice, still saying my name, is not his after all. It’s Cass who kneels in front of me, not him. I don’t know how I ever thought it was. ‘She must’ve been out here for hours,’ Paul says, behind her. He lifts me into his arms and I see Cass’s face, the face that is not his. His absence strikes me like a blow to my chest. If there weren’t diamonds growing over my eyes I would cry for the space he isn’t fi lling beside me. I reach into it as if my hope will give him substance. Cass reaches back, takes my hand. Even her fingers, covered with icy jewels, are warmer than my own. ‘What were you doing, Al?’ she asks. I can tell from the way she sighs that she doesn’t expect an answer. * The first time I heard ‘The World Or Nothing’we were in an indie-pop-rock club, doing tequila shots. It never failed to surprise me how quickly he got drunk – two beers and he was barely intelligible, falling against the other people at the bar like he expected them to hold him up. I’d already decided not to like the band, as the glazed look in Dex’s eyes told me we’d be leaving before I had the chance to appreciate them properly. But then the guitar riff started up - just three, simple, enthralling notes repeated over and over – then the bass line hit and the singer grabbed his mic and the drums pushed the crowd around us into a drunken heaving frenzy. And I was hooked. By the time we left,Dex had thrown up on his shoes and mine and it wasn’t until the third cab stopped that I could sit with him curled up next to me, stroking the sweat through his damp brown hair. * Cass asks meagain but now I know she wants me to respond. After they found me the diamonds started to blur, all of the distinct shining fractures melting into one continuous white. For a while, that was all I saw – white. And now I am here. I assume I’m lying on my back because the ceiling is staring straight at me. Cass’s voice comes from my right. I twist my neck – it hurts – to look at her. I see the room I’m in, fi lled with beds separated by pale green curtains. ‘Hospital,’ I say. ‘I’m in a hospital.’ ‘You were freezing,’ she replies. Paul calls to her from the doorway and she leaves me for a moment.

He whispers my name, right into my ear. I can feel his breath swirling into my brain like cool water. I turn my head too slowly and see his feet disappearing behind the swirl of a curtain, his hand pulling it closed. This is enough. ‘Al?’ Cass has returned to the chair on my other side. She’s frowning, waiting. ‘What were you doing out there, Al?’ I can almost see the shape of him in the heat he’s left behind. I call for him. It starts raining, water dripping onto my hand but then I remember where I am and I look back at Cass and it’s her tears falling onto my fingers, not the rain. ‘Oh, Ali,’ she says. She picks up my tear-soaked hand and presses it to her cheek. I look past her, past her pain-fi lled, questing gaze, to see if he is standing in the doorway or in the corridor beyond. ‘Where is he?’ I ask. ‘You know where he is,’ she says. And I suddenly realise I have known all along. Cass drives me home in the afternoon. She doesn’t stop moving when we step through the door – turning lights on, turning lights off, jangling the keys in her hand as if silence would crush her. I sit in the faded blue armchair that’s spewing stuffing and watch her whenever she steps into my vision. She’s pulled her hair back into a ponytail so tight the dark strands at the base of her neck tug at her skin every time she turns her head. She doesn’t look at me. Instead she looks at her hands, fluttering through the air, moving this, moving that, jangling her keys. She caught that habit from him. Eventually she comes in from the kitchen holding two steaming mugs. She sets them next to the coasters on my stained side table, indicating the blue one as mine with a wave of her hand. She curls herself onto the sofa opposite me. It sighs as it takes her weight. ‘Ali?’ she says. A streetlight through the window is reflected in her glasses. I reach across from my chair to close the curtains, glance outside. Footprints shine crystal in the dusk. A voice calls my name again and I have to blink twice before I can tell that it’s Cass. I finish closing the curtains and look at her in the sudden darkness. The lamp beside hersnaps on. ‘We have to talk about this,’ she says. ‘About Dexter. You can’t just keep shutting me out.’ I pick up my mug and take a sip, though I know it will burn me. Heat floods down my throat. I take another, letting it ruin my tongue. ‘Damn it, Alice.’ The mug is chipped, near the handle. I’ve never noticed this before. Cass wrenches it from me and tea spills over the sides, burning both our hands. She fl inches. I let go. ‘This has to stop.’ She speaks into the silence. ‘You have to talk.’ I want to tell her I left last night because the truth only comes in waves. It hits, then recedes without a trace and last night when it came I couldn’t bear to lose it again – to go back to the blissful, ignorant agony. I want to say that his not being beside me hurts more than anything else ever did; yet right now, while it all makes sense, I know I don’t want him anywhere near. I want to say that I have to choose between two versions of reality, and I’m still not sure which is true. Cass leaves the room, hand on her face. I can hear him chuckling behind me, his breath on my hair but I know if I turn around I won’t see him. I’ll see the space he left behind, or I’ll see the lie and forget that it isn’t true. So I sink my head into

