Contents
- Bedtime Stories – Sara Arabzadeh
- On the Edge of Knowing – Sam Aureli
- Poem for the Warm Winter – Georgia Bailey
- Wooden Spoon – Elizabeth Barton
- The Fuegians – Margaret Beston
- Just before rain – Zanna Beswick
- Nietzsche, ‘The Birth of Tragedy’, and Puss – Zanna Beswick
- Another Country – David Birkett
- Death of a crofter – Ama Bolton
- One Moment in Time – Ray Clark
- Cancer – Gaia Aurora Costa
- Hallucinations and Delusions – Mike Douse
- 200 seconds – Siobhan Gifford
- High Noon – Siobhan Gifford
- Pieces – Katie Goto-Švić
- Manifesto – Ian Gouge
- Lumen Print – Jeremy Grant
- Mother – Oliver Hipkins
- The Mathematics of Us – Alison Hramiak
- Lost and Found – Ben Hramiak
- In which a flower remains a flower – Tim Kiely
- Who goes to Poland for the jazz? – Tim Kiely
- WFH – Dave Kurley
- No-brainer – John Lancaster
- The Carer – Tom Larner
- Artist : Model – Richard Lister
- Making potage bonne femme – Penny McCarthy
- Large Blue Butterfly – Iain McClure
- Haze – Freya Metcalfe
- I am not town – Denis Nightingale
- County Lines – Jonty Pennington-Twist
- On Bull Hill – Janet Philo
- Overnight – Jenna Plewes
- Reconnoitring at Cross Purposes – Jenna Plewes
- Frida Kahlo – Stephen Poole
- Bystanders – Jenny Robb
- Cow Parsley in Pickering’s Pasture – Jenny Robb
- The Stone Armour – Emily Roberts
- All Over Now – Elizabeth Robinson
- Song for light lyric soprano, glass harmonica, 4 bass clarinets and pizzicato cello – Richard Side
- A Marathon and a Sprint – Dave Smith
- Fitting into the mold – Nicholas Samuel Stember
- Dead Weight – Deanna Strasse
- Evelyn in Marriage – Debra Tillar
- Flea the Mouse – Eleanor Jane Turner
- Hotel Kasmanda – Phillip Vine
- Hieroglyphs – Sam Williams
- Tap Dancing at Dave Silk’s Funeral – Keith Willson
- Metamorphosis – Charlotte Wilson
- Mini-break – Charlotte Wilson
- Missed Date – Charlotte Wilson
- About the Contributors
Bedtime Stories - Sara Arabzadeh
I
breathe
unpleasantly
an old woman
in disguise
can a blond wig
cure
me from remorse
lift my sins
wash off
the blood
from a Hungarian chest
I dressed
in photographs
french doors
to flashbacks
I
slip on
horsehair
ballerina shoes
I waltz
in pubs
I breathe in
GIRLHOOD
my body
remains
in slender states
I populate
cities
take grandiose space
satiate
contrarian thirst
catastrophise
our nuclear race
Sara Arabzadeh
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the Edge of Knowing - Sam Aureli
Suddenly, I know what I want —
to be scattered by the sea,
where the waves churn the sand into bone,
and the wind stirs my ash with driftwood.
I have no use for the wisdom of man,
or for those who sit
with their stories clutched tight,
as if time could still be held.
What I want is this —
to lose myself among the details:
the salt on my skin,
the gull’s cry that shatters silence,
the tide’s slow pull,
the way the sun bends low at dusk,
its light thinning, then gone.
For there is a moment,
when all I have gathered
crumbles like sand,
and I,
for once,
am wise enough
to let it be.
Sam Aureli
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poem for the Warm Winter - Georgia Bailey
Winter shuffled in through the door before anyone noticed it had come.
The fibres of your gloves meet with the frost
in the cool quiet hours, a gelid rendezvous
icing over your grip on late Autumn love.
Semester choirs have gone quiet, and now the melodies of tire tracks
and an underfoot crunch weave into odes of the season gone,
the imprints of existence in the inches.
We carve angels into fields full of freezing ammunition for wars never won
but prayed for, a waning glance into the above,
a wistful letter to the long-lost warmth of the sun.
Winter shook the snow off its boots and grazed the scarves hung
in the hallway, held its reflection just long enough
to see the fullness of its pale blue lips,
and with a trembling tenderness declared itself
the tepid season of love.
Georgia Bailey
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wooden Spoon - Elizabeth Barton
for Nana
I am no funeral spoon,
no rod to beat a young girl’s will
into submission —
I came to heal, stir the salt
of kindness into her breads and batters
and though no hearts or knots
adorn my handle, I was made for love.
I am damaged, not broken,
my shoulders mouldering, my stem
runed with the Celtic alphabet.
I bear the strength of a cherry tree.
My head is a half-moon,
wood worn to the quick
by scraping goodness from the roasting tin,
mixing it with sage, fat and flour,
to create a sauce so tempting
that a cousin wrote from across an ocean,
praising her gravy, rich as poetry.
Sniff my neck and you’ll detect traces
of onions, hold me in your hand
and you’ll touch her fingertips.
Elizabeth Barton
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Fuegians - Margaret Beston
‘... what an utter desert is life without love’ - Charles Darwin
December 17, 1832
Your first glimpse of Tierra del Fuego, a landscape
wildly different from anything you have seen before.
You are shocked by the natives, their naked torsos,
grunting language, dirty coppery red skin.
You follow the rugged coastline, the Beagle Channel,
anchor at Ponsonby Sound to return the Fuegians seized
by the Captain two years before, transported to England
to be schooled in the ways of civilisation — a tall man
renamed York Minster, a young girl called Basket
and the boy Fitzroy bought for a large pearl button.
January 23, 1833
The Beagle weighs anchor.
In his dress coat, well-polished button boots, the boy
stands alone on the shore as the ship sets sail.
He has lost his name, his language,
learned to eat tidily, been presented at court.
He doesn’t belong here, he longs to come with you.
March 5, 1834
A watercolour captures the moment a canoe full of natives greets
the Beagle on its return. You fail to recognise the gaunt half-naked
man standing amongst them until he addresses you in English.
You note you have never seen such a grievous change.
Once clothed, he dines with you on board, tells of his happiness
now he has a wife, soon a son. He hasn’t recovered his native language,
speaks only English, nor has he reclaimed his Fuegian name.
He will always remain Jemmy Button.
Margaret Beston
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just before rain - Zanna Beswick
with morning coming in as sudden dusk
on millstone, on the unpeopled clouds —
a lightning sight: scarlet over hedgerow
bursts on bright wing and earths
out of sight, scoring the retina
scale-silver glittering kingfisher.
The day turns turquoise.
Train seethes back to Waterloo
shaking off wet sheets
and dripping with expectation —
the deals, the meets, the sizzling bars;
the even lap of Thames at midnight
sucking at soles of barges,
prized launches; and then
the irresistible buzz of making it
or not, being cool, hot, it, at
the shows, the Soho-hung alleys,
the pros off corners, books off hinges,
deep-fill galleries,
triple-burger minutes,
the slow, easy burn, the sheer
unstoppable coming-on of it...
Yet — and yet
the retina, heart retain
just now before rain
the turquoise bird.
Zanna Beswick
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nietzsche, ‘The Birth of Tragedy’, and Puss - Zanna Beswick
I have forgotten the birth but not the tragedy
I am reading into the schism of Apollonian
and Dionysian thought that becomes drama
I am on the scent of progress
the ascent of woman out of subsidiary
darkness into divine suffering
the seat of heroine-ism, the protagon —
beside me sits self-contained
and philosophical the cat, not Schrödinger’s
but the real thing: pert, concentrated,
whiskers stilled by meditation pose
beyond most yogis’ lifetime of practice;
she simply is. I am too —
but not so successfully, thinking
my way into some defence of being
when onto the white page (not
of my mind, which is scribbled on,
but the open book) falls a speck
small as Schopenhauer’s alphabetical letter;
is it ash from some blasted heath
where Lear tears out his hair
over similar problems, or from
the chugging wood-burning stove?
As suddenly, it disappears.
With flash of inspiration I comprehend
— no, not the meaning of existence —
but the resolution of this black dot
which, jumping, without engine
has declared itself: a flea.
Impervious feline thinks on.
But Nietzsche is abandoned for flea-powder.
Woman’s tragedy is born.
Zanna Beswick
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another Country - David Birkett
Like a flock of strange, ungainly birds,
My family left Malta for England
When I was five. Something seems to have happened
To wipe away the shapes of Maltese days,
Like a false start from a blackboard.
One image escaped — on a heat-spread roof
(The highest room on rain-disdaining islands)
My father and I, sentineled by cacti,
Standing in a light that is brighter than the Sun.
This, for me now, is the geography
Of Malta — an island that floats upon
Some white stone slabs and a balcony.
David Birkett
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Death of a crofter - Ama Bolton
Some nights, long past midnight, she startles awake in her chair by the fire, the Daily Telegraph open on her lap. It’s her only indulgence now that she’s given up cigarettes and single malt. She needs to read the deaths, to know who’s gone and who is left.
Tonight something tightens with the force of a ratchet strap across her chest. This is how it ends, she thinks, with crushing pain and darkness and points of light that flash and fade. She fights for air. Blood thunders in her ears. The newspaper slides to the hearth. Flames run up the edges and encircle the pages. The dog scratches her legs and snatches at her sleeve. She flops, deadweight, past caring. The chair smoulders and flares. The dog hurls himself at the inner door over and over till the catch gives. Air roars in. Flames leap to the ceiling, dresser and table crackle and blacken and the dog barks and barks in smothering smoke at a bolted front door.
Half a mile east, a sleeper wakes to lurid light. Forgetting old feuds, he dials 999, pulls on boots and coat, and he’s into the truck and up to her place, finds the outside tap, clips on the hose, soaks the roof, shouts her name, but can’t rouse his difficult neighbour. The front door erupts into flame. Behind it he smells more than sees the old dog burning there. He backs off and covers his face; black smoke blinds him and he retreats, choking, to the road.
Here come the fire engine, police car and ambulance, flashing and wailing. Thirty-foot flames light up the yard, the frenzied henhouse, the stone-and-thatch barn, the cattle wide-eyed at the gate. Tiles crash from burning rafters. Something goes off with a bang. The sky’s a cauldron of sparks. More neighbours arrive and stand around, helpless. They murmur urgently, improvising a care-plan for the heifers stranded by foot-and-mouth regulations. Someone undertakes to bury the dog.
Water hisses and steams. The flames dwindle. Hoses are reeled in. Paramedics stretcher out something under a blanket. Police rig up yellow plastic tape and tell everyone to go home.
Ama Bolton
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One Moment in Time - Ray Clark
“One does not love a place less for having suffered in it, unless it has all been suffering, nothing but suffering.” - Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen
There were two coffees on the table. One belonged to Roy: the other was for his guest.
As usual, it was going cold: something to which he’d become accustomed.
Roy had been using the café for as long as he could remember. Not every day. He knew from experience that the lady in red did not show up every day. In truth to himself, he only ever saw her once a year.
He wanted desperately to talk to her: perhaps to run outside in anticipation simply to see if she would notice him.
But he couldn’t. For one thing he never knew exactly what time she was going to stroll past the window. And for another, he doubted he would really see it through.
The waitress passed his table and asked him if he wanted another coffee: perhaps two, one to replace the cold one.
Roy said he was okay for the moment, peering past her to the main door.
The décor in the café was growing tired, outdated. Wood paneling around a meter high adorned the walls: above that, the washed out lemon-coloured emulsion took over, which seemed as old as the faded sepia prints of the aged Yorkshire landmarks: Whitby Abbey, Scarborough’s Futurist Theatre.
Most of the tabletops were chipped and some of the chrome legs on the chairs even had a rust mark or two.
Roy figured the café was going through a really bad patch. A lack of customers was an obvious problem. Those that were in didn’t help either. Ashen complexions and emaciated frames were a bad advert. To the people on the outside, it probably appeared as a hangout for drug users.
The music on the jukebox had never been changed to his knowledge. The glam rock bands of the seventies were big here but in the real world they were as worn out as the décor. Most of them were probably grandparents now, if they hadn’t already expired.
But for all that, it was his favourite place.
He glanced toward the window, realizing that if he didn’t do something drastic, he would blow his one chance with the girl.
He shouldn’t think of her as ‘the girl’. He knew her name was Samantha: that she was twenty-seven years old. As far as he was aware she worked in a chemist down the high street, and lived in a flat above another of the high street shops.
He reckoned she was single ... at least, hoped she was. He was pretty sure she hadn’t met someone: anyone else that is. He’d never seen her with a companion. She’d always passed the window alone, dressed in a red coat with red shoes and a red umbrella. Not that he was complaining. Red was his favourite colour.
And she always had a bunch of flowers with her. He’d no idea what they were because he wasn’t a gardener: or whom they were for.
Peering hard through the window he noticed her approach. At the other side of the road she stopped, glancing both ways at the traffic before crossing over.
He felt his stomach swelling: his nerves fraying. The ends of his fingers tingled. His breathing became a little irrational ... as usual. All he had to do was simply stand up and go outside and time it to the second so that he could contrive a conversation.
By now she was on his side of the road, almost out of view, which meant she would only be about ten feet from the café doors.
It was now or never. He’d managed once again to tie himself in knots over such a simple act. As he jumped up, he knocked the edge of the table, forcing liquid from the cup he’d bought for her onto the tabletop. Three years and he’d never managed a word: simply hoped that one day they would sit here together and finally have that drink.
Would today be the day?
No one gave him a second glance as he charged towards the café entrance, crashing into another table as he did so.
He finally reached the door and placed a hand on the handle.
But he made it no further.
*
Samantha had reached the point she always did. With tears in her eyes, she placed her flowers amongst the others.
Three years to the day. She missed Roy so much. Not a single day had passed when she hadn’t thought of him, and how their life might have turned out.
Staring at the flowers, she thought back to the day in question.
She had been late. Had she not, they may have spent eternity together.
Wherever that might be.
Being late had been no fault of hers. The bus had been unable to take its normal route because someone had decided to plant a bomb in a busy high street café.
Ray Clark
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cancer - Gaia Aurora Costa
My single mother named me Gaia,
after Mother Earth, a foreshadowing.
I find myself in the same driver's seat
that my mother would pick me up from sleepovers
ten years prior, sticky-fingered
and puffy-eyed, curled up
and ready to be taken home.
My mother in the passenger seat,
unrecognisable, I white-knuckle drive.
Sweat gathers beneath my thighs
on the hard plastic chairs.
Her surgery is in the maternity ward,
on either side of her, mothers meeting babies.
Did you know foetal cells have been found
to remain in the womb decades past pregnancy?
A mother and child are forever connected.
