Vortex UoW 2024

Vortex

New poetry and prose from Creative Writing students at the University of Winchester 2024

Editorial copyright © University of Winchester

Individual copyright © as credited

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission from the rights holders.

Editor: Rebecca Ward

Assistant editors: Lydia Gallagher, Charlotte Lee, Gurjeevan Sohal

Project Lead: Judith Heneghan

Design: Jamie McGarry (Valley Press)

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Imprint Digital, Upton Pyne, Exeter.

Foreword  Rebecca Ward 5

Mantis  Lewis Leverett 7

Queen of Wessex  Harriet Back 8

Princeling  Georgiana Lopata 14

Naughty Step  Emma Matthews 17

The Lost Episodes  Lewis Leverett 18

Deer  Lucy Mowat 21

Bones Under the Hills  Martin White 26

Baked In  Emma Matthews 28

Growing  Phoebe Trueman 29

The Beginning Times  Lauren Martin 36

A Light That Never Goes Out  Katherine Cridland 39

Seven Beers  Mina-Marie E. Lie 41

(Cave)man Eats His Dinner  Evie Boreham 42

Spring Cleaning  Eva Yuille 43

Holidays in Ukraine  Rose Heyland 44 5, 4, 3, 2…  Casey Brown 47

Please note: Vortex 2024 contains material that some readers may find distressing. While all the pieces are open to individual interpretation, some of the content you may come across includes:

• Implications of sexual assault

• Portrayals of mental illnesses including PTSD, anxiety, depression, and panic attacks

• Mention of Nazis, bombing, war, guns, and hunting

• Medical trauma including miscarriages and memory loss

Foreword

Welcome to Vortex 2024, the literary magazine of the University of Winchester’s Creative Writing programmes. This year’s edition celebrates the poetry and prose of yet another amazingly talented cohort of writers, featuring work from students at every stage of their university careers. In the words of Vanessa Harbour, BA Programme Leader: ‘It is always wonderful to celebrate the publication of Vortex and this year is no exception. The content highlights the breadth and brilliance of our students across our BA and MA programmes.’

Editing Vortex has been one of the highlights of my time at university, and I’m incredibly grateful to my lecturers for the opportunity to take on this role. Working with the Assistant Editors – Lydia Gallagher, Charlotte Lee, and Gurjeevan Sohal – and benefitting from the expertise of Judith Heneghan has been such a joyful experience. The team contributed so much, and I couldn’t have asked for more supportive partners. As Judith notes, ‘selecting and editing the work of your peers requires an attentive, curious eye, tact, and of course an abiding enthusiasm for the written word. Editor Rebecca Ward and the team of assistant editors have produced a glorious new edition; it has been a pleasure to watch this year’s Vortex come together in such capable hands.’ Her support throughout the creation of Vortex 2024 has been invaluable.

We were delighted to receive almost seventy submissions this year, and it was a privilege to read such a variety of work. We spent many hours deliberating, wanting to ensure that each piece stood strongly on its own as well as creating a cohesive collection. Thank you to all who submitted, and congratulations to those whose pieces are in the pages that follow. Some are humorous, some melancholy, and some thoughtprovoking, but all left us with a lasting impression long after reading. Enjoy!

Rebecca Ward Editor of Vortex

2024

Mantis

Lewis Leverett

Hang on are you telling me

I don’t get paid for this?

While I sit here at my desk bowed like a writer’s back from the endless weight of my bony wrists

Crafting metaphors comparing this to that Pontificating over

lineation for at least five minutes per poem which in total take an hour each

Sometimes less (This one took a quarter)

And I introduce mighty topics Like a newsreader

No true penetration

Only innuendo

Sure

Fair enough

I don’t get paid for this.

(I’ve started working out I still look like a praying mantis.)

Queen of Wessex

Harriet Back

Mon cher Père,

I will not embellish the truth or encourage the fabrication of falsehoods that have befallen me. My sixteenth year has brought me such sorrow, but the Lord, if it pleases him, will end my suffering and rescue my poor soul from this.

I am innocent of any wrongdoing.

I am pure of any incestuous acts.

I am virtuous and worthy of my freedom.

I know you to be a just and honest King, and father, and I hope that you will see the truth and assist me in returning to you. To my home.

Your loyal daughter and faithful servant of Flanders, Judith

The weight of my words felt inconceivably heavy, and a piece of me wanted to destroy the parchment. Or perhaps conceal it in my jewellery box, to nestle between my quartz and emeralds forever. It could remain there, abandoned and irretrievable, like King Arthur’s sword stuck in a stone prison.

But the thought of another second in this purgatory encouraged me to stand. Father will read my words and bring me home to Flanders. To Francia.

Mustering my courage, I slipped out of my warm bedchamber and headed to the recently fortified stone wall that encompassed the King’s royal estate of Chippenham.

My plan was to use the cover of dawn to my advantage, but the hallways were unusually busy. Residents bustled away from the courtyard, sleep washed from their eyes, despite the early hour. Forced to walk slowly, I smiled at the oncoming parade of people, putting on a facade to avoid unwanted questions.

The letter had to be sent in secret, for too much of my soul was etched into every sentence.

Reaching the emptied courtyard, I became aware of the gentle

birdsong that danced on the winter winds. Wrapping my cloak tightly around my body, I vigilantly scanned the desolate hall. The archways, coupled with the angled sunbeams shooting through the courtyard, created looming silhouettes.

‘Danger lurks in darkness, even in a safe location, ma fille,’ Father once said.

This place, with its sin and gossip and threats, was anything but a ‘safe location’. Traitors hid around every corner. Any thane, or lord, or ealdorman might have been concealing treacherous ideals.

I had limited allies.

Yet there was one I could trust with my words. A sworn protector of the House of Wessex.

Thane Cuthberht stood guard by the North Gate, defending us against shadow-dwelling devils. A few years my senior, Cuthberht had fought in many battles recently. The Viking attacks seemed relentless and never-ending. His father died protecting this land and Cuthberht became firmly entrenched in the fight, seeking vengeance. His loyalty was soaked into the soil, along with his father’s blood.

He often helped me pass my boring days by demonstrating sword tricks. He swung it around as if it were weightless. In the summer, when the court had been stationed in Winchester, the light would glint off the blade, causing him to squint his grey eyes. As his face scrunched, it revealed an otherwise hidden scar. The only imperfection I could find. At the finale, he bowed deeply and dramatically – his lips curling in a proud smile as I applauded.

Despite his West Saxon heritage, his valour and bravery brought to mind the warriors my grand-père would speak of during extravagant feasts. Similar reenactments would take place, a cup of wine sloshing in one hand, and a hunk of meat, in place of a sword, in the other.

Memories of raucous laughter and delicious food by the fire made this December day feel even more chilled and lonely.

Day broke as I approached the surrounding wall. As I began up the stairs, a short, rotund man hurried passed me, followed by another taller gentleman. Clasping my hands, the letter enclosed safely within, I hid it from their potentially prying eyes.

There was an expectation that I, as a member of Wessex’s Royal family, be regal and ladylike. To avoid exposing my mission, I feigned

confidence and focused on my demeanour: careful, measured steps on the ball of my foot; back straight; head high. But despite my best efforts, my cheeks flushed with excitement and my hair danced wildly in the wind. I made a futile attempt to tame the stray wisps, but to no avail. Neither man even blinked in my direction.

Once at the top, my eyes searched, darting from each merlon, falling on the parapet above the North Gate. No one. Neither Cuthberht, nor a replacement. Cuthberht abandoning his post was an unlikely possibility.

Unless something more urgent needed his attention.

Something like the sight of an imminent heathen raid. I scoured the landscape over Chippenham to the River Avon but couldn’t see anything out of sorts.

But the fleeing residents in the hallway, the desolate courtyard, the hurried men.