my knees and hum the first song I think of -Hinder’s ‘Better Than Me’. It makes him go away. * The first time I heard Alter Bridge was back when they played tiny gigs in hazy bars. Cass was with me, or I was with her, fi lling the roles of designated driver / pretend girlfriend / bodyguard as needed. By the third songDex was beside me, someone I’d glared at when we walked in. He leaned back on the bar and drummed the wood with uneven fingernails. ‘You’re not listening properly,’ he shouted. I gave him a look that had sent many of his predecessors running for the hills but he just smiled. He started talking about the song that was playing, all the undercurrents, the things it said that I didn’t hear. I closed my eyes and let it assault me. When the song finished I turned to look for Cass and discovered she was already a lost cause, sprawled across a guy with a leather jacket and a mohican. ‘So how could you tell?’ I asked, picking at my fingernails. ‘Tell what?’ ‘That I wasn’t listening.’ I glanced up, saw his still-widening smile, saw that his eyes were hazel and his nose was slightly crooked. Then my gaze dropped back down to my hands. It took me about three weeks to really look at him. ‘Most people don’t. But I hoped you might be different,’ he said. * The glass is misty where I have breathed on it. I can see the outline of my features - the line of my nose, the hollow of my eye. I wipe them away. Before when I woke in the dark I took a moment to open my eyes – afraid he would bebehind the glass, staring back at me. But I am not afraid now. I don’t know why I ever was. The sun is rising again andhis fresh footprints shimmer. My reflection colours in – white, red, black.I am a map of contrasts. I hear him behind me but I don’t move, this time. Cass’s words reverberate in my chest and he can’t drown them out with his whispers. ‘Ali,’ she said, yesterday in a moment when the world made sense. ‘Dex is gone. You know that.’ ‘Look,’ I said, thrusting my hand through the curtains to point at the snow. ‘Look there. He made those.’ She got up from the sofa and peered through the gap. The sky had opened up again, snowflakes huddling inside the shape of his boots, but the prints were still plain to see. She looked back at me and said, ‘There’s nothing there, Alice,’ even as they glinted at her. Cass is not mad. I tell myself this now, like I did then. Cass wouldn’t lie, so I must be the one who is insane. My head aches. I cradle it in my hands. I remember standing at the edge of a grave, I remember Cass squeezing my fingers so hard it hurt but it comes to me slowly: the coarseness of the earth between my fingers; a red flower falling onto a coffin, so bright that all the other colours fade out around it. I could be making this up. I cling to thethought like it’s my oxygen. Dex isn’t dead. Cass says he is, but Cass is wrong. I can feel him standing just behind me, lips on my hair. If I close my eyes and concentrate I can hear him breathe.I feel his hand on my shoulder. I feel his heart against my neck. In this moment, I choose my reality. I open my eyes and finally I see him, reflected with me in the cool glass. He steps back from me. His smile is beautiful, inviting. He says my name. I turn to face him, and I takehis hand.

To Drive Moonlight is cut through by headlight. As we reach the crest and tip to speed down shadowed lanes the open window blasts eyes open, the known curve smooths under my hand. Alone, the moon welcomes us. The headlights now dapple with moonlight as foot hovering in position, we equalise. The moon, car and I merge on those winding country roads.

Foot lowers and I take control, dare to splinter the balance that was struck take courage and now I shift the gear stick to full.

Beams high

James Walpole

night recedes and we move on to blast away the night as trees rip to blur until pinprick to wound to bright light street light Slow.

