YSJ Anthology 2015

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9

THE PREACHER’S CAVE
Helen Barclay
On the fourth day after the blizzard John stood at the window
watching the sun blaze painfully off the snow, there was no heat and
no thaw. The short, still days and the freezing nights had left the
snow just as deep; you could walk from field to field over the tops of
the walls on a crust of ice which had formed on top. He went out by
the kitchen door. The passage between the house and the barn was
a channel they had dug, with an icy floor and frozen white sides as
high as his chest. He found the stone steps at the side of the barn
which led up to his old sleeping quarters, kicking at the snow he
made footholds that he could climb, at the top, after the snow
stopped, the frost sparkled on the steps. It had not thawed. He
stooped through the low hatch into the loft and found the sack he
had brought from St. Kilda; he took out the strong rope he had
plaited himself, it was in good order, it would still bear his weight. He
fastened one sack across his shoulders and tied more around his
feet, knees and hands. From the entrance to the loft he could slide
straight out onto the drifted snow piled high against the stone wall
and now topped with a sheet of wickedly slippery ice.
The sun reflected off the snow and into his eyes as he crawled
across the ice; slowly and carefully testing its strength to bear his
weight. As he passed the front of the house he could see Tom’s
anxious face peering out with his eyes screwed up against the light,
here the snow was higher than the window ledge.
‘I’m going to try to get to the cliffs, see if I can get some birds for
meat.’ He called through the sack muffling his face.
Tom shook his head. ‘Don’t be a fool, man.’ he called. But he didn’t
try to stop John – he knew they needed meat soon or he must kill a
dog and feed it to the others. But even doing that would bring no
food for Annie and the baby. He knocked hard on the window and
John looked across. ‘Be careful John, come back safe.’
John, spread-eagled on his belly to spread his weight, slid slowly
over the ice which formed a skin on top of the treacherous powdery
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snow. If he felt it crack he would throw himself as wide as he could
across the ice to avoid falling through and into the deep snow below.
It was slow progress but in time he reached the field at the top of
the cliff. Here another problem confronted him – the field sloped to
the cliff edge and the snow consequently sloped too. This formed a
slide which culminated in a drop off the top of the cliff to the
boulders far below. John had to adopt a new technique; he turned
his back to the cliff and with every move he made, still flat on his
stomach, he lifted a foot and drove it hard through the ice to make
an anchor; as he slowly neared the top of the cliff his hands followed
into the holes made by his feet. Soon his belly and thighs were
drenched with frozen water where his body heat had thawed the ice.
His hands and feet were numb with the cold and he was breathless
with the work. All the time he knew that one false move, one
ineffective anchor, and he would slip helplessly across the last few
feet of ice and plummet to a stony death.
At last he reached the cliff top. At the brink of the cliff the weight of
snow had caused a great cornice to fall. Here, on this narrow strip of
exposed rock, John stopped and caught his breath. The view across
the still blue sea far below him was mesmeric; sea birds swirled and
wheeled against the brittle blue backdrop of the sky, his breathing
slowed and his pounding heart regained an even beat.
John unwound the sacks from his feet and hands and rubbed his
frozen limbs to try to get his blood circulating again. He wrapped a
sack around his head and fastened his St. Kilda rope carefully around
a rock and around his waist. As he started to lower himself down the
cliff, the nesting birds, realising he was there, whirled and shrieked,
plummeting at his head with their sharp beaks and mobbing him,
defending their nests and trying to drive him to his death on the
rocks below. But this was within John’s ken, this was old news. He
moved swiftly downwards using the strong rope to hold him as he
bounced from side to side across the face of the cliff with agility and
speed. He picked brooding birds from their nests, snapped their
necks and put them in the sack across his shoulders.
Eventually fire started to spread through his taut muscles as they
swung him across the cliff from one ledge of nests to another; it was
a long time since he had been birding. The Great Skua were the
most dangerous birds, huge and heavy, they were mad with anger,
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their nests on the ground above the cliff were covered by the snow
and some had eggs in – John was the focus of their fury and the
massive birds, drawn back to the cliff by the alarm calls of the other
seabirds, threw themselves down on him through the windless skies
above the cliffs. The sacking protected John’s head and he kept his
eyes down but at last one great bird made contact and dashed him
against the rocks with its weight, tearing the skin from his face with
its sharp beak and making his head spin with pain and panic. His feet
slipped on the icy ledge and he swung from the rope blinking the
blood out of his eyes and feeling desperately for a foothold. At that
moment a group of guillemots which had landed on the snowy ledge
above took off together to avoid the shrieking fury of the maddened
Skua. The snow and ice below their feet cracked with the vibration of
their ascent and dropped like a steel curtain on to the figure of John
below. The cascade of ice and stones took John completely unaware,
the noise of the birds echoing against the cliff had left him no
warning and the heavy avalanche took him full on the head and
knocked him unconscious. The rope slipped from his hands and he
fell toward the huge boulders on the shore below.
***
When he came to, there was a tearing pain in his side and it was
dark; his eyes were closed by the blood which had run from his head
and frozen into a sticky mess on his lashes. The sack full of birds
which was strapped to his back was still there and as he very slowly
and cautiously put out his hand in the darkness he felt the smooth
cold rock face and winced at the motion of the rope as it cut into his
waist. John blinked his eyes and rubbed his face with his hands,
eventually his vision returned and he realised that little time had
passed since he fell. The sun was lower but not yet set and the birds
were still wheeling and calling above him and far out to sea.
Protected by the padding of a dozen dead gannets he had survived a
fair fall; his lovingly crafted rope had held him. Below he could make
out the carved timber cross above the Preacher’s Cave, projecting
from the cliff. He knew that this cross was not too high off the
ground, for it was him who had fastened it there several years ago.
If he could get to the cross then from there he could make it to the
ground if he was careful; he had done so before.
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He slowly shifted his weight to see which parts of him were injured
and which could still bear weight, he was bruised and grazed and a
searing pain occupied his chest, his ribs had taken the weight of his
fall at the limit of the rope. Gradually and with great care, he swung
on the rope like a pendulum until his foot caught a on a narrow ledge
and he could shift himself onto the rock. He waited for the pain and
the dizzying nausea to subside before he untied his rope and edged
onto the narrow foothold. He edged down the cliff face; his carefree
confidence had gone and each movement caused a new pain in
another part of his body, each hand hold left more skin and blood on
the jagged rock face. At last he reached out and felt the carved wood
of the cross in his hand. He rested there for a moment, wedged
between the cross and the cliff face, his ribs bursting with pain.
Climbing up to here from the shore had been the work of a moment
when he was fit and strong. Now he wished he had his rope to lower
himself down but it hung above him, useless to him now, no longer
even visible as it remained suspended from its stone anchor above.
The short winter day was drawing in now and John knew he would
not survive on the cliff through a freezing night. Calling on his last
reserves of strength and thinking of his anxious friends, he left the
cross and descended the last stretch to the shore; each movement
causing fresh pain as his aching limbs cried out for rest. The flesh of
his flayed feet stung in the cold air and burned with every contact
with the salty rock. At last he felt the cold hard shingle beneath his
feet and crumpled to his knees thanking God for his life. He had no
energy to contemplate a return to the clachan and turned instead to
the deep black Preacher’s Cave; inside he found a low shelf against
the wall and lay down to rest.
***
It was here that the great stag hound, Finn, found him. Tom,
anxious for the sight of John, had let the huge shaggy beast out into
the snow in the hope that it would perhaps find John and guide him
home.
Finn stepped up onto the ledge and lay down beside John, letting the
warmth of his own body permeate into the huddled form of the
frozen youth. In time John stirred and Finn licked his face and
scrabbled at him with paws as big as plates and as strong as
hammers. John came round, it was gloomy in the cave and he could
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see outside that night was falling. He buried his face in the dog’s
shoulder and his stiff fingers found Finn’s leather collar and, gripping
his hands tightly around it, he allowed the dog to lead him out into
the ghostly twilight of the shadowy shore. Together they made slow
and painful progress up beside the dry stone wall that marked the
fisherman’s path up the side of the cliff to the fields above. The
powerful hound floundered as the snowless shore gave way to the
snow-covered field, but John held on tightly; together they pushed
through the snow as it got deeper and deeper until at last they could
use the stones of the wall to climb forward onto the icy crust on top
of the snow and slither back over the eerily lit and curiously quiet
landscape towards the clachan and the warm hearth of The Kennels.
As they approached the little house, the light from the candles at the
window fell across the snow and Finn raised his head and howled
into the night and into the hearing of Tom.
15

A WALK IN THE PARK
Helen Barclay
Bertie looked mutinously at Mummy. He leaned back hard to resist
Mummy’s pull.
‘Just get in the car, Bertie,’ said Mummy.
She was cross, he knew that, and she was trying not to lose her
temper. As Mummy slackened her grip slightly, Bertie started to
move the weight of his body back towards the house. Mummy lost
her temper.
‘Get in the car NOW, Bertie.’ Her voice rose and she started forward.
‘If you don’t get in right now, I will pick you up and put you in.’
Bertie knew when he was beaten. He jumped into the car and sat on
the passenger seat beside Mummy. As the car pulled out of the
drive, Bertie sat up and leaned on the arm rest. He pressed his nose
to the window. His breath misted up the cold glass and he moved his
nose around to make patterns in it. He knew this irritated Mummy
but he didn’t care. She was cross now and the trip to the park was
already spoiled.
When they got to the park Bertie jumped out as soon as Mummy
opened the door. Down the smooth grassy bank he could see Ella
and Lily running backwards and forwards with a ball. They were very
excited and the sound of the game carried towards Bertie and made
him thrill to the feel of the warm damp wind and the smell of the
musty leaves along the bottom of the bank.
He was in time to join in the game, as he lunged for the ball he
knocked Lily into Ella and the three of them rolled around in the
damp grass squealing with the joy of being out on a sunny autumn
day. Ella’s mummy wasn’t very pleased. Ella had this season’s coat
on for the first time as the clocks had just gone back, and now it was
muddy! Bertie’s fault again. But he wasn’t bothered – Bobby was
coming into sight in the distance and Bobby was always up for some
rough and tumble. Despite Mummy calling frantically, Bertie made a
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dash to reach Bobby and catch him from behind before he knew
Bertie was there. They were soon tangled up in the wet leaves at the
bottom of the big rhododendron bushes and it was Bobby’s daddy
calling to them both now.
‘Come out and behave you two,’ he muttered darkly into the bottom
of the bushes.
But Bertie could tell he didn’t really mind. A bit more mud here and
there was okay with him – after all, the boys were safe and he was
tapping away on his iPhone. When Bobby lost interest in their game
and drifted off with his dad, Bertie realised that Mummy was talking
to a lady with a push chair. While she was distracted, he headed off
towards the ice cream pavilion to see if Martin was on duty today or
if any of his other friends were there. Monika and Pam were sitting at
a table outside having coffee. When Monika saw him she bent down
and offered him biscuit. As Bertie took it Monika swept him up onto
her knee. She held him fast and waved to Mummy so that she could
slow down as she raced frantically to catch Bertie up. Mummy
arrived, pink and puffed.
‘You naughty boy, Bertie,’ she said.
Bertie wagged his tail.
17

TWO TYPES OF ART
Emily Barron
She was still running. I could smell her skin; that sickly sweet scent
lingered in the air like wisps of smoke from a cigarette. I could hear
the sound of her thudding heartbeat, the pace quickening the further
she ran away. I counted on her fear, it furthered the thrill. The mere
image of her cowering away made my mouth water. Panic swelling
up in her eyes, her breathing coming out in short, jagged breaths… it
got the adrenaline pumping. The chase is the best part of the
evening. Bits of wood break off my violin as I drag it along the floor,
leaving a trail of fractured pieces behind me. Every villain needs their
own signature trademark. I play at the local club, seduce a plucky
young dame and then I satisfy my hunger for the human flesh. They
run, I hunt, and I kill them with my instrument. Music and murder
are two types of art.
It’s the same routine and the same thrills, the same tingling euphoric
sensation. The band from the club was still playing; you could faintly
hear their attempt at Django Reinhardt’s Minor Swing, the soft notes
of the violin mixing with the brash and upbeat sounds of the acoustic
guitar and the cello. It wasn’t until I turned the corner did the
melodious sound of the band’s music stop altogether. The wind
nipped at my skin, the nape of my neck, the top of my arms, my
cheeks… anything to keep the excitement coursing through my veins.
I cut across the street and took the next left. I was going to cut her
off at the pier. I grabbed her and pulled her into the nearest alley.
Her screams were muffled by the cloth in my hand as I smothered
her with a little bit of chloroform. I threw her over my shoulder and
snuck back to my apartment to finish what we started.
I’m mesmerized by the way her body twists and curves as she
struggles against my grip, the strings of my bow digging deeper into
her neck. Red lines begin to appear on her skin, my grip tightens,
and she gasps for breath. Tears stream down her face, wetting my
fingers. This does not faze me. She chokes on her sobs, and with
one last sharp, jagged breath she falls limp. Her skin is soft against
my fingertips, the smell of wine and cheap perfume haunts the room,
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telling tales of past doings, betraying all my secrets. I can still taste
her lips on mine as I ravaged her mouth outside the club, enticing
her to follow me home. I smile as I touch my lips, remembering that
feeling and the twisted satisfaction it gave me to see that my charms
still worked. Women were so easy to manipulate.
I carry the body outside and I dump it outside a little fishing shack
on the pier. But anywhere will do, I have no preference of place.
Scraps of violin parts lead the way to the body for the gumshoes to
find. It will leave them reeling, mystified at how I have committed
my deed and once again slipped right through their fingertips.
I am an artist. They will never catch me.
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A NOTE OF REGRET
Emily Barron
How could I have
been so foolish, to have
fallen for your tricks?
With the way your
lips curled, and the way
your voice charmed me,
Like a magic spell.
I craved your touch, your laugh.
The feel of your skin
On mine. How could I
have been so stupid, to have
thought this was more?
More than a thing,
I shouldn’t have listened to
your sweet words, your lies.
It was silly for
me to think you’d get to
know me for me,
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Not my body.
I’m the sawn in half lady,
left on the stage.
Your best parlour trick.
Isn’t that what you wanted?
A thing without strings.
You’re the puppeteer,
and I’m the wooden puppet.
You hold my emotions,
In the palms of your
hands. You got what you wanted,
one night. No feelings.
Nothing. Was I even
a person to you? Do you
even remember
My name? I remember
yours. We were supposed
to be friends.
21

WEDDING BELLS
Becca Beddow
‘Don’t touch me!’ She shouted. She was shaking violently. If I didn’t
know better, I would say she was jumping up and down on the balls
of her feet as if she were ready to run. Her black converse were dirty
from running, her bare legs caked with dust from the desert. She
wasn’t dressed for a wedding, even a shotgun wedding like this. Her
shorts were too short and her top was hanging off one shoulder,
exposing the soft pink silk of a bra strap. ‘Don’t you dare touch me,
Erica; I swear I will kill you!’
Her dark eyes were manic, darting back and forth from the people
she was surrounded by. Those memorable orbs are still mahogany
coloured with tiny flecks of gold that you would only notice if you
were a few centimetres from her face. She had forgone makeup; her
face was just as dusty as her legs. Her blonde hair is tied up into a
high ponytail, the ends much lighter than her roots. I suspected that
she used hair dye to maintain the colour, but she always denied it.
Slowly, I raised my hand and removed my blood stained veil from my
face. I didn’t dare touch my cheek, but the cool air from the air
conditioning unit let me know that it was wet. I was glad I hadn’t
spent much on my dress now; it was tacky and cheap, but splattered
with scarlet.
Vivien was holding a machete the length of her arm, it too stained
with blood. Guests and strangers alike surrounded us on the floor.
My future husband lay at my feet, throat slit. His once bright green
eyes were now glassy, the colour of sea glass. ‘How could you?’ she
shouted, brandishing the length of metal as though for dramatic
effect.
‘Viv…’
‘Don’t you dare ‘Viv’ me!’ She warned, her voice rising an octave.
Tears began to slip down her softly tanned cheeks and I can only
now see the old tear tracks in the dust on her face. Slowly, very
slowly, I step over the body of my would-be husband. I didn’t want
to step on him, I know he’s dead, but he’s still my husband… or
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should have been. The heel of my shoe snags on his suit jacket. ‘Just
let me touch you.’
‘NO!’ She screeches, brandishing the metal blade at me one more
time. She backs up, nearly tripping over the body of a stranger
behind her. Dozens of bodies litter the wedding chapel, guests,
random people Joshua had invited off the street. She clearly didn’t
care who she murdered, as long as she got someone’s attention,
probably mine. ‘Don’t you touch me, stay back.’ She slashes the air
with the machete. It makes a soft swooping noise.
It’s just me and her. No one else is left. They have either run or I’m
standing in their blood.
‘Vivien, please…’ I breathe. My lipstick makes my mouth feel heavy; I
can’t manage anything above a whisper. I feel like the air has been
knocked from my lungs and I don’t have any idea how I’m moving
forward. ‘I just… I…’ I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to
make this better. ‘I need you to touch me.’ Maybe she will calm
down.
That catches her attention. Her eyes lose that manic glint and her
mouth goes slack. Slowly her arm lowers, the light from the buzzing
electric light glares off the blade, momentarily blinding me. I don’t
flinch. She drops it and it hits the floor with a clatter. A tense ball
inside me releases its hold and I suddenly feel nauseated. I step over
another body.
She’s looking at me strangely now, her eyes focusing directly on my
face, my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I feel self-conscious, aware of
the blood on my face. It feels sticky and cold. I don’t want any to go
in my mouth. She raises a ruby stained hand and plucks at the
corner of her top, wiping the blood off my face, staining her top red,
smearing it away from my lips. It will be dark brown when it dries on
the material.
My dress is ruined; it is short and shows off my pale legs. I wanted a
longer dress but Joshua said he liked my legs out and wanted to see
them more, so I went for a short one. I’m aware of this as
someone’s clothes brushes the back of my ankle, causing me to take
another step forward. Vivien’s hand slides round the back of my
neck. The smell of blood lingers on her skin, heavy, metallic. ‘I’m so
sorry.’ She whispers. Her forehead touches mine, very lightly, rolling
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gently over the skin of my face. My eyes are shut, I only realise this
when I open them. Her eyes are exactly as I remember them. Burnt
honeycomb, rimmed in a darker, deeper brown.
‘I know.’ I breathe, touching my lips to hers, already hearing the
faint whine of police sirens.
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HOME ONE
Becca Beddow
To lie back and feel the damp moisture
pool in the small of your back.
Feel the wet grass, its paper like texture
between your cool fingertips.
A heavy blanket seems to muffle the
sounds of creatures unseen.
The October breeze gently catching any
fallen leaves, sending them into a fiery cyclone.
Water clinging to pine needles,
releasing their autumnal scent.
The mixture in the air is one of
pine, resin and freshly turned earth.
The tang in the air of yesterdays
burning of weeds in the incinerator.
Ash mingling with the damp in
the night air, inhaled, tasted.
The sky is clear tonight.
Stars shine through like pin pricks
in an endless sea of black.
Endless, bright and unpolluted.
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TO JOHN CLARE
Leanne Beeken
To John Clare,
The dancing leaves still fall on your precious ground,
Not much has changed: each village is still profound,
Still enchanted by blades of grass in fields you loved as a boy,
Your spirit still lingers in the ground, which no one can destroy.
Still from mouth to mouth through ages handed down,
You are the wild remembrance, a part of our history in each small
town.
Crowds of crows that flutter by, I cannot help but wonder if it may
be you,
Who watches in our night sky, never letting go of this view.
Even the high-street remains similar to the Market Town you knew,
The place you bought your first book, and your career grew,
Flourishing like the blossoming trees by the Welland,
Where swans elegantly guard our precious land.
Could it be Glinton School where our passions grew?
It was the villages that stem the spellbinding view.
Burghley House, charming cottages, Barnack stone,
Wildlife and winding rivers: a home to me, and to you.
26