Flashes of memories played in my mind: memories of pagan slaughterers who had plundered and pillaged Winchester months earlier. The smoke that had risen as the city burned. The screams. The wounded who had returned. The dead that had not.

Swaying and rocking on my heels, my vision blurred. Air blocked my throat and I gasped, clawing at the high collar of my dress. I was drowning, suffocating. Focusing my vision on the wooden door beside me, my breath finally freed. It returned with vengeance.

Inhale after inhale.

Simultaneously, my legs regained motion and I raced back down to the courtyard. Any attempts to be ‘regal’ forgotten, my body hunched over as I clutched my stomach, feeling vomit threatening to rise and escape.

An internal scream crept up, but I swallowed it down.

Retreating into the very archways that had frightened me before, I now utilised the shadows. The coolness of the stone calmed me. Tracing my fingers along the dimples, I stabilised my breath. The walls embraced me. Grounded me.

My eyes dried. My heart steadied. My cheeks flushed once again. My thoughts rested. Bang.

The small wooden door of the chapel swung open, hitting the wall

me. A couple of boys, freed from their early Mass, clattered out. Both were children of the court and dressed accordingly, like little adults. One, no more than six years old, pulled at the other’s coat sleeves.

‘I challenge you to a battle,’ he said, striking a dramatic pose.

The boy who had been challenged, along with a third boy who joined the fray, returned the pose. Holding up their imaginary swords, they swung, arms flying and voices screaming.

Behind them, Edith emerged, beads of sweat collecting, hands reaching for the cheeky threesome. Her large frame blocked my view initially but now sweet Alfred, my young brother-in-law, stepped into view.

Falling behind, with a wooden sword in his hand, he reminded me of a miniature Cuthberht. His face, serious; his brows, frowning; his jaw, clenched. He wasn’t playing. He was practising.

There was no doubt that he’d fight bravely one day, beside his older brothers, his name listed below the greats. For now, however, he provided no protection. At eleven years old, he was just a babe.

‘Edith, bring me Thane Cuthberht,’ I ordered, trying to hide my anxiety. ‘Or Ealdorman Osric.’ A crack in my voice failed me.

’I have my hands rather full at the moment, dear.’

I winced. The casual, informal tone of her words always found a way to niggle at my insecurities. I was continually being undermined.

Sixteen may be a juvenile in her eyes but I am royalty.

‘I do not recall asking. That is an order, Edith,’ I warned, as she nodded absentmindedly, not heeding my advice. ‘Edith.’

The stern, sharp sound of my voice made her eyes snap up, and finally meet mine. She curtsied, wide and low.

‘As you wish, my queen.’

After five long minutes, the familiar sound of metal on metal clattered loudly across the courtyard. Thane Cuthberht timidly trudged toward me. A screech rose from his armour as he knelt at my feet.

My teeth clenched and I forced myself to bite my tongue. I had to give him a chance to explain. As he rose, he refused to meet my eye.

‘Speak.’

‘My queen, we received… news. A messenger. I think it may be best if…’

‘I decide what is best in the absence of my lord, the King.’

‘That is just it, my queen.’ He was mumbling, fumbling. Across the courtyard, I heard a high-pitched scream. Cuthberht instinctively reached for his sword and glared in the direction of the noise, his eyes alert to danger. His shoulders relaxed as he found its source. I turned to watch as Edith dramatically fell to her knees.

He was as frightened as I. We were playing a game of who would reveal their fear first, and he had lost.

‘Be clear. Speak your mind,’ I insisted, as his mouth opened and closed, like a cod gulping at the air after being caught.

Fear was unbecoming. The respect that had engulfed my vision of him washed away and I saw the real Cuthberht. He was just a boy. A West Saxon noble boy. No better than any other.

It disgusted me that I ever allowed myself to expect more from him.

Fortunately, Cuthberht and I were saved from our insufferably unhelpful conversation by Ealdorman Osric. He bowed deeply.

‘I am sorry for your loss, and the loss for Wessex, my dowager queen.’

Æthelbald, King of Wessex for all of eighteen months, had died in nearby Sherborne – less than a day’s march from Chippenham. He was just twenty. The birdsong I’d heard earlier would not pierce his ears. His dry lips would never again snarl at me with disgust. His eyes would no longer bore into my breasts, like a hunting hound staring at a pheasant that was just out of reach.

An illness had pillaged my lord’s body, rampaging through his organs until he was bedbound. According to details passed to me by Osric, he’d passed into God’s hands in his slumber yesterday afternoon.

‘No pain was felt,’ he attempted to assure me.

I wondered how true this was. He was likely writhing and squirming.

I hope so.

Guilt racked my heart, for no grief came for my late husband. Husband. A loose and inaccurate term for the deceased man who had caused me such pain. He was never a husband. Not in fondness, or in intimacy. Not even by law. Weeks ago, the marriage had been

annulled, in the name of our Lord and Saviour, on the grounds of consanguinity. Incest.

I was the widow of his father.

I admit that I’d detested his father at first. The sixty-one-year-old man had seemed far too old to me, being just twelve, and I hadn’t realised the marriage was purely political. But I learned to tolerate the aged man, for he was sweet and soft. Love for his late wife, the mother to his children, hung in the air and he treated me as more of a daughter. He taught me peculiar Saxon traditions, schooled me in his language, aided me in intricacies of court. When he died, I delayed my return to Francia to say goodbye and to grieve for one month.

I paused long enough for his son to cage me and clip my wings.

While King Æthelwulf had been gentle and kind, his son was violent and manipulative. Through my own wits I kept him at bay, insisting that he kept concubines rather than welcoming me into the marriage bed.

The day Æthelbald claimed me as his was the day my soul was damned.

I vowed to not make the same mistake again. Æthelwulf had more sons. More sons who might want a marriage alliance with Francia. God had offered me an olive branch, and I needed to grab it with both hands.

For now, both kings were dead and I was twice Dowager Queen.

Princeling

Georgiana Lopata

The Princeling could hear the voices cackling and gossiping about him all the way into his private chambers. He wrinkled his nose. Really, they had to stop calling him that. It was only two moons until he would be able to take on the throne – with counsel – if the situation called for it. If he was fit for the throne, he was certainly fit for a dinner party.

The King had demanded he lock himself in the private wing of the castle, royally ordering bedtime! when his son devolved from pleading to stomping his shiny leather boots and squaring his chainmail-clad shoulders. The stone steps took a rough, loud beating as he ascended, and the old wooden door would have as well, had there not been guards positioned strategically on either side of it. He had to peel off his beloved armour, spewing hatred with every piece he threw on the desk, and don his cotton sleepshirt which had been prepared and laid out on the side of his bed. He did not draw back the covers, then, choosing to wear down the poor floors instead.

Just how did Father expect him to sleep through all this racket? No, surely Father hadn’t been serious. And besides, it was unfair to keep the object of the evening’s most ardent conversation hidden behind barred doors. As soon-to-be Crown Prince, he had made his decision.

He glanced in the mirror, admired his golden hair and well-bred smile, swept his royal fringe across his forehead, and headed for the door. Truthfully, the King should be proud to show off such a handsome son. He was smart, too, and a master with the sword and mace. It was only right that the Kingdom’s subjects were gifted the privilege of his presence, once in a while.

The one thing he hadn’t accounted for were the guards still posted outside. But he was bright, wasn’t he? He’d just established that. So, he grinned and proclaimed he was going to the kitchens to fetch himself some dinner – the honey-roasted pork, and a couple of berry tarts. He was such a charitable soul, really, not bothering the servants who already had so much work to do at the feast. He would be quick, yes, straight to the kitchens.

The problem was, he’d never stepped foot in the kitchens before, except that one time when he was still a babe, poking his nose in to trail the scent of Cook’s apple crumble, only to have it crushed between Cook’s floury fingers. He also didn’t expect the kitchens to be empty. Yes, dinner must have been served by now, and the servants running about with jugs sloshing with wine, but was Cook allowed to retire early? Or, God forbid, had Father invited her to the feast?

