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
M A R I A N A[short story] by Tom GoodyerExcept on Fridays, when the laundry needs doing, there is always an uncorralledmoment of tiny worth at the close of each afternoon. Pouring black coffee intowhite cups. Watching the grey plumes of steam fold and wither like fabric orthe damage that linden tree leaves can do to cold sun light with their shadows’impossible geometry.Sitting high up on this balcony and maybe reading a book or just watching,Anoushka feels these moments as more golden than apricots and she is hold inga half-bitten apricot now. Bright juice runs down her arm like veins. Sometimesthe smell of the Moroccan family’s cooking reaches out of their windowand gestures of cinnamon and turmeric, feinting eulogies of mint, reach tautnostrils in grateful goes. Sometimes there are bundling sounds from their floorat night.The street below is quiet. Nothing but the consonant scroll of bicycles talkingpast each other and sometimes a shout from a middle-distant square, wherekids shunt around a football in worn-out trainers, breach the surface tension.[41]
But none of it is any good, Anoushka thinks. Because if a moment can be heldin the time it takes a suspended cafetière to tilt its hot, dark contents out anddown towards this chipped mug and feel sharp and whole, then what does thatsay about the indistinct blur of time which chases me from my apartment onthis blue street down the steps of crowded tube stations, dark down tunnelsand away at creaking speed to my office in the city? There is a sticky, stumblingtime which crenellates her life with junk and heaps of illegible rubble and a timewhich is single and felt, which elides the smell of cooking and the sun on herskin, the trace of steam and the way milk clouds to the surface when you add itto coffee, but plumes away from breaking it.It is all surface. The one troubles the other. The daily com mit ment to labourunder a certain condition of time means that these mo ments collapse forwardinto the next day’s early start, the next day’s dis interested brush ing of teeth,combing of hair and jolting tube ride.Have you seen my notepad? Zara had called from the forgotteninterior of their apartment in one of these dangling moments.It’s out here, Anoushka called back.Are you okay out here? Zara appeared at the door, long legs first,baggy t-shirt second, her warm complexion a moist heat.I’m fine. She smiled. They kissed.Eric’s coming around later, I said you’d cook that pasta thing.Oh, did you now?I like to show you off when I talk. If you can’t live up to my versionof you, that’s your problem.Na, I’m better than you even know.Oh yeah? Zara took a bite of Anoushka’s apricot.Hey! They laugh.Hey, listen, actually. I need to tell you something. I’m not goingto be able to make the rent this month. Or like contribute to thebills.That’s fine I’ll cover you, said Anoushka.No, I don’t want you to cover me again.Well, someone’s got to pay for it.That will be two months' worth though.You can pay me back when that money from those pieces comesthrough. Zara made and sold vases of different colours. A coupleof months ago some strange American man had said he’d buy aload to sell in his shop in Dubai but was waiting for his wife tosay yes first.Are you sure?Do I love you?I don’t know, do you?Let’s make this fucking pasta then.(42)
- 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 16 and 17: A HALF-EATEN BREAK-FAST IN CAITHNES
- 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 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
But none of it is any good, Anoushka thinks. Because if a moment can be held
in the time it takes a suspended cafetière to tilt its hot, dark contents out and
down towards this chipped mug and feel sharp and whole, then what does that
say about the indistinct blur of time which chases me from my apartment on
this blue street down the steps of crowded tube stations, dark down tunnels
and away at creaking speed to my office in the city? There is a sticky, stumbling
time which crenellates her life with junk and heaps of illegible rubble and a time
which is single and felt, which elides the smell of cooking and the sun on her
skin, the trace of steam and the way milk clouds to the surface when you add it
to coffee, but plumes away from breaking it.
It is all surface. The one troubles the other. The daily com mit ment to labour
under a certain condition of time means that these mo ments collapse forward
into the next day’s early start, the next day’s dis interested brush ing of teeth,
combing of hair and jolting tube ride.
Have you seen my notepad? Zara had called from the forgotten
interior of their apartment in one of these dangling moments.
It’s out here, Anoushka called back.
Are you okay out here? Zara appeared at the door, long legs first,
baggy t-shirt second, her warm complexion a moist heat.
I’m fine. She smiled. They kissed.
Eric’s coming around later, I said you’d cook that pasta thing.
Oh, did you now?
I like to show you off when I talk. If you can’t live up to my version
of you, that’s your problem.
Na, I’m better than you even know.
Oh yeah? Zara took a bite of Anoushka’s apricot.
Hey! They laugh.
Hey, listen, actually. I need to tell you something. I’m not going
to be able to make the rent this month. Or like contribute to the
bills.
That’s fine I’ll cover you, said Anoushka.
No, I don’t want you to cover me again.
Well, someone’s got to pay for it.
That will be two months' worth though.
You can pay me back when that money from those pieces comes
through. Zara made and sold vases of different colours. A couple
of months ago some strange American man had said he’d buy a
load to sell in his shop in Dubai but was waiting for his wife to
say yes first.
Are you sure?
Do I love you?
I don’t know, do you?
Let’s make this fucking pasta then.
(42)
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