Kayleigh Quinn

Needle Please Life’s substances coagulating in the spoon Sucking out my brains through a straw Tracks choochoo up my arms Eyes lulled and whited The world is falling around me But I couldn’t care less.

Hurt rots and leaves behind green mould War festers among the backward hearts of Them The broken childhood record replays in my head The pain is too real and numb isn’t enough. What choice did I have? Needle please, needle please.

Dirty pretty people like zombies in the street Eating whatever they desire Children in the churchyard as bombs crash down around them Nuns are screaming, burning Such music to Their ears Humans killing humans, what irony is this? I need the music to drown away Shut up with my fingers in my ears. Needle please, needle please.

I hate this life; living is a form of death But I’m too much the coward to fi ll out any more forms. Red itchy eyes now closed. Doctor, I don’t want your rainbow pills. Just give me the needle please.

Karaoke Daniel Good

There are many stereotypes about the British, some good and some...well, not so good. Americans, for example, believe we all have bad teeth. Personally I can say my teeth aren’t great by any means, but they’re nowhere near as hideous as the depictions in Family Guy or The Simpsons with their ‘Big Book of British Smiles’. On the other hand, some stereotypes are true. We ABSOLUTELY love to moan, to the extent that we will sit in a restaurant wittering on about the bad food or bad service, or both, especially since the place changed hands. Then, when the lovely young waitress who doesn’t give two shits about us comes over, we turn around and beam and say how lovely everything is. We love to moan… but don’t want to make a fuss. There is one stereotype, however, which I believe beautifully encapsulates an aspect of British culture. Britain loves karaoke, to the extentthat we will spend thousands of pounds to fly away on a summer holiday to a hot and relaxing place and still end upin Bob & Barbara’s Karaoke Bar four nights in a row, singing Chas & Dave at the top of our well and truly inebriated voices. A few weeks ago I found myself falling in love with this particular stereotype, embracing it as much as the last can of warm, cheap lager when you arrive home from a night out. I was sitting contentedly in my preferred watering hole, Winchester students’ favourite The County Arms, and the beer was flowing as well as can be expected after watching Tottenham scrape out a 3-1 victory over Fulham, which was not by any means deserved (and I’m a Tottenham fan!)Make no mistake, I had not ventured up the steep Winchester hills for the purpose of karaoke. I mean, who really wants to hear ‘Hey Jude’ murdered by Alan because he has been in the pub all day to avoid his wife, after he ‘accidently’ relieved himself on the living room curtains with the sole excuse that he thought he was in the bush in the front garden? No, I was enjoying a celebratory drink at the expense of Fulham fans (of which there are about three in Winchester), armed with friends, a wallet and no lecture until twelve the next day.