Nevertheless, he found himself alone, amidst heaps of roasted potatoes, smoked meats, steamed vegetables, and mountains of sweet berry tarts. Piles of hay by the stables, or sacks of coins in the treasury he knew, but never this, and it suddenly seemed to him the rarest thing in the world.

The bothersome laughter didn’t even tickle his ears now, when he could snatch a tart and shove it in his mouth, oblivious to the powdered sugar dusting his expensive shirt. Not when he could rest his fingers, one by one, into the flour covering the worktop, and drag them in loops and swirls, all the way to the other end. Not when that led him to the cupboards, brimming with jars of varying sizes, and he knew what they contained. Jam. His hand shot out to the top shelf. He just knew that one was the strawberry. But he had to make sure, didn’t he? He twisted the lid open with a pop! and scooped with two fingers. This must be what the heavens tasted like. But, in his excitement, he couldn’t restrain his trembling, and soon the jar plummeted to the ground, and the jam was no more. Rather, it was spreading all over Cook’s floors, and he would be no more. Mournfully, he bid adieu to the jam, swallowed another tart, and headed for his chambers.

Sprinting by the servants’ quarters, his shoes let out a squeak on the freshly waxed floors, and he cringed. In less than a second, Cook’s head appeared from behind a pillar. She towered over him, broad shoulders and thick arms from years of kneading sourdough, and blunt eyebrows and a downturned mouth from years of scowling at him. How could this sour woman create the sweetest tarts in the Kingdom?

‘Shouldn’t you be in bed, young sire?’ Her voice was hoarse and wicked, and her steps were low thuds as she approached him.

Many times before, he had cowered before her. He would wilt under her scrutiny, do as he was told, and let the anger simmer in his chest as he swept up his messes or returned to his studies, fearful that she

would summon Father. But he’d done nothing wrong, had he? He could still taste the tartness on his tongue, feel the soft powder on the tips of his fingers, and he could find nothing in his heart but joy. There was no seed of guilt to sprout. And, really, she wasn’t that intimidating. In fact, what could be more imposing than the very Crown Prince?

So, he straightened his back and raised his chin, and the corner of his mouth quirked up as he stared into Cook’s eyes.

‘Right you are, Cook,’ said the Princeling, patting her on the arm, where he could reach. ‘And you should be in the kitchens.’

He darted out of the way of Cook’s claws when she grabbed for his wrist. He laughed instead of apologising and left without excusing himself. He didn’t even look back to see her face go red – as it must have – at his escape. He simply did not care much for it.

The guards said nothing, only smirked when they saw him. It took standing back in front of the mirror to discover why. His shirt was covered with flour, stark white against his usual dull red, and his mouth was smeared with jam. He wiped at his lips until the evidence was gone, then threw himself onto the bed, boots and all, laying a satisfied hand on his stomach and grinning at the ceiling.

Then he remembered the dinner party.

Well, it wasn’t all that bad – he still had two moons before he took on any official duties. And the Princeling couldn’t very well be seen with strawberry seeds in his teeth.

Naughty Step

Emma Matthews

I have heard of a naughty step that punishes the ears of shifting weight and aches the knees of a heavy conscience

Naughty Step welcomes me another prisoner to the scent of family dinner they were wrong about Naughty Step

he lets me curl up on his lap purring above the desperate calls for me at the table

The Lost Episodes

Lewis Leverett

Neil was doing what he always did when Clive was away: something he called ‘Wikipedia Rabbithole-ing’. This evening’s burrowing – which took place on a laptop on a small, plastic table that wobbled when he typed, at the centre of a small, humming kitchen – began as a look through the biography of his favourite Doctor, William Hartnell. He could quote the page almost word-for-word, something Clive hadn’t found as impressive as Neil had hoped.

Neil was bald, large, and his friends called him loud, though he hadn’t spoken for hours. He ate from an oversized biscuit tin, wore t-shirts and jeans and didn’t care about shoes. His shirts always bore an image and a quote from TV or film: today, ‘Laugh hard, run fast, be kind’ and a picture of Peter Capaldi.

He had clicked through from William Hartnell to the Lost Episodes. See, between 1967 and 1978, the BBC wiped most of its old tapes to make room for new recordings (it’s more complex than this – ask Neil). This meant old episodes of many programmes – Dad’s Army, Z-Cars and others Neil didn’t care about – were lost, including Doctor Who. These lost episodes of black-and-white sixties sci-fi fascinated him. Neil was convinced that, hiding somewhere, in someone’s dusty loft, there was an old tape of one or two or maybe several of these lost episodes. For years, lost episodes were found scattered around the globe, but these findings slowed and slowed until, some years ago, they halted altogether. Some episodes seemed destined to remain unwatched. Of course, as discussed, Neil didn’t think so pessimistically. Eventually, his hypnotised clicking led him out of Wikipedia and into Twitter, Reddit, and spaceInvader67’s blog. It was the last of these which pulled him so close to the laptop that his nose smudged the screen.

spaceInvader67 wrote in 2004 of a man called Gregory who lived in the Australian Outback and claimed to have tapes of twelve Hartnell episodes in his basement but refused to prove it. When Neil read this, he had an idea.

‘No, ridiculous!’ he said aloud. He paused. No. But, then again, he had finished the biscuits.

It was only when he had stepped off the bus and seen that not one of the townspeople was wearing one that he’d suddenly considered the cork hat a ridiculous purchase. Still, it was too late now – a thousand pounds, thirty-something hours and ninety-something emails too late – so he kept the hat on and began the seven-hour walk to Gregory’s house.

Two hours into his walk, he realised that there was no phone data, no signal, beyond the outskirts of Alice Springs.

So, he walked a half-hour back until he found a local who pointed him in the right direction.

Three hours later, deep in the desert, he found another local who drew directions on some kitchen roll.

Six more hours and he found Gregory’s house. As it turned out, Gregory was dead. Additionally, Gregory appeared to have lived on his own, and had owned a house that none of his relatives wanted to inherit and no one else wanted to buy. In short, Gregory’s house in the middle of nowhere was falling down. Neil knocked, just to be sure. No one answered. But he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in hours and there was sweat coming out of his nose, so he walked round the side to a wall that had fallen down and entered anyway.

The debris blocking the basement door spat splinters at his hands as he pulled it away, and he felt something bite his ankle, though he saw nothing when he looked.

Down the stairs he went.

Down past the watching spiders.

Down past the mould and the missing wooden step.

Down to the end of the dark and foetid room where something rusty glistened. Something blue-grey, something discoid. Something that read ‘DR WHO: THE DALEKS’ MASTER PLAN: EP 6.’

A few days later, Neil had avoided death and found himself back at the plastic table. He had a DVD player plugged into his laptop.

He placed into it, with utmost care, the disc the BBC had made for him when he’d handed in the tape.

Next to him sat Clive, who didn’t care for Doctor Who, and who was too alarmed by Neil’s wild eyes and ravaged cork hat to be paying any attention to the screen.

The episode played. Twenty-four minutes and forty-five seconds of black-and-white Doctor Who, never seen before. Neil didn’t relinquish his stare for a moment.

At last, Clive put a hand on his leg.

‘Was it good?’

Neil turned and smiled a ridiculous, toothy smile.

‘No. It was terrible! Absolutely terrible!’

He showed, somehow, even more of his teeth, and laughed for an hour.

Deer

Lucy Mowat

A red-yellow haze hung in the air that evening, coloured by the bleeding sun. The heat lifted the dust from the dirt; there was no breeze for it to catch, so it simply stayed there, suspended in the air. Particles drifted past me as I perched on a rock and watched the evening light die.

He was wading in the river, half-dressed. His trousers were rolled to his knees but still brushed the water as it swelled around the movement of his legs. The subtle sound of the river was broken up by the irregular splashing of his footsteps. Despite the heat of the day, the water had run from the mountains and carried a chill. Even here, a few feet from the water’s edge, I could feel it. I watched the goosebumps bristle along his bare arms as he dipped his hands into the current.