This was my second delivery,
our last connection severed,
she no longer carries me.
I drive her home and carry her to bed.
I make her pastina, Italian penicillin,
using the same recipe, she used for me
as a poorly child.
I bring the soup to her lips
and kiss her head goodnight.
I go to my childhood bedroom
and get on my knees.
I ask a god I don’t believe in,
if I’m the only one with a womb now,
and I’m the one that tucks her into bed at night,
who is the mother?
Gaia Aurora Costa
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hallucinations and Delusions - Mike Douse
Enough of quite enough, at least for almost now. I have not yet heard
The wizened face from way past Inverness decanting on for ever pi, nor
Scrutinised the ghostly paradox of Schrödinger's black cat, nor seen it
Not. How did I get here and where exactly am I now and who are you?
Cosy psychoses come and go, as I degenerate, not just as manifest in
Tremors, stiffness, slurring of my speech and sluggishness of movement.
More, or at least as much, in terms of mood and my ability to clearly think
And join in tricks my mind plays on my brain. “Goalwards by birthright
In the homely crowd”: what does it mean — or what did it mean once?
My doctors forecast much confusion and aggressive, agitated states, and
Maybe persecutory delusions including infidelity (Iago-initiated suspicion of –
Murder by metaphor) and being chased by bears: quite rational responses
To this weird wide world, you might well say. Jill’s Hill (Jack’s too) robbed
Of its contours; fierce flexibility beyond parameter; the irresponsibilities that
Start in old men’s dreams. As in the mould of Nebuchadnezzar, masticating
The undressed grass, somewhat ox-like I seem to roam, my ancient body
Drenched with the unadulterated dew of heaven and my vague hair almost
As long as bald-headed eagles' feathers, all glory be to God on very high.
So I have studied what appears to have been the Shaking Palsy in the
Bible’s Old and New testaments, to name but two. Jesus is said to have
Performed healings on such conditions as paralytic shock, apoplexy,
Catalepsy and cramp, which could be severe, even fatal, resulting in
Immovable limbs and withered hands. Not nice at all. Seemingly, Our Lord
Not only cured the physical paralysis but He also challenged prevailing
Beliefs about sin and punishment. His approach of “Pick yourself up and
Get off home!” would, were it to work today, save the health and care
Services billions. You may have heard the rumours that He also cured
Hallucinations but all those witnesses were most probably delusional.
Mike Douse
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
200 seconds - Siobhan Gifford
200 seconds announced the dictator’s lipman
with genocidal glee
200 seconds and You. Will. Be.
Gone.
200 seconds
what to do
ring the children to say goodbye
which one first, firstborn or youngest
how long do I wait if there’s no answer
14 empty rings takes 36 seconds
I know I practised
and if she answers do I cut her off
sorry got to ring your bro now bye
I could hide under the table
I heard they did that in the old wars
tear off the plastic playdough-proof cover
race upstairs for the floral tablecloth
from Minorca — a more fragrant
shroud should any part of my house
survive the blast
and when I’m up there collecting my corpsecloth
should I pick up my fins and facemask
there could be a tsunami of grief
fired by drone allegedly to
wash away the land of my fathers
(and my mothers too now we know Ireland
will be collateral damage)
but maybe
just maybe
I could swim to the surface
how is this not news
day in day out,
agony uncles preparing us: The Ten Most Important Things to Do
In 200 Seconds, Richard Madeley over to you
in your Telegraph column
be useful for pity’s sake
dress up, dress down
what’s appropriate to meet my unmaker
linen — that’s the ticket
doesn’t fuse to the skin
like a polyester exoskeleton
scrub away the mascara
that will melt to my eyeballs
life flashes before your eyes they say
is 200 seconds
long enough for that
it’s not like I’ve done anything spectacular
not led an invasion or primeministered a country
(though my family are a pretty unique shadow cabinet)
but all the same
200 seconds
3.33 minutes recurring
not even time to read
the whole of Harrison’s A Cold Coming
I should know
I’ve practi
Siobhan Gifford
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
High Noon - Siobhan Gifford
Happy Henri Balou whistled his way down the cobbled streets like a jaunty pigeon, his barrel chest and nodding head both pointing in the direction of travel. The wide legs of his frayed orange dungarees clapped against his ankles and he punctuated his favourite Strauss polka with the rhythmical pinging of his wedding ring against the trusty vine knife in his stubby right hand. His unshaven cheeks glowed in the sharp garlicky air and a small dribble of snot ran from his right nostril onto his pursed lips. It was a Thursday. Just before noon.
It was spring in the Alsace and there was a spring in his steps too: Happy Henri could barely keep his work boots in touch with the road so inclined was he to hop, skip and jump down to the tiny beamed cottage he shared with his wife Gripette. He was a man of simple pleasures: Henri took pleasure in the budding life he had seen that day in the army of vines that stood sentinel around the village of Nidheim. He took pleasure in the colourful houses that lined the streets, each one a vivid masterpiece so that the whole village looked as if it had dripped from the palette of Artemis, the surly local artist. And he took pleasure in Gripette, especially on a Sunday night after morning mass and his favourite meal of fermented cabbage and boiled sausage. At that point he carried out his regular weekly tradition: first a shave, then upstairs to the mahogany sleigh-bed for a brief schnoodle. He continued to hope this would result in a blond, blue-eyed Henri that would remind him of himself before he lost his hair. One Sunday, in the novice years of their marriage, Gripette had served a dish of curried snails to ‘spice up our life,’ she had barked. And even though Henri knew his countrymen considered escargots to be potent bedwarmers, the unexpected change of menu had put him off his stroke. That night both Gripette (as usual) and Henri (for the first time in his marriage) had rolled off to sleep unfulfilled, garlic breath infusing the counterpane sullenly.
The only cloud in Happy Henri’s otherwise sunny sky this day was the late arrival of his stork couple. Eleven white monogamous stork pairs now lived in the heights of Nidheim. One pair had balanced their enormous nest around the lightning deflector that crowned the golden cross on the spire of the church of Sint Zazo, patron saint of the gentle east-facing hills. Other nests could be found in dizzy locations capping terracotta chimney pots, one poised on Farmer Trahir’s barn ridge and even one that was dangerously crocheted around the crucified arms of a pylon, its stork family defying an electrifying death. Henri’s own stork couple had built their nest precariously on the north gable of his cottage between the chimney and the small satellite dish he had installed to watch the weekly German cooking show that featured his favourite leggy presenter, Puppi.
Henri had taken the measuring stick with him when he erected the antenna four years ago. His nest was well over two metres across and he had heard it said that some nests could weigh as much as 250 kilos or, roughly, five sweet dirndl-frocked Puppis. Bernard the Baker had reported that there was a nest in nearby Waldwiller big enough to hold a Smart car although no-one could say with certainty which of Bernard’s many tall tales carried any truth. Henri was pretty sure his roof would not support a car, big or small. Even two mating storks, each one as tall as a July vine, would cause the little house to quake with passion and the yellow shutters to tremble in their latches. One morning last spring, one of Gripette’s beloved glass gnomes, actually quite a big one, had wobbled off the windowsill and crashed to the alley below, narrowly and indeed fortunately, missing Henri himself.
Each year in a flurry of white and a great flap of wings, the male storks would return to their Nidheim nests, flying for weeks from Africa, gangly red legs dangling like crimson vapour trails, before alighting with precision on the exact address they had left the autumn before. The stork house-husbands had just a few weeks to sweep and dust their homes before their stork wives blew in to begin the happy couplings which would result in chicks for the storks, and, almost as often, a human hatchling for the couple below the eaves. All but one of the stork couples had reunited in Nidheim over the last four weeks, only Henri’s were yet to show.
‘Ho! Happy Henri. Salu!’ sang Strudel Lisa from a hot fug of wild thyme as Henri passed her aromatic pie shop in Rue du Chateau. ‘Ca va! Any sign yet?’
‘Non, non, non, non, not yet,’ Henri rumbled. ‘But Henri has no worries. No worries. Hmmm! Everyone knows the storks will return to a happy house. Gripette and I, we keep a good house. Hmmm! A good house. It will not be long. They will come soon. Henri has no worries. No, none at all.’
‘Indeed they will, Henri. Indeed you do. Indeed,’ cooed Strudel Lisa. Then, wiping her floury fingers on her faded pink apron, almost obliterating the white stork she had embroidered there in 1992, she passed him a steaming eel pie wrapped in greasy brown paper. His regular Thursday lunch.
‘Indeed, you are early today,’ continued Lisa, ‘the eels are so hot, they must be baking.’ She shuffled back inside the pie shop, the disintegrating soles of her stork-embossed slippers flip-flapping as she climbed the two immaculately clean steps. Henri was a man of habit and the people of Nidheim gossiped among themselves that they had no need for Sint Zazo’s noon chimes as they could set their clocks by Henri’s earthy strut from the vineyard to his lunch and the piercing sound of Der Tritsch Tratsch, The Chit-Chat Polka. Last night, though, Henri had dreamed that the storks were safely back on his roof and his eagerness to see if his dream had come true had brought him back to the village earlier than usual.
Village lore in Nidheim stated quite firmly that the storks would only nest on a happy home and would return to it each year, only leaving to build a new stork bedsit elsewhere if the marriage below was to fail. That was the belief of most of the village including Henri himself. Bernard the Baker had a different view: when his wife left to visit her cousin in Minnesota three years earlier and failed to return, Bernard said it was the fault of the storks which had obviously lost their bearings on the way back to France from their winter migration. Or they had, perhaps, had been shot for stew in the starving wilds of the sub-Saharan desert. Camille, he maintained, could not bear to think of the house without its stork couple and she would return to Place du Remparts when her storks did. So far there had been no sighting of either the storks or Camille. The women of the village, gossiping over a small Bierre Sans Culottes in Café Schlouk on market day, were pretty sure Bernard the Baker had warmed his baguettes in someone else’s oven and it was that which had chased both the storks and Camille away.
It will be soon, Happy Henri mused to himself, that Sylvaner and Muscat return home, soon. He had named the pair after his favourite Alsace wines even though the village hissed that naming the storks could result in misfortune. Henri could not imagine that Sylvie and Mumu, members of a bird fraternity famous for sprinkling good luck and fertility, would be so malicious that they would spray calamity, along with their bird shit, on a kindly soul who had christened them with relevant and, he felt, reverent, Alsatian names. He had, however, hedged his bets and had never let it slip that his storks were named. Only Gripette knew the truth.
‘You fool,’ she had spat, ‘they are just birds. Soon you will be naming each and every stick of vine that you prune, and weeping when you need to trim the buds. Names indeed! Shall I name the rabbit before I turn it into stew? Eh, Balou?’ Henri knew that she only spoke to him like this because she cared for him deeply and was worried others might think him cursed by his own storks. Some in the village said Gripette had such a tongue it was a wonder she didn’t cut her own cheeks but Henri knew she had a true and loving heart although he did think it was a pity that her womb had not also proved to be a loyal organ. ‘Yet,’ he added faithfully to himself, ‘yet.’
Some in the village also thought Henri a fool to have married such a meanmouth in the first place.
‘He is a kind man. Simple, not handsome, but kind. A little proud maybe, a little blind — his storks are more regular than anyone else’s, his Gripette more beautiful, his vines more bountiful. But a hard worker, a very hard worker,’ they nodded among themselves. And there had been some tittle-tattle that Gripette had only accepted Henri’s marriage proposal as she had been, at that time, inconvenienced by the prospect of a small squalling circus performer entering her life following a brief dalliance with the strongman at a Lenten fair. At that time Gripette was still a frisky minx with green eyes and blonde ringlets. Needless to say, this rumour remained mere speculation, as Gripette and Henri remained staunchly childless.
Arriving home just before Sint Zazo’s noon bells trilled, Happy Henri paused before entering his cottage at 2 Rue de la Ferme du Pape. Gripette had obviously been busy planting the window boxes. The air around the front door was heavy with the fusty scent of geranium leaf. The cascades of pink and scarlet flowers were pleasing to his eye, placed as they were, with such delicacy against the delphinium paint Gripette had chosen for the house. He eyed the gnomes planted among the geraniums with less favour. He was no great fan of gnomes although he knew Bernard the Baker had them in every nook and cranny of his house. Most likely the gnomes that drove Camille away, thought Henri with a wry grin and, wanting to share his amusing insight with Gripette, he threw open the door of his little cottage with such gusto that it hit the wall and bounced back, slicing deeply down the side of his bulbous nose and causing the pungent eel pie to slide from his greasy fingers and splatter into a boggy puddle filling the air with a herby heat that Henri would later always associate with heartburn. But Henri noticed none of this as he struggled to grasp the scene in the scullery within.
In that moment, Henri knew three things with absolute certainty: the storks would never return to 2 Rue de la Ferme du Pape; he WAS an old fool; and he would never be called Happy Henri again. For there, in the former sanctuary of his homely kitchen, under the green gingham lampshade and frozen forever in the icy neurons of his outraged brain, was Gripette. Her cheeks were on fire, her eyes slits of concentration. She was bent over the table he had crafted with his very own hands from ancient gnarled vine stems. And there, behind her, was Bernard the Baker. His serge trousers, the ones with the shiny arse from too much sitting at the Schlouk, were rumpled around his skinny hairless ankles, his face contorted in an ogre’s grimace. And Bernard, the bâtard, was plunged into that most sacred place that Poor Henri had only ever accessed on a Sunday night. After choucroute and sausage. And a cleansing mass.
Siobhan Gifford
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pieces - Katie Goto-Švić
“I love you a hundred times more than you love me.”
I don’t deserve you.
“If I get the new job, I’ll buy you that holiday house on the beach.”
I watch the smile on his face. I meant what I said; if I get the new job, the private equity one, to put us in a new tax bracket, I’ll buy the house. I want to be able to buy the house, just for him. I meant what I said.
But so did he.
He probably does love me a hundred times more than I love him, and I love him very much. That’s why I’m his wife. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.
He’s the only man I could imagine being with anymore, and if things ever had to end between us (hypothetically, of course) I wouldn’t want to be with another one. I’d still go for a woman though. Different category. Easier to separate from the hypothetical heartbreak. My husband knows I’m bisexual, it’s not as if it’s something to hide, but this particular mental tangent I keep to myself.
Recently I’ve been not-so-low-key crushing on judge Jennifer Dorrow, ever since I binge watched hours of the Darrell Brooks trial on YouTube. I searched for more pictures of her online and found her political campaign — form fitting red dress, tan knee-high boots, US flag in the background. I don’t know what it is about that country’s flag (it’s not as if my own country’s flag doesn’t pop up in photos during elections), but it makes everything seem that much more grandiose and surreal.
Jennifer Dorrow describes herself as “a woman of faith”, as I watch a media interview of her after the infamous trial she presided over. Somehow it makes her even hotter.