REPEAT
Claudia Calzini
Chugging along the track,
‘Choo-choo’, the dog barks
and milk bottles clatter.
The early ones playing in the park.
Bacon fumes and television chatter
fill the room.
Cup of tea, just one sugar,
then the letterbox flaps.
Post piling high on the carpet mat.
Dishes sunk with the scraps
in the sink that doesn’t work.
It never has.
Feet snug in suede clogs
skip down the path of icy trails.
Crystal cocoons, breathing the fog
of winter air; the shuttle is there.
Morning disturbed by thick smog
and grumpy risers.
Window view and no surprises.
The usual scuttle of prayer lovers
and drunken rabbles of guys.
Dropped at the mouth of the town centre.
Buskers; the smell of French fries.
Pre-work adventure.
Clock watching, Internet browsing;
life outside looks so carefree.
Irked that there’s nothing arousing
for a new trainee.
Printer rolls buzzing, ears ringing
and telephones too.
Rumours gossiped everywhere,
in the offices and the dinner queue.
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There’s glamorous girls and some rather square
with dull clobbers and taste.
A school imprisoned feel to factory air when
inside the place.
The bell triggers a crowd of cries,
some so pleased and others not.
Loving husbands and those rather mean,
waiting at the end of the bus stop.
He awaits his trophy’s return, ensuring she
doesn’t get ‘lost’.
Caressing, cradling, no doubt of a lie;
home time- trip up the stairs.
New bruises and a black eye,
then downstairs the clang of cans
and manly cry fill the house and
night goes by.
Chugging along the track,
‘Choo-choo’, the dog barks
and milk bottles clatter.
The early ones playing in the park.
Bacon fumes and television chatter
fill the room.
Cup of tea, just one sugar,
then the letterbox flaps.
Post still piling high on the carpet mat.
Dishes sunk with old scraps
in the sink that doesn’t work.
It never will.
28

THE WOLF
Claudia Calzini
It’s morning.
Her blush breasts brush against the bench
as she leans, wiping the surface
clean where last night her sweat had stained;
I came.
She laid our breakfast out on the tartan
table cloth. The stack of pancakes
and bacon rashes pestered my palette,
pricking my tongue.
Cooked by Satan. Shovelling the stodge
into their mouths, ignorant, as they
slid the buttery lick across the burnt bread
slab, ploughing it into a mouthful
of mush.
Distorted discussions.
The ting of glass chipping and metal forks
squealing across the china, reminding
me of her girlish groans; those muffled moans
as I thrust between her thighs.
I sighed.
My collar hid my mistake - the marks from where
she had sunk her teeth, and the others, lucky for
me, were beneath my belt. The wife
would never see.
The horny harlot slammed down my dish.
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The sizzling oil spit, staining my shirt;
‘You Clumsy Cow!’ my wife would shout, shooing
her away and dabbing at the greasy leaf that
now painted my pinstripes.
School time.
She passes our kids their lunchboxes, hands
my wife her keys. Turns off the TV,
sultry sauntering past me. Pinching
my shoulder, impishly. Towing and teasing
my tired temptation.
My sweet wife kisses me goodbye before
yelling at the children to get into the car.
The lewd tart prepares the breakfast bar and
the toaster pops.
I can’t stop.
Guilt gnaws at my guts but I fall into lust.
The lies eat at me - the lethal lies of a filthy fling
playing within my affiliation, but
nothing else matters, for the duration.
I lay in bed next to my sleeping wife.
I think - it’s just sex. I consider confessing,
wondering how you say -
Sorry honey, I’m fucking the maid?
30

MOON CHILD
Nicola Chapman
It all started in the run up to Christmas. I’d been able to pass off the
early signs, burying myself in paperwork and the occasional stint on
my PHD. Yet I couldn’t deny that I’d been distracted, losing my focus
and forgetting the unlikeliest things. Like finding my keys in the
fridge one day, writing my lecture notes twice. I didn’t tell Johnny
because I knew he’d laugh, say that’s what country life does to you
and weren’t we getting old, after all. Our life in the city had become
a distant frontier, something we didn’t talk about. With each passing
day, I felt increasingly stuck in limbo; an outsider driving through the
busy streets I once walked to work, yet equally uneasy with the
constant quiet in the house. Once a townie, always a townie our
neighbour had scrawled across our leaving card, but at the time I
thought we’d be happy. Yet instead of falling into place, things
seemed further apart than ever.
We’d moved in the summer and since we were first time buyers, our
completion went by in a whirlwind. From wanting to dwell on every
stage, suddenly we found ourselves holding the keys; ‘responsible’
adults with a mortgage. It came with a name on the front door
rather than a number, and more space than we knew what to do
with. We trekked to the city each day for work, making sandwiches
at dawn and avoiding the usual splurges at Costa. But as the nights
drew in, so our impetus began to wane. We became those people,
living for weekends rather than the everyday, trying to remember
what made us happy. With vacant eyes, we watched whilst the
palette of the season faded away, along with the memory of our old
street. Looking out on the neighbouring woodland from our bedroom
window, I knew in spite of everything that I was not a country
person. Life in the city had held us together but without it, we were
orbiting one another, self-contained like the community to which we
now belonged. ‘The perfect place to bring up kids,’ my mother said
when she came to visit; her words the curse that fenced us in.
It happened on the very first day of the holidays. The morning had
begun without promise, with a shriek of ‘Shit!!’ from downstairs,
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following Johnny’s discovery that the pipes had frozen overnight.
Feeling indignant over my interrupted lie-in, I lolled under the covers
until he left for work and all became quiet again. I must have dozed
off, because the next time I checked it was almost noon. Surprised
by my uncharacteristic fatigue, I rushed through my usual routine,
deciding some fresh air would clear my head. I used to claim that
teaching Romanticism was the perfect pretext to be outdoors, citing
the connection between walking and poetry. Yet without my usual
momentum to activate the silence, I felt vulnerable and had to coax
myself to leave the house. As I sat, lacing my boots on the front
step, my thoughts turned to Johnny. I knew he didn’t like me going
into the woods alone, just as I didn’t like being told what to do. I
pictured him standing nearby, giving me the silent treatment. I
wanted back the Johnny I used to know, who slammed doors when
he was angry and treated the bad days like a stand-up fight. Frankly,
it didn’t feel the same without him. Inhaling the fresh scent of the
pine, I pushed his voice to the back of my mind and started on the
woodland path. I was determined to let nature guide me. Yet like
leaves blown on the wind, his shadow drifted along beside me.
The day looked particularly promising through the lens of the midday
sun. I sensed a familial spirit, rising from the breath of the trees and
in the calls of the wildlife; the bounce to my footfall ringing out my
contentment. Yet in the face of the festive sunshine, the wind began
to pick up, laying into my exposed skin. It skimmed the veneer of the
landscape ahead, pushing my gaze out towards an indistinct shape in
the distance. Caught by curiosity, I began to move in that direction.
From under the sun-clouds, the shadow melted into human form. As
my vision became sharper, I saw it was a woman, dressed in what
looked like a washed-out nightie. She had her back to me so it was
hard to be sure but her stance gave the impression that she was
waiting for someone. Like a lioness, I felt the hunger of the hunt
surge through my veins, driving me on. Yet as I came within a few
metres of her, I stopped. Fear clung to my pores. It was clear that I
couldn’t carry on without stepping around her but I didn’t want to
turn back now. As if she sensed my indecision, she turned, latching
her eyes on mine. Her expression was savage yet she was eerily
beautiful, with skin so white that it looked as if it had been carved
from a block of marble. Her lips were blood red and looked painted
on, and her hair was gold-leaf. But it was her eyes which held my
32

attention. Beneath the sheen, it was clear she had secrets. Yet with
such beauty comes power, and hers sliced me open like a
switchblade.
Darkness had begun to fall around us but I found myself rooted to
the spot. I had begun to lose track of time, when all of a sudden, she
parted her lips, digging her front teeth into the lower one as if to
ready herself.
‘God save me from that thing,’ she whispered, looking past me into
the distance. I was not sure if her words were addressed to me but
all the same, I felt afraid of whatever had taken her eyes from mine.
As our eyes pupils reconnected, I found their lustre had faded and
her face clouded over. Still watching me from under lowered eyelids,
she mulishly kicked out at the ground between us like a sulky child,
uprooting the topsoil. I was struck by the change in her mood and
impulsively sunk to my knees, to patch up the void she had created.
With every mound of earth I pushed back to the ground, the more
violent she became as if she was lashing out at me. With steady
hands belying my trembling interior, eventually my impetus began to
fade and I stood to face her. Her eyes had morphed into black pools,
the pupils consumed by her irises.
‘Dark lady, dark lady!’ she hissed at me vehemently. In that instant, I
heard a crunching of leaves from behind me as if in response.
Reflexively, I ran towards a dense clump of pines and crouched down
behind the widest trunk. It screened both me and my line of sight,
cutting off my perception. The sudden silence was unnerving,
heightened by the sound of my heartbeat knocking in my ears.
Shivering from the cold and my inactivity, I looked down at my
watch, with no perception of how long I’d been here. I decided to
make a run for it. As I crept out into the open, a surge of nausea
swept over me. Dragging myself on, I came to the spot where she
had previously been, only to now find it completely deserted. In that
one moment, the serenity of nature seemed so sublime that I stood,
stock-still and allowed my relief to overpower me. As if on cue, drops
of rain began to fall in clusters and I ran blindly back through the
trees, steered by adrenaline.
33

As I unlocked the front door, I remember feeling like I wanted to
surrender, to lie down on the floor in the hallway. But I kept going
and tried to stay busy, knowing Johnny would be home within the
hour. Wet through, I peeled off my clothes and took my time in the
shower, feeling my body gradually relax under the hot water. Then I
started on dinner, chopping the vegetables and putting on the pasta.
Whilst I watched the water heat up, I wondered whether this was
how it felt to go mad, if it was usual to feel so calm. Hearing the key
in the lock, I had to stop myself from running to the door.
‘Emilie? I’m back,’ he yelled. ‘It’s kicking up a storm out there! Guess
what, Dave said I can have Monday off. It’s officially Christmas!’
While he was speaking, I heard him clunking around in the hall,
taking off his shoes and hanging up his jacket. I didn’t turn as he
thundered into the kitchen and was caught off-guard as he wrapped
his arms around me. Swallowing back sobs, I tried to focus on the
pan, yet failed to react as it began to boil over. I saw his hand reach
around me to turn off the hob and at long last, I crumpled into his
chest. He stroked my hair, murmuring reassuringly.
‘We’ll get through this, okay?’ he said and I realised he thought I was
crying about the baby. The unborn life we gained found and then
lost again, in the city. Now it had resurfaced, it didn’t seem right to
tell him what had happened that day. There was already too much to
say. Later at the kitchen table, we took our time to reconnect to the
past and forget anything else ever mattered.
As we lay in bed that night, the wind tore against the window. I
couldn’t sleep, unsettled by the strains of the day and feeling like I’d
swallowed a dark secret. Each time I started to doze off, the
woodland swam back into sight, taunting me. Gradually falling into a
half-sleep, I dreamt I was back there, darting between the gothic
shapes of the pines. As I pressed on, the coppice got thicker and
started to sprout newborn limbs which called out to me as I passed.
I woke in a panic, still warm with sleep. Johnny was already up,
looking out of the window. The storm had passed and it had left
behind a promising-looking sky, full of intense colour.
‘The perfect way to spend a Sunday,’ he said, pointing out of the
window. I nodded and feigned a smile, heading into the en-suite to
buy myself time. The cold, white interior washed over me and I
34

prepared myself to face her again. Without tasting it, I ate my
breakfast and left the house, clutching Johnny’s hand.
The closer we came to the spot where I’d seen her, the more my
paranoia bubbled up inside me. I kept looking around as we walked,
scanning the trees and expecting to hear movement. Yet there was
only Johnny’s voice and my own leading me onwards. As we reached
the edge of the clearing, I let my hand fall from his and draped it
over my eyes as a shield. But through the spaces in-between my
fingers, once again I could see there was no one there. Johnny had
continued walking and I saw him stoop by the foot of the tree before
which she had been standing. Next to him, I could now clearly see a
gravestone.
‘Come see this epitaph’, he said as he traced over the words with his
finger. ‘It’s beautiful.’ Moving back, he let me stand beside it.
Moon Child,
Yours is the light which woke my soul
Surmounting the sky when darkness falls.
‘It’s her,’ I said, knowing that I wouldn’t see her again.
***
Johnny hands me a cup of tea and sits across from me at the kitchen
table. I smile in acknowledgment and look into his eyes. Beyond the
glaze, I see something to believe in; an awakening which drives us
both on. Way back to where we started, closer than ever.
The unborn light flickers inside me.
35

ABSTRACT
Nicola Chapman
Her surface is perfection
But just below the stilted
Human lines she scribes
A multiplex of hypochondria.
Of sickness-nostalgia, nostalgic sickness
Eats as a maggot her argot;
Penned for-profit and carbon blocks
The shiny, ballpoint spout.
The internal ink is grainy
To scrabble in purple prose
Unseemly. Yet becomes Her
Authorial vogue against the flow;
Hell’d by figurative fields they’ll excavate
Mooring what’s novel, to accent
Exotic tongues that revert to draft
Striking match to paper.
36

CO-EXIST
Abby Cook
A short spoken word poem about gender.
Can we really not fit in this space with
So many corners and gaps and rooms to spare
Leaving it tidy like we were never there,
We cannot co-exist
Like oil and water
Emitting a colourful glow and a rainbow shine
Simply the beauty of refraction as the colours merge but really they
don’t merge at all,
It’s the separation that causes this effect
So can’t we just let our colours combine and permanently destroy
these stereotypes
For our children
And our children’s children
Eventually dismantle and breathe new life
In a world that otherwise can’t decide whether it wants
To accept or not,
That the world is not just black and white.
Can we not just co-exist. Would that be so hard?
A chemical reaction to push the boundaries
And create a fucking explosion
Because in the background I hear the
Sizzle of a new-found revolution
To bury these old views with the old
And out of this scrap-yard
Of petrol and smoke
Can everyone be equal,
Like evolution intended.
Because Adam and Eve were not the ending.
37

TIMETABLES
Abby Cook
Screenplay introduction
SCENE 1 - EXT. BEACH DAY - FADE IN FROM WHITE
JONSI - GROW TILL TALL
CAMERA PANS OVER A SNOWING BEACH LANDSCAPE.
Camera stops on a girl who sits smoking a
cigarette. Her hair is blonde, fair and straggly.
She wears a large sheep skin coat and a dark red
beanie hat. Snow falls and melts on her face,
getting caught in her hair. Her face shows
ambivalence with a hint of sorrow.
As she breathes out the smoke it is impossible to
tell whether she is emitting smoke or warm air. The
smoke appears to physically engulf her, turning the
camera lens completely white as she blows the air
into it.
CUT - ESTABLISHING SHOT - GIRL SITTING ON A BANK
ZOOMS OUT
CUT - SHOT OF HER HANDS
She rolls another cigarette, her hands are
extremely pale. She stands. Camera follows her feet
as she walks away.
SCENE 2 - INT. ROOM - FADE IN FROM BLACK ONTO
PERSONAL VIEW SHOT OF A DAMP CEILING - MIMICKING
EYE OPENING
XELA - SOFTNESS OF SENSES
CUT - BIRD’S EYE SHOT OF GIRL LOOKING PAST THE
CAMERA, VACANT
38

Her hair is short and black.
CUT - SIDE VIEW -
She sits up in bed.
Her face is unchanging and sad.
She stretches half-heartedly, scratches her head
and turns to the window.
CUT - P.O.V SHOT - SHE PULLS ACROSS THE SINGULAR
CURTAIN AND SEES THE SNOW.
CUT - SIDE VIEW -
Smile slowly appears on the girl’s face.
CUT - EXT. STREET - IN THE SNOW
BIRDS EYE VIEW
Girl dances in the snow, wearing only her pyjama
shorts and a thin band T-shirt. Her eyes are closed
and her arms are in the air. She does ballerinalike
jumps. She opens her eyes.
CAMERA ZOOMS INTO THE BLACKNESS OF HER PUPILS. CUT
TO EXT. BUS STOP
The fair haired girl stands waiting for a bus. She
is wearing all black and her hair is tied back. She
takes a drag of her cigarette.
THE BUS GETS IN THE WAY OF THE SHOT CUT TO INT.
LIVING ROOM
Short haired girl sits on the sofa with her feet
up. She smokes a joint, with half closed eyes. She
blows smoke rings to the ceiling and watches them
intently.
SCENE 3 - EXT. CEMETERY Soley - Pretty Face
CLOSE UP OF BLONDE HAIRED GIRL’S VACANT EXPRESSION.
There is a muffled voice in the background.
CAMERA ZOOMS OUT TO AN ESTABLISHING SHOT
39

A group of huddled people all dressed in black.
Some crying and hugging. But the blonde haired girl
is standing on her own.
CUT - CAMERA FOLLOWS COFFIN AS IT IS LOWERED INTO
THE GROUND.
CUT TO CLOSE UP OF BLONDE HAIRED GIRL
Her lip quivers and a tear runs down her cheek.
ANNETTE
(V.O)
I was going to do it that day. I
had already decided.
She twitches her nose and when she breathes out a
steam cloud covers her features.
There is a sudden loud noise that sounds like a
train.
THE SHOT GOES IMMEDIATELY BLACK.
40

ON THE POINT OF LEAVING FOR PICKERING, SOMETIME IN
1941
Janet Dean
Seeing me off at Doncaster,
tears at the brim,
not one dare
drop
on her Max Factored face.
Wearing Oxford bags,
coat collar up,
belt buckle trailing,
hands flitting
from pocket to glove.
Warm in the glow
of anticipation,
the steamy breath,
the act of departing.
I mouthed my goodbye,
waving to her.
She pushed her hand
through wavy hair,
not wanting
to wave back.
41

MARKET DAY BLUES
Janet Dean
Wednesday, first light; queuing
for Chelsea boots, green suede shoes.
Bristling for a bargain before school,
craving buttery leather,
stacked heels.
Disappointed, nothing fits.
Sachets of Inecto Hint of a Tint,
one Copper, one Chestnut,
brighten me up.
Saturday errands I run for you:
a slab of belly pork, a bag of biscuits, broken.
New tights, some black, some tan;
blobs of clear nail polish
control my runs.
Choosing buttons on the haberdashers’ stall,
selecting the silver, picking at pearls,
allowing the black four-holes
to fall from my fingers.
Together, we go to buy the duvet and its blue cover,
days before I leave for college.
42

21 DREAMS
Millie Douce
21 - Everyone nowadays is a little sharper than before. I smile and I
see smudged faces grin back: faces that once had teeth and eyes
and noses and personalities. They wish me a happy birthday and
clap and cheer until their hands dissolve and their voices scratch at
the air.
20 - I close my eyes and the world turns sepia. Everything is a
snapshot that has been burnt onto my eyelids. It is horribly beautiful,
and I can’t help but stare.
19 - You vomited all down my tights that night. I thought it was just
the alcohol, but then you told me about the powders underneath
your bed and the pale man who kissed you near the bridge.
18 - I smashed his head against the wall. His skull cracked like the
soft shell of an egg, except the yolk wasn’t yellow, it was red.
17 - I moved away to rid myself of you. I rid myself of kiss chase and
lime vodka. I rid myself of underage driving and late trips to
nowhere. I rid myself of a past that was created for me.
16 - She jabs at my eyes with the pencil she bought me for my last
birthday. Instead of taking me to church on Sunday, she now takes
me to the shopping centre. We pretend we’re rich and take the
things that would make our wishes come true, sprinting down the
high street as we laugh away authority.
15 - The bus catches fire and we all laugh as we ricochet into the
flames that envelop the streets. It’s an excitement that we’ve waited
for since we moved here.
14 - The baboons ran out of the cage in quick succession, screeching
as they clambered towards a wonky sunlight. The cage was now
empty, apart from a mass of peels and skins slowly decaying in the
heat.
13 - You’re on the cusp of understanding. The little children laugh in
the sunshine and paddle in the splash pool. The adults lounge on
43

deckchairs whilst sipping white wine and cool lemonade, talking
about a better time before they had us. You’re flat against the grass,
growing and wilting all at once.
12 - The girl keeps asking me why I wear white cotton knee-highs.
Every day I hear her walking over to me, with boots made of nails
and rust. One day I will lift her into the air and throw her across the
field, and watch as the muddy ground swallows her whole.
11 - The bike finally, miraculously, resisted buckling underneath me.
In that moment I felt like happiness was the simplest thing to
conquer, as my feet grazed the cool blades of grass with every
circular motion of my legs.
10 - I started to hate you. Not because you were smarter or stronger
or cooler than me (you were), but simply because we shared the
same family. We knew each other’s story, and that frightened me.
9 - The pigs keep flying over our house. Some fall and land on the
roof, squealing as their skin splits against the coarse bricks. We
always keep these ones and use them for bacon in the morning.
8 - The man with the squirrel in his trousers visits our school every
week, on Thursday mornings. He drinks coffee from a mug with a
clown’s face on it and asks us how to spell the word ‘laughter.’
7 - All I ever thought about was ‘The Hairdresser Stylist Doll.’ On
Christmas morning, I didn’t run but fly across the hallway in
anticipation. I was presented with my very own swivel desk chair,
and my heart splintered a little further.
6 - I shared a bath with my cousin and shouted ‘I want what he has!’
whilst pointing to the soft flesh between his hips. I’ve always been
the jealous type.
5 - Mummy asked me what I wanted to call the new babies when
they arrived. I suggested Lazarus and Titan. They chose Richard and
Thomas.
4 - They stuck Barbie in the cake. They thought it was a ‘fun’ idea…
my screams thought otherwise.
3 - The washing machine is a bucket of secrets. As the clothes spin
in formation, these secrets appear at the glass. As much as I try to
catch them, they are always too quick. Churning, churning, churning.
44