My vantage point allowed me a clear view as he went about washing his hands. I admired the curve of his spine as it shifted under his skin, the dew of his sweat glistening in the light. His vertebrae stretched like a snake as he leant down, splashing the icy water up to his elbows. I could recall every mole, every mark, as if it were mine. His form was a welcome distraction as I tried to ignore how the water that dripped from his fingertips turned the river red.

Though I knew it wasn’t his blood, I still felt a pang of fear radiate through my chest at the sight of it. I’ll never let anyone hurt you, I thought to myself, my nails grinding against rock. I promise.

When he was finally done, he drifted back to the riverbank. His face was stoic but warm, bronzed by days in the sunshine. Everything about him was so perfect that it washed all the dark thoughts away, like blood into the water.

The sun finally admitted defeat, sinking behind the horizon. Kindling and logs sat in an organised heap in the centre of our makeshift campsite, a few feet from the opening of the tent. A day’s worth of intense heat had baked the ground, but the air itself was cold. I felt

I wasn’t much use with getting the fire started, so I placed myself in the tent and bundled up under the blankets, peering at him from my cocoon. He had thrown on a clean jumper – his old one was screwed up in a plastic bag at the back of the tent – and had the sleeves rolled up, his forearms exposed. He pulled a matchbox from his jeans pocket and rifled through it to find an unused match. With sharp movements, he dragged it across the striking strip, producing an audible noise and a miniature shower of sparks. I tried not to connect his motions with another image of him in my mind; an image of flesh, skin peeling from the body, against the sharp edge of a hunting knife.

After a few more tries, the match ignited. He slid the flame into the pit and let it rest there, licking at the dry autumn leaves. As he approached the tent, I watched his eyes move from the floor to me, fascinated by them as they roved over my blanket-swaddled body. His expression was stony at the best of times and today was no exception. Even as he crouched down beside me and brought his hand up to my cheek, there was nothing warm about the thin line of his mouth and the glazed-over look in his eyes. I closed my eyes and embraced the warmth of his skin instead, sighing against his firework touch.

I sat beside him, huddled in the entrance of the pop-up tent, watching the fire burn down to embers. His shoulder was the perfect perch on which to rest my head and catch the remnants of glowing heat. I curled up as close as I could get to him, avoiding the butt of the rifle that sat across his lap.

The forest teemed with nightlife: above the noise of the rushing river, I could hear the snapping and rustling of creatures traversing through the trees. The gentle wind passing through made the trunks creak and groan in time with the rise and fall of my chest. From the shadows of the canopy, a pair of eyes were fixated on the smouldering charcoal. Around these parts, it was almost certainly a white-tailed deer, though I couldn’t tell if it was a stag or doe. Its eyes reflected back what little light they received: two tiny beacons in the tangible dark of the wilderness.

‘Deer,’ I said.

He was looking in that direction, more or less, but it took a moment for him to react. He moved slightly, shifting his whole posture forward, jostling my head from its rest. His hands moved from toying with a loose thread in his collar to clasp the rifle. I gnawed my lip, looking from his face to his white knuckles and back again. When I reached out for his shoulder, he flinched at my touch.

‘It’s just a deer.’

He blinked at me slowly.

‘I don’t know how you can be so calm at a time like this,’ he said, leaning back into position.

His hands lingered on the rifle for a while longer before he relented. As soon as I saw his grip go slack, I pushed the rifle aside and lay my head in his lap, staring up at him. He looked down at me, his eyes glowing; I saw the deer’s panic in his widened pupils, lit by the dying fire.

I was too restless to sleep. Our ground sheet did its job, but as I moved I could still feel the irregularities of the dry, cracked dirt beneath me, the occasional loose stone. One hand, free from my sleeping bag, roamed over the polyester until my fingers were numb and cold.

Breathe in, breathe out, I instructed myself, then, fall asleep. Simple.

But it wasn’t simple. Nothing was simple anymore. I saw everything in duality, hid things away in the back of my mind, tried not to see clearly. My brain, like my fingers, had lost all sensation.

I rolled myself over one last time to face his back. He was a good foot away from me in the sizable tent. I couldn’t help myself but inch closer, wriggling like an undignified larva, making no attempt to soften the rustling of my sleeping bag. Only the bottom half of his body was covered, leaving his torso exposed to the cold. The muscles of his shoulders were taut even in his sleep. It was so dark, but I could still see his outline, silhouetted by the moonlight. Slipping out of my sleeping bag I emerged, a graceless mockery of a butterfly, into the icy tent. Behind him I found a position to lie in, twisting my body to match his rigid shape. Shivering in the frozen air, I latched onto the faint warmth that radiated from him.

He didn’t flinch this time. It was like he couldn’t feel me there, tucked into the empty space behind him. I pressed my frozen fingertips into the soft flesh of his hips: no reaction. I swung my leg over and climbed boldly into his sleeping bag, slipping into the fabric and entwining myself with him. I watched as his chest heaved with the weight of a heavy sigh, but still nothing. I wanted to climb out of my skin, too, to remove that separation between him and me.

I knew even that wouldn’t be enough. *

I couldn’t remember falling asleep. In the morning, I found myself in his sleeping bag, alone.

The sun had risen and was hot once again. It had turned the atmosphere in the tent thick and buttery, heavy with vapour. As I lay there, feeling his absence, I considered allowing myself to bake alive. Ruminating on it, I decided I had other things to do before that. My instinct was to reach for his jumper which was still in the far corner. I grabbed the bag and untied the handles, and the scent of something raw and metallic freed itself, clinging to the inside of my nostrils and creeping to the back of my throat. I saw the bloodied mass and felt the vomit rise. Moments later, doubled over, I grabbed a fistful of the tent and cursed myself.

I recovered slowly, sitting by the riverbank and dipping my feet into the current. My legs turned pale as the cold water slowed my blood flow. In my ears, I could hear the thudding of my heartbeat, a river coursing through my veins. It was a dizzying contrast: the frigid water and the broiling sun fighting over my body. Part of me hoped I would get sick. Another part hoped I would die. Both of them craved his apology.

It was the temperature change that caught my attention first. A little sensation crept back into my toes as the water warmed. Then it was the smell, the same tang of iron that had soaked his jumper. At that point, I didn’t even need to look down to confirm my fears. The water around my feet had turned red. *

I made my way towards the forest, following the river’s winding bank. Pine needles clung to my still-damp feet; shoes hadn’t been at the forefront of my mind as I’d set off looking for the source of the blood. The canopy grew denser, individual fir trees congregating until their branches began to blot out the sun. The light fell in drips over the forest floor. All the while, the river never stopped. It raced along beside me, charging back the way I had come. Deeper into the forest, the river morphed and changed shape, grew narrower in spots where the trees’ roots sprouted, and widened out in others. At some points it even grew broad enough to form sandy borders, miniature beaches littered with forest debris.

And that’s where I saw the body.

The moment my eyes landed on it, I felt my heart give out. I scrambled forwards without hesitation. My feet slipped over damp foliage, then stung as I plunged them once again into the icy river and made my way towards the opposing bank. As I got closer, I could see the subtle rise and fall of breath, the movement of ribs beneath the skin. A bullet hole, from which a spring of red filtered over the sand and into the water, stuck out against the white of his t-shirt. Something in my mind clicked.

He began to writhe in panic, like an animal caught in a trap. The cold water and the wound had rendered him lame, and no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t seem to lift himself from the ground. When I reached him, I fell to my knees in the river. He tried to speak, but all that emerged was a cough and a spray of blood. I put my fingers to my lips and shushed him.

His struggle became more futile and weaker. As his body became still, I placed my hand on him, feeling for the vibration of an animal fighting to stay alive. He was so cold. As I lay my head on his chest, I realised I was crying. I looked into his eyes and saw the glazed-eyed panic of a deer.

