The Journal 13

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Writers' Bloc

Welcome to the thirteenth issue of The Journal!

For those of you not familiar with The Journal, it is an anthology of creative writing which showcases the best writers at The University of Birmingham from all subject areas.

Thank you to all those who sent pieces in this month. The theme this time was 'The City.' In this issue, the writers explore different attitudes to the city and to the world; from contemporary London, to 1 940s Cape Town, to the world seen from space.

We had a large batch of submissions this time. If your piece was not included this time, don't be disheartened, especially as the next issue is already open for submissions. The theme is 'Icons' and the deadline is Sunday 22nd March.

Send submissions to writersblocjournal@gmail.com and keep an eye out on the Writer's Bloc Facebook/Website for more details of when this will be out next term.

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 at Facebook.com/writersblocuob.

Happy reading!

Georgia Tindale, Editor

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The Journal

Contents Nora Selmani NW London

Jack Crowe

The Entertainer

Henry Bladon The Big Issue

Rachael Clear

Anaesthesia Awareness

Elena Orde

Broken Umbrellas

Ludo Cinelli Capodanno

Tom Lofkin

Come Home

Lily Blacksell

4 5 6 11 12 13 17

Cape Town, 1 940 (Feature Piece)

22

Rachel Chandler

24

Grim Land

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Writers' Bloc

NW London I drag my skin along the concrete, and become a part of this place.

I’m having a moment in which I expand with the skyline, and forget myself.

The graze on my palm bleeds like the sun during a warm winter evening.

I spit out loose teeth like loose change, and look between cracked pavement slabs, looking for the easy option.

Instead, I find moss underneath my fingernails.

Nora Selmani

4

The Journal

Entertainer I am playing Take Five opposite a patch of August bluebells, Gently swaying, their heads bowed.

One is approaching.

His face is cut with a granddad grin.

His hand is in his pocket.

He dodders tight steps forward until he reaches the guitar case.

He removes a ten pence piece from his pocket.

He drops the ten pence piece into the guitar case.

He creaks on like a stick of oak.

His steps are in time with Take Five.

He continues forward.

He is standing right in front of me.

I can make out the creases in his pink shirt, I can make out the creases in his pink face.

‘What shoe size are you’ he says.

‘Oh. Err. Nine.’ I reply.

He looks at me with old eyes.

‘Oh, we thought you were a size 1 0’ he says.

He turns slowly.

He begins the journey back to the bench.

Jack Crowe

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Writers' Bloc

The Big Issue The click of the shutter wakes me. I look through one eye. He’s the type that passes by me. Worse, he ignores me, pretending to be on his phone as I try and catch his gaze. I’ve caught his eye now though, bedded down in this doorway in my sleeping bag. I’ve caught your attention too, haven’t I? He’s flaunting his status, aiming it at me like a sniper. It seems I’m good enough to become a subject of one of his photographs. He will say something about how the juxtaposition of a down-and-out sleeping in the entrance to a grand building in the middle of town is a perfect scene; full of pathos.

Now I’m awake I’d better get moving. Two nights in one location is a rarity.

Who knows where I’ll be tonight? I’ve been in hostels, but they’re temporary. It’s a long time since I had a permanent home. The cold doesn’t trouble me; I had plenty of time outside on exercises. I spent many nights in a wet field, halfawake, ready for sentry duty.

How did I end up here? It doesn’t really matter. All you need to know is that I am, and that I’m enduring the dubious hospitality of the city.

I roll up my sleeping bag and tap my mug on the side of the step. I push the flask into my backpack. These things are useful to me: my mug, my flask and my sleeping bag. And the dog. I can hear you thinking it, by the way, and yes, I’ve got a dog. Of course I have, don’t all Big Issue sellers have a little dog? Dennis helps me through the days. If there’s a positive, it’s that some of the things you have, I don’t worry about. I bet you have loan repayments; I don’t. Your car needs new tyres and petrol; that won’t concern me. And I don’t have children needing new school clothes. (I wouldn’t mind that, though. I would quite like kids.)