2 - Grazed knees are all you get from trying hard.
1 - They sang me a lullaby every night, thinking they were doing the
right thing. What they didn’t know was the nature of the darkness
they were sending me to.
0 - If the sky is merely a mirror of the sea, we are all swimming in
our own clouds. Dreaming of an island where good things are born,
for a change.
45

WE ALL SMELL LIKE THE MAN ON THE BUS
Millie Douce
Admit. We do
stand and laugh at the
monster, goblin, ogre
of the Number 10.
Wafting hands as we
surf through our old town
prejudices.
He has purple feet and no socks,
no feelings. We’re used to
shopping at Waitrose
on a weekend
of cherry gum and
texting insults.
Prepubescent unease.
He carries a wealth
of jumpers, meats, sweats
in his frayed Lidl bag. Pinched
noses and furrowed eyebrows.
I dream of four thirty-two and
wonder if he, too, remembers
a time of silence and youth.
He is a very important man.
The collector of our fear
fretted bad smells, bad tastes.
Bottling them up
in jars where the jam still
sticks to the warm base.
He is biding his time.
Admit. One day he’ll walk
on, shirt drenched, ready.
46

Open the lid.
Emit.
Laugh as he gasses
his perfume, thick and viscous.
Showing two rows of gleaming, mustard teeth.
47

TWO O’CLOCK, TUESDAY
Harriet Edwards
A fat woman sits on a wooden bench outside a medieval church, her
bicycle leant up against the wall of the nave. Across the lane, a
young man rides a skewbald horse over a field of cross country
jumps. An old man sits at a picnic bench outside the pub, an ancient
collie asleep on the ground at his feet. The only sound is of the
horse's laboured breathing and his hooves striking the hard, baked
ground. The young man has pushed his mount hard in the warm
weather. The fat woman wonders if they are training for something,
a competition or an event. The old man gazes at his empty pint pot.
It has been empty for some time now, but the landlord will not
bother to come out to him. The landlord is sitting on a tall stool
behind his bar, watching the horse racing on Channel 4. He has no
bets on any of the races, in fact he has no interest in either horses or
racing. There are no other customers in the pub. He could go out to
the old man, whose dog is not allowed in the pub anymore because
the pub serves food, and see if he wants another drink, but then he
will be obliged to engage in conversation with the old man, and the
old man is dull. The landlord does not like the idea of waiting on his
clientele either. If they want to buy beer, then they must come and
ask for the beer. He is there to sell it, not to be a servant. The
elderly collie is awake, but he doesn't move. He is very thirsty, but
the land lord will not bring him a bowl of water, and the old man has
to walk with a stick, and struggles to open the doors as well as carry
the bowl. The collie will wait until they get home. The skewbald
horse is tired too. He has been obliged to canter round this field for
over an hour, jumping over the same jumps in different orders, over
and over again. The young man is not a skilled rider. He has added
more and more complicated bits of tack to the skewbald horse's kit in
order to restrain his exuberant mount, and the harsh bit and tight
noseband and restraining martingale all add to the skewbald horse's
irritation. The fat woman shifts on the uncomfortable bench. She
would like to sit inside the church, where it is always cool, and enjoy
the summer sun illuminating the stained glass windows, but the
church is locked against thieves and vandals. She watches a
48

umblebee working at some clover blossoms, and wonders what the
other little mauve flowers are called. The churchyard looks unkempt,
but she has read the notice board where it is explained that the
plants native to the area are being allowed to thrive in their natural
environment. It's a shame for the people who come to tend the
graves though, she thinks. The skewbald horse slows his pace, and
the young man gives him a hard smack with his whip. The skewbald
horse snorts and tosses his head. The young man takes a tighter grip
on his reins. The old collie outside the pub rolls over to let the sun
warm his other side, and the old man gets awkwardly to his feet to
go in for another pint. The landlord reluctantly slides down from his
stool as the old man approaches the bar. The Channel 4 Racing
changes from Kempton to Wetherby. The old man rests an elbow on
the sticky bar while he waits for his beer to settle. In the churchyard
the fat woman stands up and moves from foot to foot to ease the
stiffness in her lower back. She watches as the young man finally
pulls the skewbald horse to a walk, and heads for the stable yard.
The fat woman walks her bicycle to the church yard gate, and closes
it behind her. She mounts the bicycle, and rides, a little wobbly at
first uphill towards the pub. The landlord's wife pulls her battered
Nissan Micra up in the pub car park, and takes some bags of
groceries from the boot. The young man dismounts, and leads the
skewbald horse in to his stable. The fat woman changes gears on her
bicycle and the chain comes off the sprocket. She coasts to a halt
and gets off the bicycle to try to work the chain back in place. The
young man undoes the buckles on the skewbald horse's girths and
places the saddle on the open lower half of the stable door. The
young man goes back into the stable to take the skewbald horse's
bridle off. The skewbald horse has been working hard and the tight
girth has chafed his belly. He reaches up with a rear hoof to scratch
his belly, and as his leg swings back again, his metal shod hoof
catches the young man in the side of his knee. The young man
screams in agony as his bone cracks and he falls to the straw in the
stable. The skewbald horse panics at the noise and sudden
movement, and bolts from his stable. The fat woman with the bicycle
also looks up with a start at the young man's shout, and barely
avoids being knocked flat by the panicked horse. The skewbald horse
thunders up the lane towards the pub, reins and martingale flapping
around his head and hooves. The pub landlord's wife straightens up
from placing a tin bowl of water on the ground for the old thirsty
49

collie. She sees the skewbald horse, and runs over to catch him by
his reins. The landlord's wife soothes the frightened horse. The old
collie laps noisily at his dish of water. The old man watches the
landlord's wife loosen the skewbald horse's too tight noseband, and
stroke his sweaty neck. The fat woman phones for an ambulance,
and reassures the young man, who is weeping in pain. Inside the
pub, the landlord gazes unseeingly at the Channel 4 racing, now
back at Kempton.
***
The river meanders in slow tight curves across this flat part of the
county. The current is sluggish, and swans leave striations on the
glossy surface, deep vee's echoing and repeating in a manner
suggestive of a much more speedy progress than they make. Circles
bubble concentrically as unseen fish breathe, deep in the murky
depths. On the far bank, bullocks graze, their splattered pats of dung
sustaining the life cycles of nature, each offering adorned with a hazy
halo of flies.
50

A PARTY DRESS
Emily Hannan
The black widow
hangs from my waist
fraying slightly at the
Bottom.
But, she does cling so tightly
to my hips in fear of newness wearing off.
She peers down at my feet staring worriedly
at the red thorns disguised with bows. Murderers.
She turns her attention to my head. A happy sight.
Pearly whites surrounded by the deep red paste
Matching the thorns creates a stir.
No matter.
Blue pearls glisten
with excitement
and the lemon bob
hangs low
The black widow is ready for her show.
51

GRAFTER
Emily Hannan
Stiff, grafter hands
Slide smoothly over
My skin.
Bold, brown eyes
Dance rapidly over my body.
Both lids laced with thick,
Black liner.
A coal boarder
Sliding along a piercing stare;
Smouldering, sensual, serious.
Lips.
Unlocked, drawn open by love.
My eyes are fixated but do I recognise
The figure hovering over me with a sooty disguise?
Caged in, protected,
And covered in dirt
From hands that caress coal.
And dust,
That sprinkles gently,
Down from thick hair,
Coating my pale skin repeatedly
With fine layers of passion,
To be tainted
With smudged hand prints
As the miner makes his
Move
Swiftly
Through
The tunnel
I glance up a second after,
Making love, to my grafter.
52

JANE EYRE
Lynne Heritage
Wednesday morning and already the lights are on in the classroom.
Outside the sky is heavy and wintery. At intervals, sleet-like rain
patters on the square windows and dark, spectral trees line the road
like sentries. It isn’t just the day that is depressing and gloomy. Even
though we have only had one year of secondary school, I am bored
with the monotony of the days. My mind numbed by the round of
Latin translations, learning names of kings, meaningless algebra. A
litany of facts and calculations that mean little to me.
It is English, an hour before lunch and we are waiting for Miss
Telford to arrive. She is often late and I am growing restless. I sense
the others are no more settled than I am. The room is filled with
listless chatter, girls twisting in their seats and a satchel toed across
the floor. Some of this discontent is down to the announcement in
assembly this morning. ‘No more dancing in the gym at break time.’
They really mean ‘No more jiving.’ They consider it a craze that
must not be encouraged. As young as we are, we feel hard done by.
The door opens and Miss Telford bustles into the room, clutching her
large briefcase in one hand. And in the other, her leather-bound copy
of the novel we’ve been reading for the last two weeks now - Jane
Eyre (so much more interesting than ‘Children of the New Forest’ or
‘Don Quixote’ which had been heavy going). I am suddenly bright
with expectation. We are up to the part where Jane has arrived at
Lowood and is suffering harsh treatment. There is a lifting of
desktops and riffling around among exercise books to find our school
copies (cardboard-backed with leaves of thin paper which tear at the
corner as you turn the page) and a settling down even before we are
told to; even before the page number we need to find is chalked on
the blackboard.
And Beth, the girl sitting in the desk at the front by the door, begins
to read. Out loud, as always, and one page only, then the girl behind
her starts the next page, and so on, up and down the rows; all thirty
three girls have to participate. We follow in our copies, patiently
53

when Joanna stumbles over the words and loses the meaning;
irritated when Catherine speaks so quietly that we can’t hear. But I
am absorbed in the story, as we all are, so I follow in my own book
with determined concentration, not wanting to miss any of it, until
another reader, more fluent, picks up from the top of the next page.
And a sense of peace falls over the room.
I have endured it all with Jane: the coldness of the Reeds, the terror
of the Red Room, that lonely coach drive across miles of countryside
to school, the anger at being branded a liar. And the bitter cold and
the burnt porridge adding to her misery. I have felt it all – the sense
of abandonment, the heat of rebellion, the humiliation.
The girl sitting behind me comes to the end of her page and it is my
turn to read. We have reached the chapter where typhus has swept
through Lowood, that ‘cradle of fog and fog-bound pestilence’ and
Jane overhears that her friend, Helen, is dying. It is night and she
creeps ‘without shoes’ into the sick room, careful not to wake the
sleeping nurse, and climbs into Helen’s crib.
I read on. I lose myself so completely in the story that after a few
minutes, I am reading as though to myself. I am unaware that I
have reached the end of my one allotted page, and go on. No one
stops me. I can’t believe that Helen is going to die – she’s no older
than I am - and my voice is breaking at the pathos of it all: Jane’s
bewildered questioning, Helen’s happiness at dying ‘you must be
sure and not grieve’, Jane being found in the morning, lying with her
arms round the dead girl. ‘I was asleep, and Helen was – dead.’
When I come to the end of the chapter, my voice drops away with
the last words and there is a deathly quiet in the room for an
unnaturally long time.
Then, with a suddenness that breaks the mood, the bell for the end
of the lesson pierces the air. Lunch time and we are hungry. But as
the girls move past my desk, I can’t follow yet; I sit where I am, my
throat tight with emotion. I am not even looking up when Angela,
one of the twins who never speaks to me, pauses as she heads for
the door. ‘Blimey,’ she says, ‘I didn’t know you could read like that.’
And I think to myself, ‘Neither did I.’
54

REUNION
Lynne Heritage
The train rocks through the late afternoon,
passing square buildings
and street lights,
yellow in the distance,
evenly spaced.
And on across country,
cleaving in two,
stubble fields and grasslands.
It is a journey of return.
Not on the ticket
but, nevertheless,
a backward glance
to another time.
They will meet, finally,
in a station café,
fingers touching,
the echoes of the loudspeaker
punctuating small silences,
the evening clock shortening hours,
and nervous chatter
rendering love meaningless.
So it was all for nothing -
the carefully chosen suit,
the curled hair,
the secret smile to the hall mirror.
Expectation felled in a wrong word,
a sour breath on stored memories
and something like distaste
coiled within.
The train speeds home
55

56
through the darkening night,
sightless, urgent,
anxious to
cover its tracks.

MRS BIGFOOT AND THE BEATLE
Pamela Hoggarth
I remember a few years back listening to a radio interview with
Julian Lennon in which he said that his father had told him that if he
ever died to look out for a white feather. It would be a key sign that
he was there, watching over him. About half an hour later I took my
tea out onto the patio and as I sat and sipped it, a white feather
floated down in front of me and rested on the ground between my
feet. I gasped in amazement. It was John Lennon right there in my
garden.
Over the years since that first appearance, he’s been around loads. I
see him at least three times a week, probably more if I remember to
look. Whatever the reason, I feel honoured that he visits me. And he
doesn’t just appear in my garden. I see him quite a lot as I walk and
one time he was on the bus, a few seats down on the left, peeping
out from under the Metro. Quite a few times he’s ended up on the
bottom of my shoe and every now and again he arrives in my home
stuck to the cat’s undercarriage. When he first started hanging
around I used to get very excited but now I just accept it, say hi and
move on, happy to be watched over by such a legend.
A few months on and the white feather has become a fearful object
in our community. It is an item that cannot be ignored. A chilling
plume that if found, strikes trepidation and dread, deep into the
heart of every one of us. Well maybe I’m being a bit dramatic there
as it doesn’t actually scare me one jot. I usually feel a great sense of
achievement whenever a feather is discovered but I go along with
the trepidation and dread stuff just to blend in. Not that I care about
blending in but I don’t want to be caught out just yet, so I try... a
bit... for John’s sake.
I don’t fit in this village and never have. I was born into a family of
freaks and weirdos and eventually grew up to become one myself. I
don’t really care what people think and say about me. I like to be
different. But it did hurt as a small child to hear the other children
calling Mother, and it wasn’t just the children. The parents were just
57

as bad. Now they call me and it doesn’t bother me, just as it never
bothered Mother. And it never bothered John.
The relationship I now have with John is the strongest I have ever
had with any man. Actually, who am I kidding? I’ve never had a
relationship with a man. At least not that sort. Men don’t even notice
me. Except for Grandad of course, who loved me unconditionally and
left me well provided for. My father tried to ignore my existence as
much as he could and as for my brother, well... two years older and
the only physical contact was a punch to the stomach every time he
passed me and he thought mother wasn’t looking. And those men at
the hospitals, they didn’t manage to pin their fancy label on me. All
that fine talk about disorders and clusters didn’t get them
anywhere. They couldn’t come to an agreement, wittering on in their
esoteric gobbledegook; was I paranoid, schizoid, schizotypal,
delusional, erratic, disturbing, antisocial, borderline, histrionic,
narcissistic, avoidant, dependant or obsessive? And those are just the
ones I can remember. Then Grandad came to get me and gave me a
job in his factory office and things settled down for a while.
As I finish stacking the newspapers away, I turn and catch a rare
sight of myself. There is a full length mirror on the back of each of
the three bedroom doors. I cannot get to the one in my parents
room. It is crammed with papers. They are piled high to the ceiling
and there is a smell beginning to pervade the already stale air in
there, which I would rather not acknowledge. So I keep their door
firmly closed. On the rare occasion that I need to look in the mirror, I
use this one, in my brother’s room. It is much kinder than the one in
mine, and easier to get to. The newspapers have taken over much of
his room too but he won’t care. He lives in Australia now, or maybe
New Zealand. Might even be Canada.
I stand in front of it, like a newly arrested criminal about to have her
photograph taken for police files. A mug shot, only full length. I start
at the top because that’s the best bit, my crowning glory. Whatever
else I lack in the dazzling department, it’s never been in my hair. But
I always keep it tightly tied back and when out in public I wear a hat.
I tug at the tight elastic band restraining it and shake it free. It
cascades down onto my shoulder with a sense of huge relief at its
rare and sudden freedom. I still keep myself clean so it does look
beautiful. Glossy and naturally blonde with highlights that look as if
58

I’ve paid good money for them. And still no sign of grey. I harshly
drag it back into the elastic band. Back into its proper place.
I move closer and study my face. It leaves much to be desired.
Overhearing myself described by others whilst growing up I
remember words such as plain, unattractive, drab, dull and even
downright ugly. Nothing new there, then. Nose still too big for my
face, eyes still too close together, the thinnest of lips, possibly the
only thin thing about me, ever. And do I detect a faint hint of
vibrissae around the edges there? Might need another quick shave.
My eyes move over my big-boned body clad in Mother’s St. Michael,
made to last and never for fashion, no Per Una or Autograph in her
day. Good old St. Michael, patron saint of law enforcement and ladies
knickers. What a lad. I see middle aged spread in tweed skirt and
matching acrylic sweater. I see thick legs in American Tan; the
newspapers tell me that Kate’s brought them back into fashion again.
Better on her than me, though. I never managed to catch a prince.
Finally I see the feet. Not much to be said about them really. Others
comment on them on a regular basis and there’s nothing I can do to
disguise them. Yes, they are a size ten and yes, the only shoes I
wear are men’s - which I admit probably doesn’t do me any favours
style wise. When they snigger at the size and sight of my feet in
dad’s practical brown brogues, I just carry on, pulling mother’s tartan
trolley, full of the freshly collected papers.
‘All the better to stamp on you, my dear,’ I retort in my mind.
Never out loud. Never give them the satisfaction of thinking that they
might have gotten to you.
‘All the better to grind you into the ground, my dear. All the better to
flatten, trample and squash you.’
Before John came I was just bumbling through life without a man or
a purpose but now I wake each morning and embrace the day. I’m a
clever person; both my brother and I were grammar school
educated. We both managed to get our A’ Levels but while he went
on to University I somehow ended up in that place. It was a dark
time for me because I really didn’t fit in there either and I still can’t
figure out how it all came about. Anyway, that’s all in the past and
thanks to John I am now moving forward.
59

I collect all the white feathers from John’s visits and put them safely
together in a beautiful carved wooden jewellery box that once
belonged to my mother and also once belonged to her mother.
Closing my eyes, I rub my large calloused hands over the intricate
pattern on the lid and cast my mind back to the first time.
The First Time. Number One. What can I say? Well, I remember he
went down like a sack of spuds. Easy peasy. I must admit I was a bit
surprised. I’d half expected a fight back. But I had gone in from
behind and I was much bigger than him. He didn’t see me coming.
Once he was down, a couple more hefty blows and it was curtains
for him. After, I wrapped my father’s ancient monkey wrench in the
latest edition of The Sun and popped it back into the trolley with the
rest of the rags. I trundled on my way, leaving him spread-eagled on
the ground, face down, the white feather tucked carefully behind
what was left of his ear, the edges just beginning to turn an
attractive shade of pink, as the puddle of blood spread out beneath
him. I didn’t look back.
I left it for a while after Number One, content with just the
memories. But as the images in my mind began to fade slightly, I
heard John quietly nagging in my ear and I felt a steadily building
urge to get out there and do another. So I did. A wallop and a
whack, a thwack and a thump, and job done. This one landed on his
back. I couldn’t help a bit of a chuckle as I looked down at him. He
did look a bugger, laid there, gob wide open, a look of pure
astonishment still on his face. I stuck the feather in his gaping mush.
Then I noticed, as I wrapped the soiled wrench in that morning’s
copy of The Press, that the front page carried the story of the
ongoing, unsolved, investigation into Number One. That made me
chuckle again. I headed for home, lurching along in my usual
ungainly manner, my mind already moving on to what I might have
for supper.
The urge got stronger after Number Two and it was only a few
weeks before I knew that there would be a Number Three. I fetched
my trolley and went out into the darkness. Even though it was early
in the evening, Number Three was drunk. I watched him leave the
pub and take the short cut through to the next village, down the
deserted lane that led to the church and fields beyond. It was badly
lit so I had to be quick. I plodded after him trying to make as little
60

noise as possible but he was singing away to himself, so he wouldn’t
have heard. He stopped to have a wee and the moon graciously
came out from behind a cloud just as I reached him. Thank you,
John. I decked him with one clobber, followed by another crack and
a bash, and then I carefully inserted the feather in his buttonhole. I
wrapped the trusty wrench, my personal weapon of mass
destruction, in the previous weekend’s Sunday Express and I
quickened my pace; I needed to get back for the start of Emmerdale.
Despite my size, I have been invisible to most for the majority of my
life. People notice me for the wrong reasons and then immediately
forget me. And I’m such a regular sight in the community, blending
into the background - observed but not recorded, if you like. But I
know that I can’t get away with it for much longer. I expect the
knock on the door any day now, but hopefully not today. This
evening I have John’s work to do. The monkey wrench is already
wrapped in anticipation, in yesterday’s copy of The Times. I lift the
lid of the jewellery box, remove one of the feathers, slip it into my
pocket, fetch the battered tartan trolley from the lobby and leave the
house.
61