‘I’m so sorry. I broke my promise.’

Bones Under the Hills

Martin White

A single poppy looks over the town, nodding to the Mediterranean breeze which carries scents of wild garlic, rosemary, and red wine with its warmth. You can taste the sea salt on your lips, hear the low waves sucking in the sand and rolling out again.

Idyllic.

The mound upon which this lone red poppy watches is made of bones – the remains of Nazis, Greeks, Americans, and British jumbled together like jackstraws.

In the middle of town, amongst the screaming mopeds and moving cars spewing grey exhaust fumes into the aroma of roasting lamb and fried squid wafting from the kitchen windows, sits a lonely castle – a Crusader fort. How many more bones lie around its ramparts? How many ancient corpses with rusted blades and shattered shields rest under the courtyard?

A seagull sits where an archer may have once let an arrow fly. Her nest is also filled with bones: her young, who didn’t survive the winter; a mother that cannot let go.

A troop of school children rampaging through the gatehouse causes her to take flight, leaving her dead. She glides into the sky, almost fluorescent in the setting sun. Her eyes are keen, her senses sharper than a farmer’s scythe, circling above the fort, calling, screeching. Catching the warm air in her feathers, she glides over the town’s rooftops, hunting discarded food on the footpaths and roads. She hovers over a deli, her favourite place for scraps. But there is nothing to be had here today, so she soars out over the azure, looking for that shimmer of silver, a gleam from a scale – bream, sardine or snapper –cutting through the water.

A jet-ski zigzags over the waves, leaving a foam network in its wake. Lazy yachts with Midas-touched bodies onboard call out and cheer. Sluggish fishing vessels drift aimlessly as sailboarders twist and turn about them. Further out to sea, beyond the vision of a human eye, the seagull notices something unusual in the water. Hears the cries of her

own kind and flaps her wings.

A boat from the deeper seas has overturned and washed into the bay; flotsam and jetsam trail behind it like a flailing umbilical cord. Large bodies, small bodies, young and old, are face down, riding on the crest of the tide – so close to a new life.

Gulls fight for scraps in the debris. Like an arrow, she dives into the melee, filling her beak then breaking away, back over the sleepy yachts, gleaming skins and tired fishermen. She circles the town, now awash in the amber streetlights. The insects have overtaken the hum of traffic with their chorus. People drunk from the day’s heat move idly through the streets, filling the chairs outside the cafés and bars.

The castle is empty of tourists. She returns to her nest and tries to feed the bones of her young with her pirated swag, but she doesn’t understand – they have become forever part of this place.

A single poppy looks over the town. The flower seems to sigh as the night strips away the glow of day, and a crescent moon takes the stage. The bodies will wash up on the shores tonight, adding to the town’s foundations; like all towns and cities, they’ll join the ghosts in the mortar. Spirits in the walls. Echoes in the basements. Whispers in alleyways. Shadows in the fields.

Bones under the hills.

Baked In

Emma Matthews

Chasing shards up the inside of the bowl is tiring work but has to be done when eggshell gets into the batter.

The recipe says so.

Rings of coffee stain the words; Mum says it has stood the test of time but those I give my cakes to only want the crunch.

Growing

Phoebe Trueman

He picks up an unripe mango. You look at him.

‘It’s not ready.’

‘I know, but if we buy it now and wait a few days, by Wednesday it will be perfect.’

‘When have we ever bought and eaten an entire mango?’

‘We haven’t. Let’s.’

You browse the rest of the fruit aisle in silence. Strawberries, peaches, pineapples, pomegranates. He picks up a jackfruit, excited. You have never seen a man so curious.

‘It’s supposed to be popular with vegetarians.’

‘You’re not a vegetarian.’

‘I know, but it’s nice to try new things.’

‘If you say so.’

You buy it. And the mango.

The line is still blue. You feel your body start to go into shock. Hands shaking; a sort of sick feeling in your belly. You can’t stop looking at it. Equal parts of both of you. This makes you smile.

You just got off the phone with your parents. His turn. He’s standing next to you, the phone up against his ear. He looks proud. You sit and listen patiently. Listen to the tone of his voice. His excitement, his fear. Would this have been more special in person? You hold your hand on your belly. What fruit should you reference for size? Or maybe it’s a pea?

The fruit bowl stares back at you. How do you know when it’s ready? It’s heavy in your hand.

Skin off.

Sensation hits your tongue. It’s not ripe enough. He told you to wait. Buy another one before he gets home?

Tube into central. You think of the 7/7 bombings last year. Transporting oneself from A to B could result in yourself still at A, never making it to B. This is too much of a thought. Still holding your belly, you think of him. Then you think of the amount of decaf coffee you’re about to consume with friends. Must hydrate beforehand. The Tube’s speed is sucking the life out of you. The air is hot. You take a swig of the water you bought at Poundland on your way here. You think of him again. How you wish he was here, distracting you from the sounds and the hustle. Your own world within the carriage. Get off at Camden. Reality.

This new body is something to get used to. You start waddling, which irritates you because it feels ridiculous. Ankles swell and heartburn spreads. You’re losing sleep faster than you’re growing. Discomfort consumes you. Everything is enlarged.

Lying awake, you trace the map of his sleeping body. He looks like a painting. His broad shoulders, the freckles on his arms. He’ll cradle her in his arms soon. You hope he looks at her with all the love in his being. Even the love meant for you. He will. But that’s okay.

Breathing. Pushing. Breathing. Pushing.

She.

Hospital bed. The fan is irritating but it’s August, thus essential. The gown is showing your bare back, and the socks will cut your circulation, eventually. No need to speak. Yet. He has just got back from the cafeteria. The air between you is thick. Numbness.

You hold your belly. Your hand falls through the enormous space. It takes longer this time. More air to fill. About the size of a mango.

No words. For days. Until.

‘You haven’t moved.’

‘No.’

‘I’m trying to have a conversation. It feels like you’re doing this on purpose.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I’m trying to give you space, but we need to talk because this happened to both of us and I currently have no idea what you’re feeling, I have no idea.’

‘I’m angry.’

‘We can try again. It’s not uncommon.’

‘Uncommon? You try pushing out a fucking child – a child inside –a baby. I’m sorry I don’t know what I did wrong. There. There’s your answer. My body is not strong enough for this. Any of it.’

‘Do we need some space? From each other?’ His words fill the entire room.

‘Do you need space?’

‘Well, I don’t know – I – this could be time for us to think. About what we want.’

‘I don’t know what I want.’

‘You can’t look at me.’

‘Yes, okay. Maybe we should. I don’t know.’

‘We can try.’

You grab the toothbrush from the bathroom cupboard. It’s sticky. You place it at the bottom of a cardboard box. Among other things. He calls you to tell you he’s outside. He has a bruise on his left eye. You notice the leather seats of his car. Too expensive for your liking. Oh well, it doesn’t matter anyway.

‘You look well.’

‘You don’t.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Okay. We won’t.’

The fruitful air of conversation. Wondrous for you both. *

A punnet of strawberries. The market is coming to the end of its summer window. Fresh fruit is dwindling; it was an act of desperation. You take your prized punnet home. The oak chopping board becomes stained with strawberry blood. The berries are a couple of days past their best, so you spend time gouging out all the bruises, marks and decay. They taste sweet.

The phone begins to move across the bedside table as it rings. You lift your arm from its rest. Your hand navigates to its location. This takes a lot of effort.

‘It’s six in the morning. Are you okay?’

‘Can’t sleep.’

‘Well, that doesn’t mean you have to disturb me.’

‘Sorry.’

You hear his slow, tired breathing through the phone. The silence feels comforting somehow.

‘I haven’t slept properly in weeks.’

‘Me neither.’

‘I started painting again. In the middle of the night.’

‘Painted your breakthrough piece yet?’

‘Oh god no, I’m far from that.’