*
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
It’s light and playful. Like the picture book we read our child, Guess How Much I Love You?, with Big Nutbrown Hare and Little Nutbrown Hare in the field, Little Nutbrown Hare being put to sleep by Big Nutbrown Hare in his bed of leaves, competing over who loves the other most.
Little Nutbrown Hare loves Big Nutbrown Hare as high as he can hop.
But Big Nutbrown Hare loves Little Nutbrown Hare as high as he can hop, with his much longer legs.
Little Nutbrown Hare loves Big Nutbrown Hare all the way to the moon, whispering as he falls asleep. And just as he does, Big Nutbrown Hare bests him with: “I love you all the way to the moon — and back.”
It’s heartwarming.
It’s heartwarming how I deserve absolutely none of it and he still loves me.
I love him too. I love him so much some nights I can’t sleep from my brain obsessed and terrified over what will happen in our old age, weighing up the pros and cons of me dying first versus him. I’d be heartbroken to lose him and be alone, but the idea of him being subjected to the same heartbreak and loneliness is far worse. So I always conclude it would be better for him to go first. Whatever causes him the least pain.
*
Playing with fire.
Fire exclusively in the earthly sense, or fire that scalds into the afterlife as well, even if it never escapes my control while I’m alive?
If there’s an afterlife, and he and I meet again there, will he know? Do we get all the answers to everything once we die? What would stop him from knowing? How would he react? What would it be like to look each other in the eye?
The hotel last time had a giant, light up spa, purple and aqua marine, giving Ursula the sea witch vibes.
It bubbled and frothed and spun around like a whirlpool when she added the cherry bath gel and turned the jets on full throttle.
The way that room overlooked the city, glittering skyscrapers against an ink black sky, held us in a limbo, frozen in a paradoxical vacuum; both hidden and obnoxiously exposed at the same time.
And then I lay splayed on the bed, her head between my legs, the lights on the ceiling bringing out the deep violet tint in her black hair. Is it because she’s another woman that she’s so good at it, or because she’s a paid professional?
Either way it’s unbelievably good, just like it was the last time.
When I go home I’m happy, refreshed, no longer like part of myself is being suffocated slowly to death. I can be a better wife, a better mother, when all of me is happy.
All considered, it’s the better thing to do.
*
I tell my husband I want it to be rough.
I want there to be bruises.
He hesitates at first, but I know there’s part of him that likes the idea too.
When we were dating there was that one time we somehow got to talking about deep, dark secrets. And by deep, dark secrets, I mean in terms of ‘what’s the worst thing that could be dredged up from your porn search history?’ But we never took it any further from there.
When I broach the subject of violence again, now, after however many years I see the nervousness, the fleeting discomfort flash across his face, but I also see the depths of his eyes grow dark — pupils like black holes in space, darker than black. A usually obscured part of him crawls out, mildly terrifying, thoroughly intoxicating to look at, to feel as he seizes my wrist and throws me down onto the lounge.
I don’t deserve you. But this makes me feel better about it.
Flat on my back, the way his fingers dig into my jaw as he holds my head in place, rigid, I can tell there will be bruises. A thin, purple-black chain, to run my fingers over, back and forth, over and over again, beneath the searing white light at the bathroom mirror later on. His fingers find my throat next as he moves inside me; purposefully placed just away from my actual windpipe, but still enough to make me choke a little bit.
I deserve it.
Maybe he does know something.
Like the time a few weeks ago, when he was drunk. Not angry drunk, but the stale, lethargic type; him sat at the dining table, me all the way over on this same lounge, the entire breadth of an empty floor between us.
“If you leave me for someone else...sometimes I feel like I’d kill you...then kill myself...”
There had been the same infinitely dark look behind his eyes then too, although a bit more blurred and unsteady. Even from a distance I could sense it as if he were right up close and my body instinctively curled into a foetal position where I sat.
“Don’t kill me...”
Next moment he was beside me, hand gentle on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry I won’t...I’m sorry...”
I’ll never know for certain how much he remembers of that night because we never discussed it again and he’s never held his liquor all that well, but I’ll never forget. And in my mind, at the very least, the status quo of who’s the worst in our otherwise happy marriage was evened out that night.
Leave bruises, make me dizzy so I hit the ground when I try to stand up.
Push me against the wall and grind my wrist bones into the plaster.
I tell him to go harder.
He knows it isn’t only men I’ve been with before we met.
He knows something is going on now, I’m sure of it.
Little pieces of a story but never the full picture.
No matter how much they love each other, nobody can honestly know who they’re really with, not really.
Katie Goto-Švić
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Manifesto - Ian Gouge
The sound of footsteps in the corridor. You look up to the closed door, your pen suspended a centimetre above the surface of the paper. And you wait.
Outside, the floorboards creak in response to the feet pressing upon them, and you try to imagine exactly where their owner might be, a figure presumably walking either to or from the main chamber. It’s as if you are trying to see through the solid wall of your small office, project yourself into another space; or if not that, perhaps to inhabit the eyes belonging to one of the portraits which adorn the corridor and thus track the progress of the walker. “The eyes follow you”; isn’t that what they say?
You wait for a slackening of pace, the pause outside the door, ready to brace yourself for the knocking which will follow… But the rhythm of the walking does not vary; the floorboards keep up their song; the danger passes. For it might have been danger.
From nowhere you are suddenly grateful that the Council chose not to spend the vast sums of money required for a full renovation of the old building, preferring to settle on the minimum allocation possible where repairs could no longer be put off. Particularly with respect to the roof. You are thankful even though you campaigned for the total re-vamp; but your star was already on the wane by then, and losing the vote became inevitable — which was nothing in itself, other than to prove you had lost the backing of the majority. Every day it had seemed that someone else was starting to give the rumours credence and shifting allegiance as a result. In private conversations you complained that the draining of support was unfair, that the charges — were any to ever be brought against you — could never be proven, fabrications based on jealousy. For there were those who were jealous: of your meteoric rise; the infectious nature of your speech-making; the way your policies struck a chord with the populous. The year you stood for re-election, the country witnessed the greatest landslide in history.
But now here you are, less than five years later, turning your gaze back to the paper as you listen to the receding steps. You re-read the last few words written — “and so it is with a heavy heart” — and try and recapture the emotion of that moment, just a few seconds ago, which saw you commit them to paper.
It is not too difficult to do so. The words have already made your case: the gratitude that you weren’t condemned after your fall from grace; how you had openly wished the new administration well, but had become increasingly dismayed as you watched the very fabric of the country unravel; your concern over the direction of travel, the threats from outside, the dubious alliances the Council seemed hell-bent on making. By this point in the speech you will have made your forecast as to what might happen next, the calamity waiting in the wings; and now it is time to draw your conclusions, set down an alternative vision, play the hindsight card.
The very few you trust — those who have remained discretely loyal — have encouraged you to look back, to play on the heartstrings of a population cherishing remembrance of past times, even if they were no better off then. Yet it is not the populous you must win over; you need to re-persuade those who once sat on your side of the chamber, who agreed with your policies, danced to your tune. It is a risky business. There are those who would happily stab you in the back again, disappointed that their blades missed the mark five years ago. You know who they are. Indeed, elsewhere in your desk (the second drawer down, hidden between the pages of a Bible) is a list of all Council members, a list split into two columns. The difference between the columns is not as great as you might wish, but you hope there are sufficient on your side. Almost automatically you try and push on — “and so it is with a heavy heart that I draw the following conclusion:” — only to be thwarted once more by the sound of footsteps, this time two individuals talking quietly. Recognising the voices, you relax; both are on the positive side of your list. They will be heading to the chamber, that self-same place where soon enough you will be delivering your manifesto, distributing your statement to those who might be friends, throwing yourself on the mercy of the whole — and hoping you have done enough to turn the tide.
Distracted by your thoughts, you miss the additional footsteps now walking the corridor from the other direction; fail to notice the heavier tread and how full of purpose it seems. It is only when you hear voices raised that you look up, pen poised once more.
There is a moment of silence — then a knock at the door.
Ian Gouge
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lumen Print - Jeremy Grant
Here in the narrow room it waits
patient as a sundial.
The collapsed perspective of a daffodil,
folded, origami-like,
and pressed: the frail, yellow skin
of the outer petals
and the rich orange yoke of the inner,
like a fiery tongue,
clasped between cardboard and glass.
Through the great window,
a glossary of light,
the shadow of the hawthorn swinging
from west to east, the blink
of night — an aperture as wide
as the horizon — and rays
sieved through the pale petals’ pans,
shadow and half-shadow,
onto photographic paper
reveal a ghostly night-flower,
a skeleton bouquet
wrapped in its own aura,
still bending into the darkness
towards what it thinks it has lost.
Jeremy Grant
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mother - Oliver Hipkins
A mother is home-spun cloth,
a dazzling flash of a spinning top.
A mother is the word ‘luv’ —
the taste of honey on your tongue.
A mother is a sea shell
where you speak and listen in secret;
where you find your place and know your limits.
A mother’s words are pearls
polished.
Oliver Hipkins
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Mathematics of Us - Alison Hramiak
The geometry of lust
creates a non-equilateral triangle
where fractals of love
form and reform.
The ebb and flow of being with
and (being) without
long term desire.
When the calculus of jealousy
plays out in full,
dx over dy
differentiating her
with you and
you with me,
then the old slide rule(s)
(or rules slide)
and fractions become improper.
3/2 no longer functions,
and there’s nothing
to carry forward in time.
X and Y axis separate
and the triangle becomes
a line_________________________
Alison Hramiak
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lost and Found - Ben Hramiak
I have never felt like more of a child than in this moment. I don’t walk, I stalk. I move at a frantic pace, not quite breaking into a run. My legs are too tired for that. Fear and hunger, those are what drive me. I move past strangers in the pouring rain, my raincoat soaked, passing between tall, grey buildings. The city isn’t a concrete jungle — there’s no colour to it, it’s all uniform. Whoever said that clearly didn’t know about jungles. I can walk through it without having to mind my step on roots or bugs.
The useless brick of metal, glass and plastic in my pocket just sits there, soaked and flickering. I can’t call anyone. I was supposed to meet someone here. I think. My head is filling with fog, ears pounded by rain and chatter. I want this to stop. I keep walking, to where I don’t know. Somewhere out of the torrent. And then, thud.
‘Y’ look hungry, mate.’ A man pushes a tub into my hands. It’s a bulky, red cylinder with bright yellow text. It looks like an old sweet tub. Before I can say anything, he walks off. I get the back of his head. He’s wearing a black, puffy raincoat. I hold the tub in my arms, squinting down at it. It sounds like there’s something inside.
Not what I’m here for, I think. Keep moving. The box rattles when I walk. Not metal, still hard though. A lot of small I-don’t-know-whats. The deluge clouds my vision, too much for me to check. Besides, I don’t want to open it now. Keep moving. Shake-shake-shake it goes, underneath the sound of the rain hammering the lid. I walk on, squinting and gritting my teeth, grumbling to myself. I must look like a vagrant to the passersby. Good. I don’t want their help right now. I’ll do this myself; I just need to be out of this storm!
The light fractures among all the little droplets, but I can still see it. The doors slide open as I approach. Warmth caresses my face while light stings my eyes. Wiping them, I approach a table, placing the tub down and getting my bearings. I push the air out of my lungs, wiping the water from my cold face with napkins I snatch from a dispenser. I feel unclean, the city’s scent clinging to me. Still, warm and starting to dry out. It’s a start.
The coat is peeled off. Not taken off, peeled. I slap it down onto a seat, only for it to start dripping onto the floor. I grumble and rub my eyes. A staff member, dressed in black, comes to mop up the spill forming around me. ‘Sorry about this..…’
He shrugs and continues with his work. I let him. He’s not why I’m here. Doesn’t need me getting in the way. He goes his way, I go mine.
I stumble forward, slumped and glaring up at the menus above the counter. Something catches my eye, only for the woman serving to do much the same. She’s tall, a head taller than me, maybe. A button nose, sharp eyes. She looks smart, even if she’s in a fast-food uniform. She’s cute and my brain’s on fire thinking about that. I smother the flames soon enough, brushing the errant hair from my face and trying to smooth out the curly hair in my beard.
I still look scruffy, but she smiles when I smile back. She’s paid to pretend to like me, of course she smiles — no, don’t be like that. She’s just being polite. ‘Hi, have you made your order?’ She nods to the kiosks. The screens hurt to look at.
I shake my head, looking up at the menus again. ‘I..… no, sorry. Do you still do pizza rolls? Not had them in ages.’
‘Um..… I can check with the cook?’ The smartness breaks, she looks confused. Although, it’s not as if her mouth’s hanging open. If anything, there’s an inquisitiveness. Another smile, as she punches in some information into the till. ‘You take a seat, we’ll be with you soon.’
‘Ri..… yeah, okay.’ I’m still standing there. I force myself to finish the sentence. No one’s around, I have the room to talk. ‘I’m Rob.’
‘Hm?’ She looks down at me, raises a brow. ‘Um..… hi, Rob. I’m Kate.’
I give a nod and a small wave. ‘Hey. Uh..… I’ll just..… sorry.’
‘Nah, it’s fine.’ She smiles.
In the moment I think of all the things her expression might mean, might lead to. We could talk, get to know each other, date. Then I push her away and she doesn’t answer any of my..… no. Stop.
Things will get better, I think, Things end, so this shit feeling will end too.
I smirk back.
People walk past the window. I cling to my jumper, trying to warm myself up. Pinks and blues and grey, even a red coat. All stark against the faceless buildings, lit up by the lights of the shops. Everyone has somewhere to be. Even me, but I’m stuck. A dead phone and a near empty wallet — still have a card. I feel filthy, helpless — need a phone to know where I’m going. For the love of..…
I rub my eyes, grumbling and resting my head in my hand. My eyes wander over to the tub, my stomach growling like a dog trying to get its master to do something. Go on, it seems to say, open me.
Oh sure, I think, trust some..… why did I take this!? Stupid. And yet, I’m opening it. Pop goes the lid, the smell faint but present. Inside are..… crackers? Broken crackers, untouched by the rain. Reminds me of those..… you ever get those big bags of broken biscuit bits? Get them cheap and they still taste alright. Look at them..… crumbling, mouthwatering. At least to a man that hasn’t eaten properly in a while. I know it’ll ruin my appetite; I don’t know where they’ve been, or why some stranger would give them to me. Suspicion stays my hand. Not to mention a general dislike of people — the bitter weather doesn’t help this.
No. I just look at them like I’m trying to decipher a problem. The noise around me fades away for a moment. More like forget it’s there. I’m good at that, forgetting things. In my looking, I notice something else. Buried, poking out like bones in the sand that is the crumbs, are little white packets. No, packets of something white.