I read Jack Kerouac and he said practical items were more valuable than expensive things that don’t get used. Or something like that, but you get his point, don’t you?

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The Journal ‘Hello, sir. Big Issue?’

Another walk-by. Not getting despondent is a skill you learn after a while.

It’s all part of a positive attitude. After all, who’s going to buy a magazine from a miserable seller?

‘Hello, sir. Big Issue?’

Still nothing. It’s cold today. Dennis is wrapped in his blanket. I should have called the little bugger Lucky. I’m the one earning the coin, and he’s fast asleep snug and warm. I should teach him some tricks. Tourists like that.

‘Hello, sir. Big Issue?’

He’s slowing his pace as he approaches.

‘How much?’ he asks.

Not very talkative, this one. I tell him the price. He reaches into his pocket.

‘Here you go.’ We swap money for magazine. That’s the normal way. I don’t mind, people are busy; the ones that stop are pulses of positive energy.

Back to the grime and the symphony of city traffic. I listen to the passing drama every day; the discordant cacophony has a rhythm. There’s the C sharp of a car horn, the A flat sound a bus makes as it pulls away, the sad F minor of the scooter buzzing into the distance. Then there are the emissions, the black sheep of the cloud world. You probably think I smoke, don’t you? Well I don’t, and that’s ironic considering all the fumes I breathe in every day.

People are generous before Christmas. I don’t know whether that’s socalled Christmas spirit, but into the New Year, it’s harder to sell.

‘Hello, sir. Big Issue?’

Another walk-by. Never mind, keep trying.

‘Hello, madam. Big Issue?’

She’s stopping. I reel off another copy of the magazine and hold it out.

She hands me a tenner.

‘Have you sold many?’ she asks.

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Writers' Bloc I’m not sure what to say. I tell her that this month has a story about global warming.

‘I look forward to reading that,’ she tells me. ‘It’s a shame we don’t have any of that today, isn’t it? With it being chilly, I mean.’

It’s small talk, I know, but good of her to take the time. It’s nice when people realize that I’m human, like them. She pulls up her scarf.

‘Well, I hope you sell plenty more.’

She starts to walk off.

‘Hang on,’ I say. She turns and looks back. ‘Your change…’

She smiles. I guess it’s a smile by the shape of her eyes.

‘Keep it,’ she says. ‘Get some food and a treat for the dog.’

I thank her. The glow in my chest makes me forget the cold.

Selling the magazine gets me cash. I’ll try and find employment and a place, but it’s hard.

Now I have enough for a cup of tea, I visit Jimmy’s. I always go to his café when I have the money. He won’t kick me out if I’m short of change. He also likes to chat, so that’s a bonus. And he gives Dennis a bowl of water. Someone once told me that dogs prefer to drink dirty water, all to do with the taste, apparently.

‘Hello, my friend,’ Jimmy says.

The café is warm; as warm as Jimmy’s greeting. The cast from the fluorescent light is welcoming. Jimmy asks me how I am, have I sold many copies of the magazine. He bends to pat Dennis on the head and laughs. You know the laugh, the one people use for pets and small children. I settle Dennis on my coat on the floor. It’s cosy for him and he’ll keep it heated for when we get back outside.

I stretch, and rub my eyes. I eat and drink more regularly now. Back in the squat, I didn’t know when I’d get food. There were occasions we rooted 8

The Journal through the bins for a rotting carcass or a fish-head. Boiling them up was impossible with the pathetic bowl we had, filled with rainwater and slung over the camping stove. It didn’t bother the drunks and junkies, though; they would stare at the flame through an inebriated stupor.

The sweetness of the tea is comforting; I watch steam rising from the mug.

Jimmy arrives with a plate of chips.

‘Here you are, my friend,’ ‘I didn’t order these, Jimmy.’

He waves his hand and walks away. I hear a dismissive noise from over his shoulder. I wonder what life would be like for me without kind-hearted souls like the lady and Jimmy.

I belch and smell masticated chips and cooking fat. Luckily I’m not with the customers. It gets washed down with the hot tea.

