Issue 09
THE JOURNAL
WARMTH
Writers' Bloc
Welcome to the ninth issue of The Journal! It is my pleasure to introduce you to the second issue of this academic year. For you new readers out there, The Journal is an anthology of work showcasing the best writers at the University of Birmingham. To try and combat the cold winter months and give our writers a challenge we set them the theme of 'Warmth'. What's always interesting is how writers interpret a theme. Some took it literally, others metaphorically and a couple created very tenuous links that had to be considered if they fitted the theme. The result of 'Warmth' is a collection of pieces that are both heartwarming and chilling. If you like what you read you can find more work on our website at www.writersblocuob.com and follow The Journal twitter @TheJournal_WB. You can also follow our society's activities on Twitter @WritersBlocUoB and Facebook at Facebook.com/writersblocuob . Happy reading! Andy Cashmore, Editor
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The Journal
Contents Jessica Syposz The Author's Flame
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Keisha Fraser-Bruce Gingerbread Boy
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Ben Norris Somewhere South of Rugby
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Charlie Moloney Psychoses (Feature Piece)
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Eva Gourdoux Living Hot Water Bottle
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Jessica Syposz Fireflying
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Jodie Carpenter Remember Me
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Writers' Bloc
The Author's Flame They say you should never meet your heroes. Yet here I am. I spent the entire morning trying to find the right clothes for my ill-fitting body and now, vastly underdressed for such an occasion, I stand before you. Silently, I place my offerings down on the marshy graveyard ground. I remain silent because I know that talking to a tree would be ridiculous. Deep beneath its twisted roots, I can imagine you stirring, see your eyes fly open to greet me, see you tear handfuls of earth aside for a fellow poet such as myself. ‘Andrew Dawn. Author and Poet. 1 952-2001 ,’ reads the plaque. My GCSE papers were littered with sonnets about the colour of your hair and I drew your face ten times on the back of every application form. But my scribbles could never capture your strong nose, heavy brows and stern dark eyes that glowered with a burning intensity from the cover of the dust jacket. Do you know there are only 21 copies of your Poetry for a Lost Day this side of London? 21 copies and all of them mine. So what if I failed every exam and job interview that fell my way. You can't be brilliant without also being troubled. I learnt that from you and made a conscious effort to suffer whenever I could, I really did. I read once that you were forced to eat dog food when you were homeless and I tried to follow suit, but I think it disagreed with me. I even tried sleeping outside in a bundle of rags and crisp packets for a night, but it gave me a rash. I must be allergic to suffering. A gangly ginger shadow slinks past the edges of that memory. Jimmy. How I hated that cat. He was a stray and intended to entertain me after the death of my pet budgie. Something had obviously crept into the room one night and with quick and merciless claws decapitated my winged friend Fred. I was convinced that it had been Jimmy. There were ginger hairs on the floor near the budgie cage and Jimmy's dank, musty smell peppered Fred's little limp body. 4
The Journal For years afterwards my dreams were populated with that sly streak of marmalade-coloured feline evil. He was perpetually smirking at me and I couldn't stand it. I'm not completely heartless. I didn't let him starve to death. It wasn't hard to poison the food anyway. I know how much you hated animals, so I thought it would be fitting. But a dead cat and some flowers is a paltry offering for the likes of you. So I wrote this for you and the tree that guards your bones. Reading it out loud, I like to think you would have spoken these words before the bitter descent into madness left you under a tree in a discarded corner of Bristol. If I should die before the time of when my death is due, I'd rather not be laid to rest beneath stone, cold and new. I want my bones to share the soil with bulbs and old tree roots to have my body taken up to help them bear their fruits. And in each leaf and opening bud Alive and green I'd be. So that the tree be part of me and I part of the tree. Do you like it? You'd probably find fault with it. But I always loved that about you, the way you would decimate your critics with your knife-like words. As I turn away from you, I conjure up your smoky image to bid me farewell and hear you speak. 5
Writers' Bloc ‘You're useless, Adam. You wouldn't know assonance if came and bit you in the- As worthless as those trite little poems you try to write. Go home and leave me to rest in peace.’ So I will. But not before I set fire to your tree, the poem, the cat and all. I’ll do it with the matches that have been clenched in my upturned fist this whole time. I’ll make a start on the books when I get back too, so as to make a burning effigy out of you. I’m sure you'll appreciate the symbolism.