‘You were no prodigy. I don’t think there’s much hope left at your ripe old age.’

You laugh faintly. You sit up a little.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How did you get that bruise on your eye?’

‘My brother and I got into a fight.’

‘And he punched you?’

‘Yeah. Well, I swung first.’

‘What did he say to make you do that?’

‘He said something about how I was “wallowing” for too long. I swung at him. Then he swung back.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay. Doesn’t change anything, does it?’

‘Does he have a bruise?’

‘No. The bastard.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know.’

The brain is dangerous when it imagines.

Her little fingers. Wrapped around your own, clutching on for dear life. Her ears. You wonder if they will have an indent in the top, like her dad’s. Swaddled in a blanket, all serene and angelic. You think about how lucky you are that she is yours. You run the tip of your finger down her nose, which makes her twitch a little. You just smile.

Open your eyes. The pillow is damp on your red cheek. Both of your arms are clutched against your stomach, your knees against your chest. You don’t move.

Standing on the Victoria line. Across the carriage, a woman with a bump sits down. You’re glad there is still the human decency for Londoners to give up seats to those who need them more. She looks

far along, probably about six or seven months. She’s holding her belly, rubbing it rhythmically.

You find yourself staring at her, longing. You have to look away. Eyes begin to well up. Don’t cry. You feel jealous. And sad. And happy for her. And scared for her. You want to go over and talk to her. Tell her it’s not permanent, this feeling of belonging. The pride of knowing you’re growing your baby. Tell her to cherish it. But you can’t. It will be too much and too out of the blue. You hope and pray she’ll realise. Her baby will grow up and she will realise.

*

He’s sat across from you. A small pot of mango chunks clasped in his hand. He begins.

‘Thanks for meeting me.’

‘I was hoping you would call again.’

‘It felt right to ask. Time is a weird thing. Thought I’d give it a shot.’

‘And in a Pret? Very fancy of you.’

‘Well, you know, there’s three hundred in London. Might as well bring out the big guns.’

‘Noted.’

‘It’s been a long time. Must be about—’

‘Nine months. Yeah.’

‘Yeah. Wow.’

‘How have you been?’

‘I’m okay. My brother got married in March which was, well, it was shit really. Other than that, I got a new job. To be honest, I’ve been better.’

‘Me too.’

‘Have you… have you been with anyone since—’

‘Oh god no, I’m in no state for someone to be with right now.’

‘Me neither. It’s still fresh.’

‘I’m glad you asked me here. I wondered if you wanted to do something with me?’

He looks at you. *

The beeps of checkouts echo in the background. The trolley currently contains a carton of oat milk and a family-size bar of Dairy Milk. You glide across the glossy floors of the supermarket.

The fruit aisle. The familiar colour palette of reds, yellows, oranges. All so full and ripe.

He picks up a mango. You look at him. He holds it in his hand for a second. He looks at you.

‘This one feels ripe enough.’

‘Okay, if you say so.’

‘You trust me?’

‘Yes, I do.’

The Beginning Times

Or, The Artist’s Yard

Lauren Martin

‘Most zealously I seek for erudition: Much I do know – but to know all is my ambition.’

Johann

Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust: A Tragedy

It all started in the first class back after the October reading week. It was Introduction to Fiction Writing late on a Monday morning and the warmth of the sunlight through the window was much more comfortable than the chill that lingered outside. I was slow to pack up, as usual, but the few people who had bothered to show up to class had already rushed out the door. It was just me alone enjoying the glass-warmed sunlight. Or rather, I felt alone. In truth, there was someone else there: Professor Westcott. She was staring directly at me with a stack of paper in her hands. It hit the table in front of me with an echoing slap. I paused for a moment to look at her, and then the papers. I recognised it immediately.

‘I took a look at your portfolio. I have a study group on Wednesdays. I think it is something that you would benefit from greatly.’

Was my writing that bad? I stood there in silence. The hair above my temples grew damp with sweat. I opened my mouth, but it was like the words had tumbled through a hole in my throat and gotten lost: they just weren’t there. Professor Westcott, meanwhile, had taken my gaping for a non-answer and left. That was it. It was like a small dark creature had started in my stomach and was beginning to crawl up my throat and I was left shivering.

My chest felt hollow for the rest of the day. My plans fizzled away as my feet carried me across our tiny campus. I spent hours that night staring at my portfolio from across my room. It wasn’t until the moon was streaming through the sheer curtains that I took a pen to the pages and turned them into a mess of underlines, edits, and scribbles that took over my world for the next day and a half. My mind was full of

lines; I wrote and rewrote every single one until they all seemed so changed that it hardly felt like my work anymore.

By the time Wednesday morning crept into view I was sitting on the floor staring bag-eyed at the pages scattered before me. Not a single thought would come forward through the numb mush in my head. My phone buzzed. Two. I had an hour.

Professor Westcott had plastered a sticky note on the back page. Written on it, in a messy scribble, was an address.

I arrived in front of a set of iron gates that climbed upwards to meet the sun. The courtyard beyond seemed like an Italian dream; even in this harsh cold of southern England there were tall orange trees potted in each corner and a fat little cherub standing proudly on a pedestal in the middle of what I guessed was a fountain. In one hand he held up a cornucopia, decorated with writing too small to decipher.

The cloud that had fogged my brain was starting to ease away. My body felt lighter with every new breath of cold tangy air. But that heaviness was not gone; the heft of my satchel was enough to remind me of that.

This, however, wasn’t the only thing that grounded me. The thickness of the iron bars couldn’t be ignored. They weren’t pretty. They were bulky and dark, but there was a charm about them that I rather liked. With the backdrop of what seemed to be an Italian courtyard, they appeared like the perspective lines of a master painter.

This was the place. The porcelain plaque on the white-washed walls of the house had the words Artist’s Yard inscribed in swirling blue font.

I stared at the house for a moment. That little creature in my stomach started to stir again but I pushed it down, placed my hand on the icy iron bars and gave the gate a strong shove. It barely moved, but the noise it made was louder than cathedral bells. The creature gave a screech and started crawling its way around my insides. My heart and my mind began racing, both much too fast for me. I pulled back from the gate and sunk into myself.

Just as I was about to turn away and run, the wooden door to the left of the courtyard opened slowly with a soft purring of its iron

hinges. Professor Westcott stood straight-backed in the doorway, one hand clutching onto the doorframe and the other hidden from view.

‘You’re early.’ Professor Westcott’s dark eyes rolled.

I prised my mouth open, but my voice wasn’t strong enough to make any sound. I didn’t want the creature inside to have anything more to screech about so I just kept quiet.

Professor Westcott slid into a pair of slippers, fluffy on the inside but a smooth suede on the outside, and slipped a long coat over her shoulders. A wisp of smoke caught my eye as she held a burning cigarette between her lips. She took a quick puff and sighed out the fumes as she made her way over. The ash dripped onto the cobbles of the courtyard, just narrowly missing the light halo of frizz that encased her long, wild curls.

She slipped a key into the lock and pulled the gate open with ease. At once a rush came over me as I stepped into the courtyard. Everything seemed amplified from this side of the iron bars. The fruits on the tree were brighter and the leaves, although clustered together in a bid to keep warm, had a clear waxy sheen on them. I reached out and stroked one as I passed to the door.

‘Wait in the room at the end of the hall. I’ll be there once I’ve finished this.’

She gestured to the burning cigarette that was still clasped between her two fingers, then motioned down the hall that ran the length of the courtyard and ended in a wide wooden door. In the moment it took me to turn my head, Professor Westcott had already disappeared around the corner with the muffled slapping of her slippers on the linoleum.

My boots echoed through the long hallway. Each step was like a pounding in my skull, over and over until it came to a sharp stop. All I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears.

Everything felt eerily still. I couldn’t make out any movement on the other side of the door. My poised fist hesitated over the door but fell silently back to my side.