Shit! I slam the lid back down, popping it into place and looking around. No one’s giving me much attention. Good. The cold and the exhaustion are shoved down — always shoving, always grasping, always clawing. I’m never entirely relaxed when I’m outside. I fold my arms, glaring daggers at the bright red container. As if I’m blaming the tub for..… having things in it? No, stupid. Stop looking at it.
He gave it to me, passed it off to me. Why have crackers in it? Thought… maybe he thought I’d need it — no. Drug dealer, hiding his things. I rub my eyes, taking in a sharp breath. Way to look suspicious, ey? I groan and look to the counter. Kate, the woman, she notices.
‘Everything alright?’ She has this look on her face, it might be genuine concern. I’m flattered. She holds up a brown paper back — food, at last!
‘The usual,’ I chuckle, my stomach audibly growling like a bear. This stranger puts me at ease, just a little. I’ve always had trouble saying no to a woman. My coat sloughs off the back of the chair as I stand and make my way to the counter. The tub is left on the table. I look back at the door, only to notice — oh come on!
Policemen. Similarly drenched but their waterproofing actually works. High-vis vests, body cams, hats. They’re too busy looking elsewhere to meet my gaze. I look scared, steadying my hand to take the bag and start fishing my card out from the wallet. I don’t hear the woman saying the price, I’m already paying for it.
‘Think we found it,’ one of them says to the other, radioing it in.
I try to calm myself, sniffing at the contents of my bag. Another smile as I say, ‘Thanks. See you around?’ I don’t think I will. I don’t know if I’ll be back here, if I’ll even remember. I have to leave.
‘Sure.’ She smiles — it’s tainted. ‘You take care.’
She looks concerned, like she’s about to tell her friends about the weird, wet man that said — no. Be positive. She’s a perfectly nice girl, don’t be mean. She’s not at fault for me looking soaked and dishevelled. I’d think I looked weird if I saw me. Besides, she..… I don’t know her. But I wouldn’t mind getting to know her.
‘Same.’ There’s too much to say, not enough time. I don’t want to be weird. Another smile as I walk out at a quick pace, nodding to the two officers as I start putting my coat on. It’s as drenched as before.
I barely register the conversation they have with Kate. Something like, ‘Yeah, you just missed him’.
I walk faster for my own good. Mingling with the crowd, I let the heat of the food waft up into my face. Said food is being battered by the rain, so I’m quick to start scarfing it down. It burns my mouth, but hunger wins out over pain. All this while the two men are approaching. Their calls are drowned out by the weather and the sound of my teeth tearing into the crunchy, sloppy food.
Nearly there, I think. Nearly..… please just let me get there. The crossing is in sight, I can make it! I will —
“Sir! Stop where you are!”
I….. I’m so tired. You know how it is, right? I’m tired and I’d give anything to be in bed, warm and dry. Maybe Kate is with me. We’d just watch TV or some nonsense, talk about life. Anything but this. I glare at the two men. As if I’m trying to shoot my thoughts into their heads.
They..… they wouldn’t get it. They don’t. They just see a vagrant with contraband in his hands. I would too, but I’m not them. At least, I had the tub in my hands. For all I know they’ll ask me who gave it to me. I’m just a sodden man in this sodding world. Ever-so reluctantly, I stop. My journey changing course, praying someone at the station has a mobile for me to use. Who knows, maybe they’ll take me somewhere warm and dry.
Ben Hramiak
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In which a flower remains a flower - Tim Kiely
it’s not as if
persistent watching
would alter anything
that is far from the point
it is only the watching
and what is uncovered
by it
consider
its green and its white
the green of water
and earth being drawn
into this their most thin
and unlikely form
how the sun dissolves
along the lash
of each petal
how as the hours pass
it remains as it ever was
how the stem is plucked
by the round of days
how the earth after months
makes its ochre ascent
through the smoothness of before
how gravity bows the un-
becoming head
to recover
in this the cold common
field bed
how the future becomes
another flower
already in the seed
now seen
how this persists
how patience discovers
that the world is the flower
your seeing the flower
and you
and now
see if any of this
is changed
Tim Kiely
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who goes to Poland for the jazz? - Tim Kiely
i.m. Tomasz Stańko, 1942-2018
You can give up your life for one good night. I gave mine up, of all places, in Gdynia.
Admit it: you say it, and it does no justice. You tell people why you went there, and they cock their heads and they ask you the same thing every time:
“Who goes to Poland for the jazz?”
As it transpires, quite a few people. Gdynia has a Jazz Festival, running for a full week each midsummer, with an exclusively female lineup. For real. I think I saw a dude supporting once, but I couldn’t swear to it. Performers come from across the world. There is serious cred in getting a feature. And yeah, people might not think of it like they think of Montreal, or New Orleans, but where would I get the money for those places?
If you’re like me, you’re in Poland for the chance to be cleaned and freed by the winds coming in from the low, level sea. You’re here because here being brown and female and a Midlander and a lover of jazz might still stand out, but as part of the night, like the tower of the Town Hall in Old Town Gdańsk.
You start in Gdańsk and you know that here is a place where you’re going to fall in love. Anyone who has walked its waterfront, especially as the streetlight swims in the loving black waters of the Motława, knows there is romance here as in few other places. The romance that comes from knowing this city has found itself ground to dust before now, and some grouchy, grimacing decency was able to lift it back up, restored churches and museums and all.
I love to come here and remind myself that this is where struggle can rest for a while: in cobbles and kiosks selling amber bracelets that glow in the murmuring night like coals. I love to take the coast road out beyond Sopot, sauntering through the wide cycling paths, watching the light get lower from beneath the trees. You can walk for a day, and get to Gdynia just at the time when the evening is coming in, when the city hums like a band tuning up and you know things are going to get interesting.
Then you wander into a basement club somewhere. And your one good night is already decided.
The band had not been long playing when I got in. Four slight young people in open-neck shirts, who obviously hadn’t played together before and were still feeling out their vibe with each other. I could see the pianist looking intensely at the drummer seated across from them, their brow furrowing under their trilby, probing the keys with long fingers. There was a melody in there somewhere, but it needed height, and the band were still lifting it gingerly to the place where it might catch the wind and take off.
It was early yet. It could still get better.
It was standing room only but surprisingly quiet, the crowd keeping all of the interactions whispered. Drinks reached lips in attentive hush. I drank in the crowd, and picked my way through the back rows. There isn’t always much worth seeing in a crowd of appreciators of jazz — sad to say it, but there it is. Quite a lot of dark glasses and roomy jackets.
Except this time, in this club, where against one wall, on the brick steps down from the main bar, sat a slim woman, nearly hidden in the long drapes of a lumberjack coat, peering over the heads of the crowd. She was leaning in, her fingers tented, both elbows resting against her knees which were poking, milk-white, through the holes in her jeans. Her hair was silver, almost blinding white if she shifted her posture and caught the light. But none of that held my attention as much as the steady look she was giving the band. Apart from the occasional shuffle as people moved past her to travel the steps, she hardly moved, or even blinked. Her focus was trained on the young quartet so totally that, in its own way, you could see her attention and call it prayer.
Which would make it a tricky thing to go speak to her.
I passed through the crowd as the music swept low, limbering up for another attempt, and without quite sitting down next to her whispered,
“Your hair is amazing; where can I get it done?”
She blinked at me for a moment, as she resurfaced. I think I surprised her. An English woman will do that, I’m told, when she walks up to someone and speaks their language. She tilted her head. A small smile, and then a shrug.
“It’s not that impressive, really. You can buy this anywhere.”
She gestured to her head, and I smiled back, wider.
“That’s good news for me. I’ve wanted to try something out for a long time..…”
I ran a hand through my own hair and shuffled in closer. Onstage, a shimmer of piano keys cascaded over the crowd as the music picked up. Something was catching and climbing the air.
“….. but I never really had the courage.”
A beat. I dared to hold for a moment, and then shrugged theatrically.
“Maybe something to try while I’m here?”
Her face softened in an almost-laugh. She turned to face me more fully.
“Your Polish is very good,” she said. “Most English people aren’t as ambitious.”
“What gave me away?”
“I lived there for a few years, I know the accent. Also, only the English pull those faces when they shrug.”
As if to demonstrate, she bunched her shoulders and pulled her own face into the kind of clownish grimace that I knew right away I had, in fact, just been pulling myself. Under normal circumstances I’d have hated her for being so dead-on.
The piano played. I could only laugh.
“Damn, you do not mess around..…”
“I think being upfront is a good thing. Whereabouts in England are you from then?”
“Birmingham. Well, Sutton, really, kind of outside of town, little bit, but still..…”
“Ah, great, I lived in Sheffield.”
A few moments passed in quiet. I drummed my heels.
“….. Still, I needed to get away, so….”
“….. You came here?”
She held her chin in the crook of one hand, giving me the same level attention she had given the band. I swallowed. Her wrists were slim, like riverbank reeds.
“Absolutely! I find there’s a freedom out here. You know, to come here, and do things like this…..”
I gestured around, as she raised an eyebrow. I didn’t seem to convince her.
“I don’t know if it’s different if you’re from here..…”
I checked again. She gave nothing away.
“….. but there’s just an energy to the place that I really dig, you know?”
That got a smile. I felt something in my ribcage flutter. You listen to enough interviews with members of the Polish jazz scene and you know that some words are international.
“You dig?” she repeated, and I plunged on,
“I do. You know that, I really do. I really think I can thrive somewhere like Gdynia, know what I…..?”
She laughed softly, bringing me up short.
“Not ‘Guh-din-ya’,” she said, leaning in closer, “It’s ‘G-deen-ya’..…”
As she spoke, she stressed the Polish ‘ee’ in a way that gave her a small grin. Her final release of ‘yah’ felt like a blown kiss. My gut tightened, and I lowered my head. I don’t know if I was glowing more from embarrassment or from excitement.
“Ach. Sorry. Guess that’s one other thing that gives me away.”
As the music fell into an intimate lull, we let another few seconds pass. Those are seconds when the tiniest details, like a held note tremoring to the end of the phrase, find their way to your ear, and you shiver.
She reached out and put a hand on my arm. When she spoke her voice was a soft-ringing cymbal. Her eyes were a low, level sea.
“Don’t worry. We’ll work on that while you’re here.”
A sax note lifted over the crowd. It sounded for all the world like a sigh.
You can give up your life for one good night. For a night that feels like its own moment. The moment where the tongue of a girl you just met is fighting with yours in the blue corridor of a Polish jazz club can be a thing that changes your entire world on the spot. You feel yourselves under the cornflower lights, finding where your hands can be fitted to hips and shoulders and curves of neck and flowering mouths and sweat and promise, and you know that you both look a masterpiece.
The band gets properly into their stride. They pass to the drummer for their solo. He is kicking the rhythm up several gears, as jagged edges of hi-hat and snare start bucking beneath the piece with an animal glee.
Without knowing it, we are now out of the club, but the beat stays with us all the way to her place. The bass rumble of taxi wheels and the snap of heartbeats are what fire us up through our backseat tangle of ungainly limbs and the sweetness of lips and the longing for skin. She says something in Polish to the driver which I barely hear, then the next moment we’ve fallen upstairs and through her door and everything is darkness and rapid undressing.
We glow in the black where we meet one another, and fall on the bed and make everything sing. I soar out of myself as her lips meet my lips, as her tongue travels down across my breasts and my belly and the ceiling over me fills with stars.
Somewhere the band will be barrelling through a saxophone breakdown that sounds like a scream, but only to those who aren’t paying attention. There is ecstasy in brass and body. There is tongue against flesh. There is brown and pink and pleasure and power. What sounds like a scream is a song of praise.
In the dark I let myself be played till the sweetness of the melody peaks.
I grip the pillows and arch my back. I draw breath. I pour my applause.
The art of your life takes shape at night. You have some idea of where you might fit as the floating and separate notes coalesce and become this carrying symphony.
In the aftermath, as your own sweat cools and you let your bodies find the sweet spots in one another while you drift off, you can feel your fingers dance high-hat and snare on the edge of the bedpost. Those jagged edges and the promise of freedom are what you gave up half your lifetime for. The night sky, seen through her curtains, is green.
At the time I had no idea what I would make of the other half of my life. If the next morning, or the morning after that, or even the next week she would say or do something to make me know just how stupid I was. If she’d blow all our money, or she couldn’t hold a job, or just sulked for hours if you ever pointed out she’d forgotten to empty the bins that day. If I’d hate Poland after the festival finished. If I’d hate myself. Or if everything would just come all right.
I think that’s just the promise some nights make to you. Like a song that starts up and just goes, and you know — or if you don’t know, you trust — it will wind its way safe to the end of the set. Like a held note tremoring to the end of the phrase. You listen and hope you can be there, known, when a work of art emerges whole.
Which is a feeling I’ve only ever had in Poland.
Tim Kiely
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WFH - Dave Kurley
Dad’s already up
Easter Island face set
Comfy in the conservatory
The son also rises
Dad’s bedclothes reset
Tablets on the table
In daily compartments
So as not to forget
Any more and I’ll rattle
Dad protests, but acquiesces
Eventually, as he does
Every breakfast.
Is Homes Under the Hammer on?
Dad asks. Your mother loves that.
Later, Dad. It’s on later.
Working from home is a boon but
Halfway through some meeting
Dad decides it’s time
To stride into the Zoom Room
To rearrange his records.
The first time, this was funny
Apologies and excuses
Wrap up the catch up
Like a bad regift.
They tidy away the vinyl
Together. Argue over the
Alphabetical order
As if order is important
And end up laughing
Together, helpless laughter
But Dad gets cross
And sulks off into
The conservatory, thundery
Like the afternoon sky.
The son sets the table
Face like overnight concrete
Dad waits, blissfully Zen
For the evening meal
He knows will arrive
Sure as the Six O’Clock News.
Is Pie in the Sky on?
Dad asks. Your mother loves that.
Later, Dad. It’s on later.