I’m reluctant to leave. I put on my coat and hat. I lean over to stroke Dennis. He’s curled up.

‘Sorry, lad. Time to go.’ I feel mean but he doesn’t mind. Have you noticed how a dog will always get up for a walk, regardless of their apparent slumber?

I thank Jimmy for his kindness and we agree to see each other soon.

I step back outside; the reality of the city hits me. The tarmac battleground. The symphony has reached a new level. It’s now allegro. As rushhour traffic builds, it will become accelerando, until the peak prestissimo, and then the crescendo before the evening lull. The busses belch their discharges into the night air.

Somehow, life feels better with a full belly.

We walk back to our patch, Dennis and me; he’s trotting along knowing I’m watching over him.

The dark comes early this time of year, bringing with it the sound of sadness.

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Writers' Bloc Not many buyers on their way home tonight, they want to get back, rushing, as if their quota of seconds is running low.

I decide to get the bed done and flog another couple of magazines before quitting. With luck, I’ll get another quiet night under the porchway. It’s a matter of time before they move me. Dennis is sitting on the sleeping bag, a tourist claiming a place at the poolside.

The streetlights are on and it isn’t raining. What’s that expression about small mercies?

I hardly notice the voice.

‘Excuse me?’

The man in front of me looks familiar. I hold out a magazine.

‘No, I don’t want that,’ he says. I feel a germ of disappointment. ‘I was hoping to find you,’ he says, ‘because actually, I want to say sorry.’ He continues explaining. ‘I saw you this morning. Sleeping.’

I’m struggling to decode this message.

‘I took a photo,’ he says. ‘I felt bad about the invasion into your life, but it’s my job to spot such moments. I’m a photographer. When I got home I reflected on what that picture said to me. I’m lucky to have a home, warmth, security; the things you don’t. The contrast hit me.’ His expression is serious. ‘I sold the image to a magazine. I want you to have the money. It’s £500.’

My jaw falls.

‘I hope you can forgive me.’

I kissed him. Well, what would you do?

Henry Bladon 10

The Journal

Anaesthesia Awareness A thick, heavy door separates us on the throne of the city.

Don't open it.

I sleep cold, in agony of still bones whilst you toss and turn.

Don't stop in my direction, like the one in a million still awake on the surgical bed, I lie there.

I can feel a hand all over my body, A fossil on my skin forever Please stop.

A cabinet key tries to unlock the door and there I will always remain: Still, naked, desired and repulsed.

Rachael Clear

11

Writers' Bloc

Broken Umbrellas A shape nests on concrete, sheltering beside gum-peppered steps.

The crowds proceed, clutching paper cups to their layered chests, steaming.

Someone grips a child’s hand tighter, a small defence against hopelessness.

The pretty moment glove in glove, a kaleidoscope of fairy lights, fresh pink cheeks threatened by an uncomfortable smudge, an unasked question, a barely felt pause. But it fades like breath-mist into cutting air like a cigarette’s glow gasping out in slush.

Bundles of stories, like broken umbrellas, collapsed over the city; fairytales which have snagged in the middle with past mistakes, theirs or others’, pinned to them, pinning them.

No one wants to know these tales.

A fumbled glance. A stinking coin, hot and palm-sticky.

Take it.

Spend it on whatever will give you strength.

Elena Orde

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The Journal

Capodanno A prong pushed a single lentil along the plate, sitting in thin reddish sauce. The fork left the one lentil, hooked under a slice of cotechino, and pulled out another.

It dragged along the white plate.

Two. Three. Four. Five. Mario counted. Six. Seven. He sat upright at the table, towering over his friends. Eight. Nine. Some of them stood around the roof, popping open new bottles of champagne, handing out glasses, a few smoking. Ten. He picked up the lentils with his fork, and ate them. His right hand formed a twisted fist around a twenty Euro note. The TV downstairs blared the New Year’s Eve concert, happening just a few kilometres down the road. Fizzes and bangs still went on. Mario started again from one.

Veronica looked around the rooftop, wondering if she’d given everyone a kiss on the cheek. Aerials and unpowered air conditioning units surrounded the party, colourful fireworks happening in all directions. She spotted Mario with the lentils and the cotechino.