YOU MIGHT SLEEP
Pamela Hoggarth
The older girl was already there when he arrived. So was another
boy who looked about the same age as him. From where they were
sitting together, on a large rock overlooking a stream, they had
powerlessly watched as events unfolded before them. He had
wandered over to them because he did not know what else to do.
They both jumped down and walked to greet him.
‘Hiya,’ said the girl, ‘Are you alright?’
He stood in front of them, his head bowed, ashamed for what he
knew they must have seen. She put her arms around him and gave
him a big cuddle. He returned the embrace and began to sob. The
other boy, who knew too well how he felt, stood next to them,
awkwardly patting him on his back.
‘What’s yer name?’ The other boy asked him, in order to move things
on.
‘Keith. What’s yours?’
‘I’m John and she’s Pauline and we look after each other. We’ll look
after you if you like.’
‘Yeah, alright, ta.’
He sniffed loudly, wiped his eyes and looked around him. It was
starting to get dark and a layer of mist beginning to appear about a
foot from the ground created a really spooky atmosphere. He was
scared and he wanted his mam.
He sat down on the rock that the others had just left. Pauline, in pale
blue coat and white stilettos, joined him.
‘So. How did they get you? Was it her?’ She asked.
He nodded. She smiled wryly at him.
‘Yeah, she got me an’ all. I knew her. She was me mate’s sister. Said
she needed help finding her glove. I believed her cos I knew her.
62

And you think you’re alright with a woman. But he was hiding in the
back.’
John sat down next to them.
‘She got me as well. I was bloody stupid. Told me she would give me
a lift home ‘cos me mam ‘ud be worried. Same as Pauline, thought
I’d be alright with a lass. Told me she had sherry, to get me in, and
then she took me to look for that bloody glove. And he came after us
on his bike. I never got me sherry.’
He missed John when he went. John was a lovely happy lad with a
winning smile. He’d been good company for him, he’d made him
laugh a lot, and he’d had marbles and bubble gum.
Most days were uneventful. People came and went; a selection of
walkers and bird watchers, or tourists taking photos. His mam came
a good few times and that made him feel really good and then really
bad at the same time. He always hugged her and told her he loved
her but she couldn’t feel him or hear him. He wished he could tell her
he was alright with Pauline looking after him. His mam would be glad
to know that. Later on their Alan started coming with her. It was
good to see him again but it was hard to watch them both growing
older and sadder.
Some days a lot went on. Those two came back loads, picnicking and
taking photos. Then they stopped coming and the police came
digging; that’s when they took John. They were left alone, him and
Pauline, for ages and ages and then the police came again, this time
with her and then a bit later with him. Then they did another load of
digging and then she came back again. There were dogs and
helicopters, and reporters trying to take photos. They made too
much noise and scared the birds and animals. She was a lot older
and well wrapped up against the bitter wind. She was wearing a
balaclava but he would have known her eyes anywhere and anyway
Pauline knew who she was straight away. They both kept well away
from her and were glad when she left. But then after a load more
digging, Pauline went and left as well.
One day that woman came back again and she was over on hi side
this time. She walked towards him and although he could not hear
from that distance what she was saying, it was clear to him from her
body language that she wanted to talk to him. He turned his back,
63

put his hands over his ears and refused to look at her, and eventually
she left him alone. He still saw her most days wandering alone on
the edge of the moors but she never came near him again.
He knew when his mam died. He saw her through the mist. He went
to her but she was just a faded image. There was no communication.
He knew she’d seen him though because the pain had gone from her
eyes. She never came again but maybe they could still be together
once their Alan had found him.
He spent a good few years on his own out there but he was never
lonely. There were others in the shadows, from another time, but he
didn’t bother them and they didn’t bother him. He kept better
company. Foxes were drawn to him. He always had a little ginger
companion or two on his nature trails. They explored together and
found so much to look at. They watched the Mountain Hares, Shorteared
Owls, Peregrines and Ravens but he found just as much
pleasure in the simple things like the twigs and leaves and stones.
He loved the changing seasons and always saw beauty in his
surroundings, always something to interest him; Reed Buntings,
Kestrels and Tawny Owls, shrews, stoats, voles, weasels, newts and
frogs; an almost endless list.
Over the first long months, and then eventually the long years on his
own, he used his time to explore his surroundings. Despite the horror
of his ordeal he really didn’t mind it on the moor. He loved the open
space, the wildness, being at one with nature. He definitely preferred
it to school except he missed his mates of course. He had his I-Spy
Birds in his inside jacket pocket when they took him, so he always
had that to look at. He never got sick of looking at it. And he could
sit for hours just watching, patiently waiting to catch a glimpse of a
Ring Ouzel but usually having to settle for a Meadow Pipit or a
Skylark.
64

LOST AT SEA
Anna Jackman
Like the ocean.
They are endlessly deep,
hiding secrets and emotions
like the sailing ships that sleep.
The salty water of your tears
blinds you. It uncovers
the eroding love and cares
as my lover.
Like the ocean,
I’m drowning, sinking
in your overflow of devotion
even though you're squinting.
I see my reflection,
a wobbling photo of deception.
65

THE DRAUGHT
Anna Jackman
The air’s humidity clings to my already damp skin. Small, translucent
beads chase each other down my forehead as I wipe them away with
the back of my hand. My girlfriend Jade and I are sat on the back
doorstep looking at the dying... sunflowers droop their heads over
the cracks in the ground as the insects dive into them desperate for
some shade. Little Matty flops in the shadow of the tree, fed up of
the long summer holiday.
Conversation, or rather shouting, has stopped between Jade and I
and now our relationship is at a stand-off. Matty breaks the silence
and says, ‘What if…’
Jade does her best not to roll her eyes as Matty continues, ‘What if
we run out of water?’
‘That can’t happen,’ I reply.
‘What if the hot weather continues and the sun dries up all the rivers
and stuff?’
‘Look Matty, the world has more water on it than land. We could go
down to the river now and play with your motor boat we gave you
for Christmas. The draught can’t take all the water. Not in England
anyway.’
‘But what if it did Daddy?’
I sigh and look over at the rest of the garden. The once richly green
grass is now yellow. With a hose pipe ban the garden can’t be saved
and brought back to life.
‘Even the F9 Cruiser has a three metre anchor chain. Bet the river
isn’t even that deep anymore.’
He’s always had a keen interest in boats ever since he was little.
With some boys it’s football or computer games but with Matty it has
always been boats.
66

‘Of course it’s deep enough. Maybe not for a SW, but definitely the
F9 Cruiser.’
He’s disappeared into the dreamy world of a child’s imagination. I
can tell he’s picturing his little boat bobbing along the surface,
intimidating the ducks. He starts up again, ‘Hmm, but what if it’s so
hot that…’
I know the ‘what if’ game is going to carry on if I don’t take him
down to the river with his boat. Part of us both just wants an excuse
to get away from Jade’s blazing stare.
‘Get your shoes on. I’ll prove there’s enough water.’
Whilst Matty ties his laces, I grab the boat out of the back of the
cupboard under the stairs. I wipe the dust off to reveal the shiny red
paintwork. ‘Ready?’ I say after he’s finished perfecting the double
knot on his trainers. Jade had bought him brown suede loafers to
make him look smarter, more grown up. But they had never seen the
light of day outside the shoe box they came in.
‘Yeah, let’s go,’ he says through his smile.
‘Wait a minute. We better just say goodbye to Jade.’
I go back to the kitchen with Matty dragging his feet behind. She’s
still sat on the step. Sucking on a cigarette. She gets a migraine
easily if Matty laughs too loud or I begin to whistle. She prefers her
own company nowadays anyway.
‘What time are you coming back?’ She looks and sounds irritated.
‘Won’t be too long love. Matty, say bye to Jade,’ I say.
‘Bye Jade,’ he mumbles.
She puts her hands in her head and mumbles back a reply.
We set off, driving with the windows down so that the breeze flows
through the suffocating air of the car.
‘This breeze is nice. We’ll be even cooler near if we dangle our feet in
the river, won’t we?’
I don’t get a reply from Matty. He’s already gazing out of the car,
back in the safety of his dream world.
67

We’re driving through the town, whizzing past the people on the
pavements that are walking lethargically by. Our part of the river is
on the outskirts of the town where, along with the occasional quack,
there is the sweet tune of children’s laughter.
‘We’re nearly there Matty,’ I say before the inevitable, ‘are we nearly
there yet?’ starts.
At the river, we settle down at the bank and look across the water.
Matty was right. Looking beyond our reflections, we were able to
make out the river bed clearly. The anchor of our ship wouldn’t need
to be let down far. The queue for the ice cream van has finally
disappeared. I let Matty choose an ice cream. He picks a screwball.
The best part is the bubblegum at the bottom, like treasure at the
bottom of the river.
We head back to the dirty bank with our ice creams. As Matty plods
along, probably still in a daydream, he falls.
‘Shit!’ He cries.
‘Who taught you that word?’ I ask.
‘Jade says it all the time.’
I hate to see Matty swear but I won’t spoil our time together.
Instead I pick him up and give him a pat on the back. Matty drives
his boat up and down the river, avoiding the long plants that tangle
the boat up. The blue sky begins to darken as the evening
approaches.
‘It’s time to head home,’ I say.
‘No. No, not yet,’ Matty pleads.
I stand firm against the disappointment spreading across his face,
‘Come on.’
I take the long route back home. Circling round and round the
neighbourhoods to give us a little extra time. I’m not that firm. We
fill the extra minutes with a game of car spotting.
‘Yellow car!’ Matty shouts.
Despite the long detour, we are only a few streets away from the
house.
68

‘I told you the draught wasn’t so bad. There will always be water for
us, won’t there?’
‘Uh-huh,’ he nods.
We pull up onto the drive. Matty has hold of the boat whilst I search
for my front door keys in my pocket. Eventually, I stick the key in the
door and we step inside.
‘Hello. Jade? We’re home,’ I call into the overwhelming emptiness.
We wander through the downstairs of the house. Nobody there. I
check the kitchen step. She’s not there either. She must be upstairs.
Matty climbs up the stairs and I follow.
‘Jade?’ Matty cries at the bathroom door.
Inside, shampoo bottle are strewn across the floor. The toothbrush
holder and mirror, broken into pieces, fill the gaps in between the
bottles like puzzles that have been mixed up together. Sitting on the
edge of the bath, looking up at us, is Jade with tears racing down
her cheeks.
‘You’ve got water coming from your eyes Jade, like the river. Does
that mean the draught has gone?’
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just continues to cry.
Matty doesn’t know about the draught in our relationship.
69

THE FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTER
Libby Johnson
Now it might not be reet true but near as makes n’matter
she wa’ neither use nor ornament when it came to watter.
‘Now ‘er dad use-ta get nowt but vexed
with ‘is sprog if she tried ta ‘av a skeg.
It want ‘er fault she were daft as a brush
‘n all she wanted to do were to ‘av a look.
‘N when she use-ta lean ovver t’ slape side of t’skip
all she were really doin’ wa makin’ a wish.
Carefree ‘n laughin’ she’d run up n dahn t’boat
Well, until she got bigger anyroad.
‘T’ friggin’ North Sea int no place fer playin’ he would shout
‘n around ‘er lug’ole she’d get a clout.
Now it want that ‘er old man were mean o’ bitter
coz ‘e were a good ‘un ‘n a reet rum character.
But ‘e ‘ad allus wanted a fit strappin’ laddie to ‘elp him out at sea
‘n all ‘e ‘ad were a bonny little lassie who definitely weren’t a he.
So ‘e said ‘ed leave her behind wavin’ on’t shore
‘n she’d watch n’ watch ‘til she couldn’t see ‘im anymore.
‘Th’ sea can be a cruel mistress,’ would echo in ‘er ‘ed
everytime ‘er old man left ‘n she’d be filled wi’ dread.
Coz all’t men who ‘ad forever known ‘er dad
Would allus tell ‘er what a tough job ‘e ‘ad.
‘Tha don’t be knowin’ when yull see ‘im again’
70

were their favourite saying that caused ‘er pain.
One day it happened that ‘e dint come ‘whome
Th’ North Sea ‘ad claimed ‘im for ‘er own.
Th’ waves ‘ad crash’d n’ rolled around t’ship
til beneath the silky black ‘e did slip.
Th’ last thing ‘e did before he took ‘is last breath
were to send a message along the radio length
‘er face filled ‘is mind ‘n ‘e knew what he want’d ta say
It were none other than what ‘e thought everyday:
‘Tha maun fret my bonny bird,
For you, love is not a strong enough word.’
71

PULSATING FUNGI
Sam Johnson
We are distinctive little fungi
with a velvety lumpy surface
engulfed by rosettes
of small soft leafy brackets.
Our creamy-white adnexed gills entwine
and we enjoy our slippery, gelatinous feel.
Blueness faintly pulsates through
our ribbed translucent caps.
We’re swollen at the base.
We feel heat emitting from our
bitter golden pores.
We are left sticky and wet.
Our spines hang like stalactites
firmly rooted in a dead wood.
We now smush together
leaving a slightly fruity smell.
72

MY SISTER’S WORMS
Sam Johnson
Cocooned in her sheets, Jenny sits watching Helen and Richard
scurry across the damp floorboards. The millipedes burrow through
the loud cold crack in the wall and Jenny wishes them goodbye. She
looks to the empty bed across the room from her and sighs under
her breath. Jenny rests her head and her burning eyelids slam shut.
Something scrapes against the floorboards outside. It sounds like
someone is dragging a nail by their feet. Jenny’s rest turns to rage.
She thinks the nail would make less noise in this person’s eye. She
unravels her sheets and steps out of her room.
‘Who’s after a smack?’ Jenny calls.
‘Jenny, it’s just me,’ says a younger girl’s voice, ‘I’m down here!’
Jenny feels a worm wriggling on her foot. He’s been on his own
adventure all the way from the corpse of Ellie’s empty eye socket to
Jenny’s muddy bare feet. The other worms are burrowing into where
the rest of Ellie’s left arm and left ear used to be. She foams from
the mouth.
‘Hiya, Ellie!’ Jenny says, ‘Where were you?’
‘Just been out,’ Ellie replies.
Ellie’s neck snaps upwards to look her big sister in the eye. She’s like
a clockwork doll. This confuses Jenny because Ellie does not actually
have any eyes to use right now. Ellie’s chin breaks away. Jenny is
amazed to see even more worms enjoying her sister’s face.
‘I’ve really missed you, sis,’ says Jenny, ‘But you smell really bad!
You need a bath. Should I throw you in?’
‘Certainly,’ replies Ellie, ‘Can I have a cold bath? It was awfully stuffy
where I’ve been and I want to be like an Inuit!’
‘You mean like an Eskimo?’ says Jenny.
‘No, that’s racist,’ says Ellie.
73

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Jenny says, ‘Let’s get you in there then.’
She holds onto Ellie’s nubs tightly and drags her in the direction of
the bathroom. She is careful to make sure Ellie’s remaining foot
doesn’t catch onto any loose floorboards. She doesn’t do a very good
job, but she thinks she did well since at least half of Ellie’s foot still
remains attached to her body. Ellie is successfully dragged into the
bathroom; she’s left on the ground for now so Jenny can run the
Inuit bath.
‘What’ve you been up to while you were out?’ asks Jenny.
‘Taking names,’ says Ellie, ‘I collect them and give them to my
worms!’
If she could point to the worm crawling over her forehead, she
probably would.
‘I called this one Hilda,’ sings Ellie, ‘And this one’s Patricia!’
‘Wow, that’s neat,’ says Jenny, ‘How do you get them all?’
‘I take them,’ says Ellie.
The bath is just about full. Jenny easily lifts her sister in. The rest of
Ellie’s foot snaps off. Jenny imagines the worms swearing at her for
disturbing their home.
‘It’s okay; I don’t use it anyway.’
Jenny drops Ellie into the icy water. Worms float from all of Ellie’s
wounds and holes and spread across the water’s surface, along with
chunks from the lower half of Ellie’s body. Wormicide.
‘It’s okay; I’ll just give all their names to some other worms.’
Jenny feels a soggy worm on her foot. She gently picks it up and
shows it to Ellie.
‘What’s this one’s name?’ says Jenny.
Ellie’s lipless face gently smiles. ‘She’s called Jenny,’ she says.
Jenny pauses for a moment. ‘I’m absolutely honoured to share a
name with such a fine worm, Ellie.’
‘I don’t think she wants to share the name, Jen.’
74

Boris the dead worm meets with Libby the worm who is equally as
dead on the water. They bump into one another and drift apart.
‘Well, tough! I happen to like my name,’ smiles Fake Jenny. ‘It’s time
to get out of your Eskimo bath; you don’t want to look even more
like a prune!’
‘It’s an Inuit bath,’ says Ellie.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Fake Jenny lifts the troublesome corpse out from her bath. The lower
half of her breaks off and remains afloat in the water with her
bottom facing up.
‘At least you won’t be stinky from out of there anymore, Ellie,’ says
Fake Jenny.
‘The real Jenny would be more sensitive, isn’t that right Jenny?’
‘Don’t be nasty,’ says Fake Jenny.
She drops her sister on the ground with a rough thud. Something
squelches inside her but nobody is sure what made such a sound.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ says Ellie.
Fake Jenny sees Ellie’s glare burning into the wall behind Jenny’s
shoulder. Her eyes are set on Real Jenny, the worm that Fake Jenny
had previously put up on a shelf at a safe distance from the bath.
She doesn’t really seem to care what’s going on between the sisters.
But she has made good progress squirming halfway to an apple that
had been previously discarded nearby.
‘See,’ says Ellie, ‘I told you!’
‘Just brush your teeth,’ says Fake Jenny. Ellie remains sprawled out
on the floor.
‘Oh yeah,’ says Fake Jenny as she lifts her sister, hitting her head on
the side of the sink.
Ellie’s scalp slides off the top of her head and it makes a satisfying
‘kerploop’ into the sink water. More of her worm friends are
frolicking in the decayed bone and brain in what remains of Ellie’s
head. She laughs.
75

‘I was looking for you guys!’ says Ellie.
The worms don’t notice Ellie’s kind greetings but the mushy remains
of Ellie’s brains keep them pleased. Fake Jenny tries to maintain her
grip round Ellie’s neck while she grabs a bottle of bleach and applies
its contents onto an old toothbrush. She brushes softly against Ellie’s
gums. Ellie tries to twist out of Fake Jenny’s arms.
‘Time to rinse, Ellie,’ sings Fake Jenny.
She pours the rest of the bleach down Ellie’s throat. Her spasms
become more violent.
‘What’s up, Ellie?’ says Fake Jenny, ‘You’re being silly!’
Fake Jenny drops her sister. Ellie remains silent. Her whole body
comes together. She lashes at the air around her.
A door slams open inside the house.
‘Hey, girls! I’m home.’
Ellie is breathing heavily. Her body shakes with every beat of her
heart.
‘You were Fake Jenny again,’ says Ellie, her face pale and drenched.
She is cradling herself on the ground. Her face and body are covered
in scars and bruises.
‘Are you two hiding from me?’
Ellie slowly breathes out one final time and becomes still.
Their father enters.
76

