Word Bohemia Theme: CHANGE Issue 02 Dec 2014
JOURNAL STAFF Editors Sharon Woodcock Michelle Dunbar
Illustrator Amanda Fullwood
COPYRIGHT This publication should not be reproduced (in whole or in part) without the written consent of Word Bohemia or the authors. The written pieces remain the copyright of the individual authors. All rights reserved.
All illustrations are copyright of Š 2014 Amanda Fullwood. The use of any illustration from this publication is prohibited, unless prior written permission is obtained from the artist.
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Word Bohemia
CONTRIBUTORS Helen Braid Jayne Clark Kate Garrett Richard Kefford Maggie Mackay Roisin Peddle Wayne Russell
CONTENTS 06 Wayne Russell New Life
Lost 10 Roisin Peddle Out to Sea 13 Kate Garrett The Bitter End 14 Jayne Clark Cadence 16 Richard Kefford The Change 19 Maggie Mackay Restoration After War 20 Helen Braid Tide 22 Roisin Peddle Terezin, 1918 08
Helen Braid
Editorial Our second journal is on the theme of 'Change'. We imagined it would inspire a wide variety of submissions, and this lived up to its promise, with a selection of stories and poems from a variety of perspectives. Word Bohemia has gone from strength to strength, and have ended 2014 with an expanded editorial team and a whole host of ventures to surprise you with in 2015. We will stay true to you and your love of poetry and prose, with several added twists and surprises to keep you coming back for more! Inside this issue lies an exciting collection of work from talented writers We invite you to relax with your favourite beverage and explore this digital flip-book publication.
Acknowledgements We would like to thank the authors and poets who have submitted work to us, and those who have continued to support us over the past 15 months. Another special thank you goes to Amanda Fullwood, who produced the spectacular illustrations for this second issue. Her work continues to capture the essence of our chosen stories and poems, and provides a stunning backdrop. Amanda Fullwood is a painter/artist who first trained as a theatre designer 15 years ago. Since then she has painted murals and canvases, produced illustrations as well as scenic design and dabbled in writing. She has recently completed a Masters degree in Design for Film, Television and Events, specialising in production design and concept art for film and television. She passed with Distinction - congratulations Amanda! www.amandafullwood.wordpress.com/ www.facebook.com/DarkForgeArtStudio www.twitter.com/DarkForge14 www.etsy.com/shop/DarkForgeStudio The typefaces used for this publication are LiSong Pro, Parisish and Parisienne.
Word Bohemia Journal Issue No.2 December 2014 Theme: Change
New Life by Wayne Russell For many, summer returns warmth, golden-hued sunshine and white-sand
beaches, where seagulls glide and children sing to a cadence
of soft breezes and hypnotic surf. Summer, snatched from the frozen
jaws of winter, runs like a dog with a bone, and yelps at the moon.
Wayne Russell was born and raised in Florida. His work has been published in literature magazines, such as: Fat City Review, Harbinger Asylum, and Far Off Places.
Helen Braid is an illustrator and graphic designer, who is lucky enough to live on the beatiful Scottish West Coast with her husband and two children. She is inspired by all things coastal and has a 5-year plan to relocate to the beach. Helen writes about coastal life with a whimiscal twist. She is the co-editor of the monthly Britmums Poetry & Prose Round-up. You can contact Helen via. her blog:: www.allatseascotland.blogspot.co.uk, or Twitter: @EllieatSea.
Lost by Helen Braid Lost just now - knee deep. Water swirl, water rush, water slowly creep. And turn my back, turn my head and turn my track, turn a little from the sea to face the drier land. Whilst tide washes in and washes out, ebb and flow and swell below in last of fading light. Sodden, flat and sinking sand, and turning soon to night. As gulls - climb and dip on high above, heady race and open space, and falling back to surf, falling back to water, wave, and falling back to hunt. To fish - beak and claw and certain grip, soon and sudden out of blue and over pretty quick. Clean and fast and bravest catch, and calculated risk. Of sea - not the place I ought to be, not the shifting ocean floor and not the rolling deep. Reckless height and reckless dive, careful angle, careful time, steady aim and no mistake, and birds-eye open wide. Lost in salted shallow water, wet amid the tide.
Out to Sea By Roisin Peddle Then there was the girl who changed into a seal. Now, don't roll your eyes at me, Alison. I know you're too old for fairy-tales, but this one is true. Every day, Shona (that was the girl's name) would go down to the shore and swim with the seals. It began one summer after she turned five. No-one in that cold northern place minded that much. In the summer, there were always people around to make sure she didn't go too far, and Shona and her sisters swam before they could walk. Her father fretted as September turned to October and there was no change in the little girl's routine. The fishermen did not like the seals anyway. I am sad to say they treated them like vermin. They thought they would bite the child. They never did, she was welcomed like another cub. In school, Shona had no friends. She was too different, never really there. The schoolmistress told her parents, not unkindly, that their daughter was 'slow'. 'I don't think there is any reasonable expectation that Shona will leave home or get married,' the teacher said in her clipped, Southern accent. Her older sisters thought her an embarrassment and never bothered with her. She might have found a kindred spirit in her youngest sister, both being different from everyone else in the school, Shona was slow, Elspeth was fast; when Shona was out in all weathers with the seals, Elspeth was by the fire reading a fat book. Elspeth loved Shona though, and defended her whenever she could. The day Shona turned thirteen everything changed. Even though it was three stormy days before Christmas, she still went down to swim with the seals. The boys at school had told her she was the ugliest thing they had ever seen. She looked like a seal.