Dave Kurley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No-brainer - John Lancaster
Thank you for completing our Mental Health Questionnaire conducted by Notallthere on behalf of the NHS. Please be assured that any personal data provided will be processed in compliance with the data protection legislation and will not be used for marketing purposes. As a reward for participating we would like to offer you one of our renowned free gifts. You may choose from one of the following three gifts reserved for people of your age:
1 Super Succour. Taken orally, and to be sucked as implied in the name, this revolutionary product provides a restoration of that key sense which declines with advancing years, returning tastelessness to tastefulness, both in an intellectual context, for example in restituting the dismissal of all contemporary art as rubbish into work that will stand the test of time, or in a physical sense, for example in the enjoyment of food other than that remembered as made by your mother. You will move from being sour and critical to being comforting and supportive. ( tick )
2 Canned Candour. An audio treatment to cure the tendency to rage and exasperate at any television or radio news item as being an example of human existence going from wrong to wrong or at any programme or person deemed to be amusing but which fails to make you laugh because young people don’t understand what’s funny. A key element is having to listen to secretly recorded tapes of people of your own age going on and on. You will return from bias and bigotry to being open and honest. ( tick )
3 Val’s Vapour. An ointment to be rubbed onto the arms which emits an odour of sandalwood (not sandals) to soothe the pain of forever going over your life’s work, both successes and failures; the pain of working out how much time you’ve wasted; the pain of having to reveal your motives for doing things which you thought right at the time but which you either realise or have been told since caused considerable harm to others. You will be relieved from a state of constant agitation into one of realising that you can’t change anything that happened in the past but can change what you think about it. ( tick )
As stated, you may claim one of the above as a free gift by ticking the appropriate item and providing your address details below. In addition, you may purchase all three items for the special price of £13.35 inc VAT and free delivery — please supply your bank details, name, sort code and account number if you wish to take advantage of this amazing offer.
John Lancaster
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Carer - Tom Larner
Eventually you will forget that feeling;
Getting up at five on a Saturday,
Doing her washing, her cooking and cleaning,
The exhaustion, the moaning, the coming away
Loaded down with both of your frustrations.
Until then you're not sure which is worse;
Knowing one day you'll fail to recall
All these childish emotional games
Entered into like another chore,
Two kinds of helplessness primed beneath —
Or that you'll forget they ever were,
And reproach yourself for it of course,
But gradually with those times they fade,
And die again, a different kind of betrayed.
Tom Larner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Artist : Model - Richard Lister
Single eyelash
in burnt umber
with a steady,
lingering stroke
of my finest brush:
Sable Number 1.
Her face in profile,
cheek soft with youth,
shade gives it shape.
Muted rose with
madder sheen for blush:
warmth, shyness or
desire?
Olive green iris
rendered moist, lush.
What thoughts
shimmer, settle, linger
while she waits?
If I touch her beauty
I’ll smudge the lines,
scuff this role.
Focus. She's just
a composition:
cool still life, with breath.
I choose to think
he stares out time,
adding layer
after layer until
I become real:
his muse, and foil.
Richard Lister
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Making potage bonne femme - Penny McCarthy
She’s trying to help, but can connect
nothing with nothing,
not the kitchen knife
to the chopping of carrots,
the peeler to the potatoes,
the tears to the cause of the tears
(onions, of course).
She can distinguish more, but not
thyme from Time, not the timer.
All of a sudden, she asks
But who was the “bonne femme”?
Well, we hazard, the mothers and grand-mothers
who have been making this timeless soup
from time out of mind.
Penny McCarthy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Large Blue Butterfly - Iain McClure
on wild thyme and marjoram
pale eggs in mild air
darken then split
a bristled grub gorges
on the purple flower heads
grows fat with gravity
drops to the earth
stridulates SOS
counterfeits a red ant queen
glamorous in pheromones
carried by royal guards
through blinded passageways
chambered with the pupae
deep inside the palace
consumes generations
idol, monarch, parasite
in ten months of gluttony
swells to a zeppelin
cocooned in a graveyard
a gilded pod transfigures
reborn for flight
senses the distant sun
crawls up from darkness
opens shameless wings to light
beauty and atrocity
Orpheus and Moloch
will dazzle for three weeks
a splinter of ocean blue
couples so carelessly
lays pale eggs in July
on wild thyme and marjoram
Iain McClure
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Haze - Freya Metcalfe
Self-acceptance comes in the corner of a bar
Brimmed with people
Loud and dark.
In a cloud of too expensive
Sweet scented things
I reclaim myself
Over cocktails
And over sharing.
This is my new found self-love.
It won’t stick around for morning.
Freya Metcalfe
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am not town - Denis Nightingale
I am village with the early cry of the cockerel,
The clatter of horses’ hooves,
The moaning of cows separated from their calves.
I am village with the revving of the tractor in the field,
The weekly appearance of the fresh fish van,
The mobile library silent in the cricket car park.
I am village with the battle to keep the Post Office open,
The long wait for buses that never come,
The fund to restore silenced church bells.
I am village with the slow talk over the garden fence,
The chatter of children in the primary school,
The whisper of wife swapping in the close.
I am village with night scented stock thick on the air,
The smell of damp wood in the decaying parish hall,
The welcome stench of manure spread by the farmer.
I am village with the knowledge of everyone’s business,
The rallying round in times of trouble,
The sadness of better times fading in the memory fast.
I am not town.
Denis Nightingale
(Based on the Soviet slogan from 1919 - ‘I am not village’)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
County Lines - Jonty Pennington-Twist
Some time ago
I took you to the place
I tried my hardest to grow up in
And I half expected
To be young there
For red to still be my favourite flavour
But instead
The soil was thick with echoes
I’d hoped were never coming back
And all my painful changes
Hung there on the fence wire
Just like moles
Jonty Pennington-Twist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On Bull Hill - Janet Philo
A rusty car coughs, before it stops
on untouched snow. Thigh-deep white
soaks our double socks, as wet flakes
clump and drip between warm calves
and welly tops. The sky, a silken black,
like our cat’s back, paddling and purring
in the fire glow. The stars are sharp
as tin tacks, spilled from new packs,
in the shed, rolling out their sparks
between the dark of the bottom ditch
and a black lattice hedge of bare twigs,
while we haul the whole, cold metal weight,
the green tubular frame and runners
of a new-made wood-slat sledge,
hitched with frayed bailer twine,
cutting dirty orange into wet-wool gloves,
as crafty Cold sneaks in.
Fingers will burn with the pain of it,
but now,
all that matters is the moon.
It hangs like a lamp,
low in the sky, low enough to reach.
as frost sets the snow to shimmer,
in this once upon a winter night,
and I lose myself in silence as we fly.
Janet Philo
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Overnight - Jenna Plewes
Cut loose, berthed as new-borns
in curtained cots, they sleep
rocked in the rhythm of the rails
rain streaks the windows like tears
platforms, lights, signboards
peel away, darkness throws
a tattered rug over trees, fields,
huddled houses. The train
streams north, sleek as a snake.
A girl in a top bunk, lifts the blinds
at Berwick sees the long line of surf
a swollen sun lifting from the sea
a man and a dog crunching the shingle.
The train curls inland, streets, shops
tenements, alleyways, a city waking
she feels her warm shell crack, a wash
and wobble of fear and trepidation.
The train slows, stops. The platform’s
flooded with trundling cases, voices, hugs
last to leave, she hunches into her rucksack
feeds her one-way ticket into the barrier
watches the train shrink, then disappear.
Jenna Plewes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Reconnoitring at Cross Purposes - Jenna Plewes
A thread of light stitches the door of your world
and I watch you
your long nose finding messages in the wind
probing unseen trackways looping and unlooping
across footpath and field
your tail moving like a metronome as you search
and I think of ribbons of DNA lacing the forests
winding through feather, fur and skin
settling in the ripple of grasses, flowing from my breath
tangling my hair
an endless library that we are learning how to read
page after page of life
and I wonder what you learn as you linger in the lane
tracking a world we thought was closed to us.
Jenna Plewes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Frida Kahlo - Stephen Poole
Now I'm back in Blighty,
I'm missing you.
In Paris you haunted me.
So many places where your face
stared back at me.
From paintings on the Left Bank,
to postcards, T-shirts, fridge magnets,
tote bags, too.
You were there on the Champs-Élysées,
in the shadow of Sacré-Cœur,
among the arches of Rue de Rivoli:
dark Mexican eyes peering
from beneath heavy eyebrows
that scrutinised, beguiled.
Your Parisian exhibition caused
France to fall in love with you.
Ubiquitous, your image was hypnotic
as you followed me round the city
and I started to fall for you too,
like a holiday romance — surreal.
Stephen Poole
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bystanders - Jenny Robb
We watch the sparrowhawk rip and shred,
the pigeon, not yet dead, surrender.
The sparrowhawk’s yellow eye
remains fixed on us. Her beak dips in and out,
becomes tipped with bright red beads.
Her claws pierce the plump breast,
pins the body to our lawn.
Flurries of feathers confetti the air,
settle into a soft white mantle.
We do not move or speak
till the eviscerated body is bone.
Jenny Robb
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cow Parsley in Pickering’s Pasture - Jenny Robb
i.m. Mum and my stepfather John
He won’t stop till we find the perfect spot.
We struggle on the rutted path, wheelchair
protesting at the lack of smooth concrete.
I push him to a froth of cow parsley lace,
there’s a breeze, more ashes than I thought.
Some blow back, but most settle, blend
with the flowers you loved. There’s a view
of the Mersey and Runcorn Bridge, and I think
you’d approve of nourishing plants with bones
on land reclaimed from human rubbish.
Eleven months later I return with John.
Hawthorne is blossoming and smells of death.
I sprinkle him on emerging clumps of cow parsley,
hoping they’re last year’s crop in the same spot.
Jenny Robb
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Stone Armour - Emily Roberts
Deep inside me,
A little girl is standing,
Inside my black stone heart.
Freezing, lonely and looking for love.
The love she was promised,
The love she started this life with.
Still she stands,
Still she looks.
Protected by this armour,
That I built for her.
That I built for us.
‘The love is here!’ I exclaim,
‘Look around’
‘Let it in!’
The girl doesn’t hear.
She sits down,
Puts her head on her knees.
Still she sits,
If only she would look!
She would see the love,
Banging at the black door,
Desperate to get in.
Emily Roberts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All Over Now - Elizabeth Robinson
She died alone.
We’d all gone home. I’d reluctantly patted her hand, which rose in perhaps a feeble wave, or maybe to claw at the air that wrapped us in its dull grey haze.
Guilty now, I think that the least I could have done was to hold her hand, which I didn’t, and hadn’t for maybe twenty years, probably more.
I could have held her hand. I should have known.
But no, I left her there, and I went home.
And left alone, maybe she wondered where I’d gone, and why time slid on
And the dim light shone
A little more brightly.
Outside, the welcome bustle of the car park, the brash radio, the angry sleet, the hassle of the A30, the cold seat and the great relief to be outside.
Alone on the high bed, she breathes, then stops and breathes again — in and out, shallow. Another breath? It’s hard to tell. Ah, yes, there it is.
Time lags and hangs in silence, and Death soothes in through the open door, and comes and sits, and waits, and holds her hand, and watches as she breathes once more, and the warm air shifts and thin curtains ripple and lift and her grey eyes blur, and she drifts away
and down and down to death and history.
And when they called and said, your mother’s dead, I thought about her hand and how it reached towards me and if I should have held it. It’s the least I could have done.
Elizabeth Robinson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Song for light lyric soprano, glass harmonica, 4 bass clarinets and pizzicato cello - Richard Side
What's it like, you ask?
You want everything to be like something,
demand illustration, juxtaposition.
You crave that satisfying click
as it locks into — wait — yes, right there.
But this is only this,
self exemplified, without compare.
Just as you are only you,
unpainted, unwordable,
like air.
Richard Side
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Marathon and a Sprint - Dave Smith
Only the Ethiopian was really running for gold
that humid day in Tokyo in 1964.
Ignoring the continual polite applause,
eyes focussed on the yard ahead,
each economical stride just like the last one,
identical to the next.
At the finish, a few deep breaths
and stretches, ready to start again,
before lying on his back, an upturned beetle,
arms and legs thrashing, waiting,
waiting for the rest.
One staggered as if shot,
a wounded soldier seeking safety.
Others eased off their shoes, revealing
the stigmata on their soles.
The Irishman dropped out,
slumped against the roadside ropes,
a pummelled boxer, dejected in his corner.
The race, though, was on for second.
First into the stadium was the Japanese.
Perhaps he was being blown forward
by the wild cheers of the crowd.
Maybe their expectations weighed too heavily,
slowing him down.
What was certain was he could hear
the voice of his father from across the years
deservedly scolding him for losing a race.
“If you believe in yourself, you never look back.”
So he didn't see the Englishman edging ever closer
before that kick which sent him sprinting past
to the glory that should have been Japan's.
After the Olympics, the Englishman retired,
trained, organised, inspired,
shyly taking out his silver medal to show
wide-eyed youngsters what could be done.
The Japanese? Jilted in love, injured,
he never washed off his shame
for letting his country down but
everyone acknowledged that his suicide note
was indeed a very fine piece of writing.
Dave Smith
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fitting into the mold - Nicholas Samuel Stember
The four prisoners sat around the ash gray oval table, and stared emptily at the sanitary white walls that confined them. There was no discussion, no diversion. Each sat in solemn silence, each lost in his own thoughts, all trying to ignore the only door in or out of the small room.
The Writer jotted down his thoughts in his little pocket notebook, keeping himself busy the only way he knew how. To stop writing would mean that he had to start thinking, and that was the last thing that he wanted to do.
The Performer ran a melody in her head, feeling her skin tingle the way that it did as the crowds rushed the stage. Her eyes closing tighter as she tried to shut out the silence and fill her world with song.
The Administrator sat with her head in her hands, trying to doze but knowing that she couldn’t. Inactivity was a sin that she had struggled all her life to stay purified from, and she was determined not to succumb now. Statistics and computer screens flashed in her head, as last months’ figures were balanced once again.
The Doctor was the most silent of all, lost in his own world of self-torture and depression. Let he who is blameless throw the first stone, was a motto that he had lived his life by...and he had always been a proud stone thrower.
“How long have we been here?” the Writer asked, finally breaking the silence as he looked up from his notes. He glanced nervously around at his three companions, half not expecting an answer.
“A little over three hours,” the Administrator answered him. Calculating the passage of time had always been one of her strong points.
“What difference does it make?” the Performer said, finally allowing her internal concert to fall silent. “It’s not like there’s anywhere we can go.”
“It was just a question,” the Writer defended, picking up his notebook and pen again.
For a moment silence descended on the group once more, then the Performer leaned towards the Writer.
“What are you writing?” she asked, anxious for conversation now that her internal magic was gone. “Writing about us?”
The Writer glanced up, surprise flashing in his eyes. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he admitted. “Well...sort of...I’m jotting notes for a dialogue that we could have been having if this was before the virus.”
“Before, huh,” the Performer asked, intrigued by the thought. “What was it like before the virus? I’ll bet everyone wasn’t so paranoid.”
The Administrator let out a sarcastic chuckle, as she shook her head in disbelief. “You were born before the virus,” she said to the Performer. “People have always been paranoid. First there was terror over social diseases like herpes and AIDS, and mass panic over every sort of disease that could be contracted. Finger pointing and whispering behind backs and closed doors.” The laugh died on her lips as she absently combed her fingers through her hair. “People aren’t any different now. When the virus started infecting people, those with the virus were instantly shunned. Sure, there were some with a better understanding of the cause of the virus, who organized rallies and handed out pamphlets. But they were in the minority. The mass populace enjoys being paranoid... take that away and they have nothing to hold them together.”
