Horizon - Issue 01
The Horizon Magazine is an artistic and literary journal that blends mediums of poetry, prose, art, and photography into a magazine that strives to make its form as beautiful as the content it contains.
Print editions of the magazine can be ordered free of charge here: https://thehorizonmagazine.company.site/
If you wish to support the magazine, please check out our Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/TheHorizonMagazine
https://linktr.ee/TheHorizonMagazine
The Horizon Magazine is an artistic and literary journal that blends mediums of poetry, prose, art, and photography into a magazine that strives to make its form as beautiful as the content it contains.
Print editions of the magazine can be ordered free of charge here: https://thehorizonmagazine.company.site/
If you wish to support the magazine, please check out our Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/TheHorizonMagazine
https://linktr.ee/TheHorizonMagazine
A HALF-EATEN BREAK-FAST IN CAITHNESS[prose] by Molly MacleanThe sudden flush of dawn had stirred something vile. Collapsed uponthe bed lay the final plume of morning’s dark, perfectly settled — quiteundisturbed by the yellow fingers that stalked over curtains and pictureframe.With eyes like a torx, consciousness returned to the pallid face of thesleeper.— Indigo we go.Reach around, slosh. No one there. Expecting no one. Tueew-wWedWednesday, naw.No one today.Shapes crouching by the bed are saying their goodbyes in the light.Coffee swelling down a filter.Waking tongue, working tongue. Stretch back into the night. Indigo wego.SongsFromARoomAlarm.[15]
The bugger still can’t understand why his arm is not a lilac tree. My armis not a lilac tree. Beautiful question. Poets always ask beautiful questions.‘Fuck God’ he says.There we go now. Eyes open. Good. Like two opals. Couple of golf ballson a green. My face in this tepid light. Death mask. Yield today’s first, fartto the Pharaohs and rise.Kitchen calling. Greasy spoons. Last night left it a purple cave. Blinds halfalert, sleep half collected in mildewed sills. Dew festoons and wood-rotbills. Door opens to a wall of. One big ashtray. Closes like a box of.Crummy table. Crummy toes. Slightly damp. Sticky – always the little bits,crumbs. And cat-litter-croquette-soles.Ah sit down then, can clean up later. Mind your feet and your head whileyou’re at it. Sunday Herald. Four days past its sell-by date. Nothing muchhappening anyway. Never going off. Same things. Self-preserving. Pectinheadlines. Sheep on North Point Road at the fences again and the unionwars and the Americans. News? Feck.Carunchmunchmunch– Marmalade I like marmalade.In a half-swallowed voice, Christ I could write that. A bit louder now, Ablind monkey with brass balls and a badger’s arse could write that. Grey,it’s all grey. Ancient blue of rolling sky and rivers fading to grey ‘neath thecorrosive beam of the national dentist’s lamp.Shakes head and splutters toast. Laughing comes out quite big bits. Orpimped up to gaudy radium for energy adds. Hoho — Roll up roll upthey’ve got oil and toil. What’s happening today? Ah not so much. Wantto hear about the weather? Aye. It’s grey. We’re grey. It’s all bloody grey.Plane chortles over distant chimneys.Passenger plane! Thank Christ. Not the sirens, not the plant. Not the endtoday hoho.Fffffsifflewwwsss. Good tea unites good company and I’m all on my own.British summer time and I’m wearing a jumper.(16)
- Page 1 and 2: horizonliterature art photographywo
- Page 3 and 4: for writing on the horizon
- Page 5 and 6: Frontmattercontents · iveditors no
- Page 7: Welcome to the inaugural edition of
- Page 10 and 11: OCHILS[poem] by Autumn StilesEDGEbe
- Page 12 and 13: above the sea by Cate Fraser35mm Il
- Page 14 and 15: THE STARTING POINT[poem]by Carl Ale
- Page 18 and 19: Pppurroww.— Aw wee Stumpy stumps.
- Page 20 and 21: SAINTS & MARTYRS[poem] by Tabitha C
- Page 22 and 23: SUNDAY[poem] by BeeMO(U)RNINGbelowb
- Page 24 and 25: A S K E W[and other poems] by Lizzi
- Page 26 and 27: — ° ¨¨ ° —— ° ¨‘ ‚
- Page 28 and 29: ¨ ° —‘ “ ‚— ° ¨You•
- Page 30 and 31: lumps of lonely metal singular inth
- Page 32 and 33: In writings of culture, cooking alw
- Page 34 and 35: WATERBOARD[poem] by Ilyas KassamSUI
- Page 36 and 37: E C O T O N E S[poem] by Helda Anne
- Page 38 and 39: MY FAVOURITE TRIANGLE[prose] by Ily
- Page 40 and 41: TWOPOEMS(ricordi & nicola)by Erika
- Page 42 and 43: M A R I A N A[short story] by Tom G
- Page 44 and 45: They fought that night. Eric looked
- Page 46 and 47: corner of the living room. The reco
- Page 48 and 49: ¨ ° — ˚ • —maybe you are s
- Page 50 and 51: ¨ ° —can you see themonthehoriz
The bugger still can’t understand why his arm is not a lilac tree. My arm
is not a lilac tree. Beautiful question. Poets always ask beautiful questions.
‘Fuck God’ he says.
There we go now. Eyes open. Good. Like two opals. Couple of golf balls
on a green. My face in this tepid light. Death mask. Yield today’s first, fart
to the Pharaohs and rise.
Kitchen calling. Greasy spoons. Last night left it a purple cave. Blinds half
alert, sleep half collected in mildewed sills. Dew festoons and wood-rot
bills. Door opens to a wall of. One big ashtray. Closes like a box of.
Crummy table. Crummy toes. Slightly damp. Sticky – always the little bits,
crumbs. And cat-litter-croquette-soles.
Ah sit down then, can clean up later. Mind your feet and your head while
you’re at it. Sunday Herald. Four days past its sell-by date. Nothing much
happening anyway. Never going off. Same things. Self-preserving. Pectin
headlines. Sheep on North Point Road at the fences again and the union
wars and the Americans. News? Feck.
Carunchmunchmunch
– Marmalade I like marmalade.
In a half-swallowed voice, Christ I could write that. A bit louder now, A
blind monkey with brass balls and a badger’s arse could write that. Grey,
it’s all grey. Ancient blue of rolling sky and rivers fading to grey ‘neath the
corrosive beam of the national dentist’s lamp.
Shakes head and splutters toast. Laughing comes out quite big bits. Or
pimped up to gaudy radium for energy adds. Hoho — Roll up roll up
they’ve got oil and toil. What’s happening today? Ah not so much. Want
to hear about the weather? Aye. It’s grey. We’re grey. It’s all bloody grey.
Plane chortles over distant chimneys.
Passenger plane! Thank Christ. Not the sirens, not the plant. Not the end
today hoho.
Fffffsifflewwwsss. Good tea unites good company and I’m all on my own.
British summer time and I’m wearing a jumper.
(16)
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