‘Don’t interrupt me while I’m counting the lentils please.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘No, but you were about to.’ He smiled.

‘Come on, Mario.’ She pulled up a plastic chair next to him. ‘You do this every year.’

Mario poked a slice of cotechino. The red meat sagged as the fork rose up to Mario’s mouth. He chewed, then started counting again.

‘So do you.’

‘What are you talking about? I can’t bear the smell of cotechino. ’ ‘Think about it – you take New Year’s Eve off. Every year.’

‘That doesn’t mean I eat lentils and cotechino.’

‘It’s the same. You take time off at the end of the year, to celebrate on the old year, and plan for the New Year.’

‘You’re not doing that.’

‘No more than you are by being here.’ Ten. Mario scooped up another 13

The Journal forkful.

‘I’m having a party with my friends. You’re just respecting some old tradition,’ said Veronica half seriously.

‘Are you telling me your parents never went to a New Year’s party?’

‘They did, it’s just they didn’t sit there counting lentils like Scrooge McDuck counts money.’

‘It’s not about money.’ He loosened his big right hand. It was lightly covered in sweat, soaking into the banknote. ‘Look at this.’ Mario dragged a lentil to the empty half of the plate. ‘Say each lentil represents each of the kitchen utensils I have sold this year. So, when I drag it along the plate like this, I’m thinking of a saucepan, a big, fifteen-litre one. Or a pasta carver, one that makes really fat ravioli, or an oven tray that can fit enough lasagna for twelve people.

And I remember who I sold those to. A Michelin star restaurant, a matriarch cooking Christmas lunch for thirty five, the catering department of an overflowing prison…’

‘Are you sure you’re not just hungry?’ Mario scooped up another ten lentils.

‘You should try it. Think of everyone you arrested this year or something.’

‘Mario!’

‘It’s not my fault all my friends are coppers.’ For the first time since tucking in to the midnight meal, Mario looked at something other than the lentils or Veronica.

He tried to do a head count of police officers. There were a lot.

‘Who did you leave at the station? Sgarbi?’ Veronica burst out laughing.

‘Sgarbi? He’s having his own party!’

‘Oh.’ ‘Why so surprised?’

‘He’s the commissioner – who has he left in charge?’

‘One of the young kids. Perrotta, I think his name is.’

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Writers' Bloc ‘Big job for a new kid.’

‘He knows what he’s doing. Very much the poster boy of the academy.’

‘Poster boy or not, I bet it’s a hard job when people on duty don’t show up.’

‘Hey, I’m supposed to be on duty.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. But it’s fine, I got a note.’

‘From Antonio?’ Veronica nodded. Mario looked over at the doctor. He was staring at the fireworks.

‘Do you seriously think that?’

‘What?’

‘When you’re counting the lentils.’

‘No. It’s just tradition. Get over it.’ They laughed. Mario leaned forward over his belly and grabbed an open bottle of champagne from the table. He poured some into a plastic cup for Veronica, then into another for himself.

‘I mean, the sick note might as well be legitimate. It’s been a tough year for the police. Do you know Massimo?’ Veronica nodded towards a tall man behind her. ‘He lost a kidney in the riots after Roma-Lazio. Or Lucia – she got beaten half to death for giving out a speeding fine. And did you hear about Raiola?’

‘The guy with the snakes?’

‘Not any more. Thieves broke into his house, ransacked it, and killed the snakes for fun.’

‘What?’

‘We need the time off. It’s like parking in the middle of the road – if you know you just need to jump out for a couple of minutes to buy something, and you really don’t have time to look for a spot? People will get angry, but they’ll understand. And they’ll know they can do the same. So we’re taking tonight off. ' 15

The Journal Mario sighed. He stood up, grabbed a clean plate from the middle of the table, and quietly made his way around to the other end. There was a pan of lentils without cotechino. He scooped a spoonful out and gently placed them on the plate. He went back the way he came, and sat down as he set the plate in front of Veronica.

‘It’s for good luck.’