THE PREDATOR
Lilliane Konsmo
A herbivore, trapped in the claws of a carnivore.
She believed him when he said he only ate plants.
He appeared to be just like one of her own.
His true layers hidden beneath layers of fur.
As time passed, the layers peeled off.
She got a glimpse of the scales underneath.
The fangs in his mouth became visible.
She told herself that the darkness fooled her eyes.
Others of her kin could smell that something was not right.
When his true nature showed she would avert their eyes.
Words that should have been spoken were never said.
Questions that should have been asked never came up.
An alpha male provides, but a predator destroys.
She was too young to tell the difference.
77

OUR UNITY
Lilliane Konsmo
‘Your lack of inspiration is inspiration in itself’
he says, while his fingers run across the keyboard.
I am listening to his breath as he exhales.
The distant look on his face bears witness of a thought,
circulating in the mind of the mathematician.
He is the rational part of the unity that makes ‘us.’
As he looks up from the screen he can see me,
sitting on the floor with a ragged notebook in my hands.
I know he is wondering what is going through my head.
The processes in my brain are different from his.
His logic is neat and tidy, my creativity is all over the place.
I am the emotional part of the unity that makes ‘us.’
Despite the differences in the ways our minds operate
our hearts beat at the same rate, merging us into one.
78

NUANCES
Belinda Lindley
When she arrived, Mum seemed quite calm on the outside, but the
twinkle in her eyes revealed a heady mix of excitement, sadness, and
nervous anticipation. She'd driven up during the afternoon to avoid
the rush hour traffic. We unloaded the boot and dumped the boxes
up in my spare room.
‘I can't believe all of this stuff was still in your old room,’ she said, as
she brought in the last box and set it on the kitchen table.
‘I know, sorry Mum - I should have come and collected them a long
time ago.’
‘Oh, don't worry love. Time waltzes by and we forget so easily.’
‘Tea?’
‘Thought you'd never ask. I'm gasping.’
We spent the evening chattering about old times, about wallpaper
choices, about the best way to pack Waterford crystal. Everything
had been planned with military precision. Dad's attention to detail
was legendary. We ate cheese on toast with chilli jam, followed by
pots of store bought chocolate mousse. I was six again having tea
with mum after school.
As the light faded she checked her watch and decided to make tracks
back home. I watched the tail lights as far as the end of the road.
Mum's visits always left me with a warm feeling.
The call of those boxes was too strong to resist, and before I had
even thought about it, I found myself kneeling on the floor of the
spare room emptying one of them. It contained books. They had
once sat on the bookcase in the corner of my room. It was a blast
from the past. I still love books and seeing those dusty tomes
brought back great chunks of a childhood spent hunched over pages,
squatting cross legged on a beanbag, totally engrossed in other
worlds: Narnia, The Shire, The 100 Acre Wood, Bodmin, Haworth,
and the Yorkshire Moors.
79

Intrigued, I continued with the next box. It contained cassette tapes.
There was a bizarre mixture: a recording of my Grandfather playing
his accordion, another of my Father singing Bing Crosby style whilst
rather intoxicated one Christmas. The cassette recorder had been a
present from Santa and I had literally recorded everything. These
were lovely memories to rediscover. There was a mixed tape that my
sister had made for me one birthday. We had almost worn it out
playing it in Dad's car as we enjoyed our 'days out.'
Next was a plastic box full of photographs. They were mostly of me.
Me at the beach, me on a fairground ride, me picking blackberries.
There was one of a picnic up on the Yorkshire moors. I was with my
Auntie Madge and my five cousins. I hardly recognised them but with
my reading glasses on, I guessed them all: Hilary, Gary, Jayne,
Yvonne, and Glynn. Auntie Madge had a thing about names
containing the letter 'Y.' Even the dog was called Monty. I smiled as I
remembered.
I went downstairs to collect the remaining box from the kitchen. It
contained notebooks and such from my University days. We'd had to
keep ongoing journals as records of our development. The first one I
picked up was handwritten and contained some dreadful theatre
reviews and weak poetry. I'd had to start somewhere though, hadn't
I? I flicked through and found one of the later ones. I decided to call
it a day and so took the Journal up with me. It would provide a little
light bedtime reading.
Snuggled beneath the duvet, I flicked through its faded pages. There
were a few embarrassing photos and more badly written poems, but
towards the back was a piece I'd written about a trip the group had
taken.
Whispers at Top Withens
It had been a relatively long journey. The coach had wound its way
down through the narrow country lanes before filling the car park.
Unusually, the day was dry despite the crisp, cold air. Pockets of
wind sprung up at the corners of the streets and the tops of the hills.
The long grasses waved like an emerald sea beneath a cloudless sky.
Early morning dew still clung desperately to the grooves between the
road's cobbles; silver frames to little pieces of history. What tales
80

those cobbles could tell of the owners of the feet that had worn their
smoothed crests. We sauntered further down the hill, intrigued by
the nooks and crannies of the cottages that encircled the heights of
God's own country. The light was somehow different there; lighter,
brighter as though a religious presence pervaded the air.
The gardens had been meticulously clipped and trimmed for the
constant influx of tourists, many of whom had travelled from far and
wide to drink in the legacy left behind. The wind whipped at their
clothes as they walked the path to the moorland, sending the
leader's hat spinning off. We blustered along the narrow path
towards the tumbledown dereliction that grazed the horizon. The
remaining stones had been part of Emily’s inspiration we were told.
With my hood pulled tightly around my face, I followed the herd as
we trudged along. I'd walked that path many, many times, but that
day felt different. It was hard to explain. It was little more than a
nuance, a flutter, a shadow. At the little stream, the group just
ahead realised they’d left something of importance on the coach and
so went hurrying back to get it. The others seemed quite a way
ahead, leaving me straggling. I stopped to look around me.
How strange it is to be in the middle of nowhere.
I marvelled at how such frail tiny women coped with such a rugged
terrain in long dresses and inadequate footwear; their tiny bodies
racked with pain. I pulled my hood off to be able to take better
photographs. I took them from all angles ; some even from laid in
coltsfoot and cotton grasses. I must have taken longer than I had
thought, for as I turned to follow the leading group, I found myself
alone. I packed my camera back into my backpack and turned to
cross the tiny, roughly made bridge.
‘Hello there,’ she said.
I turned. And turned. And turned again.
I stood alone.
I had heard it, clear as a belI. I knew I had heard it.
I stood, stock still - waiting.
‘Do you mean me?’ I eventually half-whispered to the portentous
sky.
81

An exhalation of air kissed my rosy cheek. Nothing more than that
and yet I felt light-headed ; almost faint. There was no other reply. I
sat on the little bridge, catching my breath, questioning my sanity,
doubting my senses.
***
At the bottom of the page, scrawled in black spidery writing, were
the tutor's comments. She had written some very complimentary
phrases and at the end had added, 'perhaps you might include some
of the photographs that you took, to illustrate and enhance your
work.'
I remembered, that I'd had to take the train from University into the
local town and have the film developed. I remembered that I'd been
on a tight deadline to submit the notebook for assessment: it was
supposed to be an ongoing record of progression via creative media.
I even recalled having had to knock on the doors of my fellow
students at some ridiculous hour, in order to borrow a glue stick. I
remembered running up to her office to hand it in, and her laughing
at my red face and breathlessness.
I flicked over the next couple of pages that contained the photos to
look at the grade I had been awarded. She had written with a green,
fine fibre-tipped pen, which made her writing all the more spiky.
Scratched along the margin was 69%: a 2:1. I remembered her
smile as she'd passed it back to me.
Feeling sleepy, I set the book down on my bedside table, turned off
the bedside lamp and snuggled further beneath the duvet.
That night I dreamt I was back on the moor. The cold wind whipped
at my hair and nipped at my cheeks. It was darker than before. An
ominous sky brooded overhead and a fine drizzle hung in the
brackish haze. I was wearing only my nightdress. My feet squelched
amongst muddy tufts of rough grasses. My hair hung lank, flattened
against my skin. The moor was empty. I span looking
for...something. ‘Where are you?’ I screeched into the ether.
‘Here,’ came the voice.
82

She was behind me, but not near enough for me to see her clearly.
Her miniature silhouette seemed to shimmer and shift. Her dark
bonnet obscured her face. The bleak elements made no impact upon
her.
‘What are you doing here?’ I inquired desperately.
She turned as if to move away from me.
‘No wait! Don't be alarmed. I came to see you.’
A wintry blast hauled my locks across my vision and when I looked
again she was blurring into the distance.
‘Wait!’ I pleaded. The drizzle seeped into my eyes and I struggled to
see anything. A feeling of utter frustration washed over me and I
began to cry. I had to see her face. I needed to. I stumbled over the
rugged earth; my sodden nightdress was smudged in earthy tones,
yet quite diaphanous.
My bare feet slipped and slithered over slimy roots sending my whole
being careening face first into the marshy mire. My every breath was
drawn from my lungs and I gasped for air.
I opened my eyes and sat up in the darkness.
Dry and warm, I took long deep breaths until my heart slowed to a
steady beat and my eyes had adjusted to the gloom of my
surroundings.
I put on the bedside lamp. Its warm yellow light soothed me. I went
to the bathroom to wash my face and as I did so, I stared at my face
in the mirror. I looked exhausted.
On re-entering the bedroom, I noticed the notebook placed
precariously on the edge of the bedside table. Who would have
thought that reading one's own writing, albeit from a different era,
could instigate such imaginings?
I popped down to the kitchen and made myself a small cup of hot
milk. It would help me to sleep. I could still manage six of my eight
hours. I carried the steaming mug up with me. Whilst it cooled, I
picked up the notebook and smiled at my foolishness. I flicked
through the pages and rested upon the piece I had written. I turned
the page to the photographs. The colours were quite intense. The
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little bridge that straddled the rivulet was detailed. I put on my
reading glasses in order to see better.
The stones displayed a rainbow of lustrous shades that the lens had
captured admirably. The sun had cast a shadow of me which lay
prostrate to one side.
And then, for the first time, I noticed it - a darker smudge, a
shadowy apparition, a slightly built outline topped with a bonnet,
turned towards the distance, fleeing.
84

METACARPUS
Belinda Lindley
The redness betrays the nervousness of waiting
Matching the paler scratchings and picking left at the other tips
Gnarly swellings ache and silently twist
As they reset the cooker clock in the smaller hours
A hint of a fruit sticker is stuck beneath the index nail
Which earlier buckled a shoe, twice
The paper cut is less frenzied now, healing nicely
A single sunspot above a blue Nile, lies about me
The bejewelled band is studied at regular intervals
To check for purple hues
These digits counted, calculated, created,
Waved goodbye and pressed send to heartfelt messages
They ran through hair and books and along keyboards
Held the cold water in its glassy prison and peeled back the banana
skin
They turned off the ignition
Stuffed the greedy machine with golden coins
And typed these words.
85

RED LIPS
Shirley Lynch
That he admires her from afar is obvious to everyone, apart from
her. She neither sees nor feels his eyes upon her. They never speak.
He deliberately avoids her path.
His friends can’t understand what it is he likes about her. She is taller
than they are, with thick strong legs, big hands and feet. If pushed
they might call her a handsome woman, but only after a few drinks.
Some, if they don’t look closely, might call her plain. She wears flat
shoes and smocks that smother her figure. He has heard her referred
to as ‘matronly.’ He loves her beautiful thick red, curly hair, but his
friends think it messy. It’s true she doesn’t look like she combs it
often.
His friends do like one thing about her though. They like her red
lipstick. He doesn’t like those red, red moist lips. She wears so little
make-up so why those pillar-box painted lips? He thinks they don’t
suit her.
She walks straight, without sway, like she is in a rush all the time.
She never dances or talks to anyone. In college she addresses the
tutors as her equals.
It would take courage to approach such a woman. He watches her,
sitting outside the canteen, alone. She’s eating her sandwich, while
reading a book. Perhaps he could join her. But what might he say to
her?
He tries to saunter over to her, casually, as though just passing.
She sees his shadow and looks up at him.
Her crimson lips are moist, almost venomous, he thinks. He tries to
focus on the flowered collar of her blouse and her kind eyes, rather
than those red, red lips.
She smiles. It’s a kind, maternal sort of smile and he finds himself
smiling back.
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‘I was wondering…’ he says, thinking about how to ask her to dinner,
but finding himself transfixed by that blood-red smile. ‘I was
wondering…why do you wear your lips so red?’
She smiles widely. ‘So they’re all the better to kiss you with!’
She throws her head back and laughs.
He steps back, shocked. This is all wrong. It’s not how he imagined it
to be. She looks different somehow, that wide red smile is too
inviting. Sweat beads his brow as he turns and scuttles away. Yet he
can still hear her laugh as he approaches the door to the canteen.
87

BABY
Shirley Lynch
I handed her baby’s pink mitten to her which had fallen to the floor.
I nearly didn’t recognise her. Her face was etched in lines. Cold sores
littered her lip and chin. Black roots showed under peroxide hair. A
roll-up dangled from her lips. She was still chubby. It was definitely
Clare Baxter.
‘Hello Clare.’ I said, feeling guilty.
She took the mitten and I saw blurred tattoo letters on her knuckles,
cheap looking as though she might have done them herself, with a
biro and compass. The letters spelt baby.
I was glad she didn’t seem to recognise me. I remembered Helen
Morgan bullying poor Clare because her white shirts were grey, her
hair greasy and her shoes worn. Helen and I lived on the same street
and she would catcall poor Clare as we walked home together. I said
nothing.
Clare took the roll-up from her lips, finally recognising me. The
letters on her other hand spelt ‘Dave.’
So it had been Dave that got her pregnant. That’s why she had to
leave school early. Was it left for love and right for hate I wondered?
Had she placed her baby’s and lover’s names accordingly?
She puffed smoke in my face. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She said.
She smiled, revealing a lost tooth. They’d always said Dave talked
better with his hands. Under her eye was the faint trace of a bruise.
‘Who’s this?’ I asked, forcing cheer into my voice.
‘That’s baby.’ She said.
‘Her name?’ I asked.
‘Just baby.’
She looked at me like she hated me. She had always looked at me
that way, now I thought about it.
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‘Well I’d better go.’ I said, stepping back.
She smiled again. As I walked away she called after me. ‘Nice seeing
you again Helen.’
89

WOODRIDGE
Robin Mallender
Passing through the open doors, Eldon Woodridge immediately
began to take stock of the room. His eyes left nothing untouched,
focusing on certain details that Roy Thomas was sure must have
been unrelated to the incident. Woodridge held out his hat and cane
for Thomas to take, which he did, lest he suffer the former’s sharp
and untamed tongue. It was as it always had been: Woodridge’s
detailed analysis of his surroundings led him from corner to corner,
learning and understanding the lifestyle of the victim, and tracing the
motions of the crime. The voracity of his efforts was almost
disconcerting; he seemed to be enjoying the scene of a murder.
‘Murder, certainly,’ he said finally. ‘Though one would consider it
obvious, this is always the first question, Roy.’
The pale walls of the room were dim in the early morning sun, and
the wooden furniture did nothing to alleviate the gloom. Curvaceous
lounge chairs sat in the corners facing into the room, though a
davenport lay on its back like a tortoise, its legs pointed to the
ceiling. Sunlight streamed through windows along the opposite wall,
and to either side the walls were lined with stocked bookshelves. In a
thin trail on the oaken floorboards, droplets of blood gleamed in the
light like gemstones. The trail led from the upturned couch to the
window, which was decorated with a small smattering of liquid at its
base. At the start of the trail, there still lay the body: a well-dressed
man in his thirties, his eyes closed and his arms above his head.
‘A murder, but not in the manner you would expect,’ Woodridge
continued as Roy looked about, continuing his examination. ‘The
most noticeable factor of the scene is of course the davenport, which
was upturned after the assault was made.’
‘How could that be? It seems to me as though the two were engaged
in combat of some sort,’ Thomas retorted.
‘Consider this: a killer will always know that a high-profile crime will
be investigated, and, not wanting to be discovered, what educated
90

man would ever leave their crime scene in the state it was following
the incident? This would lead to a far easier investigation and his
capture in an efficient style with little margin for error. There are no
scuff marks at the base of the furniture, it was therefore placed with
care. Knowing that the killer had the time to alter the crime scene,
we can assume he was not at pains to exit through the front door as
opposed to the window; we can then assume that the blood trail is
false.’
To Roy, the blood was as real as the wood it lay upon, but
Woodridge’s logic seemed sound. It was simple, once he knew the
answer. To every other question, however, he still had none. The
body seemed unscathed, so that answered that question.
‘Why would the killer go to such pains as to wound himself for the
sake of a false trail?’ Roy could not formulate an answer in his head,
but he knew Woodridge already had a theory.
‘Is it not obvious? It appears as though they were engaged in a
scrap; let us imagine we capture the killer and bring him to question.
With enough evidence we could convict him, but leaving these details
gives him the chance to claim a plea of self-defence and therefore
avoid criminal charges.’ Woodridge seemed satisfied with his
explanation and moved to one of the chairs, clearly intent on some
theory. ‘This is where the murder happened.
‘Notice the deep scrapes at the feet of the chair, Roy. They are bright
and fresh, and could only have been made very recently, and only by
a downward force acting upon them. The alignment of the chair is
mismatched to the room, facing the window more than the centre,
meaning it was pushed. There was a scuffle here, but only brief, as
the killer pounced upon his victim and arrested him here. Of all the
available methods of murder, he chose to drown the poor man right
here.’
‘How?’ Thomas asked, incredulously.
‘He held the man’s head back and forced him to drink water. That’s
it: he poured water down the man’s throat until he suffocated or his
lungs filled with water. This, I cannot know. Notice the damp stains
both in front of, and behind the chair: he was able to resist
temporarily but was ultimately defeated. Our man then dragged his
victim from the chair and placed him in the centre of the room,
91

gashed himself with a small cheese knife – notice the cheese crumbs
atop the table – and laid the trail before flipping the davenport
before he left. The blood is visible on its lower rim. He simply exited
through the front door of the house, as there was no one around to
stop him or spot him, and it would look far less suspicious to any
witness that happened to see him leave.
‘Now, Roy, hand me my attire and I say depart. Search the body for
documents and discover this man’s identity. Report to me with his
name and profession, and we shall search for any men that have
access to the house on a regular basis, starting with known
acquaintances. In the meantime, I will ensure no one leaves town
without reason, as our man surely hopes to do judging from his
attempt at subverting our investigation. Call on me later, Roy!’
With that, Woodridge left. Thomas knelt by the body and sighed; he
hated dealing with corpses. Opening the jacket pocket, he found a
thin wallet and a pocket watch, inscribed with the initials ‘J.C.W.’,
and upon opening the wallet, he removed a card bearing the name
of ‘John C. Hirst’, belonging to a completely different address to the
building he had died in. Despite Woodridge’s keen eyes, the case
was no less complicated, and the hunt had begun.
92

IRONY AND PITY
Robin Mallender
‘Come along now, boy.’
‘I’m twenty-six and I have a Master’s degree. When will I stop being
‘boy’?’
‘When you’ve survived out here, alone, for a week. Fending for
yourself.’
My father, Bill, stepped over some dead branches, holding his rifle
above his head. Around his shoulders hung two rabbits, recently
deceased. He bore a heavy rucksack that rattled with the metallic
clink of cans. His beard was beginning to turn grey and his hair was
starting to thin. His skin was significantly darker than mine from
exposure to the Carolina sun.
I gripped a tree for balance as I stepped over the obstacle, and a
sharp pain filled my palm. I withdrew it with a yelp and examined the
leaking wound with my legs still wide over the wood. I rubbed it and
squeezed it into a fist, thrusting it into my pocket as I completed the
step. Bill, watching, turned his head and spat at the ground. I
brushed my short hair back with my hand.
‘What do you do for a living now, boy?’
‘Editor, up north,’ I said.
‘Does it pay?’
‘Not much,’ I lied.
He snorted. ‘Ain’t much point working if it don’t pay.’
We traversed the brush, my father snapping sticks out of his way
with a branch he had collected. His heavy boots crushed the flora
beneath him indiscriminately, and I trod around nettles and thorns
with care. My pants were thick, expensive, and I winced as they
caught on some stick or bark.
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The sound of running water reached our ears, and we followed it to
a small river – a brook – that trickled between the trees. The sun
was very hot, so we stopped and sat in the shade of a wide pine
tree. Bill took the rabbits down and dropped them on the ground. He
removed his rucksack and retrieved three cans of beer. He threw one
to me, opened one, and set the other beside him. I put mine down
and looked around.
‘You the boss at your place?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘You boss people round up north?’
‘I try not to,’ I said.
He spat. ‘Ain’t much point.’
His shirt was torn at the sleeves so that it now resembled a buttoned
vest. From the breast pocket, he pulled out a harmonica and played.
I laid my head back against the tree. It was quite serene, but his
music was slightly too fast.
‘Where did you learn to play?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Oh.’
‘Got yourself a girl?’
‘Not really. Yes; when she wants me.’
Bill’s eyes rested on me for a moment, and then he turned and spat.
I took a small notebook from my back pocket and a pen from my
shirt. I sat and tapped the page. Ashley was the one who had sent
me here. She said it would be good to get some real life experience.
She bought me these trousers.
‘Want a smoke?’
‘No, thanks. Those things kill, you know.’
‘So does a woman, they just take longer to do it.’ He barked a laugh,
tossing his head back before taking a drag.
I wrote a few words and scribbled them out.
94