(Nonsense, as you know, Alison, seals are very pretty indeed). Her eyes were big and brown and set far apart. Her nose had become pointy, and she walked as if she was constrained in some way, as if striding was impossible. Almost like someone with flippers. She only seemed at home in water. She could hold her breath for minutes at a time and her odd legs gave her power. No-one worried about her at sea anymore; she only caused concern on land. Elspeth was at home reading The Count of Monte Cristo when their parents came in. Her father was white with shock and her mother tearful. She'd drowned, they said. A big wave had swept her against a rock and shattered Shona to bits. Elspeth knew better though. Even at the funeral, she looked at the coffin knowing it only contained a shell, a case. Her sister was out there. She had shed her human cloak and was with her true family, out in the waves. Yes, Ally, my darling. I know Elspeth is my name too. I told you it was a true story.
Roiisin Peddle is a 25-year old Irish journalism graduate, currently living in Dublin. Her work has been published in anthologies including Boyne Berries, and has had a short story long-listed in the prestigious RTE Guide/Penguin Short Story Competition.
The Bitter End by Kate Garrett The bitter end of the rope that lets your sails down, or swings empty, coaxing you up the gallows – you take up the slack knots twisted like secret codes, pull up the anchor and change course.
Kate Garrett writes poetry and fiction. Her work has been published online and in print, and her best-selling kindle single Bewitched was released in June 2014. Kate lives in Sheffield with her sons and her cat.
Cadence By Jayne Clark My life changed on the day La Vuelta a Espa単a began. The start line brimmed with hope two minutes two blue lines a test of endurance turned to tears on Travertine tiles. The Vuelta stages turned to nausea, a hormone hangover, the flutter of butterflies more proof of this new life. and now... Le Tour de Romandie awaits your birth, the cadence.
Jayne Clark is a student at the Open University studying creative writing. Her poems are influenced by her love of the outdoors, running, cycling and of being nine months pregnant at the time of writing.
The Change By Richard Kefford 'There's a Change coming,' said Grandpa. 'What do you mean? I asked. 'It happened before, Jimmy, when I was around your age. You see those cows in the field?’ 'Well, yes, but…’ 'You see how they look black and white? That's a sign. My granddad told me once that the world used to be different shades of grey. This colour thing is quite new, and it always fades before a Change. I think the world will look different tomorrow.’ Grandpa woke me in the morning and told me to look out of the window. 'All the cows and fields have gone and there are rows of houses there instead!’ 'Yes, we are now in revision seventeen,' said Grandpa.｀ 'How did this start?’ 'The white coats say that there was nothing, just a void, and then the Big Unfold happened and there were maps everywhere. That's when the second dimension came into being.’ 'Who started it, and why are all the maps flat?’ 'You have a lot of questions, young Jimmy. The Coloured Robes say that the Holy Ordnance Survey started it. All the maps are flat, except when folded for Super Fast ® travel to a different sheet, of course. The Round Map Society says each sheet is slightly curved. If you keep travelling from
sheet to sheet, you end up where you started. Complete nonsense, of course. You can see a slight curve on each line of latitude, but that is because of other reasons.’ 'What reasons? I need to know because I want to be a maponaut when I grow up.’ 'Never you mind, anyway, the word is Cartographer.’ 'You don't know, do you?’ 'Well…it's time for your breakfast now. Go ask your Dad.’
It was an exciting time. We were packing for our holiday. 'How long will it take to get there, Dad?’ 'The same time as the last time you asked me, Jimmy. We are going by Fast Link ® so it should take about five hours.’ 'How long would it take us by Superfast Link ®?' 'About five minutes, but it's too expensive.’ 'How does it work?’ 'Fast Link ® is what they called trains in the olden days, while Superfast Link ® uses a different principle using the postulated third dimension. They temporarily fold the map through one hundred and eighty degrees along a line at right angles to the direction you want to travel. The start and finish places of the journey are then only a few metres apart, so you can walk down the corridor between the two places...’ 'But don't you fall through the gaps as if you keep folding space?’ 'I don't think that's a problem, it hasn't happened yet anyway.' Dad laughed. I just wish we didn't have to keep changing sheets at the Ordnance Survey control booths.’ Richard Kefford studied Creative Writing with the Open University. He lives in Somerset, where he enjoys wood turning, hill walking, practical geology and writing. He currently works with the Publisher, Café Three Zero, and blogs at: http://www.richardsritingblog.blogspot.co.uk.