“We overcame Covid,” said the Performer.
“Did we?” asked the Writer. “The evidence of Covid was plain for all to see, and yet the anti-vaxxers rallied and believed ‘herd immunity’ would save them. “They never guessed what could come next.”
“This virus is nothing like Covid.” The Administrator’s words reverberated in the sterile room, their harsh content seeming to cause the pure white walls to shrink back in antipathy.
“I was at this concert when I was six,” the Performer said quietly, suddenly afraid to talk aloud. “I barely remember it, but I think it was in honor of some pop star who died of the virus.”
“Do you think that people were more understanding then,” the Writer asked, “back when the virus was young?”
“Sure, there were thousands who came to concerts like that,” the Administrator sneered. “But there were millions who didn’t care, who thought that only certain people could contract the virus...and where are those ignorant millions now?”
“Mostly dead,” the Writer answered, even though he suspected that the question had been rhetorical. “So, you don’t think people have really changed?”
“If they had then we wouldn’t be here now, would we?” the Administrator challenged. “We are just as much the victims of mass paranoia as the first contractors of the virus were.”
The Writer glanced back at his notes, flipping through a few pages. “Then perhaps the dialogue wouldn’t have been that different after all.”
“You should write about something different,” the Performer suggested. “Something more cheerful.”
“I usually write science fiction,” the Writer noted, “I just thought that this would be more relevant.”
“Life is too relevant right now,” the Administrator grumbled. “Stick to your science fiction, you’ll please more people.”
“Maybe I’ll unearth some great truth.”
“What truth?” the Administrator asked, her voice sparked with anger. “The truth that the world was once healthy, and now the virus is everywhere. The truth that when we should have been more concerned, maybe even angry at those that refused to be vaccinated, we instead chose to laugh the threat away? The truth that we didn’t really give a damn about the few who were infected, until it became our parents, or our friends..…or our children.” Her voice cracked, as a sob broke through her words, and tears streamed down her face. “God,” she cried softy, “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry anymore.” Then she buried her face in her hands, cutting herself off from the others.
“We haven’t heard anything from you,” the Writer asked the Doctor, anxious to turn the attention from the Administrator. “Why so silent?”
The Doctor gazed sadly at the sobbing woman, then turned back to the others. “I have no great insights to give you all, and no sympathy left to share.” He got up from his chair and walked to the wall farthest from the single door. “We tried...” his voice whispered as he kept his back to the table, “you will never know how hard we tried. But in the end, I guess the real virus was our ignorance.”
“So that’s it?” the Performer asked, fear creeping into her dulcet voice. “You tried and failed? We all counted on you to make the virus go away.”
“We’re not gods,” the Doctor replied, finally turning to face the others, “we’re not magicians. Medicine can only help people if they want to help themselves. At least we reduced the virus to a non-lethal state.”
“If you can call how it leaves you actually living,” the Writer commented quietly.
The Performer got up from the table and paced around nervously, while the Writer opened his notebook again and began to jot a few sporadic words, finally giving up and tossing his pen on the table. It rolled the length of the ashen table, and fell off the other side, striking the floor sharply, like a glass breaking.
“How long do you think we’ve been here?” the Performer asked.
Then they all fell silent as the door opened, admitting the two Orderlies to the room. They were shadows of men, pale lifeless beings whose skin hung on their skeletons like forgotten rags. They gazed over the four prisoners with their hollow, darkened eyes, then one lifted an electronic pad. “How long did you think that you could hide your hideous affliction?”
“But there’s nothing wrong with us,” the Writer protested, standing up and pushing back his chair.
“You’re different,” the Orderly stated flatly.
“Why can’t you just let us live our lives in peace?” the Performer questioned. “We’re no harm to you.”
“You must be infected,” the Orderly said simply. “Now come along peacefully.”
“But we’re healthy,” the Performer voiced the Writer’s protest.
Then the Soldiers came in, gaunt haggard things bearing their instruments of authority and justice.
“Now we will go,” the Orderly commanded and walked through the door.
For an eternity that lasted a second, the four gazed at each other. Then the Writer picked up his pen, and placed his hand on the Administrator’s shoulder, helping her up as the four slowly moved from the table, and left the room.
Nicholas Samuel Stember
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dead Weight - Deanna Strasse
We tried for days to pacify ourselves with talk of rescue: praying constantly, discussing our future once this ordeal was over, and even pretending that the faint shadow on the horizon was a passing ship. We did try.
I suggested singing songs to keep the sharks away and so we sang with what little strength we had. We sang until our songs and prayers were drowned out by the relentless creaking of the lifeboat. No one else seemed to notice it, but the grinding wore on my ears and my mind. It was the telltale sign of wood that was reaching its breaking point, straining under the weight of us five.
On our second night adrift, the others fell asleep, but rest would not come for me. Our water had run out mere hours earlier and somehow in the coolness of the African night, I felt even drier than in the day. I stared at the ocean that surrounded us and felt my throat tighten with thirst. Years of being at sea had taught me about salt water. I knew. I knew damn well what would happen.
But the creaking of the boat! It rang out like chapel bells, deafening my senses and muting even the waves. I would be satisfied. I had to be satisfied.
My hands were shaking as I dipped them into the inky waters, bringing a small amount to my lips. I tasted nothing but pure salt and choked; my chapped and bleeding lips burned at the onslaught and my gums felt as though they were shriveling to half their normal size. My very form was closing in on itself, starting with the mouth. In the midst of my hacking, a dribble of water trickled down my throat, continuing the distinct sensation of dehydration across my entire being. I could feel it inside me, spreading into my belly and sucking the life out of everything it touched.
The coughing only roused one from sleep — Michael. He was only a boy, not yet nineteen, but even he knew what I had attempted and the stupidity of it. He said nothing, but I could still somehow make him out. The light of the moon was not enough to illuminate him fully, but the sheen of his blue eyes gave him away. Strange thing, the boy’s eyes. They were sparkling even in the thick darkness of night, as though they created their own light. What emotion laid behind those eyes, I cannot say, but their mere presence startled me.
He eventually found sleep again, but I could not. The boat continued to creak.
At dawn, we found our hard tack had begun to rot. With that, we all knew what was next…but no one could articulate it. I would have to be the man of action, and so I said the unsayable: the custom of the sea.
Ben resolved to act as captain in this endeavor, and I felt gratitude. I would not have to be one orchestrating everything. We had no straws, as was the usual practice, so Ben pulled a length of string from his shirt, withdrew his knife, and sliced the string into five sections. Each section was a different length, and each man was hoping for the longest section. Fortune was not on my side for my length of string was quite short…but not the shortest.
All stared at Michael and his dirty fingers that held a tiny sliver of a string. Frantic as I was, even I gasped in horror: between the five of us, Michael was the healthiest — youth had given him that advantage. It seemed too cruel, and the injustice of it all weighed heavy on our hearts.
But the sea had chosen Michael, and one does not dismiss the wishes of the sea. In my mind, the matter was settled, but apparently there was still a debate to be had. Immediately, Paul began to protest and insisted he should be the one to go for was the oldest and had lived “long enough”. Ben floundered, too, suddenly feeling guilty for entertaining my depraved idea in the first place; he tried desperately to backpedal and looked for any excuse to stop the game before it could continue.
“Savages!” he kept yelling, “They’ll call us savages if we make it back to land!”
Pedro, as he always did, attempted to use reason. He weighed the pros and cons of moving this way or that, always endeavoring to appear detached despite the thinly veiled trepidation in his voice.
So there we sat: Pedro, Paul, and Ben all rambling on..…three meaningless players in a game that didn’t include them. I tried to meet Michael’s gaze, but the boy was still in shock and staring at his string.
On and on the three men talked and suddenly I hated them.
While they dawdled in their discord, our stomachs were still closing in on themselves, the sun still scorching us, the sharks still circling us, and the damned boat still creaking! Louder and louder it grew with every passing minute! Paul’s altruism would not save us, nor would Ben’s guilt nor even Pedro’s reason — only action. It was better to be living savages than dead sailors.
The second shortest string was mine; thus so was the deed.
A surge of adrenaline took control and I lunged, surprising myself with how fast I moved given my state. I ripped the knife from Ben and, without thought, reason, or prayers, I dove at Michael. I held one side of his face with my left hand, and he instinctively flinched at my touch. It was a mere second of fear, though. Perhaps his mind was dulled by the conditions or perhaps he genuinely thought I was there to calm him. For whatever reason, his trepidation melted into something closer to fondness and he leaned into my hand. It felt like the gesture of a son, seeking his father’s approval - nay, his love. Perhaps Michael thought those giant eyes — that even then had not lost their sparkle — would soften my resolve. If that was it, the boy was a fool.
And I was a man of action.
My grip was not there to soothe but to hold him still. The knife, clutched tightly in my right hand, rose into the air and then dove straight into the side of Michael’s neck.
Blood.
There was so much blood.
I had not expected all that blood.
It gushed out of the boy as though he were a fountain, covering my face and clothes. Before I knew what I was doing, I licked my lips, relishing the feeling of something wet in my mouth. It was as sweet as the juice from a peach and dripped down my chin with each new lick. Why did his blood taste so delightful?
Behind me, I heard vague shouts as altruism, guilt, and reason begged me to consider Michael’s last words or final rites. I did not listen: my only thought was of more red nectar followed by bone marrow and flesh. Desperate for more, I wrenched the knife from its hole, only to slam it back into place. Again and again. Over and over. Eventually, the shouting from the other men stopped. They were also caught in the spray. They were also licking their lips.
In my frenzy, I glanced at Michael’s face. I had assumed it would be a mistake to look at him, but once I began to stare, I couldn’t look away. The sight was beauty incarnate: slow and pale and mesmerizing. A trickle of that glorious blood oozed from his nose, pooling along his cupid’s bow and his limbs twitched sporadically as if trying to fight. But he would never win against me. Even more glorious were those precious eyes. I stared with glee as that damned sparkle faded from within them, taking with it all of Michael’s promise, youth, and charm. I wanted to savor the feel of his skin as it slowly lost warmth and the pathetic gurgling noises that emitted from his broken throat. I was a hunter claiming my prize..…a god reminding mortals of my dominion. I wanted it to go on forever.
I found myself almost disappointed when he finally stopped moving. In his absence, the boat finally stopped creaking.
We ate like kings and were found the next day.
*
Contrary to Ben’s fears, we came back as heroes and miracles rather than savages. They lauded us as though we were God’s chosen people, unaware of the death that lived in our memories — and in our bellies. We all were taken off to see doctors, and it was only then that I truly took notice of my hands. They felt nothing and would not move, merely hanging off my arms like grotesque ornaments. Doctor after doctor gave me reasons such as shock or dehydration, and I accepted this as fact. My hands would return to normal eventually. I had gone through a great trial and time would heal the wounds. This was simply one more thing to survive.
The night of our return, I laid in my hospital bed and tried to sleep. It was the first real bed I’d been in for months — with goose-feather pillows and warm sheets pulled up to my chin. I was famished for rest and assumed that a lush slumber would come swifty, but it was not to be. My defective hands twitched uncomfortably and something kept pressing itself against my face.
In my agitated state, I tried to think of something joyful that would assuage my mind: images from my happy childhood, my sweetheart’s smile, or the taste of wine. I wanted to want those things. Those things should have come instantly…but, instead, my mind dreamt of a dying boy on a creaking boat and the incredible rush of power that came with it. I lingered on the thought. I grinned. And then I heard a voice.
“Murderer..…”
I bellowed loud enough to rouse the hospital staff and, taking pity on this poor survivor, they gave me an injection that quelled the phantoms. Even as darkness took over, though, the voice was still whispering.
“Murder..…murderer!”
In the blackness of my respite, a terrible realization descended upon me: the last thing my hands had done was consume another. I cupped his blood in my palms and slurped it greedily, not as a dying man but with relish and delight. Michael’s blood and essence entered me; I took him inside me and he was now determined to stay there. He was holding my hands down and stroking my face, as I had done to him. Perhaps I shall never properly sleep again. Most nights, I simply drink myself into oblivion, but just before I drift off, I always hear him calling to me.
“Good night…”
And every morning, he calls again.
“I’m still here..…”
I cannot love a woman without him reminding me:
“I never got to…..”
I try to bite into some piece of food and he’s muses:
“It’s not as good as I was…..Nothing will ever be as good as I was..…”
Against my own eyelids, all I see is the dead boy, but he’s no longer my pale victim. He is my guard and overlord, the chain around my ankle that will eventually drag me to the bottom. I feel his hand across my cheek, holding me in place, and instinctively, I wait for the stab of a knife, but it never comes.
“That would be too easy..…” he purrs.
The others eventually found work on other ships, but I never left dry land again. If they are haunted by voices or visions, they never show it.
I assumed Michael’s plan was to lead me to Bedlam. Truthfully, I am nearly there. I believed this whole heartedly…..until I caught sight of my reflection.
My eyes grow bluer by the day.
Deanna Strasse
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Evelyn in Marriage - Debra Tillar
“I do.”
The joy Evelyn had expected to feel was uncomfortably absent. Fortunately, the effort to convincingly play a happy bride distracted her from her disappointment. She smiled pleasantly throughout the small ceremony as they spoke their vows and exchanged the gold wedding bands she’d had initialed by a posh London jeweller. Her father had rallied enough strength to attend; his eyes were lit with pleasure. His wedding gift, a new horse and buggy, had been decorated with flowers and ribbons. It carried them from the chapel to the old farmstead.
Although she was considerably younger than Julian Markham, the marriage had been encouraged by her father.
“Julian is a good man. He’ll merge his land with ours and oversee it all. I’ll be able to truly rest in peace knowing everything will be cared for. But if you say no, my dear, I’ll tell him the deal is off.”
“You’ve already spoken to him?”
“Yes, and he is very eager. He thinks you’re lovely.”
Julian was a handsome man with sleepy blue eyes, nearing thirty and never married. He was a Londoner, well-traveled and sophisticated, had moved to the village a year earlier and with inherited money had bought the piece of land next door. There was much chatter around town about his looks and charm. Women of all ages admired him; he could have had his pick. Evelyn was flattered he’d chosen her. She knew she’d been pitied for having to leave school that year to care for her sickly father but as Julian’s wife she would now be envied.
He came to dinner several times. Evelyn noticed how he watched with appreciative eyes as she wheeled her wheezing father to the table, catered to his needs, then sat quietly as the two men discussed the future of the farm.
They were married in cold February. Evelyn’s father died a week later.
Bleak winter turned to spring.