GARDENING
Bethan Mosley
A week after burying the body of her boyfriend Tom in their back
garden, April decided to cut the grass with the dark red lawn mower
that stood in their shed. It was the least she could do for him. She
had loved how he had beautifully maintained their small cottage
garden, especially admiring the soft pink ‘Angelique’ Tulip flowers he
had grown for her.
Once April had mowed the grass and put the lawn mower back in its
rightful place, she stood where she had buried him, and admired the
light refreshing scent of freshly cut grass whilst humming ‘You are
my Sunshine’.
After that day, whenever she smelled the aroma of freshly cut grass,
it took her back to the precise moment she had inflicted the killing
blow on the back of his head. April had never picked up upon Tom’s
gardening expertise, but she sure knew how to use a shovel.
95

UNNATURAL RESISTANCE
Bethan Mosley
‘Is our skin to keep the world out or our bodies in’?
In this strange foreign place
my blood flows the same
but the oxygen tastes bitter,
and the sun doesn’t rise like once before.
The stars continue to light the night sky
though only dimly do they achieve an insignificant sparkle.
Nasty whispers dominate the air like a howling hurricane
as I walk on these bumpy roads and fragments of smashed glass.
My fake smile, an alter ego, is what the world sees
and bears witness to as I pretend to embrace this place,
this world in which nothing is as it seems
and the bad thoughts are the kings and queens of our minds.
One day I’ll light a fire, spark a flame,
and I’ll ignite everything around me,
turning each touch into dark black ash.
I am not Midas. I will not regret this.
96

IN THE HILLS
Lauren Moss
How strange and fine to carry a cape of white or brown wool,
and wander with your sisters,
and daughters,
as pilgrims in the hills.
Each soft cloven stride marks the Earth
and lips kiss its green flesh:
‘thank you for your sustenance
thank you thank you.’
It will take any chance to kill you;
you love it too much to fight back the white cold punishment.
You’ll keel and loll,
and your cape will rip and fly away
with no one to warm.
97

THE RIVER
Lauren Moss
06/03/14
‘FIND OUT THE TRUTH. SAVE YOUR FRIENDS. VISIT YORK-RIVER-
CONSPIRACY.CO.UK’
Phil gets the posters up on as many lampposts as possible, then
starts asking the shop owners to put them up in the windows,
working his way down Micklegate.
‘Hi, could I ask you to put this up in the window?’
Emma takes the poster and reads it, her glasses slipping down her
nose.
‘I’ll ask my manager,’
‘Ta,’
Hopefully they will look at the website before they throw it away.
After a few more shops and attempts at the restaurants, he stops at
the foot of the Ouse bridge and, hands shaking, unlocks his bike. He
rides over the bridge, eyes forward. He locks the rusted bike in front
of Morrisons.
18/03/14
Lindsay Ellis, 23, goes missing after finishing work at the train
station.
24/03/14
98

‘How’s tricks, Phil?’
‘Not bad, not bad,’
‘I’ve been looking at this Bermuda Triangle type theory you’re on –’
‘No, I was wrong about Bermuda – I’ll text you. Stay away from the
river,’
19/04/14
Doug Walker, 75, is reported missing by his neighbour.
18/04/14
Emma picks up the flyer that slipped down the back of the cash
machine. York-River-Conspiracy.com… She picks up her phone to
look at the site. There is a list of around twenty-five missing people
from the past five years, all of whom had been seen near the Ouse
before they disappeared. Stuff about the depth and shape of the
river, how it made the water resonate at a strange frequency.
You couldn’t stay near it.
24/04/14
The police bring Phil back in to talk about Jen. They have him tell it
all over again. About their last walk by the river.
02/05/14
The river floods in unusually wet weather. There are calls to dredge
it to improve drainage.
99

03/05/14
Harriet Gould, 14, is found by a police patrol, sat in flood water on
the edge of the river in an emotional state at 03:09am. When asked
what had happened, she replies, ‘It got him, I don’t know what
happened, it got him.’ Her boyfriend, Tom Woodhouse, 15, is
reported missing by his parents at 05:34am.
07/05/14
Michelle Beak, 54, goes to her doctor with symptoms of insomnia.
Thirteen of her neighbours in her riverside apartment building report
similar symptoms.
GP’s are inundated with residents like these.
05/06/14
The river Ouse is dredged. Flooding recedes as the rain stops.
15/06/14
Michelle Beak, 54, returns to her GP. Her symptoms have passed.
02/07/14
The Ouse reaches its lowest levels in over thirty years. A hosepipe
ban is put in place. People blame the dredging.
100

15/07/14
Emma stops in the middle of the Ouse bridge on her way home. It’s
nearly six and still daylight. She checks her phone. York-River-
Conspiracy.com hasn’t been updated in a month.
19/07/14
Five bodies are found in the river, the low water levels leaves the
human remains exposed.
They are all identified as people from the list of twenty-six river
disappearances.
The one who was missing longest was Jennifer Rivers. It would have
been her thirtieth birthday.
07/08/14
Phil goes to Jen’s funeral.
20/09/14
A week of rain restores the Ouse to a normal level.
27/09/14
A week of rain floods the Ouse.
10/10/14
101

The city’s sewage and drainage systems begin to fail.
23/11/14
The York Christmas Market is cancelled due to extreme heavy rain
and flooded drains.
02/12/14
#YorkRiverConspiracy goes viral.
03/12/14
BBC Look North does a special report on the conspiracy theory,
balanced with MP’s comments.
04/12/14
No sooner did Phil’s campaign start getting national attention than
the rain stopped. It got too cold. There was frost, but no snow or
rain.
People were still talking about it, but they would stop once Christmas
started.
10/12/14
102

Every bridge in York closes. All nine of the bridges over the Ouse,
and all sixteen over the Foss. The police say that it is due to damage
caused by rain making the bridges unsafe.
24/12/14
Emma closes the shop at noon, gives up on waiting for customers.
She walks down Micklegate, down the steps to the riverbank. Some
of the more industrious members of local rowing clubs quickly
realised they could make a few quid as ferrymen to pedestrians while
the bridges were out. The river is fast and they have to be quicker.
Sat in the boat, she trails her fingertips in the icy black water. Pulls
them out and shoves her hand under her armpit.
‘How much have you made ferrying people today?’
‘Seven hundred quid since ten.’
‘Christ.’
People are up in arms about the bridges, but Christmas is distracting
enough that the one protest there had been was only small.
Emma looks over at Lendal bridge, off to her left.
There are silhouetted people lined up along it.
Police or army probably.
Then they all jump simultaneously into the river.
‘Oh my god.’
The rower stops and they drift across to the other side, staring at the
other bridge. Emma can see winter coats in all different colours
floating to the surface, rushing towards them, and shouting people
on the bridge echo across to them. Emma leaps out and starts
running, only turning back once she passes Waterstones.
The river follows her up the hill, turning corners, pursuing.
103

25/12/14
Phil is sat on the roof of the Minster, watching the rain fall and the
river go by, licking the lead.
He thinks about Jen.
104

Blink
James Nissler
It was sunset when the boy wandered the streets of Sterrion alone.
He walked at random; his gaze focused more on his own aching feet
than the buildings that shadowed him. The boy tried to keep his
mind calm, but night was fast approaching and his fear grew with
each minute the shadows lengthened. His name was Telic and he
was lost.
In his attempt to find his way home the twisting streets of Sterrion
had led Telic away from familiar neighbourhoods. He hadn’t meant
for it to happen, but then no one intentionally becomes lost. Telic
had been running errands for his parents and as boys of fourteen
often do, his mind had wandered and his feet had strayed. He tried
to remember the last place he recognised but he had been so
wrapped up in his own daydreams that his memories of the journey
were disjointed and fuzzy.
Telic glanced cautiously around as he wandered onto a large open
space with three tarmac roads branching off from it. From the
position of the sunset he thought the right road would take him
home. Telic crossed the courtyard but froze as he heard the steady
hum of an aeromotive zoom by overhead. The sleek craft was gone
before Telic could even try to gain its attention, leaving twin trails of
emission that blended into the smoggy sky. Behind the layers of
pollution Telic could barely make out the shape of Gehenna – the
dead planet – where it floated as an ever-present warning of the
destruction that humanity was capable of.
As he continued on his way streetlights began to light up in
preparation for night’s takeover. Telic began to grow nervous again,
although he was unsure why, and unconsciously touched the dark
leather patch that covered his left eye. It appeared that this street
was home to numerous bars and pubs, and while plenty of noise and
music came from these the traffic on the street was relatively thin.
Like Telic all the people wore patches over their left eyes, though
105

they varied in material from cotton to leather. He even saw a few
constructed from shimmering silk that marked their wearers as
members of the nobility. Telic watched as a young couple exited one
establishment and gradually stumbled away down the street, giggling
whilst they leant on each other in drunken support. They narrowly
avoided a dark haired girl of about Telic’s age who had been
mopping up a pool of sick from the pavement outside one vibrantly
lit pub. She glared after them as they obliviously staggered on.
The road began to curve away from the direction Telic needed to
head, so he reluctantly entered a small alley that cut between two
pubs. Metal bins hugged the walls, although more rubbish littered
the rough cobblestones so Telic was forced to carefully pick his way
through. About halfway down, a door to one of the buildings
slammed open and three young men stumbled out. They each wore
rich – if slightly crumpled – dark suits, and silk eye patches. Telic
went instantly still. Nobles.
“Bastards,” cursed one, fat with a receding hairline. He steadied
himself against the alley wall. “That old geezer was obviously
cheating. Like hell he was lucky enough to get a full pantheon on his
third go.”
“Relax Paln, you’ve drank too much,” said another, tall and blonde.
Although he also swayed on his feet a bit. “That place was a shithole
anyway. The whole North Quarter is. We should go back to the
Cobalt Club, now that is a proper drinking establishment with the
right sort of people too.”
The last man was also tall but heavily built, with short dark hair and
a neatly trimmed beard. Unlike his compatriots he did not look drunk
in the slightest, in fact he looked furious. “Consider your words
carefully, Klarren,” his voice calm despite the evident anger on his
face. “Or need I remind you who got us banned.”
Klarren saw the anger on his friends face and paled visibly. “R-right,
sorry Zarrick,” he gulped nervously. “I’m sure they’ll let us back in
eventually, right Paln?”
106

Paln threw up where he leant against the wall. Zarrick turned away
disgusted and spotted Telic standing frozen in the middle of the
alley. “What are you looking at boy?” he said, advancing on him.
Telic stepped backwards hesitantly. “N-nothing,” he stammered. He
tried to move again but felt trapped under Zarrick's heavy gaze. This
is bad, Telic thought. The nobility were not known for their kindness
and restraint.
Zarrick evaluated Telic quickly, noting his well-made clothing and
neatly trimmed blonde hair. “You’re not from this Quarter, are you
boy? This leather eye-patch,” he said tapping Telic’s patch with his
index finger. “Is finely made. Are you a merchant’s son?” At his
words his friends suddenly perked up and sauntered over.
“Where are you going little merchant prince?” Paln asked.
Telic swallowed fear. “H-home, I’m trying to get home.”
“Really?” said Klaren, there was a dangerous glint in his eye. “Do you
like East Quarter; is it a nice place to live?”
Telic sensed a trap but something told him that silence would not be
his way out. “I-I suppose...” he said evasively.
“You suppose!” Klaren exclaimed. “Your kind takes our land and you
suppose it’s nice. Is it not good enough for the little merchant
prince? Would you like Central as well, or is that also not good
enough for you.”
Telic swallowed again. What was he supposed to do? Nobles had
never liked the merchant class, and their opinions had only grown
more extreme when the Government of Sterrion had granted the
merchants East Quarter. Telic’s father always said that it had been
the first time that power had shifted away from the nobility in such a
significant way. Unfortunately, this information wouldn’t really help
him.
107

Telic tried to step away from the nobles but slipped on something
slimy. He would have fallen but Paln grabbed him roughly by the
shirt.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said. As he pulled Telic towards him the large
man thrust a ham-size fist into his stomach. Telic gasped and Paln
dropped him on the floor, where he was sick across the greasy
cobblestones. Telic cried out in pain and curled into a ball around the
pain in his stomach. Paln dragged him to his feet again and he was
confronted by the sight of Klarren pointing a small pocket knife in his
direction. Telic’s mind blanched. He was going to die. These men
were going to kill him for being the son of a merchant. He screamed.
A dark haired girl cracked a mop handle against the back of Paln's
head. He crumpled to the floor unconscious, releasing Telic in the
process. Zarrick and Klarren stared at her in shock. Telic realised that
he recognised her as the girl who been cleaning up sick off the street
before. He had a better look at her this time. She had long dark hair
that hung loose to the small of her back. She wore a simple but wellmade
navy blue dress that ended below her knees, and small flat
shoes on her feet. Her right eye was a bright sapphire sparkle next
to the seraphim white of her cotton eye-patch.
“Run!” she shouted grabbing Telic’s arm and attempting to pull him
away. That seemed to break whatever spell that had fallen over the
two remaining noblemen because they leapt into motion.
“You bitch!” Klarren yelled as he lunged after them. He managed to
grab the strap of the girl’s patch, but only succeeded in ripping it free
from her face. Telic noticed that she squeezed her left eye tightly
shut as they ran down the alley. Behind them Zarrick had drawn his
own knife from somewhere and was swiftly gaining on them with
Klarren not far behind. The girl stopped suddenly and pivoted on one
leg, swinging her mop with two hands, her dark hair trailing behind
her like a river of shadow. Zarrick casually deflected the mop with his
knife hand and swung a punch at the girl’s face. She narrowly
dodged it, but the bearded nobleman was able to wrap an arm
around her neck and pull her in tight. Telic stopped as Zarrick
smirked.
108

“See what you’ve done little merchant prince,” Zarrick said as he
pointed his knife towards the girl’s face. “Don’t worry I’m not going
to kill her. But I will send her to hell.”
Telic had no time to react. Zarrick shoved the girl away from him so
that she span round, her mop clattering to the cobblestones. While
she was still off balance Zarrick’s knife flashed towards her face,
slashing vertically across her right eye. The girl screamed as she fell
to her knees. Her hands leapt to cover her wounded eye. Crimson
blood welled up between her fingers and dripped onto the
cobblestones. She whimpered in pain yet her face flickered with
determination.
With horror Telic realised what Zarrick had done. The sun was in its
last minutes of setting. He started to run towards the girl, shouting
out for her not to do it, hoping that he could stop her in time. He
wasn’t quick enough. Between clenched teeth, the girl whispered
four low words to the nobleman, which Telic barely heard.
“The nobility is dead.”
Zarrick’s face blossomed with anger, whilst behind him Klarren’s
went deathly pale. Zarrick stabbed at her again, his knife flashing
steel and death.
As fast as that knife was, light was quicker. Even the fading light of a
dying day. The girl’s face was calm as she opened her left eye. It
was as dazzling a blue as its right counterpart. Her sapphire eye
started glowing gently as it drew in sunlight, and then in a sudden
blaze of blinding brilliance the girl was gone. Gone in the blink of an
eye.
The alley looked darker in her absence, the light less bright, the
shadows more deep. Telic caught himself from collapsing. He gazed
into the darkening sky at Gehenna – green, and dark, and ominous.
The girl would be there now, alone, on what was considered to be a
dead, hostile world. Could someone even survive in a place like that?
Telic had never heard of anyone returning. And without her right eye
she would be unable to. In the act of saving him, this unknown girl
had sacrificed her life. Yet she hadn’t died – she had chosen life over
109

death – but it was a life on an unknown world, alone. Telic realised
that he couldn’t just abandon her.
Zarrick and Klarren advanced on Telic with hostile intent. I guess I
don’t have a choice either, Telic thought wistfully. Light was fading
fast as Telic reached up and pulled his eye-patch down around his
neck. He closed his right eye on the world he knew. And opened his
left. As the waning light hit him Telic expected his sight to grow
brighter, but that was not the case, although he knew that his eye
must be glowing. Instead an image began to overlap the alley he
stood in. Green grass materialised through the cobblestones of the
alley, and the leafy canopies of tall oak trees sprouted from the roofs
of the buildings framing it. Telic experienced the jarring sensation of
smelling the rich earthy scents of a forest, whilst standing in a grimy
rubbish-strewn alley. The alley and its inhabitants swiftly became less
defined to Telic’s eye, until they disappeared entirely. A bright light
flashed briefly across his vision, and then he was standing in a dark
forest, the sun having just set.
But he wasn’t alone. Telic pushed through low bushes to where the
girl sat in a small clearing. She was crying. Telic rustled the long
green grass as he approached her. The girl looked up at the noise
and shuffled back at the sight of him. Telic raised his palms towards
her to show that he meant no harm.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Why did you come here?” the girl asked angrily, a bloody hand still
pressed to her right eye. “Why did you follow me?”
“You saved me. Thank you for that by the way. It was my fault that
you were injured so I couldn’t just leave you alone on a dangerous
planet.”
“Do you really think this place is dangerous?”
Looking around Telic understood what she meant; trees, and grass,
and a light breeze that carried on it scents of freshness and life. And
he could see clearly too despite the darkness. Elysium – the home
they had left behind – glowed with the light of a thousand cities. Yet
110

that was nothing compared to the millions upon millions of stars that
dotted the sky. Back on Elysium stars were seen rarely – their tiny
lights only glimpsed on the days that the smog was thinnest.
Gehenna was clean, despite the fact that Telic had been taught that
it was a desolate place, and that worried him.
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
The girl nodded and tore the hem off her dress to use as a bandage.
“Let me,” Telic said, crouching down beside her, and taking the
make-shift bandage from the girl’s bloody hands. The cut that had
wounded her eye stretched from just above her eyebrow and ended
at her cheek bone. It bisected her eye almost diagonally.
“We’re going to have to wash this I think, so this will only be
temporary,” Telic said carefully wrapping the bandage tight around
the wound. “What’s your name? Mine is Telic.”
“Miria,” the girl said. She took a big breath to steady her nerves. “So
what should we do now?”
Telic pulled his patch up to cover his right eye. “We live.”
111

THE OLD HOUSE
Charnell Peters
Sister and I kneel in the narrow hallway that opens into the cavern of
this house whose home we are stuffing into leaning cardboard boxes.
Mother spins upstairs, taking in the remains: the gray bathtub where
we washed dishes, the crumbling wallpaper revealing shingled
butterflies with dissolved wings, and all our footprints still etched in
the laid over tufts of carpet.
Feet in dirt—
we step away together
to a continuing day.
We lock the home we have packed into a large dark box and feel the
slam of metal against concrete. Mother curves my shoulders back to
the sky—a woman’s right. Then we move apart, our faces turned
across miles, over the hills and the barren tree line, toward a
receding light.
112