Restoration After War By Maggie Mackay I pass the Tito's high-rise housing, bullet-blasted in perfect circles of terror, the full height of babies' cots, breaching homes where generations dwelled together; mothers still hang shirts and nappies, in lines on balconies. Then, there it stands, amid the crush of tourists. The Stari Most crescents the Neretva River. Permanent and inviolable, it rises again, creation of a Sultan visionary and his nervy protĂŠgĂŠ. Coppersmith hammers serenade my starlit walk across the cobbles of this ancient water trade route towards the Eastern mosque, its murals an orchard of dates, figs, pomegranates, of Paradise regained.
Maggie Mackay found her inner poet on Open University creative writing courses. She has published work in Sea of Ink and Fields of Words (www.inkpantry.com), in All Write Then's anthology Still Me...(www.pewter-rose-press.com) and in the online magazines, Poetry Scotland, Word Bohemia, Ink Sweat and Tears and The Lake. She is currently studying for a Masters in Poetry at Manchester Metropolitan University.
Tide By Helen Braid Garden still, washing strung up damp and limp, hanging there and hanging straight and not a breath of wind. And neither warm, balmy heat of summer gone, feels a little cooler now and days soon growing short. Feels a little like the calm before the waiting storm. Before the change, the breeze that's blowing our way, building up for home and work, and nothing stays the same. Stranger things have happened than to end up where you dare. Where you breathe, where your line of eye is clear, where the future fills your sails with sky and stone, and sea. Stretching long in little cot, no more room and growing tall, field and wood, and who would move from such a pretty spot. Long for edge of land and beach, once we're there I'll never leave, big and bold and brave enough to set a change of scene. Shore and wave and countryside, different window, different life, northern air and northern place, and northern windswept wife. Washing strung on sheltered line, hanging there to never dry, time to whistle up a wind and time to hold on tight. Feels a little like the calm before the changing tide.
Helen Braid is an illustrator and graphic designer, who is lucky enough to live on the beatiful Scottish West Coast with her husband and two children. She is inspired by all things coastal and has a 5-year plan to relocate to the beach. Helen writers about coastal life with a whimiscal twist. She is the co-editor of the monthly Britmums Poetry & Prose Round-up. You can contact Helen via. her blog:: www.allatseascotland.blogspot.co.uk, or Twitter: @EllieatSea
Terezin, 1918 By Roisin Peddle The priest, newspaper under his arm, followed the governor to the cells. 'A couple will be going to God today,' the governor shook his head. 'No food, and consumption everywhere.' A rat ran across the squalid floor, stood on its hindquarters and squeaked at them, as if it owned the place. The priest reminded himself that it did, suppressing a shiver of disgust. The whole world now belonged to the rats, the flies, the things of death and decay. His faith had been tested over the last three years, and he found himself repeating words that were now empty and hollow. The governor gave no sign that he saw the animal. He led the priest to a cell, where a tiny man shivered and tossed with fever. He was very near the end and seemed unaware that anyone had entered. The governor clamped a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, and indicated to the priest he should do the same. So this was the man who changed the world. The priest thought how even before his body had been consumed, how unprepossessing this man was. He had been in the right place at the right time, or the wrong place, depending on your outlook. It was in the news of course. The whole thing had been a complete farce, almost like something from Charlie Chaplin, the funny English film-man his nephew loved. The little man jolted and coughed horribly. He grasped the thin air where his right arm had been. TB had got into his bones, reducing him to a skeleton with a coating of skin. They had taken his arm, not that it made a difference in the end. The priest wondered how much he knew about what came after. He tossed the newspaper aside, the headline screamed about losses and deaths. Of course, it would have happened anyway. Any excuse and they would have declared war, but if the gun had jammed, or the idiot driver had gone down the right street
'A few prayers. You might be able to get Communion to him, but I wouldn't hold out much hope of a confession,' the governor said. The Orthodox Church did not have a last rites ceremony, but dying people were always glad to see a priest. He made the sign of the cross and began. The governor was right about confession, but the priest allowed that the world, never mind God, already knew this man's sins. He placed communion in the man's mouth, where it lingered grotesquely. Although there was, from time to time, a flickering of the eyelids, the prisoner never woke. As the priest left, four dying men later, two prisoners carried the little man's body to the yard. One of them muttered Catholic prayers in Latin as he hoisted the stretcher. The man who changed the world was dead, but the changed world slaughtered and fought long after.
Gavrilo Princip was convicted of treason for the murder of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in 1914. He died of tuberculosis in 1918.
Roiisin Peddle is a 25-year old Irish journalism graduate, currently living in Dublin. Her work has been published in anthologies including Boyne Berries, and has had a short story long-listed in the prestigious RTE Guide/Penguin Short Story Competition.
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