My head continued spinning with sounds as the hinge creaked in my ear and the hardwood of the new floor groaned beneath my feet. My muscles froze. Four sets of fiery eyes were trained on me. My skin prickled.

A Light That Never Goes Out

Katherine Cridland

She always comes when you call. She will drag her fingers through your hair, tousling it until your once sensible waves become wild and springy. She will straddle your lap, focus sharp, pencil poised in her fingers, as she lines your eyes with black kohl. Your eyes will sting and water and she will laugh, blame you for ignoring her directions to look up or down. But you can’t resist the urge to look at her, savour her warm breath on your skin, the tinkling bell of her teasing. You will raise your hands to hold her waist, steady her, her hip bones sharp beneath thin cotton… she is so small… too small… You will miss her weight when she gets up, smiling proudly at her handiwork.

She will tug at your wrist, tripping over her own feet as you rush outside to her car. She will blast her music at a deafening volume, and you will both sing off-key until your throat is scratchy and sore. You will stumble in the heels you borrowed from her, self-consciously adjusting the crop top you also borrowed as you make your way to the club. She will charm the bouncer, white teeth and doe eyes, and he won’t ask to see your ID.

Inside, men with stale breath will buy you both drinks that burn your lungs, and the thumping music, rush of people and hum of her fingers interlaced with your own will thunder through your body.

She will press a pill against your lips and you will swallow it without question, your teeth catching on her fingers. You will recognise the shine in her eyes, the familiar shiver down your spine.

You will forget the next few hours.

But you will know everything that happened.

You will wake up in a stranger’s bed, her sleeping body tucked against yours. You will check that you are both still wearing underwear. You will hope that no one else touched your body last night.

There will probably be some guy in the bed with you.

Your skull will feel cracked open and your body hit by a bus, and you’re still trapped beneath it – hot, burning metal choking your airways and seizing your chest. You will push through this.

You will have to rouse her, trailing your fingers down her bare arms, pressing kisses to her skin. She will whine and pull away, try to burrow into the pillow, but you know it’s better to sneak out before anyone else wakes up. You will slip out of bed, damp with sweat but shivering in the chilly air, and find your bag in a corner, check for your phones, cash and keys.

Together you will leave, woken up by the sting of morning, and find her car. Before you get in, you will pull her slight frame into your hold and kiss her. She will let you. But now it will feel empty. Because you only called her last night to escape, and now, your mouth sticky from the night and her face blurred by the rising sun, reality has set in.

She cannot walk away from her life as easily as you.

She will drive you back to her empty house and you will shower last night’s sweat and smells from your body. You will dress in your own clothes, brush the alcohol from your teeth and breath, wipe away the last remains of eyeliner.

When you’re finished, she will be sitting on her front step, lost in a cigarette and some place far away. You will turn down her offer to drive you home and instead walk the two miles on aching feet. You will not say goodbye or look back.

And yet, it will not stop you from calling her next Friday night. And you know she will always, always come.

Seven Beers

Mina-Marie E. Lie

I don’t have the confidence of seven beers

I have anxiety, and this is new territory

The bracelet you made me has gotten heavier Not uncomfortable, just reminding me that it’s there I do not have the confidence of seven beers

You make me nervous

I spent the entire time with you that evening because I felt safe with you

But you make me so nervous

When your lips pressed against mine, I was shaking I did want to go home with you when you asked but I don’t have the confidence of seven beers

(Cave)man Eats His Dinner

Evie Boreham

Filthy

Greasy, chubby fingers

On slippery silverware

Dinner’s on the table

Dinner’s on his tie

Dinner’s on the floor

Wide eyed I stare It’s agonising to watch They’re all the same, I declare!

Comb Over Colin

Sweaty Sideburn Stanley Long Beard Lenny

First dates are overrated.

Spring Cleaning

Eva Yuille

We’ve had a few harsh winters recently. We survived – what choice did we have? – and adjusted. It was something we moved on from But never quite left behind.

We learned to carry it everywhere, Like dust balls, clotted and clammy At the back of a cupboard, Or seeds, slowly growing into plants That slip up your spine And seethe in your stomach.

We all coped with it in different ways. Volume turned up, Hot showers, Extra blankets. Anything to make tangled branches bloom into beautiful flowers. To bring warmth back.

And it worked, in a sense. We compensated. But how badly do we need to retune? Clean out the dusty cupboard, And fill it with Warm, folded clothes.

Holidays in Ukraine

Rose Heyland

There is a bustle of people and clinking cups. Elena and Abi sit with their coffees at a small round table. Abi stares intently at Elena who is watching the world outside.

‘How are you feeling?’ Abi asks.

Elena sighs. ‘I’m okay. I cried a lot yesterday, but I feel a bit better today.’

‘It’s not like I expect you to be okay, so you don’t need to say it.’

‘Honestly. I’m feeling a bit confused.’

‘Confused about what?’

‘I never really considered Ukraine a home, but I feel like I’ve lost one.’

‘Of course. It’s a part of who you are.’

Elena stares ahead, thinking.

Abi breaks the silence and asks, ‘When was the last time you went there?’

‘Last summer with my family.’

‘What is it like in Ukraine?’

‘It depends on the time of year.’ She pauses for a few seconds. ‘In the summer it can get really hot, but in the winter it snows like crazy. I don’t remember though. I’ve only been there in winter as a baby. I’ve heard the other seasons are intense as well.’

‘I bet autumn and spring are lovely.’

‘Yeah I think so.’ Elena smiles. ‘Have you ever seen the cathedrals? They are so different from the scary ones here. In Ukraine they are colourful with golden roofs. I’ve seen blue ones, green and yellow ones. They are kind of ethereal.’

‘Sounds beautiful.’

They both smile and sip their coffee.

‘In the summer there are watermelon stalls everywhere. They’re nicer than the ones here. They are bigger and kind of oval,’ Elena says.

‘Do they grow there?’

‘Yeah, the soil there is really fertile… There are a lot of concrete buildings in Kyiv though. If it was here, I would hate them, but I don’t mind them when I’m there.’

‘I would love to go to Kyiv. Is that where your family lives?’

‘My eldest cousin does. The others live in Bila Tserkva. The same house my mum grew up in.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘It’s small, but it has a big garden with a hammock and grapes growing.’

‘I would love to live in a place like that,’ Abi says.

‘Me too.’

‘There’s been a lot of Ukrainians coming into the shop,’ Elena says. ‘I think I have imposter syndrome.’

‘You shouldn’t feel like that.’

‘I can’t speak Ukrainian, so I feel embarrassed, like it doesn’t count unless I speak the language.’

‘They might find it nice to meet someone who is English and Ukrainian.’

‘My babushka always asks me and my sister “why no speak Ukrainian?” It makes me feel bad.’

‘You are learning now.’

‘Yeah, I guess I just feel behind. It’s weird not being able to communicate with your family.’

They both peer out of the window absent-mindedly.

‘I had this thought the other day. When I hear Ukrainian it’s like I can recognise the sounds but not the words. Like zoning out when

someone is talking to you.’

‘That seems like a good way to put it. Must be what my boyfriend does. He says I speak a foreign language sometimes.’

‘What did you say to that?’

Abi tries to stifle a laugh. ‘I said, your ass must be pretty jealous of all the shit that comes out of your mouth.’

Elena and Abi start laughing. The strangers around them glance over at the noise. They try to hold back their laughter, but it only makes it worse.

‘Stop, you’re going to make me cry,’ Elena says in between wheezes.

‘Sorry. God I must be tired.’

Elena wipes away the tears that escaped. ‘Thanks, it feels like I haven’t laughed in a while.’

‘Me too, it feels good.’

Elena and Abi smile and sip their coffee.

