WRITERS’ BLOC JOURNAL
Editor’s Note Dear Reader,
Welcome to the second journal of the year!
The standard of writing continues to be higher than ever. Despite it being my job to edit your submissions… I barely needed to edit these pieces! Curse the amazing members of Writers’ Bloc putting me out of work! I have also been having some really successful editing sessions this year. It’s been great getting to know new members and helping your work be the best it possibly can.
I am writing this after our AGM. Congratulations to May Anaokar, our next journal editor! I can’t wait to see what you do with the journal in the future.
May also designed the cover for this term’s journal, and it is stunning. Thanks for your lovely work, May!
Emily
Contents Traditions by Héloïse de Satgé
This is How by Frankie Rhodes
Unwritten Traditions by Amy Larsen
The Not-Dying Chairs by Ruairi White
Suburbia by Oliver Wimbush
Our Tradition by Emily Garratt
Indecision by Anna Walthew
aaji by Mehar Anaokar
Earthly Pleasures by Rob Haslem
Traditions by Héloïse de Satgé Traditions are tattooed onto my arm
And take me to the back of the garden to find fairies in the willow tree
The fairies speak a different language and don’t get our traditions,
But they’re stuck in them anyway
And this one’s a bit like me:
If she doesn’t get attention, she will die
Along with the stories that hold her wings high
That keep her flying
He cut down the willow tree, my uncle
And there’s nothing else to say
Except
We’ve grown out of all this anyway
This is How by Frankie Rhodes This is how he spends his day
Wake at 6:30, no alarm
But the empty ache of the vacant side of the bed.
Read the morning paper, world still spinning
Darling, did you see this story about-
Oh wait.
Darling isn't there.
This is how he gets out of bed
A strong Americano and barely buttered toast
Perhaps the morning crossword before leaving the house.
He finishes it in record time
He's so smart.
You were smarter.
This is how he fills his time
Down to the homeless shelter to discuss the new premises
Residents nod to him as he passes
The old bearded hero.
He seems slower, now
Now that you aren't by his side.
This is how he prepares the dinner
Boiled vegetables and something quick to stick in the microwave
A fillet of fish or chicken Kiev, maybe
It isn't your cooking-
Buttery carrots with gravy
Lamb chops with mint for Easter
But it's food.
This is how he tries to forget.
Stay in bed longer, shorten the days
Talk to the grandkids, get in some laughs
Watch Pointless, try to ignore the fact that your life is
So very much
Without Point
Without You.
This is how he goes to bed
This is how he starts a new day
This is how he carries on.
Unwritten Traditions by Amy Larsen
The stars start to blink softly in the sky, Decorating the darkness in glistening jewels, Each diamond illuminated by the light of the moon. It’s nearly 12am and our eyes are itching, Irritated by the sound of sleep’s distant sigh. Dreams dragging on our lashes, Impatiently pulling them closed, Keen to draw the curtains on this day. And, Dad, forever I will say, God natt, sov godt, Like I’m blessing my Danish blood before bed. Upstairs my feet creak cautiously across the floor, Afraid to disturb the shadows hidden behind each door, And, my sister’s usual whisper washes through the air. “Love you, sleep well, see you in the morning”. This midnight mantra is now worn into the walls. Held tightly within these words, The certainty of tomorrow, And the promise of our love today.
The Not-Dying Chairs by Ruairi White
Content warning: illness/hospitals, implied suicide attempt we have unassigned assigned seats
in the hospital, by the psych doors.
(there’s a charging port.)
we sat in the winter-rush ward and the
doctors ignored us, both times.
we were probably fine, you were
charcoal-mouthed, emptied-out,
only your phone had died; i
tasted hand sanitiser and clung
to my iv stand. keeping it light as we
held hands, an annual tradition of
don't you dare try that again, you fucking idiot, you scared me, said gently.
we take turns playing caregiver and patient as we
space out in the not-dying chairs.
waiting on our test results,
we’d crackle plastic cups and drown the
coughing crowd out, blinded by
hospital white. we were probably fine, i had
fought my fever down from thirty-nine, and
you still kind of want to die, but
who can blame you. when the cannula’s
out of my veins, book the uber back to
our place. i’ll pay next time.
Suburbia by Oliver Wimbush
Our Tradition by Emily Garratt
Indecision by Anna Walthew Flipping a switch ad infinitum
Is tradition to us
On- our circuits touch and then
O- the house goes black
Because we never knew
Which setting to choose
Saying I love you
Then burying it in unconsecrated earth
Is tradition to us
Something so insincere
Burns on holy ground
But that doesn’t stop you saying it again
Writing each other new lives
Each uglier than the last
Is tradition to us
I can feel the nib again and this time
I'll use it to cross out
Every utterance of your name
Concluding our story
And not releasing a sequel
Is not tradition to us
But our lives would be better
If this was the only one we kept
aaji by Mehar Anaokar i wish i could describe the smell of my grandmother’s sari.
her jasmine gazra, the petals sown seamlessly
into nine yards of a deep green weave, a cross stitch
of femininity and strength. origami pleats draped
over her shoulder and down the length
of her legs, her skirt hugging her hip
replacement the way i used to. she smells like a flower
that has been pressed between pages of poetry
for decades and is still in bloom
or like the moment i got shampoo in my eye
and she washed it out. she smells soft
like the way she feels, her skin soft
and white and delicate like film
over a glass of warmed milk, the sai
i’d always refuse to eat. she smells of gold and of silk
and the of hint of turmeric in her recipes.
she smells of the times i’d fall asleep in her lap
after a day of festivities. i wish i could hold the smell
of her, that i could strike a match to this page
and make incense from her memory, a fragrance sweeter
than the scent of the agarbatti settled in her sari.
Earthly Pleasures by Rob Haslem For the umpteenth time, but as if brand new I tell you that the chips we are sharing hail from the isle of Eire.
You don’t stop my rattling because you’re hungry, mouthing an ‘O’ as I bless the late-bus stragglers with my knowledge on the apples of the ground and battered cod. Fried fish, I inform you is no more Fleetwood than Jewish. That Blackpool only stopped voting Tory after Maggie banned Fred from wrapping up our orders in old pages of the Sun.
That as much as I like the man, calling his café an ‘English Chippy’ sounds too colonial like that bastard war criminal... Herbert shrub? Forcing American folk to call them freedom chips all because he started a barney with the French!
Uni’s made you no less of a lightweight you tell meor prat for that matter either,
laughing when I refuse the last morsel on the grounds of culinary injustice, not to the admission of one snakebite too many.
Come morning, my seminar notes have all but been forgotten Yawning, I curl beside you hungry, my appetite for cholesterol and the depletion of Atlantic stock has returned and so you tease me when I refuse to picket the fresh parcels you bring home from Taylor’s for dinner.
I tell you that nothing compares to this in that strange city that has no grasp on scraps.
That when you reheat a takeaway after night outs the food tastes stale, never the same.
That we should go tomorrow and the day after and after and before I board the coach back to that place that’s now home.
Listening, you excavate for the ketchup I didn’t manage to pillage from the bottle, eat straight from the paper, smile.