‘Alright.’

‘Not yours. It’s for Perrotta and the other kids at the station tonight.’

Veronica leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

Ludo Cinelli

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Writers' Bloc

Come Home He had been hiding behind the Sun. So far, it was the only place he had discovered where he could be sure the Ingenites wouldn’t look for him. Escape had been difficult, but time and a determination, one born out of seemingly endless cyber-torture and ingeneomorphoic experimentation, had been on his side. That and thirty years’ experience working in an auto body shop. If he could fix a Pontiac GTO engine with a paperclip, two broken sparkplugs and a pair of pliers, he could figure out any machine, no matter how complex or extraneous.

And he had. He had jimmied the locks of their living fleshdoors, tampered with the endless pipe works of the nethervaults, jury rigged the exit mechanism on the bolt gateway and hightailed it out of there like some pseudo-ethereal prankster. He had caught the Ingenites with their pants down, and knew that he would never get a chance like this again.

He had also gone to the Sun hoping that it would be warm, that if a solar flare were to arc out suddenly and lick his body he would feel some brush of heat, like dipping an elbow into warm bathwater. He was left disappointed.

Sensation, if you could still call it that, remained only a low vibration and the presence of a dense, internal cold sealed within him. He was all right angles now; every inch of him replaced by a mass of obsidian tetrahedrons, joined end on end to form some kind of imitative outline. Except for his head. That was an octahedron, tilted slightly downwards, one of its middle corners imitating where his neck used to be.

At least now he had a cool cape.

He tried to close his eyes, or at least imagined himself closing them, as he wasn’t entirely certain that he had eyes anymore.

He couldn’t.

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The Journal He wished he could feel like himself again.

Most of all he wished he knew which way was home. * ‘That was Tina Charles with ‘I Love to Love.’ Keep those calls coming in and we’ll keep playing your favourite songs on this: your All Request Friday.’

Janet sat out on the fire escape, her legs dangling through the railing bars, five storeys up from the street below. She stretched out an arm, trying to catch snowflakes in her palm. Her other hand was on a telephone. On her lap was a small music box which she stared at intently. Her Roland transistor radio buzzed at her side, ‘…of course we’ve got it, Diane. You have a great day and don’t get too cold out there now. Okay, well this one’s from Diane out in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s The Cars, with “Just What I Needed.”’

The All Request Friday was the highlight of Janet’s week. At six o’clock, every Friday she would turn the volume dial all the way up on her portable radio and place it on the kitchen counter so that her daddy could hear it as he came in the door, overalls covered in oil and brake fluid, his face grimy and glazed with sweat, but always immediately breaking into a smile.

‘What tunes did I miss?’ he would always ask. She would tell him, then he would ask her to sing them to him, so he wouldn’t feel like he had missed anything, and she would, and he would applaud and shout, ‘You’re gonna be a star kid,’ and he would put his arms around her and kiss her on the top of the head.

She had stopped listening to the radio for a long time after her dad had gone. Hearing those songs echo in the empty kitchen had always seemed too much to bear, and now that Mr. Cotton had moved in, she wasn’t allowed to play the radio inside the apartment anyway.

She wasn’t allowed to do a lot of things now that Mr. Cotton had moved in.

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Writers' Bloc Initially, Janet had had no issues with Mr. Cotton, especially with mommy saying how he was a ‘good, kind man,’ and she had liked how mommy would brighten up whenever she talked about him. Mr. Cotton had worked with daddy and they used to fix cars together.

Sometimes the two of them would come home late at night and drink beer and laugh. Sometimes Janet would sit up with them, perched on her daddy’s knee.

Sometimes he would even let her have a sip of his beer.

After daddy had gone, Mr. Cotton had started to come over to the apartment more often to see mommy. Now he came home late at night and drank beer and laughed with her and whenever Janet would ask if she could sit with them, her mother would say, ‘No, it’s way past your bedtime.’ Mr. Cotton would always laugh at this and say, ‘Get lost. The grown-ups are talking.’

The worst time had been when Mr. Cotton had come into her room one night when she was listening to her music box.