The lull that comes after a football match has finished on television in a pub is an interesting thing in itself. A quick downing of the remnants of a pint, then bodies out the door unless you stayto revel in the success of your team. But something was different this late autumn evening. During the ensuing forty-five minutes I became aware of a suspicious number of customers for a Sunday night, despite the fact that the pub is located slap bang between two thirsty university halls of residence. Going through my head were all sorts of theories as to why so many people were here, and soon my worst fear was realised. The now solo half of Bob & Barbara’s Karaoke Bar came thundering through the disabled entrance, looking every inch thekaraoke DJ. There are two types of DJ that do karaoke. In my native Bedfordshire we have Bob’s twin in appearance, appeal and apparel…but her name is Sue. With her hair gelled into a crown of spikes and shaved at the side, Sue stands behind the decks downing pints of snakebite as her lover Janet sits next to her guzzling the entire stock of Smirnoff Ice, her hands so big around the bottle it looks like a miniature from a mini bar. Yes, Lesbian Sue’s Karaoke (this is actually how it is advertised) brings them in from near and far, the straight and the gay, the drunk… and excessively drunk. In Winchester we have Bob, though I very nearly mistook him for his long lost lesbian sister. Bob smells of a concoction of cheap aftershave and roll-ups, with greased back hair using actual grease from his forehead. On the night in question, he was also sporting a fake leather jacket, a loud Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, even though it was pitch black outside and had been for several hours. Greeted like a god as he swaggered past his adoring fans, he headed to the bar for a well- earned drink after walking all of fifteen yards from his car. Moving as majestically as a swan across the floor, it became quite apparent that the only reason he wore his sunglasses was so he could have a good look at the girls.He was hardly subtle, with his head craning like said swan as he ogled.It seemed amazing to me that a man who resembled someone wanted by the police for a mixture of fraudulent claims and sexually related incidentscould be adored by so many. The first hour dribbled by with only two or three people singing. These people were the ones who, in my opinion anyway, do not get the ethos behind karaoke. Surely the whole point of it is to attempt to stand up in front of a group of friends who destroy the selected song with unnecessary shouting of football chants, wrestling with the microphone and bellowing from such a small distance that the microphone might as well be inside someone’s mouth? Am I wrong in thinking this? All I can say is it’s a good thing I didn’t voice my opinions to the first group of performers. These were the people who arrived long before anyone else out of the crowd that had now assembled, a good hour before Bob. In hindsight, I should have been able to figure out who they were by the way they’d all sat around their table drinking water and energy drinks, gently humming scales and arpeggios. These were the ones who took karaoke seriously. They’d spent all week waiting to get up in front of people like me, shut their eyes, belt out a tune and imagine they were playing to a hundred thousand people on their last night at Knebworth. Theypractise at home with Singstar on their Wii instead of having a life. Once the X-Factor wannabeesgot their favourites out the way, it was time for things to liven up. By about ten o’clock everyone was lubricated enough to give it a go and this was where the true British nature started to show itself. Stereotypes left, right and centre flew through the air, and my, they were beautiful to observe.

First we had the people sitting grimacing, trying not to laugh as the girl who thought she was an amazing singer murdered Adele’s ‘Chasing Pavements’. The smokers huddled outside under the heaters, turning around every time they heard a loud noise from within to make comments such as ‘Can someone shut her up’ and the old favourite ‘Sounds like someone is strangling a cat’. This was then swiftly followed by the typically glamorous, cringingly camp performing arts student who sang ‘Big Girls You Are Beautiful’ by Mika, as he pointed to the two rather rotund girls that he dragged out with him. ‘Parklife’ came next, belted out by the man who wanted to run around as he sang, forgetting all the words but maintaining an excellent Phil Daniels Cockney accent. He stumbled to the end of the song and nearly passedout from lack of breath before sitting triumphantly and downing half a pint as if he was now the biggest thing since Brit-Pop. As the evening began to draw to a close, it was time for all to join in. That’s right, time for the songs that ultimately make karaoke what it is - a destruction of the ears. ‘Wonderwall’ by Oasis, Aerosmith’s ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’ and the ever immortal ‘Angels’ fi lled the air and led us to the daddy of them all. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is possibly the best karaoke song, if not one of the best songs ever. Its changes of pace and tone allow it to be a ballad for every ‘momma’ and the ultimate rock anthem all in one. The whole pub was singing together, dancing around screeching ‘mama mia’ before head banging to the guitar solo, then swaying like willow trees in a breeze as it slowed towards the end. When it was over, we all sat together like we had done something truly outstanding. It wasn’t until I was stumbling home, kebab in hand, that it hit me: it actually WAS something outstanding. How often do you get people who do not really know each other together in one place enjoying themselves? Yes, there are places like weddings, football matches and graduation days, but music I believe is one thing that always brings people together. You need only look at music festivals, the summer of love in ’67 or the last night of the proms to see that it is a medium for cohesion. It can make the hairs stand up on the back of your neck and move you to tears(although at karaoke the tears are more likely to be from the pain in your head, or trying to resist the advances of Bob). So why don’t we all just accept these beautiful stereotypes that we have as a nation, as a culture, as Britons? We see them all the time in our everyday life: white van men; a tradesman never being on time and taking two sugars in his tea, the slightly ‘slow’ girl who works in the hair salon and sings karaoke on a weekend. From this tiny island, we have spread our culture to the furthest reaches of the globe. Ok, it’s no longer a world of Dickens, Gainsborough and Brunel; instead we have Nuts Magazine, Tracy Emin not tidying her room and the JML Slice & Dice. But does this not put a smile on your face and make you feel somewhat at home? Enjoy the quirky details of our society and embrace the people, including karaoke!