5, 4, 3, 2…

Casey Brown

The Victoria Underground Station had a cave at each end of the platform. The caves were black. They were hollow. They were round and wide. When she looked at them, willingly or not, she held two images in her mind. The first was of bodies, rows of them, all cast in the black and white of an old photograph. They bundled together in sleeping bags – still, sleeping, or sleepless – disappearing into the tunnel while the Germans rained bombs from the sky. The second she knew from geography class. She saw a man with a torch strapped to his head, wedging himself into a gap in the cave wall. His legs kicked at the ground; soon his feet disappeared into the darkness. You could hear breathing; you could hear limbs pushing against the walls of a hole getting tighter. Then, nothing.

Nothing, she thought, as she stared into the tunnel.

Nothing. It’s nothing. It was a tunnel, not a cave, with train tracks in place of bodies, and lights all the way through. She took the line once a month to see her dad, and every time she reached the other end whole. This time it was late; nights always pressed closer. They leered. Her fingers began to curl inward like the limbs of a dead spider.

Five things.

Her eyes darted along the platform. She saw the board – a minute until her train arrived. She saw the white curving walls and the train tracks and the escalators leading up to the road – the road leading back to her bed. She saw a man. One man. She was alone but for him. He was older. Hunched over. He was far enough away that they would board at different doors, but close enough to board the same carriage. He was scruffy, his clothes hanging loose and dirty and his boots covered in black mud. He had no hair, but for the scraggly beard on his chin, and a cigarette dangled between his lips as if he’d forgotten it was there. She took a couple of steps away from him and tried to list four – four things she could hear.

The whirring of the escalators; a ding from the announcement; the announcement of the train; the man’s breathing, his cough. She could

feel the humid air like a heavy child on her back. She could feel the skin of her fingertip peeling away between the nails of her thumb and forefinger. She could feel the ground rumble, and the train approach from the cave in the wall. Her breath began to shorten again.

When the train arrived, she walked down the platform, boarding a separate carriage to the man. His cigarette was gone. Disposed of. He had a sneer to his mouth, as if it sat too heavy for the muscles of his face to keep up. He noticed her, and she turned from him. His narrowing eyes left an imprint in her vision, as did the flick of his tongue on his top lip. As she approached a grouping of four chairs facing each other and took one by the window, her phone vibrated in her hands. She looked down. Pressed the on button. Again. Again. Dead.

Smell was tricky, but there were only two. She flared her nostrils to take in the air. She could smell rotting fruit in the bin hanging from one of the other seats, and the sweat of her armpits wafting up through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. Lastly, she closed her eyes, and flicked her tongue against her gums. She could feel a seed tucked between her teeth, but the taste was gone. She could taste herself. Her tongue came to rest on the roof of her mouth as the train jolted forward, and she kept her eyes closed as it entered the tunnel.

White lights darted across the backs of her eyelids, appearing to her not white but the peachy orange of flesh. The door to the other carriage whirred behind her, then closed. She clutched her phone to her chest.

There was no one else.

In the back of her mind, she pictured him. Behind her. He felt closer than he was. He kept getting closer. She could see the lines in his face more distinctly, could see his tongue flick across his lip. Again. Again. His hands would be rough and sweaty, large against her skin and hard where they landed—

The seat flew back from under her. Or her body flew forward. The train was stopping. She wasn’t. She hit the seats in front of her. Her eyes opened wide to see sparks spitting up behind the windows, and the lights on the tunnel walls sputtering into darkness. The breaks screeched, grinding against the tracks. She gripped onto the fraying fabric of the seats as the intercom dinged to life and then cracked and

fell into static. The train slowed, slower, slower, wedging itself deeper like the man in the cave.

The train lights went out.

Shuffling. Footsteps. Was he getting closer? Further? They were upright, on the rails. No crash, she thought, and crawled from the seat to the floor. Little hard specks of what she hoped was just dirt stuck into the palms of her hands as she searched for her phone. Her throat grew tighter like a Chinese finger trap pulling taut.

The lights came on.

Not the lights. New lights. Red lights. She found her phone, pressed the button. Nothing. Five things. She glanced at the windows, and quickly snapped her gaze away. There was nothing. There would be nothing. There would be darkness. Only darkness. Only walls. She saw chairs. She saw the curved metal ceiling. She panted. She pressed her hands into the seat and pushed herself up. She kept her body behind the back of the chair as her eyes picked over the rest of the seats in the carriage. She saw his coat on the seat by the door she came through. Had he sat so close? Why would he do that? His coat had fallen to the floor. A pack of cigarettes lay in the threshold. The seat was empty. The air grew cold on her tongue. She rose up on trembling knees, gripping the seat’s headrest. Her gaze slid down the long carriage walkway, heavy to the floor, then slipping up the backs of two, muddy black boots.

His hunched frame stood at the door to the next carriage; his fingers drew back from the button. He turned, slowly. His boots squeaked on the floor. His eyes picked over the chairs and landed on hers. His voice took the form of gravel spilling out from a cave.

‘The door is locked.’

‘Locked,’ she whispered. Locked, she thought. Caves didn’t lock. Tunnels didn’t lock. The carriage had been large before, spacious. Now it was tight as a keyhole. She was staring down it, at him. But not really. Her eyes came back into focus and saw his body fully turned. Towards her. He took a step forward—

She darted for the door to the other carriage. Footsteps sounded behind her. She slammed her hand on the button. Again. Again. Again. Nothing. The carriage beyond was empty. There had been no one else on the platform. Had there even been a conductor? She hadn’t

seen them. She hadn’t seen anyone in uniform step out and wave. Had she? There were strikes. There were always strikes. Maybe there was just the driver. Maybe the trains were automatic now.

The footsteps came louder.

The door didn’t open.

He’s going for his coat. His cigarettes. His seat. His—

‘It’s the emergency system,’ came his voice again, this time with a sigh. She heard the thud and whoosh of air. ‘We’ll be moving again in a bit.’

Her fingers lingered on the cold button. The world had tilted. Her right arm felt heavy. Or was it her left? She wanted to both curl up against the door and run away from it. She took the middle road. She kept her fingers on the button, and turned to face the carriage, to face him, but he wasn’t in his seat. He was in hers. Opposite hers. She could see the fine, white hairs on the back of his head, and his left hand disappearing into his trouser pocket.

She could feel her heartbeat pulsing through every vein in her body. Pins and needles spread up from her fingers and toes, from the tip of her nose, towards her chest. Was the heating on? The window open? She hadn’t eaten in hours, but something was sitting in her throat.

The man began to mumble to himself, leaning forward. His head turned to the right; his eyes picked her out against the wall. She pictured a fin growing out from his back.

‘What do you see, kid?’

She pressed her back to the door.

‘I see…’ He squinted. ‘Poles. Chairs. Lights ’ ‘Red lights.’

‘Yep.’ He nodded. He looked around. ‘Doors ’

‘Locked doors.’

‘Yes, locked doors.’ He looked at the floor, then his boots. ‘Lots of mud, too. Can you hear anything?’

She pressed her hand harder onto the button.

‘You.’

He laughed. A hoarse laugh. A laugh from swollen lungs. ‘I can hear air.’

Her brow furrowed. She listened. Her head turned towards an open window, one of the top rectangular windows that opened an

inch or two. The walls of the tunnel came into focus, but there was space between them and the train on the tracks. Air brushed against either side of the train. Against her face. Wind from – somewhere. She didn’t know.

‘And static…’ she muttered, her hand dropping from the button. ‘From the intercom.’

‘Anything else?’

She clenched her jaw.

‘Rustling, from your pocket.’

He smiled. She could see it in his ears, how they lifted up on his head. She stepped towards him, rounding the chair he sat on. His face came into view. She could feel his eyes on her, her hand on the cold yellow pole, the hard seat beneath her bum as she sat down in front of him. His face was scrunched, but soft, and open.

‘You smell like cigarettes,’ she said. ‘And mints.’

He smiled and pulled his hand out of his pocket. A blue wrapper came out with it, half of it wrinkled and the other half a short tube of white discs, each with a hole in the middle.

‘Polo?’