‘Ah. This old thing,’ he had said, pulling the box away from her and inspecting it. The box was made out of what could have been lacquered oak, and when opened, revealed a glass basin containing an intricate matrix of strange and beautiful clockwork. On top of this stood a small, obsidian figurine, featureless and smooth, which would rotate to the music when you wound up the box. The melody had a peculiarly haunting quality, like wind chimes.

‘That was all they found. That and his burned up clothes,’ Mr. Cotton had said, sitting down next to Janet on her bed, spilling some of his beer. ‘Right by his car. Apparently he’d taken a wrong turn someplace and gotten himself lost. I mean what are the chances? I heard of people being struck by lightning, but not exploded by it. There one minute, the next ‘ka-blam.’ They think that’s what conducted it, see that mark there?’ He tapped one corner of the box that was slightly darker than the rest. ‘Zap.’ He threw the box carelessly on the bed. Janet snatched it up and cradled it protectively in her arms.

19

The Journal Mr. Cotton got up and walked out of the room. As he went he stopped to look at a framed photograph Janet kept on her wall of her with her father. In it they were both smiling. Mr. Cotton stared at it for some time, smiled and said to the picture, ‘It’s called a condom.’

Janet had never understood what he had meant. She had also never been told what had happened to her father before that night. Whenever she asked, mommy had always answered, ‘Daddy has gone away for a while.’ Janet decided that her father’s absence could be explained by the fact that he was lost, like Mr. Cotton said.

Turning up the volume on the radio, Janet picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Ok, we have another caller. You’re on the air. Who do we have?’

‘Hello, my name is Janet Sorrenstein.’

‘Hello there Janet. Where are you calling from? And by the way, how old are you, young lady?’

‘I’m calling from The Bronx and I am nine and a half years old. I’ll be ten in June. Can I play a song?’

‘Well Janet, you sound very grown up on the phone. Is there anyone you’d like to say hello to before we play your song?’

Janet opened the lid of the music box and began to wind it up. ‘Yes. I’d like to say hello to my daddy. I miss you and can you please come home?’

‘Aww, you hear that everyone? What is your daddy’s name, sweetheart?’

‘Henry. His friends call him Hank.’ Snow melted on the glass basin as the figure turned.

‘You hear that Hank? We got a wonderful little girl here who misses her daddy, so get your butt home on the double or there’ll be trouble, mister. I think he gets the message Janet. Now what can we play for you?’

Janet held the phone up to the music box and thought of her father.

20

Writers' Bloc * At first, he thought he had imagined it.

After a few moments of silence, he heard it again. A sound, a melody carried across millions of miles of the void, picking up impossible momentum and smashing into him. He spun round in the nothingness and stopped facing out into the stars. Before long he began to move forward, inside him a compass pointing in an irresistible direction. For the first time since he had left, he could see his daughter’s face. If he could have smiled, he would have. Like an otherworldly bullet travelling just under the speed of light, he sped towards the music as if it were a lighthouse.

Hank Sorrenstein was coming home.

Tom Lofkin

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The Journal

Cape Town, 1 940 Feature piece

Father was so upset when Robert left, they were two peas in a pod.

One behind the other balding peas of different colours in a limousine, leather-clad pod.

They would drive along the coast buying beef and melons, general provisions, for dinner parties great and small.

Cantaloupes! Honestly! The smell!

In the middle of Cape Town summer.

Too hot, really.

Mother made sure the servants got the offcuts. Robert, upfront, opened the door and left.

But shin is lovely if cooked for long enough.

People knew where they stood, or sat, back then there were signs that said so.

Father had to learn to drive!

22

Writers' Bloc Nanny walked me to the beach.

I paddled in the rockpools and I trod on a squid which squirted me all over in ink.

I screamed, Nanny screamed, I was black! Honestly! Head to toe!

In the middle of Cape Town summer.

Too hot, really.

Lily Blacksell

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The Journal

Grim Land Stuck behind pearl clouds Gloom shrouds us all as we rush This isn’t my home.

Rachel Chandler

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Writers' Bloc

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