Rotten Apple Dry cracked lips Wasting away, all rotten bruised flesh Everything cracked or cracking I’ll sit here and watch the sun go down through the broken glass Eyes too dry to cry I’ll sit here still and I’ll wonder if you ever wonder about me

You took one bite of me and left the core to rot You fi lled yourself with me then stuck your fingers down your throat

Now I’ll dry swallow pills that couldn’t hide and feel them rust away my insides already the blood on my wrists has dried

Kayleigh Quinn

I can’t get to sleep because this mother’s day I can’t afford to give her something special I can’t even buy a ticket back home to spend the day with her so she’ll never smile like the woman on the television and never know I love her.

I can’t get to sleep because my shave isn’t the closest treble razor blade shave and how am I ever meant to shag again looking like a pirate or a scruffy tramp I fear premature wrinkles, grey hair and erectile dysfunction and know there’s an unaffordable solution.

No Sleep Stephen Mizen

I can’t get to sleep because my aftershave is no longer advertised by my favourite shirtless male model in fact it feels like poison on my skin and probably smells rotten and rancid like spraying myself in cat’s piss.

I can’t get to sleep because all my debts aren’t consolidated into one easy to pay off monthly loan and I fear bill day and become bankrupt and miserable and in prison or hungry and homeless.

I can’t get to sleep because I only send money off to worldwide concern and don’t sponsor a donkey in Cambodia, a child in Malaysia, a worker in New Guinea and a dog in Basingstoke and all their blood must be on my ungenerous hands.

I can’t get to sleep because I’ll wake up tomorrow with no lungs, liver, paranoid and itching in a pool of my own unprocessed urine, choking my wasted life away because I failed to listen to a child’s warning plea to stop smoking and drinking went out for another pint and cigarette.

I can’t get to sleep because the fucking television’s still on.

Kuroi-ame Madeleine Vaughan

I was fifteen the day the sun descended from the sky and plunged to earth. They say that the night is as a human life: brief and quickly extinguished by light. But on that day, when night ruled, it was the light that quickly spirited away human life and devoured the world in fire. The sky rained the night down upon us that day, and the earth shook with fever. ‘Tasukete.’ The cries of the dead rose from the rubble. ‘Itaiga…Tasukete…Dare ka, onegai…Tasukete.’Help. It hurts. Save me… Somebody, please…Save me. But the voices of those who walked, their skin hanging loose like dry linen, spoke louder. ‘Nigete.’ They breathed their screams. ‘Nigete.’Run. I was scared. I sat beneath the shards of molten metal and stone that had been my school and waited. Hatori, Hatori, where are you? I waited and watched the ground turn black with spatters of the sky’s blood. Dark, black – Kuroi-ame, black rain. The sky was falling to earth. A figure appeared from the shroud, shimmering in obsidian armour, the face of an oni stained and dyed so that his eyes appeared as bleached red and white spots on his black face. I saw the child in his arms and ran. ‘Hatori!Hatori!’ My broken geta clattered on the steely pathway. My mother had fixed them with the scraps of an old kimono. My mother – Okaa-san, oh Okaa-san, forgive me. The oni stopped before me; he must have been a samurai-spirit, a black warrior who defied death itself. ‘Omaewa?’You are? The onistopped, his voice strange in the breathless air and I clung to the child’s hand as it reached weakly towards me - my brother. Some of his skin was gone, he was as shapeless as the waxworks that moved about us. ‘Onee-chan, onee-chan…’ he begged. ‘Shinitakunai.’Sister…I don’t want to die. ‘Tsuite koi!’Follow me!commandedthe black warrior and I ran along-side him with my bloodied knees, Hatori clinging to my sleeve. I looked to the skies that cried and my brother begged for water. He opened his mouth but the black warrior forced it closed. ‘Yamero!’Don’t! ‘Nazega?Doushite?’Why? I begged my saviour. The black rain continued to fall, droplets of the night. I would give my brother anything - I was his mother now. The screams of distorted figures writhed about us as we ran; many strange shapes floated along the river as people fell into it, drinking greedily and desperately. ‘Nondarashinu!Wakaruka?’You drink. You die. Do you understand?The strange shapes were bodies of the fallen. I stopped to be sick, losing water – precious water – to the black rain. The warrior waited for me; he stood tall amongst the broken, inhuman with his crow coloured skin and gleaming armour. That was it – he was the raven Yatagarasu who lived in the centre of the sun. He had fallen to earth with the light’s descent. ‘Anatawa…nani? Dare?’What are you? Who are you? ‘Kuroi-ame o nomuna!’ cried the black warrior and continued to run. But I did not hear these words – do not drink the black rain. I heard his name, the name of the black warrior, the crow from the centre of the sun. Kurogane o namei… Kurogane – Black Iron.A tenshi-spirit with his sleek armour and stained face, carrying my brother to safety. My geta broke and I kicked them off, my feet patting like the rain against the baked ground, dry and slick with blood. But I ran with a warrior at my side – Kurogane. Our saviour Kurogane, who would bring the night to a close, who would let darkness heal and earth mend. We would not die this day with him at our sides. ‘Namaiwa?’Kurogane called to me, ‘Oi – kikoenainoka? Namaiwa? Oi – Gaki, daijoubuka?’Your name? Hey – can you hear me? What’s your name? Hey – kid, you alright?