Jessica Syposz
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The Journal
Gingerbread Boy With caked hands you raised me. Rolled me out. Secured my dainty buttons and sent me on my way, on a journey into the forest. So young, too raw, I didn’t feel prepared. Yet you knew best, and sent me nevertheless. Excitement vanished and I felt the eyes burn. The eyes that watch me, everywhere. Run, run, run. Rewind time, knead the dough and shape me again. I belong to you. Don’t let him catch me.
I journey, single file and he waits: Red hair, whiskered stubble, sharp suit. Mr. Fox. His kind eyes invite me. Why did I bake so long To be sent to his kitchen? His black stones burn me. Bared teeth, he strikes, devouring my buttons. I crumble: he caught me.
Keisha Fraser-Bruce 7
Writers' Bloc
Somewhere South of Rugby For all my itchy-eyed sleepiness, for all the dark and obligatory breakfasts on a stomach still full from dinner, for all the newly-lucid dreams cut and pasted by the cold necessity of work, for all my oak-throated ‘sorry sweethearts’ at the crude enthusiasm of our bedroom light, for all the half-drunk coffees and panicked sprints through the station’s guts, clutching the miscellany of a portfolio career (packed lunches and a deadline), it is worth it. To be the only one awake to watch the field give itself so willingly back to the sky at the first kiss of sunlight, a wet and convalescent hallelujah on a farm somewhere south of Rugby, it is worth it. In this brief window, the bronze reassurance of bed is forgettable, so too the day’s quietly marching tasks. But not the fact you’re sleeping in and the morning must worship itself on the park at the top of our road. Nor the fact that my rucksack only half fills the seat next to me.
Ben Norris 8
The Journal
Psychoses It was my last day in the house, and I was alone. I had wished my friends a Merry Christmas and all the best for New Years when they went home the day before. I would have gone with them; just packed everything up and made my way back home. But I had to stay, I had to make my peace with the house and come to terms with what had happened there. You see, when I say ‘what had happened’, I’m not talking about an event. When I say ‘what had happened’ I am talking about a moment where I began to question myself. I can’t for the life of me remember when it was but at a certain point I became rather muddled, and I started to flake away into the house, into the fibres of the carpet. So I thought I should stay an extra day to collect myself so as not to leave any important pieces behind. I thought that the best way to go about it was to turn up the heating, watch television and drink. Soon I was lying on the leather sofa, slowly fusing to it in the heat. The alcohol, the dehydration and the Friday night panel shows had guided me to the beginning of my very own Yellow Brick Road, for lo and behold I was experiencing minor psychoses. The first thing that happened is that I had to go and throw up into the sink in the kitchen. I leaned my head on a cool kitchen surface, never wanting to move again. Soon, however, I rallied myself and stood up at which point I came eye to eye with a ticket inspector. ‘Tickets please,’ he said, getting out a stamp from his blazer pocket. He was wearing a red tie and his teeth all pointed to the centre of his mouth as if there were a magnet pulling them in. I told him that I didn’t know that I needed a ticket. ‘Well, all that I’m hearing,’ he said, returning the stamp to his blazer pocket and pulling out a small notepad, ‘is that you do not have a ticket’. 9
Writers' Bloc I looked around the kitchen and then imploringly in to his eyes. What could I do? What would happen now? ‘Well you would normally have to pay the full price of a ticket, and a £30 fine sir.’ He looked me up and down, and raised one eyebrow at me. ‘But there are exceptions,’ he said. He grabbed my hand and held it, and I looked at him and he looked at me, and we both looked at each other. He looked deep into my eyes and raised his other hand, which trembled as it wiped the sweat off my brow. Suddenly he turned around and pulled me down the hallway, leading me back in to the front room. The living room was still hot; damn hot. I looked around: seated on my leather sofa was a large, bulging burlap sack which was filthy and full of small holes. On an arm chair alongside the sofa sat a young man around my age. He was dressed plainly with a white t-shirt and had long hair and a thick beard. In his arms he was caressing an angel carved out of ice. Every now and again he would turn his head with a start, checking to see if the sculpture was melting, which it rapidly was. The ticket inspector led me over to the sofa and sat me next to the burlap sack. He pulled a chair in front of the sofa and sat himself down in front of the sack and I. We were all sweating, the three men and the ice sculpture; I even imagined the burlap sack was sweating as there was a strange smell of meat emanating from it. The ticket inspector broke out in to a broad grin. ‘I would like you to meet my friend Duncan,’ he said, motioning to the burlap sack. He stood up and began to pace around, ‘I’m working all of the time now, especially over Christmas, so it would really be a great help to me if the two of you could socialise a bit, just so that I know he’s not lonely.’ He winked at Duncan then looked back to me. ‘I’d be willing to overlook your ticket,’ he said. 10
The Journal I looked at the sack and then at the madman before me. My vomit caked lips said something to the effect that it would be my pleasure to associate myself with Duncan the sack. ‘Marvellous,’ the inspector said clapping his hands together. Then he paused and looked thoughtfully at the sack and then at me. Slowly he stepped towards where I was sat and put his hand on the wall behind my head so his arm was right next to my ear. He leaned in inches from my face. ‘You see sir, Duncan doesn’t make friends very easily,’ he said, softly, as he stared into my eyes. I could smell raw meat on his breath and I felt a drop of his sweat fall on to my cheek. Then, without another word, he stood up and was gone. I sat trembling and lathered in my own sweat. I looked around at the others in the room to see their reaction to what had just happened. Unfortunately Duncan hadn’t seemed to notice and the young man was now sobbing quietly in his chair because his angel had melted into his lap. I thought about sparing him some kind words, but then what could I say? I turned my attention to the task at hand. I felt that if I didn’t put on a good show of trying to get along with Duncan then the ticket inspector would know; he would sense it somehow. I had now grown to fear him so much that the fact that I didn’t need a ticket was irrelevant. This maniac had somehow broken into my house. It was his territory now and I had to play by his rules. I said hello to Duncan, not expecting anything in way of reply. We sat there, the two of us, breathing heavily in the heat. That was when I realised that Duncan was breathing, that I could hear horse inhales coming from inside his sack. Who was Duncan: the sack or its contents? I had to know. Tentatively I reached out my hand to feel the sack. I lightly fingered the outer material and then slowly pressed down on it. I heard a squelch and felt something tough and springy like a steak. Duncan started up a low gurgling sound and his breathing grew louder and heavier. I withdrew my hand as though bitten and looked in 11
Writers' Bloc horror at the sack as it began to bulge and writhe. Then everything stopped. Duncan was still, the breathing stopped, even the young man in the chair was silent, paralyzed by his grief. All I could hear was my own breathing and the beating of my heart and the sweat dripping off my face on to the sofa. Then the sack fell over, in my direction. This was too much for me. I picked up Duncan and threw him on to the floor. Then I picked up a chair and began to beat the dirty bag into nothing. Time and again I rose my chair up and brought it shuddering down. Finally I positioned a chair leg on top of Duncan and jumped on the chair. Collapsing in a heap on the floor, crawling along the carpet and finally clambering back on to the sofa, I came to rest at last. There was a sudden crash, and a rustling sound; I turned around just in time to see Duncan shuffling off up the stairs, the chair I had tried to impale him with thrown to the ground. Good riddance to him, I thought. I closed the door behind him, looked about me at the general detritus in the living room and then sat back down. I turned the television back on. The Boat That Rocked was on Itv3, but the young man objected. ‘There’s too many love scenes in that film. I don’t even wanna think about romance tonight.’ I looked at him, considered him, sitting there with his trousers soaked. ‘Get over it mate.’