*
Her father had been wrong about Julian Markham in many ways, and the pain of his misjudgments weighed on Evelyn increasingly as the months of marriage wore on. She kept her smile on for the townsfolk, and most of the farmhands believed the mismanagement of the crops was due to the new boss’s honest inexperience. But Silas had been on the farm longer than any of the other farmhands and he knew Julian had skimped on seed, had bungled that first harvest out of stinginess and greed. And Becky had been working in the house since Evelyn was still in nappies, since the old mistress passed, and she knew her young mistress’s disposition better than anyone. The house wasn’t large enough to keep secrets. Julian Markham was a narcissist and had a snap temper that he hid well from the townsfolk but unleashed freely at home. Nobody thought much about Evelyn’s withdrawal from social events; she was married now and it was proper that she focus on her home and her new husband. It was well known that the first year without the old man had been a difficult one for the farm.
The following summer there was talk of war in Southern Africa. Townsfolk met in pubs and lingered after church to bluster about the Boers and their gold mines and the build-up of British troops along the Transvaal border. Young men began to enlist, and that fall the Boers declared war.
“Evelyn, I won’t stay home when most of the men in town have already joined up.”
Evelyn wasn’t sorry at the prospect of having Julian gone — she prayed for forgiveness at the selfish thought — but several of the farmhands had already left to join the army and she felt her husband should stay to oversee what would probably be another difficult harvest.
“The government has asked farmers not to enlist, Julian. To stay home and support the country by providing food for —”
“What do you know about the war and what the government says?”
“You seem to have forgotten I can read.”
She was used to Julian belittling her, insulting her age and her lack of education, but this retort spilled from her without her usual restraint. It earned her a cuff to the face. Her stinging cheek was nothing; she ignored it and enjoyed a moment of pleasure in letting her temper loose.
“You promised my father you would take care of the farm! That you would take care of me!”
“I’m going to war, you stupid girl.”
“You’re running away from your responsibilities! You’ve already managed to ruin my father’s farm in just one season! It’s shameful!” This insult earned her significantly more than a cuff to the face. Becky, listening from down in the kitchen, fumed. But the brute had already threatened her job several times for insubordination, both imagined and real, so she kept silent.
*
When Julian Markham didn’t return from the South African War the townsfolk, now better informed about life at the Markham homestead, considered it a blessing for Evelyn. It had been over two years since Julian had gone to fight the Boers. No longer receiving the meager but regular army stipend, the farm was in deep trouble and Evelyn expected help from the government. An agent from the Ministry of Defense came from London in response to her many letters.
“Yes of course you’re entitled to a war widow’s pension, madam, but as your husband’s body was never found he can’t yet be declared legally dead. Many British were taken prisoner at the Battle of Onverwacht and yes, most died. But soldiers have been known to desert, you know. Not that we suspect your husband of such a thing but there is a process we must go through. In the meantime I suggest you contact the Royal Patriotic Fund. Perhaps they can be of help.”
“I have contacted them.” Evelyn squeezed her fists. “They said the same thing.”
“Well then. You should visit your local magistrate to get the legalities sorted. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” The officer looked around the modest parlor with a forced smile. “You have a... lovely home. Perhaps you could take in boarders to help with expenses.” Evelyn wanted to slap him.
After the agent left Evelyn looked around the room, trying to see it with the disdain she’d seen in his eyes. She couldn’t. She walked into the kitchen where Becky was preparing supper and surrendered to tears.
“I don’t know what I’ll do. With no army money coming in I’ll have to let Gowan go but I can’t expect Silas to run the farm by himself. He’s a farmhand not an overseer. I can’t sell the farm until Julian is declared dead and that might take years. And that Ministry toff had the nerve to tell me I should take in boarders. As if I were a pauper!”
“Well miss,” said Becky. “I suppose you are a pauper.”
Evelyn turned on Becky, indignant. But Becky was smiling.
The farmhouse had several unused bedrooms — there had been no children — and the dining room table sat ten quite comfortably. Becky was an excellent cook and Evelyn was well-accustomed to doing household chores. Manor Farm’s easy proximity to London kept them busy and within the year two extra rooms were built in the attic and another dining table set up in the solarium. Evelyn was able to hire a Scotsman named Gabriel Wood to manage the farm.
*
“I do.”
This time she understood what she’d been missing those years ago, the futility of the ritual she’d posed through with Julian, and instead of reminding her of the disillusionment she’d felt back then the comparison made her grateful the other wedding had turned out to be a blunder, that this marriage was her first real joy. She looked into her new husband’s adoring eyes and felt herself swept away.
*
Silas lowered the line into the well until the weight hit bottom, then pulled it up. He frowned at the meter’s hollow float that marked the water level.
“That’s the third reading, Gabriel. I’m afraid the well’s indeed running dry. ‘Tis likely the increased usage from the inn. Laundry and such.”
“We’ll have to dig a new one. I’ll send for the dowser tomorrow.”
“Whyn’t just reopen the old well down back of the carriage house?”
“There’s a well down there?”
“Didn’t Mrs. Wood tell you? They drained it when they pulled down the old Markham house but it connects with the reservoir and the pipes are still intact. I’ll climb down, check that the seals are good, and turn on the valves. ‘Twill need a new pump but ‘tis cheaper than digging a well. We can go have a look right now.”
Evelyn was sitting on the back porch chatting with guests. Leisure time was new to her; a girl from the village had recently been hired to clean rooms and help Becky serve. Gabriel had insisted that Evelyn get more rest, as her swelling waistline was becoming uncomfortable. Their first baby was due in two months.
The magistrate had declared Julian legally dead after five years, enabling Evelyn to properly inherit the farm and to marry Gabriel, the kindest man she’d ever known. He now came onto the porch and greeted the guests politely, but his face was wan, his eyes uneasy. He jerked his head and Evelyn excused herself. They went inside.
Gabriel whispered. “I don’t want to upset you, my darling, but there’s no way around it. I’ve had to call for the constabulary.”
“What’s happened?”
“Silas and I found a skeleton at the bottom of the old well.”
Evelyn felt lightheaded and Gabriel helped her to a chair. “Becky! Bring a glass of water!”
Gabriel attempted to direct the commotion away from the house, but the activity was impossible to hide. Several constabulary vehicles came, and word spread quickly. Everyone was delightfully intrigued. Becky kept a sharp eye on Evelyn, nagged her to stay off her feet and away from the disturbance of the alarming discovery. But after her initial shock Evelyn recovered and helped serve pots of strong tea to her guests who congregated on the back porch and speculated ghoulishly on the circumstances surrounding the dead body. A detective came up to the house.
“How long has the well been closed?”
“Julian, my first husband, closed it after he tore down the house on his old property, a few months before he went to fight in the Transvaal. That would be... almost eight years ago.”
“Sorry for your loss,” the detective said mechanically. Evelyn bowed her head.
Gabriel put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Any clues as to who it might be?”
“It will be impossible to say. There are only bones left and they’re in very poor condition. We’ve searched the well carefully. The clothes are disintegrated and there are no other clues.”
“No clues?”
“No, ma’am.”
“So someone fell in?”
“We have no way of knowing, Mrs. Wood. Most likely an intoxicated vagrant looking for a drink of water.”
Evelyn couldn’t sleep. She got up and stood at the window, looking out to the dark shape of the carriage house, knowing that beyond it was the old well, left gaping and empty of the spirit that had lain there all those years. She could hear Gabriel move out of the bed. From behind, he put his arms around her.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded and leaned against him.
“You needn’t worry, Evelyn. I took the ring off his finger. Silas didn’t notice.”
She turned quickly. “He deserted, came home in secret and started —”
“You don’t have to say anything, my love. I know about the brutal things Julian did to you. You’re safe now. There is nothing more important to me in this wide world than you and this precious baby. I will never let anything happen to either of you.”
He held her close and kissed her.
“Do you know how much I love you, Evelyn?”
She wept quietly.
“I do.”
Debra Tillar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flea the Mouse - Eleanor Jane Turner
Inspired by “Die Fledermaus” by Johan Strauss and my Grandfather’s study
He arrives at the door wearing white overalls, armed with a variety of sprays under his arms and a large duffle bag. His white van, which was supposed to be discreet, has Flea the Mouse with a treble clef and a large busty female singer on each side.
The house is in Hampstead Hill Gardens. He tells them he will be laying and spraying poisons and they must be gone for six hours. The couple leave after a few key arrangements and say they will be walking on the heath and then sit it out in a cafe .
He immediately gets to work: He slips out of his overalls and into his tutu, corset, 8 deniers and ballet shoes and surveys the property with a jump, a pirouette. He is searching still. He skips down the stairs into the basement. Ahhhh!!! Yessss!!! Gotcha!!!
He’s found the record player. He surveys their records on show but goes back to his bag for his beloved, Die Fledermaus. He puts it on and leans back on the chair on the study. Picks up a couple of books on the desk. Tries out the reading glasses — oooh no! Not a good look. He struggles to understand the man’s handwriting. He seems to be writing a book about history and economics but there doesn’t seem to be much of a plot. It’s dreadfully dull.
He puts it aside and gets out his picnic. The Swiss cheeses are delicious with a baguette but he does wonder if the crumbs will attract ants from the open study window. This could bring in future business, which has recently dwindled following some nasty reviews from disgruntled customers. They didn’t understand the art of pest control and insect behaviour and just seemed to want everything gone.
The finale from Johan Strauss now has singers repeating Flea the Mouse, Flea the Mouse. He joins the singing, starts dancing too with the additional energy from the lunch. He glances sideways in the mirror, pleased with his large opera singing physique, watches with delight his lungs heaving out of his corset with each breath as he half sings, half chants:
Flea the Mouse, Flea the Mouse,
Flea the Mouse, Flea the Mouse.
It’s his sign, he knows what he must do. He lays a couple of traps, but this time no poison, allows a humane escape and a large hunk of cheese. Sprays a little holy water he picked up at the church en route for the fleas. He returns to his heavy overalls, puts on a mask and leaves the house sending a text:
All done. Don’t come home for 4 more hours. Very toxic in here. The infestation is very bad. You’ll likely need a few more visits.
Eleanor Jane Turner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hotel Kasmanda - Phillip Vine
NOON / DAHLIAS
Everywhere, the world
Turns, place replaces
Place, time returns time
To time, the British
Are in India
And dahlias bloom
Here, at Kasmanda
Palace of the gods
Of place
At Lucknow
Where the world turns south
From here, and the gods
Of time shift slowly
Space and time
To 1857
The sad and bloody
Spikes of dahlias
Seem shards, seem shreds
Seem flesh exploded
From the darkling buds
Of empire
DUSK / A JASMINE ARCH
Under the jasmine arch
Blossoms of water fall
Like blessings from the flowers
A salmon sky reflects
The fading passions of the day
Lights dance in the valley
Of the Doon as if to say
You have abandoned me
In your quest for unworldliness
Under the jasmine arch
I scent victory
NIGHT / WITHOUT YOU
Knowing I am you
Is not enough
When sun and moon
And sun and rain
Exist not within the same sky
Even to be the insignificance
Of moon in daylight
Or a drop of rain
Within your rainbow
Or a tear on the cheek
Of your sadness
Would be preferable
To all this reincarnation
Without you
Phillip Vine
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hieroglyphs - Sam Williams
If I had no words
If they did not exist
What, then, replaces this?
If I couldn't say love
If we had never spoken
Would we still share this kiss?
Sam Williams
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tap Dancing at Dave Silk’s Funeral - Keith Willson
A tourist attraction of a funeral — we followed
the band from St Alfrege’s Church, through
Greenwich centre and then along Thames side
to the Trafalgar Tavern. Upstairs,
two hundred people saw off a local
jazz legend with their own music.
Earl Okin opened, resplendent in spats, dressed
to match his title — all gold chain and waistcoat,
coaxing his guitar into salubrious boss nova,
singing in authentic-sounding Portuguese; the
solo break a trumpet impersonation, with pursed
lips and a deal of chutzpa.
Drums and bass arrived. Guitarists threw down
chords you’d never heard of, while more horns
congregated for standard after standard:
Brown Skin Girl, Perdido, A-Train, until the
tap dancers arrived — one petite and wiry, the
other towering and muscular —
father and daughter slapping metal heel to toe on their
amplified wooden baseboard. They leapt, exuberant as
the sax player’s red shoes and vibrant flowered shirt.
Bass and percussion preached certainty, while those
feet ran off in so many iconoclastic directions, inviting
you to God knows where and safely back to celebrate.
With glistening foreheads, the dancers collapsed
into chairs, patted and congratulated.
The band played on, glasses clinked, pints
downed, memories swapped. And every subversive
idiosyncrasy in that afternoon’s music was
conjured by Dave Silk’s invisible presence —
his random ventures, the gigs he found us from
nowhere, in venues we’d never imagined, his
double bass always there for us, whatever the genre,
his life force unstifled, always whimsical, hitting
with surprises, like the note he stuck to his fridge
the night he knew he was dying alone:
“I’m still alive.”
Keith Willson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Metamorphosis - Charlotte Wilson
A soft plop — the
plump, glowing baby
rolls in the dirt, curls tight
in the shadows of
the first home it knows —
a cool cave of serrated leaves,
made to nourish, not sting,
a body numb to pain,
destined to decompose alive.
The child is put to sleep —
once it has eaten
and shed many outgrown
skins, the final one becoming
its own slim-fitting cradle,
a swaddling shell,
rocking on a silken thread
in the gentle wind.
The breakdown — what
hidden torment is endured —
is silent and contained.
Perhaps nature is
kind and
the melting
insect floats, secure
in nothingness.
But I have seen it written
that butterflies keep memories —
lessons learned in the larval
stage remain.
Consciousness continues,
witnessing the inevitable collapse
and rearrangement of limbs,
thorax and brain.
Miraculous,
new nerve impulses
direct a different constitution —
that which crept now flies, airborne
on delicate pumped-up wings —
no less fragile than before,
but forged in a crackling furnace —
a flaming, fluttering phoenix
rises, potent, graceful
and serene.
Charlotte Wilson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mini-break - Charlotte Wilson
Tonight, I struggle to set the ever-shifting scene —
The moon, silently reflecting the day now passed,
Lays a treacherous, silver path over the rumbling,
Tumbling waves that, by turns, shush and stimulate.
From the thickening gloom, these sights emerge —
A trickle of electric stars, bright on the distant shore.
A single seagull glowing, luminous in the half light.
A smuggler’s torch or, more likely, a late bait fisher’s,
Returning to the low-slung spangle of the village.
Too dark to make out, I picture this frail spectre
Striding, wader deep, in the briny murk of rock pools,
Stretching for secure footing with numb toes,
Stumbling in the rubbery pop and squelch of kelp.
Appearing so lonely in the gathering dusk and tide,
I am suddenly afraid for her as she picks a way across
The jumble of an eon’s grindings, the coal measures
Up-ended layers, lying in shadowed wait to trip
And grasp in hidden cracks and sucking quicksand.