‘Kureha Amaya, watashiwa Kureha Amaya to iimasu – sorewawatashi no otouto – Hatori.’Amaya Kureha – I am Amaya Kureha - this is my brother, Hatori. My voice was tight; my brother’s tears left trails down his blackened face. My warrior winced as screams escaped a household we passed, flames rising into the starless sky. I stopped to stare at the hopeless nightmare but Kurogane struck me with his shoulder, his arms wrapped about my brother. ‘Ikou!’Let’s go!he shouted but I lingered as another desperate cry pierced the sky. She sounded like my sister Yukiko, though onee-san had left three years ago. ‘Ikou!’Kurogane repeated. ‘Demo…’But… I whispered and he struck me with his shoulder again. ‘Mo – shinda!’They’re already dead. I ran then, ran with the shapeless figures, bones and blood, faces ashen and burnt like the heavens, as if Amaterasu had hidden herself away and forsaken the world. The sun had plunged to earth. The sun was dead. ‘Onee-chan!Onee-chan!’Hatori suddenly screamed. ‘Shinitakunai!Shinitakunai!’Sist er! Sister! I don’t want to die! ‘Shikarishirou!’commanded Kurogane. Hold on! ‘Nodogakawaita,’I’m thirsty, begged Hatori, and his hands, throat and shoulders were sticky with blood and burns. ‘Onee-san…Onegai…Mizu…Mizu o…’Sister, please… Water.He opened his mouth again to the black rain and took it onto his tongue. Black iron dribbled down his throat. ‘Yamete! Dame da! Yamerou! Abunai!’Stop it! It’s dangerous! ‘Watashi nomusume!Dareka – onegai! Dareka, watashi no museme o tasukete!Onegai! Isha da! Isha! Onegai!’ A woman crouched in the street, cradling the corpse of her daughter before us. My daughter! Somebody, please! A Doctor! A Doctor! Please! ‘Okaa-san!’Hatori wept. ‘Okaa-san!’Mother! Kuregane looked at me, in my torn kimono with my bare feet. I could not face his truthful eyes as I spoke. ‘Okaa-san wa…inai.’My mother is… not here. ‘Shinda?’Dead? ‘Shinda,’ I responded. I was stoic. I think perhaps I was already dead. Hatori howled and I wanted to cover my ears and allow the world to fade away. My mouth tasted of ash. I was so thirsty. My feet and ankles burned. I ran until Kurogane permitted me to walk, then I stumbled for miles along a cursed pilgrimage from the land of the sun. Along the road to hell. The doctors could do nothing. Kurogane placed Hatori down and they covered his burns with pickled plums and gave him water. I lay at his side and when my brother cried, I told him Kurogane was watching over us – that we had the blessing of the gods. My brother coughed, and blood spread on the tatami. I wiped his mouth and knelt patiently at his side for him to rise and be well again. The room was silent with groans and cries for help. The eerie whispers lulled Hatori into a sweet sleep, and I sat and listened to the rasped voices, trying to recognise them in my empty state. Sometimes it was as if I had reached the underworld, somewhere between sleep and consciousness. The Sky and the Sea.Outside the black rain stopped, but inside my soul it poured. Kuroi-ame.Kuroi-ame. Weren’t we the same? Amaya is the Night Rain. It was my soul that fell in twilight pieces that day. Days passed. Hatori rose and I understood that the Americans had dropped a bomb on us. The war was over for Nihon; our god had stepped down and revealed himself to be human. Still, Kurogane, whose black face had since disappeared from my side, somehow kept close. I saw him in the man who gave us food and water, in the doctor who eased my brother’s pain, in the men who brought news and carried more survivors