Charlie Moloney
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The Journal
Living Hot Water Bottle The steady rise and fall of his silhouette lulls me to sleep. As I drift away, I can still feel his softness on the palm of my hand, silky hairs flattening down under my fingertips. He is tucked against my chest, his calm and hot breath melts against my chin. I'd like to stay like this forever with him nestled in the folds of the duvet, his white paws pressed against my forearm. It's the same ritual every night: he scratches my door, I sigh and curse, and then I get up with half-lidded eyes and let him in. He jumps on my bed and purrs loudly as I collapse on the mattress, ready to fall back into the arms of Morpheus. But he knows better than letting me fall asleep. He steps on me, walks around my head, sneaks underneath the duvet and then comes out, his eyes black as coal. I laugh silently as he leaps on my moving feet, trying to bite them. But he eventually gets tired. So he stops and yawns, his mouth widening and widening, his teeth almost glowing in the dark. Then he turns on himself for a while, for his kind is undecided, and finally lies in a corner comfortable enough for him and inconvenient for me. I always want him to lie on my feet to warm them up, but he cannot read my mind. And even if he did, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't give a damn. He is so pig-headed and proud. Well, so am I: from time to time I slip out of the duvet and I gently press my bare feet against his fur. It's like diving into a hot bath or walking on a sun-kissed ground. The heat takes over the ice and my eyes close, overwhelmed by delight. His shape rises and falls under my feet, and I can feel him purring against my skin. I read somewhere that cats don't only purr when they're happy, but also when they're feeling nervous or annoyed. But as I don't speak cat and I'm no Eliza Thornberry, I remain like this for a little longer, desperately trying to capture his warmth. When I finally leave him alone, I scratch his neck and kiss the top of his head, right between his closed eyes, and find my way back under the duvet. He moves a little bit and snuggles against me, and it's in those moments between awareness and unconsciousness that warmth finally overwhelms me.
Eva Gourdoux 13
Writers' Bloc
Fireflying We are the children of discontent: we gorge ourselves on fireflies. They burn our teeth black and singe our mouths, like cigarette butts on plastic cups. We feel their steady glow descend into the swampy warmth of our bellies. We sit, watching blue kitchen-pot flames in a darkened room, while the fireflies, sear the backs of our eyeballs with honeyed light, populating capillaries and with buzz, drone, buzz, they swarm and swelter in the heat of a ribcage hive.
Jessica Syposz
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The Journal
Remember Me The underpass was rank with the stench of week-old piss and stale booze. White splashes of bird shit flecked the dusty paving stones of his home. He sat in his usual spot against the wall. Every day they invaded his home, traipsing through and dropping greasy Subway wrappers, spitting out wads of chewing gum and flicking exhausted cigarette butts. Privacy was a thing other people took for granted. They didn’t care that they were intruding; they barely even saw him. A woman marched by with her hair scraped back, barking into her mobile. She sidestepped the bundle of rags as her nostrils wrinkled with distaste, and carried on, her pace unwavering. A man came along next, his eyes flitting nervously between the figure hunched up against the wall and the pavement ahead. Eye contact made them uncomfortable as if they would contract a disease from doing so. Scores of people shuffled past him with arms laden with bulging bags, the plastic handles stretched thin and on the brink of snapping completely. Presents with other people’s names on. ‘Get a job,’ a voice came from a jeering group of boys, reverberating off the walls. Laughter filled the underpass. He ignored them, like he usually did. But he couldn’t stop the reddening of his cheeks. His empty hands were frozen in the position he had cupped them hours ago, fingers red and raw, too painful to move. A bedraggled pigeon hobbled along on warped feet opposite him, pecking hopefully at a discarded wrapper and gobbling up the tiniest of crumbs it found. Knife sharp heels and patent leather feet walked straight over it, kicking it out the way. His back and legs ached profoundly but he was too stiff to stand up. He hung his head forward, giving his weary neck a rest. His eyes slid shut. He did not see the feet appearing in front of him, so jumped when the hand clamped 15
Writers' Bloc down on his shoulder. His eyes shot open and his stomach tensed, fearing the group of boys were back. A face loomed large in his vision; a young man with a scrubby beard was crouched down beside him, smiling at him. It was the smile that did it, transfixing him. He didn’t notice what the man was holding out to him until he felt something hot being placed in his hands, almost scalding his icy skin. ‘There you go, mate’, the stranger said, ‘just a little something to warm you up. Merry Christmas.’ The man stood up and walked off, leaving him alone with his Gingerbread Latte before he could force his numb lips to form the words ‘thank you’. He didn’t like Gingerbread Lattes. But he didn’t mind. He smiled to himself, feeling warm for the first time in ages.
Jodie Carpenter
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The Journal
Here at The Journal we don't like to tell you what to do, but you should definitely use this space to write something.
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Writers' Bloc
And this space too.
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The Journal
Some writing would look especially nice here.
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You can start submitting to the next issue now! Please send submissions to writersblocjournal@gmail.com Maximum two submissions per person, up to 1 500 words per prose piece and 50 lines per poem. DEADLINE: TBC Thank you for reading.