ON BELIZE
Charnell Peters
Houses walk on stilts here, the wood peeling and piled
in yellow, pink, and mint green slabs.
Stuck in the ground like flags, they know no rows.
Dogs roam gutted streets, sniff out spiny-tailed iguanas
from holes of cinder blocks, and pace their small hills.
Bare chested boys slide on banks and flip tricks in the flow
of a river that waters rope-like roots of sloping trees.
In the north, ancients speak through mossy mouths of jaguar gods
with Mayan names. Temples stretch to the top of the country,
but bus stops below read, ‘Repent Now’ and ‘Jesus Saves’.
People speak in smiles: Spanish, English, Kekchi, Belizean Creole.
Mennonites recite scripture in German and pass in clanking buggies.
In the south, the Garinagu speak Garifuna, eat sweet rice and
machuca,
the twiggy fish skeletons bobbing in broth by mounds of cassava.
They dance into the night— punta, small circles of their hips,
as men beat drums and turtle shells, voices jarring into harmony,
sailing toward the gray ravish of sea by lit cabanas on the beach.
113

蛇 帯
JATAI
Rebecca Richardson
The sheets were smooth, but the bed was cold. I curled tighter,
shifting to wrap myself more completely in the thin folds. An
unshakable coldness had bitten as I first stepped off the train in
Kyoto just after six. Risking the inevitable draught, I reached for the
remote and flipped on the T.V., pinning the volume button down
hard so the exclamations slipped down towards a murmur. I froze for
a moment, straining for sounds of indignation through the flimsy
walls. Nothing but the high pitched rapid enthusiasm of a game show
host. I twisted to see the screen and squinted at its dazzling colour.
Light danced through the mounds and gullies of the rumpled sheets.
I thought of standing in my grandmother’s tiny shop. There, it felt
like every colour imaginable had been captured and decanted into
the surrounding silken bolts. Light seemed to glint from each as I
passed, as if it were trying to escape and rejoin its sisters in a whole,
pure, white vanishing act. My first memory is running my hands over
silk from that room as I wore my first kimono on a crisp November
day. I remember little else from my Shichi-go-san but watching silken
colours mutate under the light in the temple, and the fluctuation in
the friction under my finger as I traced woven cranes and
chrysanthemum blossoms.
Instinctively, I reached across the bed, hoping for a texture that
would calm me, but the polyester mixes were unsatisfying. I fumbled
on the floor for my jumper. Applause hissed gently from the set into
the darkness. I pulled my fingers across the ridges in the woollen
sweater one by one, and slowly fell asleep.
The following afternoon I made my way across the city, collecting a
vending machine coffee outside the hotel. I held the metal bottle
tightly in an attempt to warm my fingers. On the train, I found my
way to the bottom through the sweet, strong liquid, flexing my hands
on each sip as the stations rattled past. By the time I reached the
house, my clasped hands were sufficiently warm to press the buzzer
114

and I waited with them gladly separated; holding my own hands
made me feel so alone. Absentmindedly, I felt myself feeling for the
ring that was no longer there; now only a smooth, slim stretch. I
thought back to the hotel bed; the emptiness making everything
colder.
With a jolt, the door opened and before me stood my Aunt Noriko,
framed like a photograph from an old newspaper; patchy, pitted and
slightly yellowed. After strained pleasantries, I crossed the threshold,
switched shoes and sat quietly, studying the coffee cups strategically
laid out. Noriko entered, carrying a steaming pot of coffee, its muggy
scent clinging to the inside of my nose. She set it down with a soft
clunk.
‘You know, your mother was very close to her,’ she began as she
poured. ’If she were still here, I’m sure she’d have inherited this
house.’ I glanced around. My grandmother had only died a month
ago, but already I saw Noriko’s hallmarks; the neatly stacked
magazines and ordered papers on the table jarred with my memory
of one strewn with samples and patterns. Even the vase sat empty of
its freshly picked purple and orange blooms. I bit my tongue,
thanked her for my coffee and sipped, enjoying the warmth.
Replacing the pot, Noriko continued, talking of the messages of
condolence and how her son was planning to develop the old shop
premises with hand painted furoshiki. The coffee pot was drained
soon after and we sat, blanketed by silence. I had never realised
how quiet the place was. Cold scratched at my feet once more.
‘It’s good of you to make the journey again so soon, Machiko. It
took me less time than I expected to sort through your
Grandmother’s things.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be here to help.’ I knew, as well as the rest of
the family, that only those invited by Noriko had assembled after the
funeral to deal with the estate.
‘I suppose that what I found could have been sent to you, but I
thought it better that I give it to you in person.’ As she retired, I
wondered what she would return with. My grandmother and I had
shared many games but nothing tangible loomed in my memory.
Surely if Noriko had been reluctant to forward something to me it
must be fragile; she at least understood the value of an item.
115

Upon her return, she was carrying a paper wrapped parcel with a
note tucked under the strings. The package was carefully split along
one side but the contents still obscured. Holding it out she muttered
‘I’m afraid I read it. If I hadn’t, I would never have known it was for
you.’
As I clasped it, all the warmth from the coffee left me, surging into
the floorboards beneath. I reached for the note but struggled to
coordinate my grasp; I was suddenly so cold I felt that my lungs
were freezing solid.
‘She wanted you to have it for your wedding. She must have made it
especially, but chose not to send it once she heard what happened.’
Aunt Noriko looked at me. The light must have shifted as she looked
less stern than before. I almost felt I witnessed a moment of
sympathy. Not everyone loses their fiancé so close to the loss of their
mother.
All at once I felt I needed air. I thanked my Aunt for her hospitality
and made my excuses in the language of trains and schedules. She
wished me well, with an unusually bright tone and I made my way
back to the subway, the package tucked into my bag.
Back at the hotel I cranked up the heater, packed, wrapped myself in
my yukata’s cotton swathes and made my way to the hotel bath. I
was happy to find the room empty and, after showering, I luxuriated
in its warmth as I sunk myself into the water. As my bones strained
to equalise with the temperature of my skin I moved my limbs
against the weight around them, playing with the lemons bobbing on
the surface and inhaling the scented steam.
When I finally returned to my room it seemed the heater had been
lax in my absence. I locked the door and climbed into bed, throwing
my coat over the blankets as I did. Instinctively, I flicked the T.V. on
for company and leant over to pull a magazine from my bag. The
gentle flap sound from the floor drew my attention to the package
Noriko had handed me. Picking the note from the top, I read my
grandmother’s elegant hand from thick paper, as she wished me well
for my marriage and told me how she’d searched far and wide for
the perfect fabric to make my obi. A ceremonial maru obi, threaded
with gold. I set the note on the side table. She had been the last in a
line of the finest kimono makers in Kyoto, passionate about every
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fibre of the fabric that passed through her fingers. It was sure to be
a matchless piece.
As the set muttered on in the background, suddenly the exhaustion
of the day set in. I decided to save inspection of the obi for the
morning light, abandoned the magazine to the side table and flopped
back on to my pillow. Even as I drew the sheets up to my chin, I
could feel my eyelids lowering.
I was standing in the temple, a headdress balanced above and silk
below. The light was bright and I struggled to focus. My mother and
grandfather stood behind me, their faces a strange combination of
clarity and transience. I blinked, but they became more vague. I
pushed my eyes wide in the hope of drinking in their faded
idiosyncrasies but they seemed to recede, until it was hard to make
out their expressions at all.
The day was warm, the temple stuffy and I became acutely aware of
more and more people around me; colours of clothing, chatter rising
like a wave. The sweet scent of sake caught in my breath as my
hands felt a cup between them. A figure clothed in black stood
alongside. He turned and I squinted to recognise him as he gently
pushed the sake to my lips with one hand and stroked my hair with
the other. As I drank, his hand slipped down and came to rest on the
nape of my neck. The vessel drained, his second hand came up to
mirror the first. I relaxed a little as his fingers manipulated my neck:
I allowed my eyes to close.
Before I realised, the pressure began to irritate. I opened my eyes to
find the light had become blinding and I battled with the glare. His
thumbs moved to the front of my throat and I felt an intolerable pain
closing across it as he moved closer, pressing me against a wall. I
dropped the cup and grabbed at the hands encircling me only to find
myself clawing at hard, smooth scales; my neck, and now chest, in a
serpent’s grasp. I scrambled for somewhere to force in my fingertips.
Light-headed, I could feel my chest shrinking, the pockets of air
draining as I used every ounce of strength to drag every floating
molecule in around me. As he moved I felt his every muscle tighten,
I felt the moments lengthening; the echoing, fading sounds grow
more and more distant. I kicked, scratched, gasped.
Pitch darkness.
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But the air did not return. I wrenched my eyes open as far as they
would go, still desperate to find a release, but I found myself
scratching at silk. Silk, wound round and round my throat and chest.
I could feel the dampness of blood soaking through the fabric as I
summoned the strength to throw myself from the bed. I was
surrounded by whispers in the darkness, indecipherable over my
heaving lungs. As the sounds echoed, I wondered if they’d ever
solidify again. The whispers slipped into another time. I stopped
fighting. I let the breath leave me and the stillness descend.
The journey back to Osaka didn't happen the next morning. Or the
one after that. I lay in the ward at Takeda for three weeks before I
regained consciousness. The hazy décor came into focus slowly as
the soft beeps of the machine inched closer. I could feel my chest
rising and falling, filling with air on demand. My fingers were resting
on crisp cotton. The sheets were smooth, and the bed was warm.
I heard a rustle and a chair scrape. Blinking hard I saw a man’s face
pull into a kind of soft focus and felt my body tense.
‘Machiko? Machiko – its me, Nagataka.’ I fixed my gaze, determined
to read his expression. Black hair and glasses lurched into view. Then
I saw his smile.
My brother visited most days and helped me find the money for the
hospital bills. He brought me flowers in orange hues, communicated
with my office and offered to let me stay in his apartment until I was
fully recovered. Though I was grateful for his company, I declined
and made my way home when the time came. He had a family of his
own now - a wife and two daughters. It didn’t seem right to set foot
in something that seemed so unpolluted.
We talked very little of the night in the hotel.
It wasn’t until much later that he told me of his visit to the shrine.
How the priest had burned the white obi my grandmother had left
me. How he called it ‘Jatai’. He stammered when he told me how the
delicate white silk and gold thread burned with a black flame. How it
had screamed so loudly my brother had thrown himself to the floor.
118

BLIND CORNER
Rebecca Richardson
It was dark. That much was obvious. They could tie you up tighter
than a hooker's girdle but there was no mistaking that feeling; the
good had been sapped from the room. Wall to wall the place stank of
a double cross. The question was, who had put me here.
The ting of the switch and the dark cloth glowed red, inducing a
squint. Trying to see was still like staring into the headlights of a
truck. And then it hit, the pain searing, spreading through my skull,
and I found myself sprawled out on a concrete floor, the taste of
which was not something I'd order again. My shirt tightened and I
felt the buttons keen to jump. Maybe they knew something I didn't.
The gorilla behind me, judging by the chin music he'd sounded to get
me to the floor, hadn’t finished what he started, and dragged me
back to the tee. Perhaps this time around he'd at least shout ‘fore’
first.
The steel of the chair was cold and flimsy and the back pushed hard
into my armpits like hanging on a Roscoe. I braced for the second
strike but instead the light blanched as mitts that reeked of Swarfega
stole the cover from my eyes. The white light that filled my vision
made me wonder if it wasn't all over, but then the focus pulled in
and the shapes started to form.
The basement was cold and the cinderblocks that surrounded me
sore chaperones. Across the table in front of me there was a guy
with no manners, his fedora's outline as clear as a crow against the
moon.
‘Oh, I'm sorry, did we wake you up?’ His voice was so nasal you'd
think it had been Durante's dorm buddy.
‘No problem, I was nearly late for my date at the Derby with your
wife.’
‘Funny story. You keep talking like that you're going to find yourself
late for your own funeral.’ The pain in my head had started a foxtrot
and was in danger of distracting me. ’You got a smoke?’
119

‘Yeah,’ he responded, tapping his cigarette on the table between us.
‘Too bad you ran out.’ He pushed it into his mouth, strode across the
concrete and, as he replaced the tin in his breast pocket, I noticed
the initials on it matched my own. Hoodlum and a thief.
He struck a match on the wall and the flare drew my attention again.
‘I'm gonna ask you this once 'cause I don't have time to dance
around.’ He paused to remove the cigarette, squeezing it between
his first finger and thumb like an ex-GI. He jabbed his cigarette in my
direction and his voice followed: ‘Where's the envelope?’
120

PIXELATED
Shannon Roberts
I am staring at the ceiling.
I am staring at the ceiling and watching the shadows above my bed.
My wife lets out a soft murmur and shifts, bed springs groaning,
closer to me. Her breath whispers across my ear. The streetlights
outside seep through the curtains, illuminating the room with a dim
glow. The shadows above me do not move and neither does the face
at the bottom of the bed.
I cannot look at it this time. The first night it appeared it was easy to
pass off as just an awful, ugly dream. Nightmares were to be
expected really especially after what I had seen that day. Yet too
many nights have passed now and the face has appeared each time
with its chin resting on the top of the footboard and its eyes staring.
That day I took a walk up on the footpaths that led out of town and
up into the hills. A new habit forced upon me by my wife and the
nagging voices of my children on the telephone. After a routine
check-up by my doctor became not quite so routine. Quite suddenly
the foods I loved disappeared off the shelves and the phrase ‘sugar
free’ appeared on everything in the kitchen cupboards. For my
birthday a few weeks later, I unwrapped a pair of walking boots and
a digital camera from my dear wife.
‘See, now you can go for walks up by the river and take some
photos,’ said Debra, unpacking the boots from the box for me to try
on. ‘Maybe you can get some nice ones we can frame?’ she said,
handing me the right boot.
It had been a beautiful day when I finally relented. One of those
days that still retained what was left of the summer’s warmth but
had the beginnings of that autumn chill that makes you take in a
long breath of air and hold it in your lungs.
The camera hung from a strap across my shoulders bumping a
reminder into the small of my back as I walked. The footpath wound
its way through fields of grazing cows and sheep, then on further
121

into the hills until it became only a thin line of dirt tracing an outline
of the river. The Duddon is narrow, deep, and rushing, and known
for its icy cold waters at all times of year. I took my camera out and
fiddled with it until finally I managed to take a shot of the foaming
river crashing into the jagged rocks protruding from its bed. After a
few more photos, taken at first to satisfy Debra, I began to enjoy
myself and took pictures of everything. I walked up river, navigating
the crooked ground easily in my new boots and breathing in the
scent of dead leaves fermenting on the ground.
It was when I was turning back to return home, to what I hoped
would be a rare sugary reward that I noticed the body in the water.
It was in the sheep dip, an area of the river that had carved out of
the land a small shallow circle of water protected by the current. A
cliff of ragged slate hung over the dip and it was this I assumed that
must have killed the poor crumpled boy floating in the water. The
cliff was at least fifteen feet high and the sheep dip, which appears
so deceptively deep, but is in fact quite shallow, must have looked
like a perfect spot for a jump. At some point I turned back and
began walking away from the river, not quite thinking anything at all.
The girl was ahead of me, lying in the grassy clearing leading away
from the dip’s sand bank. She was splayed out in the grass and
dressed only in a swimsuit. One arm lay boneless beneath her, the
other twisted forward with a hand loosely gripping the stone on
which her chin, jutting forward, rested as if she were about to pull
herself up. Her eyes stared ahead dully as if unsurprised by death.
The walk home did not seem to take long although it was nearly dark
when I finally got to the house. Heat burst over my chilled face when
I opened the back door. Debra got up from the kitchen table letting
out a sigh of relief.
‘What happened?’
I crossed to the phone and her hand clamped tightly about my arm
as she watched me dial.
Later after the police had left and Debra had gone to bed, I
remembered the camera. I found it stuffed into the pocket of my
coat where I must have put it as I stumbled home. None of the
photos were particularly good, some were slightly out of focus and
some were just the same shot over and over again from me holding
122

onto the button too long. It was only when I noticed a flash of red,
out of place in all that green and brown, that I realised what I had
done. I hadn’t noticed that she had red hair. A shock of it freshly
dyed and there it was in the background of five of my pictures of
trees, water, broken slate and dead leaves. All you could see was her
head, propped up on that stone, chin jutting out at that awful angle.
I zoomed in, finger clicking over and over again until her face was
close and pixelated and her eyes stared out at me.
I am staring at the ceiling and she is staring at me.
Outside the street lights switch off and for a moment the room
becomes so dark, and I whimper. The blue glow of early morning
light begins to filter through the curtains and I can no longer see the
shadows above my bed because they are no longer there.
My wife’s breath whispers across my ear.
A weight gently rests itself across my legs.
123

NUDE FEMALE, ENTICING HER GUESTS
Bethany Rutt
The palette was all wrong, too many browns and blacks.
My hair, once copper, now sticks to my scalp, greased up,
an oily blue mess. He’s made my skin much too dark,
too tan; as if I’ve just come back from the Caribbean.
I have never had a holiday in my life. A cigarette hangs
from my fingertips, though I have never smoked before.
I am nude, my legs splayed apart for all to see, my breasts,
two sizes too large, hang loose. I have never been with a man.
I try to smile but he has forced my lips into an open-mouthed
pout; no teeth allowed. When the people pass by they gasp
in wonder; ‘there’s such beauty here’, they say, ‘such realism’.
They approve of the artist, his talent, before moving on
to the next one. And though I can’t speak, for he gave me
no tongue, I cry out in my own raspy voice, eyes shut.
124

PROGRESS
Bethany Rutt
Old Mac once said, ‘if it isn’t good for somethin’, let it loose’, but I
don’t think this is quite what he meant. The whole neighbourhood
has come out to watch, their sharp tongues clicking as the man, his
pale skin drenched in sweat, welcomes the crane with a wave. Its
dull, steel ball swings in response. Mac sits on the front step of his
vinyl store, his back leant against the door that his father once
owned, and his father in turn. When I was a child, he would sneak
sweet, hard-boiled candy into my pockets and press one tobacco
stained finger to my hungry lips; a warning to not tell my mother. I
wonder now, his eyes clouded with age, if he remembers me at all.
He hums, a wooden pipe perched between his front teeth like a
whistle, as he takes it all in.
I can just make out the sound of smooth jazz drifting down from the
hair salon upstairs, scissors snipping in time with the beat The high
beep of the crane reversing begins, reminding me of the pinball
machine my brother and I would fight over, our coins jingling in our
pockets as we scrapped over who’s turn it was next. I realise now
that the games hall was, and in a way always has been, more than
just some building to us. It is ours.
The same hall that in five minutes time, will cease to exist except for
the settling dust. The same hall that once married my mother and
father, that gave birth to my sister, that raised our voices in prayer
and in song and let them slip through the roof tiles like smoke. It
was there that I first learnt the joy of the written word, watching as
letters swirled and formed words on the page in front of me.
The ball crashes, forcing its way through brick and mortar, tearing a
steel hole in every once solid memory that I had of what it meant to
be home. We watch as the man hammers a wooden sign deep into
the earth in front of the now ruined lot; ‘Redevelopment: turning
forgotten pasts into new hopes’, it reads. I wonder which building,
which part of my soul, will be next. The problem is that this hall, in
which they see profit and gain, I see shelter and loyalty and how it
125

126
has always been good for something, though they have chosen to let
it loose anyway. I suppose it is hard for them to understand that this
place, so dank and unwholesome to the eye, was not just our past, it
was our future, and any new hope died the day the dust settled.