to safety. I whispered Kurogane’s tales to my brother so that he wouldn’t ask where our mother was. Hatori already seemed to know. ‘Kurogane to, bokutachiniishounikaeruka?Uchi ni, sugu, kairu ka? We’ll return withKurogane, won’t we? We’ll return home soon? ‘Hai.’Yes, I lied. We had no home. The next day I went outside for the first time in almost a fortnight. I was surprised to find the sun in the sky, blinking innocently and I wondered if Kurogane had once more returned to his fiery throne. I saw the black spot in its centre, but not even the bright flare would make my eyes water. The Yatagarasu appeared when the gods intervened in human affairs. When Amaterasu flew down from the heavens, she must have seen my mother’s sacrifice and willed for us, her children to be saved. My brother began to lose his hair. I chided with him that it was the Kami-kiri-mushi that was eating it - a little yokai insect - but as his fever worsened he did not understand my words. His nose bled violently and I wiped it away. When he vomited, I mopped it up and watched the doctors move around him. He had been healthy. He had been getting better. I continued to whispers the wonders of Kurogane, who would protect us, who had come down from heaven to save us, into his ear. Little purple spots plagued my brother’s white skin. Then, when evening fell, writhing and choking he vomited red lumps of tissue three times and lay still at last. I cleaned his mouth and face and left, walking back in the moonlight to my home. I followed the footsteps of my childhood, followed the pull of my heart and found my household in the rubble of destruction. I stood and gazed at it and when I could move I pushed through the broken remains and on my hands and knees, with my fingers, I dug. I dug as if to reach the underworld. I dug where I heard my mother’s voice last, as she told me to flee, to leave without her. Okaa-san. I left. I ran. Though I should have burnt with you, I ran. I dug until my fingernails were bloody, until there were splinters in my palms and I clutched at the bones I found and held them loosely in my lap. See Okaa-san – see how soothing the night is now, how cool the breeze blows and the air shifts. As if nothing had changed. As if the world breathed yet. Kurogane stared down at me, knelt with these bones, his marble eyes upon me, his wings vast and wide. ‘Nazeda…?’Why? I asked without thinking. ‘Doushite…Nazeda? Watashi no kazoku, watashi no tomodachi, watashi no otoutowa – doushite? My family, my friends, my brother are – why?’I put my hand to my mouth; it smelt of blood, earth and iron. My mother was dead. Doushiyou…’What should I do? ‘Tatte.’Stand, he instructed me. ‘Korekaramozuttomagarikunettamichiwotadotte.’Co ntinue down your winding road to your fate. ‘Douyatte?’How? I asked. ‘Watashi no Okaa-san wamoushinda! Hatoriwa…Hatori… ’My mother is dead.Hatori…Hatori is… I felt at last the black rain within me fi ll my heart, and it emerged from my eyes, clear from the darkness it had left behind. ‘Watashiwa…Nanimodekimasen.’I couldn’t do anything. The bomb had burnt away my house and burnt away my mother, leaving only her charred bones. What could I have done to stop that? I looked up to the silent night then, clear skies above my head. I looked up to the powerless stars and realised there was no Yatagarasu looking down upon me. There was no Samurai-spirit or a dark faced oni who could shelter me beneath his wings. I looked up and realised there was no Kurogane. There was only the Kuroi-ame. There was only the black rain.

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For further information on Vortex contact: Neil McCaw Faculty of Arts University of Winchester neil.mccaw@winchester.ac.uk

vortex 2012 Edition