STAY BLIND
Ellen Ryan
Tick, tick, keep in time
though the wavering hands may lie.
It’s easy to trust a face
if you pretend it’s not behind glass.
Don’t ask why young girls
and boy lean away from it. Snarling
as though the very bones
of that ticking beast will follow them home.
127

CLUB 22
Ellen Ryan
SCENE 1: EXT. KENSINGTON POLICE STATION, LONDON –
NIGHT
The street and station are both dimly lit. A
handful of people pass by, but it is mostly quiet.
A black car pulls up outside the station. CHRISTINA
BARTON, a tall woman in her early 30s emerges from
the back seat. She is wearing a long white coat,
gloves, and a hat, and takes a begrudging look at
the station, before walking up the stairs. A
POLICEMAN opens the door for her and she moves
inside.
INT. KENSINGTON POLICE STATION, RECEPTION – NIGHT
CHRISTINA approaches the desk and impatiently rings
the bell.
SCENE 2: INT. KENSINGTON POLICE STATION, HOLDING
CELLS – NIGHT
A small jail cell is guarded by one POLICEWOMAN at
a desk, who is doing a crossword. JULIA BARTON
stands at the far wall, peering out of the barred
window at the sky; she is in her mid-20s, and wears
a knee-length blue dress and heels. Her blonde hair
is in the process of falling out of a plaited updo,
and she is covered from head to toe in black and
red smudges. Her cell mate for the night is AARON
MICHAELS, who sits on the bench in the cell; he
looks to be just a few years younger than JULIA,
128

and wears black jeans, and a very creased white
shirt. Beside him, sits a stuffed toy in the shape
of a black DONKEY wearing a tie.
JULIA makes a point to sigh loudly and looks over
at AARON and the DONKEY. AARON keeps his eyes on
the floor.
JULIA
Can I –
AARON
Don’t ask about the donkey.
JULIA
Alright then.
They both fall silent again.
JULIA begins to pick at her fingernails.
JULIA
Did the donkey steal–
AARON
(louder)
Don’t ask about the donkey.
JULIA
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Yikes, I’m just trying to make conversation.
AARON
That’s fine. Just don’t ask about the donkey.
JULIA
But see, the more irritated you get when I ask
about the donkey, the more curious I am as to what
terrible, vile crime this donkey has committed to
get you and him thrown into jail for the night.
It’s not every day I see a stuffed animal sharing
the cell with me, and bearing in mind the thing has
no fingers, never mind opposable thumbs, I have to
wonder how it would commit any crime at all.
(she moves across the cell and sits down beside the
DONKEY)
Unless its crime is being like some possessed
demonic toy that has murdered someone, but then
again, I’d like to hope the Kensington police
aren’t so inept that they throw a psychotic,
murdering donkey and his accomplice in an overnight
cell with me.
JULIA finally comes to a stop, looking as if she is
contemplating everything she has just said. The
POLICEWOMAN attempts to hide her own laughter
behind a hand, but ultimately fails. AARON stares
at JULIA for a moment, before sweeping his eyes
over her stained clothes.
AARON
Are you sure you’re not the psychotic murderer?
130

JULIA laughs, but only shrugs in response. The
POLICEWOMAN gives an audible snort and quickly
tries to compose herself as AARON looks over at
her. JULIA is fixated on the DONKEY.
AARON
Ma’am, how much longer do we have to stay here?
POLICEWOMAN
Either until someone pays your bail, or morning.
Whichever comes first.
AARON
How long until morning?
POLICEWOMAN
(checking her watch)
Around six hours left.
With a groan, AARON slumps back against the wall.
He glances at the DONKEY next to him and gives it a
flick.
JULIA
(with a dramatic gasp)
Animal abuse!
AARON
(looking at her)
131

Hardly.
JULIA
He didn’t even do anything to deserve that.
AARON
She.
JULIA
Sorry?
AARON
She’s a she. The donkey.
JULIA
Oh… ok.
(to the DONKEY)
Terribly sorry, Miss. I made a rude assumption
based on the tie.
AARON
Don’t talk to the donkey.
JULIA
Why not?
AARON
Because it’s not like she’s going to respond to
you.
132

JULIA
Oh…?
JULIA tilts her head to the side as she examines
AARON, who holds her gaze.
JULIA
And will she respond to you?
AARON flinches and drops his eyes to the floor
uncomfortably. JULIA grins. She stands and returns
to the wall by the window.
AARON
Don’t be absurd.
Approaching footsteps can be heard. The POLICEWOMAN
stands up just as the door to the room opens, and a
POLICEMAN leads CHRISTINA BARTON inside. Upon
seeing her, JULIA immediately groans and turns to
hit her head against the stone wall. CHRISTINA
walks up to the cell, whilst the POLICEMAN speaks
to the POLICEWOMAN.
POLICEMAN
Miss Barton to pick up her sister...
(he briefly glances at JULIA)
…again.
133

(back at POLICEWOMAN)
Could you go retrieve the young Miss Barton’s
possessions, please?
The POLICEWOMAN nods and leaves the room. The
POLICEMAN lingers behind CHRISTINA, who is pursing
her lips as she silently takes in JULIA’S
appearance.
CHRISTINA
(coldly)
It’s not like I want to be here either, Julia.
JULIA
(still not turning away from the wall)
I called Glenn, not you.
CHRISTINA
It’s not Glenn’s job to pick you up from jail. It
shouldn’t even be his job to alert me to the fact
you’re in jail. Now come on, we’re leaving.
JULIA
(turning her head slightly)
I think I’d prefer to stay with the demonic donkey
and his friend, thanks.
CHRISTINA looks over at AARON and the DONKEY. AARON
gives a half-hearted wave of greeting, and looks at
134

his hands awkwardly. CHRISTINA grimaces and turns
to the POLICEMAN.
CHRISTINA
Why is my sister in a cell with a male? They should
be separate.
POLICEMAN
The men’s holding cell is currently being restored
due to water damage. We felt there was no danger
with putting these two in together.
CHRISTINA
(not satisfied with the answer)
Well, I’ll be sure to speak to your superior about
this later.
She steps aside and raises her eyebrows expectantly
at the POLICEMAN. He immediately starts unlocking
the cell door and holds it open.
CHRISTINA
Out.
JULIA kicks the wall, but eventually turns and
starts making her way out of the cell. As she
passes AARON and the DONKEY, she salutes them.
JULIA
It was a pleasure serving time with you. Don’t let
her traumatise any children now.
135

AARON rolls his eyes. JULIA steps out of the cell
and the POLICEMAN shuts the door again. The
POLICEWOMAN returns and holds out a see-through
wallet and a grey bag to JULIA.
POLICEWOMAN
Possessions include: one cell phone, one key chain
with six keys, two dice, one lighter and two pens.
All from inside one grey bag.
JULIA takes her things from the POLICEWOMAN and
starts putting the objects back into her bag.
CHRISTINA watched with a frown.
CHRISTINA
Where’s your purse?
JULIA
I didn’t need it tonight.
CHRISTINA
You didn’t need money or identification?
JULIA finishes sorting her bag and hangs it over
her shoulder. She stares at a wall, refusing to
make eye contact with CHRISTINA.
JULIA
(almost to herself)
I had plenty of identification.
136

CHRISTINA’S eyes widen and she grabs JULIA’S arm,
pulling her closer. JULIA makes no effort to pull
away, but her face tightens in annoyance. Without
saying anything else, CHRISTINA reaches inside
JULIA’S dress. The POLICEMAN and POLICEWOMAN
exchange a brief glance, and AARON looks stunned at
CHRISTINA’S action, and quickly looks around the
room to try to avoid staring. CHRISTINA pulls her
hand back out, now holding a card.
The card is slightly bent, but otherwise in
pristine condition. The front shows it to be the
Arcana Card ‘The High Priestess’, but the back is
entirely black, with the number 22 written in white
very small in the centre.
CHRISTINA takes a long breath.
CHRISTINA
What did I tell you about going to that club?
JULIA seems mostly unfazed by her sister, and takes
the card back.
JULIA
Are we really going to do this here?
CHRISTINA turns to the POLICEMAN.
CHRISTINA
137

I’ll be sure to tell your superior that you also
failed to do a proper search when you took my
sister into custody.
(to JULIA)
We’re leaving. Now.
AARON
(shouting)
Shut up!
All turn to look at AARON in surprise. AARON looks
at them, embarrassed.
JULIA
What?
AARON
No! I… I wasn’t… talking to… Never mind. Sorry.
He turns his head away from the others, shoulders
hunched and hands balled into fists on his knees.
JULIA watches him for a moment longer, and then
leans to the side to look past him to the DONKEY
that still sits there. She laughs and looks back at
AARON.
JULIA
Ah, don’t worry. I know psychotic, murdering
donkeys can be bitches sometimes.
138

AARON turns back to her in surprise. JULIA winks,
and is then ushered out of the room by CHRISTINA
and the POLICEMAN. The POLICEWOMAN shoots AARON one
last look before returning to her desk. AARON
stares at the door for a moment and then taps his
head against the wall. He flicks the DONKEY again.
AARON
Thanks for that, Lucy.
139

CAN’T BE KIND
Isabella Chloe Southern
Would it hurt you, love?
Would it give you pain, like
a thousand dragging needles
on the souls of your feet?
Would it make your skin crawl,
make you dream of parasites
and ringworms burrowing,
and burrs that prickle and stick?
Would it bring forward the incipient
death of your sick parent?
A plague upon your bed,
Heaven forbid you should ever bring me flowers.
Would it make your ears ring
with every foul word whispered
since time’s beginning?
Would it make your toes turn in?
Make it awkward when you walk.
Would no other woman want you again?
Would you still be a man then?
Would I be the one who’d ruined you,
tied your hands to stop you touching another woman’s skin.
Would it take away a bit of your charm?
Aay, would it make you stink,
or your green eyes dull,
would it take the shine off you a bit?
Would you hate it?
To risk raising a smile from me
were I to suppose
for a moment I might be
140

The one that you love
as you are, to me.
141

Isabella Chloe Southern
ACULEATA STINGS
The veneration of a green lace wing
flutters its last. My ephemeral bliss
overwhelmed as by a lightning cloud
that scarred earth from earthed bolts
scatters my thoughts
like the long prothorax of which
barbs hold tight in human skin
stings preserves your words.
I, your modified egg making tool, unwittingly
irritate your mandible and corresponding maxilla
I twitch, cringe. And finally, feel the biting
mouths of snake flies while
recoiled, you acknowledge my
worsening state and strike.
142

FINGERS
Lewis Tappenden
His fingers had held onto some kind of memory
of melodies from years gone by. Imprinted on the
flesh they tumbled out, clumsily at first, stumbling
around songs long forgotten and unheard for years.
He traced over patterns of notes learnt as a child,
singing to one another in their own language.
Harmoniously brushing against one another,
moving to a faintly recognised rhythm.
He danced his way across the keys,
dragging tunes that had laid dormant in
his fingertips for years into the twentyfirst
century. Chords collided into one
another, each more surprised than the last to
be retained in his hands for so many years.
143

NORTHBOUND
Lewis Tappenden
The carriage sways and your head
bashes against the window as you
watch England roll by before your eyes.
The fields that seem to stretch for hours before
you rattle through another city not on your
route, a brief glimpse out into the lives of
the people of Potters Bar or Bedford or some
other town you’ve only vaguely heard of.
How many people live looking onto the train
lines? How many look out the window
and see the nation shot
like a bullet past them everyday?
At a station somewhere in the midlands,
although it could be anywhere in the country,
long distance lovers part with teary eyes
as one half of the couple splinters away
to board the train. The other, teenage and awkward,
stands to attention to shyly wave his
girlfriend off as she speeds further North.
She waves back just as timid not wanting
the other passengers to see the tears in her eyes.
The train speeds off, and you catch a conductor’s eyes
on the platform before you’re out of sight.
She sees the trains wrench apart couples
more often than she could count.
And the boy, he’ll wait on the platform
until the train is out of sight, then walk out
onto the street and go home choking back
tears. She settles into her seat, dreaming
of the time she’s spent with him as she sees
his city fade away. Watching
England roll by before her eyes.
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UN SPACE
Corrie Thompson
Un space.
The snap of land
As it drifts out
Like an iceberg
Among the logs and leaves
Not enough to be an isle
Only housing weary birds
And a lost shoe,
Footprint left on land.
Earthworms dig,
A suicide mission.
dirt sifting
To unlit underland.
Oxygen surfaces
And pops.
Sea graves. The whole lot.
Vacant of dog tags.
The unsinkable.
An error that drifts.
Circled in black pens. Or maybe fins.
The invincible.
All vowels in the waves,
Consonants crashing the shore.
See the foamy sea trail
Land trail sunk.
The unthinkable.
The quake of land
Colliding against itself
Defeated. Sunken in
Un space.
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THE RED SAILS
Emma Vallely
The noose swings and another pair of boots
skirt the ground barely six inches up above,
tethered up for children’s eyes to see, the mother’s
fret no more, and roaring men cannot detain their
scream, for another blasphemous heathen to sail open water
breathes no more.
All but one pair of eyes linger, as price as hefty as the
golden shade of his gaze pound the drums of naval veins,
but before they can react he is gone.
The scarlet sails, lost across the horizon.
No nightmares would touch this man, however,
in spite of the eyes rolling into clouds of white,
the choked gargles of spit splashed crimson,
desperate wheezes for air as lungs sting and collapse
and then at last the fella’s twitching corpse ‘angin’ from rungs.
Ne’ar fear would touch him, he rose above that
and raised his red flags high to coat the ocean spray in foreshadow,
as to what would delight her salty embrace for supper that night,
tossed into wake arms like sacrificial lambs.
He stormed across the deck and scooted to the helm,
taking the first mate by some alarm when he struck his shoulder
in a firm greet, his hand spare and settled above her hilt,
caressing the blade with unyielding, ginger fingers itching with glee.
The naval warship was just yonder, sails white
branded with that a warning from God himself,
The Captain Red laughed, what pathetic entity would give spit to
these men?
No such power would cast a day ol’ scab at the scumbags,
let alone show them mercy from Him.
The clouds of cannon fire clapped and cried like thunder,
bellies of the ship collided and sparked aflame to swallow the wicked,
the desolate, or those cursed to misfortune.
Pleas, war cries, all a merry shanty of men rung in His ears,
as He casually drove her point through another officer’s gullet,
He could hear amongst the constant ring from explosions, the
begs and pathetic calls for compassion; He was singing along.
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How beautiful the Devil must be, and how much we long to see him
an uninterrupted appointment, a conference to attend, the first
blissful
kiss of sweet young love, and oh how we all can swoon once we
learn
The Devil, he sings.
147

DOGS
Emma Vallely
She staggered haplessly down the street. The appointed ‘trashy’ faux
pink leather jacket hung off her shoulder, cheap creases across the
plastic surface as the earlier rainfall crinkled the item; making it
shrivel and cringe on her. The hem of the diminutive black dress was
torn up her thigh, as though raked by a ritualistic dagger. Of course,
people formed grim impressions of her as she made her way through
town in the direction of her humble flat, judging by her gaping
fishnets and the probable absence of her undergarments. (By
humble, it must be stressed that means her flat was cramped with
mouldy spots and a damp smell.) Though those people didn’t matter
now, for she’d found herself lost. The heavy rainfall earlier had made
her become even more disoriented than she was, and it didn’t help
as she glared in the direction of those who gave her revolting catcalls
or remarks full of modern slurs to describe her allegedly ‘ill-fit’ attire;
but fuck them, she could do and wear what she pleased.
Though, as she came into the misty street, the weary blonde began
to miss the calls and taunts. Spinning on her heel and clutching her
hands to her chest, she regarded the area behind her and about her;
the surroundings had grown very daunting. The clip of nails across
the street caught her attention then. Her head snapped in the
direction of a mutt panting before the lean, nimble beast skittered
across the path and vanishing into the fog. In her stupor, she’d
grown tempted to fall under the cliché of hollering a meek ‘hello’ to
see if she were truly alone or not.
Instead, she pressed her smeared lips into a thin line and took
tentative steps forward. Her hands remained braced against herself
and at the sudden high-pitched yelp, she stopped. Fearful eyes
wandered in the direction the dog had scurried off, and a little
whimper echoed through the white cloud before her. To then run or
seek in curiosity? That was on the girl’s mind; and the latter won
over in a heartbeat – the idea the poor canine had been struck down
by a vehicle brought her more distress than the weather to her
attire.
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A few paces into the unknown and a grey mound was before her.
Gasping, she went to crouch by the twitching mass of slick fur, when
a crimson line was slashed across it. This was followed by a hateful
screech and then appeared a foot which crashed into the whining
beast’s skull. A crunch filled the mist and she stumbled back, falling
onto her tailbone in panic for the creature. Scarlet circled the dog like
a gaping jaw, opening up to swallow the shifting frame down into the
earth below. It took the woman a moment to realise she’d cut off her
own air for a moment, and she took a raspy breath – the sudden
cold stabbing her throat and making her lungs sting. The icy gravel
scraped at her palms a little as she kicked and pushed back from the
body, falling onto her back the odd time. Invisible hands were
hauling her down, disregarding her need to flee the scene and vomit
into the doorway of her flat.
Then, just as the still frame was about to be consumed by the mist,
a pair of feet stepped out before the corpse and strode over carefully
in her direction. One shoe was missing, though the other was a
suede navy blue stiletto, and it took her a moment to recall that
she’d lost that exact shoe earlier. Though she wanted to snatch it
back animalistically, she found herself immobilised when her gaze
devoured the rest of this strange being’s frame. Fishnet tights with
enormous holes in them, a short and torn black dress, a crumpled
faux leather jacket, hanging from the shoulder... Blonde curls settled
nicely at the collarbone and the rest was obscured by the clouds.
However, she could just make out the smeared red lipstick as the lips
pulled back into a grin. ‘I will be here when you think you are all
alone.’
The words echoed through the air and, suddenly, the being was
gone and the woman was pushed up onto her feet. A gathering of
people stood around her shouting taunts and accusations. Her brow
knitted and she looked around in confusion, when she felt a weight
in her arms. She looked down and there she found herself clutching
onto the limp, bloodied body of a dog.
149

TAP TAP
Brittany Williams
‘Who’s there?’ The words seem so feeble as they start to escape my
lips, yet so was the strength I had, feeble, that’s it, nothing more. I
don’t know what awaits me behind the door; truthfully I don’t want
to know. I don’t think that is a decision which is mine to make.
Fingers are starting to tap the door. Tap, after tap, after tap. I don’t
know if I am as scared any more, not about what will happen to me
at least.
When I was eight I used to hide behind the back gate in my garden
and watch a man out of a peephole. He was such a peculiar chap but
he was a gentleman, I remember that bit, clear as day. No one could
take that title away from him. He dressed in suits every day, no
matter whether it was pouring with rain or so sunny the sky scorched
with colour.
He never really spoke to anyone, I guess that is why I can only label
him as ‘he’. Nevertheless, I remember watching him, watching him
buy milk every third morning of the week. More sadly, I remember
him placing gathered flowers at his wife’s grave.
He lost his wife when he was young, too young for it not to be
labelled purely as a tragedy. He was so weak yet so strong, I think
he was just too strong to let heartbreak kill him. His muscles kept
him upright, whilst underneath he crumbled. He was nothing more
than a framed existence, a hollow death.
He never believed in God, not the day he said goodbye to his parents
in flower-valley church, never-ever. Yet the day he said goodbye to
her, you could tell in his eyes he willed God to take him too. His
desire to live always with her, challenged the absolution of science.
However, as he was forced to live on, his body took on the persona
of death. Worse still, this extended to his clothes, his eyes, and most
troubling, his smile. Long gone were the days of tweed suits and a
bright orange hanky. No, he dressed only in a black suit, more a
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piece of black fabric which someone had stitched seams in to
suggest a human lived within its walls.
You never saw him coming, that is what used to scare me so much
about him. No tapping of shoes on the road. Nothing. He was as
silent as his life had become. He was spiritless, wrapped in muscles,
bones, and flesh.
Now, back to reality, I stand clutching the door handle willing myself
to make the first move. He is all I picture, this lifeless man. That is
what I fear right now. That one day there will be children watching
my husband walking down a road, held up only by his bones. That’s
worse than death itself.
151

TICK-TOCK
Brittany Williams
Fifteen minutes seems the most common length of time in my life at
the minute. I live in fifteen-minute segments.
‘Train about to depart from platform 14’, the conductors voice
confirmed what the hands on the clock were telling me. Eleven
minutes ago I stepped off the train, and right now the soles of my
shoes are dirtying the yellow safety line. It’s almost as if I had gotten
used to these fifteen-minute slots of life, and now my body couldn’t
move until I had reached that safety mark.
I could feel eyes assessing me as people searched my clothes for
markers informing them of why this strange woman remained
motionless on a train platform. My clothes were too ordinary and
clean to create any suspicion. However, as I followed their eyes I
knew they were now looking at my bags, the four bags that littered
the ground around my feet.
Runaway. Now the cleanness of my clothes showed I wasn’t
homeless; I was running from a home. Two minutes and I could
move, or I hoped I could.
‘You ok pet?’ A friendly, unwelcome voice asked me. I couldn’t look
up, the smell of his clothes was too familiar. I didn’t need familiar. I
couldn’t deal with familiar.
One minute and counting.
Tick-tock, tick-tock. No reply was offered, and as the atmosphere
around me became more polluted with his familiarity, I knew he
wouldn’t leave. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
‘Yes, I’m fine thank you, just a little achy from carrying these bags,’ I
offered, with a smile that you couldn’t pick fault with. I picked up my
bags and left.
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