Here I sit, safe inside, watching from a shaded room,
Curtains wide, lamp extinguished, the beach-front,
Storm-smeared window snapping as the heat expires.
My eyes catch her will-o’-the-wisp, twinkling pinprick,
As it blinks — once for yes, twice for no — then disappears,
Guiding my wraith up the slipway, I suppose, and home,
Leaving one last solitary soul alone, the solemn gull.
Settling his wings, he mews and hunkers on a boulder.
Finally, I am drawn to the steady pulse of the full moon,
Rippling across the water, beating against the glass,
Mesmerising, powerful, siren pull; I can resist no more.
In the beautiful, pewter-black night, the tears come.
Charlotte Wilson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Missed Date - Charlotte Wilson
She’s late. Frank rubs his knee and picks at invisible lint. He’s in his Sunday best, fresh from chapel; he can still hear the hymns ringing in his head, his own fine baritone. Celia has never heard him sing, which is a shame. Flinching at the sin, he admits to himself that he is rather proud of his voice. Perhaps, one day, he can persuade Celia to come with him to chapel, if her parents will allow her. Frank feels sure that she would enjoy it, if she was able let Jesus into her life.
But where is she? The pink stripe of his trousers is unfamiliar to him, and the fabric feels rather thin. Frank rubs his leg a little harder. It has become so dark and cold, and now he is aware of a strong desire to urinate. He is shocked by the warm spread of liquid, soaking these odd, flimsy trousers — shocked and afraid, as the creeping chill sticks to him heavily, weighing his body down on the bench, where he rocks back and forth in the freezing night, stiff, unable to stand, sobbing. Celia still has not come.
*
He fights them at first, pushing back with gnarled fists, and insists on staying to wait for her. It is not so late, it is only 4 o’clock.
“In the morning, it’s 4 o’clock in the morning, Dad,” the kind one says, the one who looks familiar, “Come home, we’ll take you home and make you a nice cup of tea.” She seems worried, and he panics.
“Is it Celia, has something happened?” He is grabbing and crying, “I want to see her.”
The kind woman looks upset and sounds a little cross. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know Celia and keeps asking, “Who is Celia?”
Then, she says, “Rosemary. Dad, Mum’s name was Rosemary — you’re confused.” This time, she is more forceful, “C’mon Dad, let’s get you home,” and she grabs his arm and pulls him to his feet. She has put that walking thing in front of him, the thing with wheels, and he knows what to do with it, that’s one thing — knows to grab the handles and push himself along. He is glad she is here, even when she tuts at the sight of his darkened trousers, dragging at his crotch. “Oh, Dad,” she says. At last, he remembers — Rebecca, the middle one — his child.
But where is Celia? He can’t leave — what if she comes and finds the bench empty, him gone? “I can’t go — I have to stay and wait for Celia.” He is adamant.
The kind girl sighs, and he can feel her shivering where she has grasped his arm. She looks like she is going to cry. “Please, Dad, come home, I’ll make you some Horlicks, your favourite.”
Frank looks at his twisted fingers, clutching the walker’s handlebars. Everything hurts these days, and he feels so tired. He wishes he was in bed, that he didn’t have to move another step.
*
In the warmth of the car, seated on a plastic bag, Frank rubs his leg and counts the street lamps. Is this the way home? The kind lady, who is driving, asks again, “Who is Celia?” She sounds calmer now.
“She never came — she’ll be worried if she finds I’m not there,” he frets, then keeps repeating, “She’ll be worried.”
The kind lady says nothing, until they pull up on a crunching driveway. “Here we are!” She turns and looks at him, smiling but tucking her lips in at the same time.
The car door opens. A man leans in and unclips Frank’s seatbelt. “Let’s get you inside,” he says.
*
Later (Frank thinks he must have slept; it is daytime, he is wearing soft cords and a jumper he doesn’t recognise, but it is warm nonetheless and he likes the colour, blue, he thinks, or green) he is stood in the hallway, wondering which door is the way out. His knees hurt. Suddenly, one of the doors opens.
“Just wait — Dad, use your walker!” the woman shouts, clutching the thing she calls a phone which doesn’t look like any kind of telephone Frank has ever seen. Frank is confused. The walker thing — where is it? He can’t remember where he left it, where he has just been. The woman has kept the door ajar, so he waits to see if she will come out again and tell him what to do. He shuffles and leans against the wall. He can hear the woman talking.
“We’re just filling out the paperwork.”
Is she crying?
“I’m sorry, I just don’t know how we’re going to tell him, but I can’t cope with it anymore and Derek says we have to do something.”
He hears snuffling.
“I know, I know, it’s time, but after Mum, I just hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
The door closes abruptly, and Frank is left alone in the hall. Slowly, he turns and shuffles towards a different, open doorway. Aah! The walker thing — that’s where he left it.
*
This time, when he goes to a door, it is locked. He rattles the handle and unhooks the gold chain, but the key is missing, and the door stubbornly refuses to open. Frank can’t see through the frosted glass at the top but there is something peculiar going on out there — the window looks like the oscillating fuzz of a television when the programmes go off, like when he used to fall asleep on the settee and wake up to the buzz of static, before…then his brain itself tails off into fizzing distortion and he is pulling, pushing and banging in panic.
“Dad! What on earth?” There are two people in the hallway with him. The woman is prying his fingers off the door handle and the man is half-dressed for some reason, and using words that Frank knows enough to frown at — not on a Sunday, a chapel day.
“Dad — where are you going?”
He is silent — it is supposed to be a secret.
“You can’t go out — look, I’ll show you.” She feels along the top of the door frame and suddenly she has the key in her hand and is unlocking the door. Frank hides that away in his oddment drawer of a mind — information that could be useful later. Then he is distracted by a rush of cold air and wet feathers.
“Look, Dad, it’s snowing — you can’t go out in that!”
Frank looks and sees the glacial grey of a late December afternoon. “What day is it?” The cold has surprised him.
“It’s Saturday — it’s Christmas Eve, Dad.”
But it was summer, long June days when he met Celia, blush-pink and white blossoms showering down on them as they held hands on the bench by the bandstand.
“Dad, where’s your walker?” she sighs.
*
They’re in the car. The man — the ginger haired one that he thinks he’s seen before — is sat in the passenger seat. Frank is strapped in the back seat like a child and feels the urge to reach out and touch the pink bald patch, glowing provocatively in front of him. Instead, he frets at the seatbelt that is cutting into his chest. He looks up and sees the woman’s eyes watching him in the mirror — the feel of them makes the tightness in his chest worsen.
*
Frank is sat on a bench with the woman – she is holding his hand and there are little white flowers all around them. Damp leaves stick to the bottom of his shoes and his bum feels wet and cold on the wooden slats.
“Look at the snowdrops, Dad!” She sounds hopeful but with a false chime. Frank might not know much these days, but he’s always known when someone is pulling his leg — that’s what comes of staying close to God and saying his prayers — he’s always had an ear for a liar. She is chafing his hand — she must be cold too.
“You can come and sit here whenever you want — you just need to ask one of the staff — the carers — and they’ll bring you down here and sit with you for a bit. It’s lovely, isn’t it? There’s a bird table over there.” She points.
She’s right about that — it is nice, but why are they here? He feels like he’s been here for ages — at least all morning. But it’s not his bench, not their bench and Celia will never find him here. He needs to go.
“I need to go,” he says.
She looks flustered, “Oh, Dad, not to worry, I’ll get one of the carers.” She looks around but there is no-one there, “You’ve got a pad on, haven’t you, Dad, you’ll be OK until we get you back to your room?”
“I need to go,” he says again, “She’ll be waiting.”
“Who’ll be waiting, Dad, the carer?”
Frank fumbles with the walker, but his legs are numb now, with the sitting, and he rocks back and forth impotently, unable to gather enough momentum to rise. The woman stands and holds his elbow, trying to support him. He is cross, impatient with her ignorance.
“Celia of course.” That is all that matters.
*
Frank sits on the bench. Yellow flowers like trumpets nod to him and he nods back. Black birds peck and quarrel at the bird table. A man in a pink outfit sits next to him and pats his hand. “Who are you waiting for, Frank?” he asks.
“Celia,” says Frank, “She’ll be here soon.”
*
Frank sits on a chair by the window. Outside, he can see the birds squabbling on the bird table. The sun is shining, and it is warm in here. A woman in a top the colour of blossom walks past. “Still waiting for Celia?” she asks, and smiles.
Frank looks at her and wonders — who is Celia?
*
Frank sits on a chair by the window. He watches the brown things hopping. He sees a shower of pink and white rain as the wind shakes the trees. He remembers a beautiful girl and smiles.
Charlotte Wilson
About the authors
| Sara Arabzadeh is a London-based multidisciplinary artist whose practice is rooted in the intersection of identity, memory, and gender. She crafts narratives that confront personal histories and collective trauma. In her poem “Bedtime Stories,” Arabzadeh explores the absurdity and longing embedded in the act of disguise, while questioning the rituals and performances that shape girlhood and womanhood. Arabzadeh challenges the narratives that restrict freedom, offering instead a poignant, often surreal space for reclaiming autonomy and possibility. |
| Sam Aureli thrives on working with his hands, a passion rooted in his early blue-collar roles. Balancing work and family, he earned a degree in architecture at night and now leads a career in real estate development. Sam turned to poetry later in his journey as a refuge from the chaos of daily life and as a way to deepen his connection to nature. His work has recently been accepted in Atlanta Review and Amethyst Review. |
| Georgia Bailey is a poet and undergraduate in their final year at the University of Oxford. Her recent publications include “Green Fuses” (The VOLE Spring Anthology 2024) and Orbis 208. Any and all achievements are dedicated to Dad, 1966-2023. |
| Elizabeth Barton’s debut pamphlet, If Grief were a Bird, was published in 2022 by Agenda Editions. Her poems have appeared in magazines including Acumen, Agenda, Crannóg, Mslexia, South and The High Window. Her most recent awards are Highly Commended in the Ver Poets Open Competition 2024 and 3rd prize in the Shelley Memorial Project Poetry Competition 2023. She is Stanza Rep of Mole Valley Poets and editor of their anthology. |
| Margaret Beston is widely published in magazines and anthologies, most recently Ourselves in Rivers and Oceans, Wee Sparrow Poetry Press, 2024. She is the author of three collections, Long Reach River, 2014, Timepiece, 2019, Kintsugi, 2024, and a pamphlet When the Ground Crashed Upwards, 2020. She is the founder of Roundel, a Poetry Society Stanza, in Tonbridge, Kent, where she lives. |
| Zanna Beswick’s poetry has been published in The Independent, The International Times, The French Literary Review, Resurgence, Caduceus, Chrysalis, and Kindred Spirit amongst others, plus in several anthologies. Her work has also been read at literary festivals, and on R4’s ‘Poetry Please’. She has been placed in various international poetry competitions. |
| David Birkett is a husband, poet, cyclist and vegan, although not always in that order. He will, if unchecked, discourse at length on what he believes to be the overlooked poetry of Mervyn Peake. |
| Ama Bolton convenes a Stanza group in Somerset. Her poem ‘Survivor’ is currently displayed on a poster in Longbenton Metro Station, Newcastle-upon-Tyne. |
| Ray Clark is the award-winning author of the best-selling Northern Crimes series, set in Leeds, West Yorkshire. He divides his time by writing, singing live on the music circuit, and helping to raise money for the OPA cancer charity. |
| Gaia Aurora Costa is an Italian poet based in London whose work explores themes of love, loss, and the complexities of grief. Drawing inspiration from personal experiences, Gaia crafts poems that are both intimate and universal. Her poetry has been showcased at poetry events in Brixton, this collection marks her first publication, a milestone in her poetic journey. |
| Mike Douse has worked in education internationally since 1963. His publications include An Enjoyment of Education, One World One School, and numerous (and readily-accessible online) journal articles and conference presentations, along with three collections of his poems: Old Ground, Gone to Ground, and Grounded. He is living happily ever after in Mountain Ash, Rhondda Cynon Taf, with his dear wife Patricia. |
| Siobhan Gifford is a former journalist whose interest in writing poetry and short stories was re-awakened during an Arts & Humanities degree she obtained at the age of 66! Her work has been published in various anthologies including the New Context series, Ripon Poetry Festival anthologies and the White Rose Bards. She has been long-listed for the Anthology Poetry Prize and highly commended in the King Lear Poetry Prize. |
| Katie Goto-Švić is a Croatian-Australian writer based in Japan. She studied international relations, economics, and Japanese at the University of Sydney and works in energy and tech business development. Currently, she is also pursuing an engineering degree. Her fiction and prose appear in journals such as Santa Clara Review, L’Esprit Literary Review, Barzakh, The Manifest-Station, BarBar, and Grande Dame. Her crime manuscript ‘Neon Ghosts’ placed 3rd in The Plaza Prizes 2024 first chapters award. |
| Ian Gouge has been writing for a number of years, alternating between fiction and poetry. He runs the Derby Stanza for the Poetry Society as well as an international monthly poetry group, ‘Contextual’. A prize-winning short story writer, he has had both prose and poetry published. In June 2023 he performed his poetic monologue ‘Crash’ at the Ripon Theatre Festival. A sometime Indie Publisher, he also mentors at public writers’ retreats. |
| Jeremy Grant lives in Leicestershire with his wife, son, and cats, and teaches at a local sixth form college. His poetry has been published in Anima, Magma, Poetry Nottingham, Smiths Knoll, The Coffee House, The French Literary Review, The Journal and War, Literature, and the Arts, as well as Before the Cameras Leave Ukraine: An Anthology Raising Funds for Ukrainian Refugees and The Emma Press Anthology of Fatherhood. |
| Oliver Hipkins teaches English at Dulwich Prep & Senior. He is currently working on a verse novel and is interested in vernacular poetry which draws upon features of regional dialects, specifically those of his beloved West Midlands. He lives with his wife and two children in South East London. |
| Alison Hramiak is a poet, writer and tutor living and working in West Yorkshire, England. She is published in several Forward Poetry anthologies, New Contexts 4, 6 and 7 and on various poetry web sites such as Impspired and The Causley Trust. She edits and reviews poetry anthologies and is a member of several poetry groups, such as Consilience. She blogs for the Sheffield Institute of Education. Her work can be found at: wwwpoetryforlives.co.uk |
| Ben Hramiak is an author with a Bachelor’s Honours in English Literature and Creative Writing living and working in Yorkshire. He has written prose fiction from an early age and has been published in Impspired Volume 10, an anthology of short stories. He was also published in New Contexts: 4&5. He is currently trying to publish a short novel set in feudal Japan. His writing style is best thought of as descriptive and succinct. |
| Tim Kiely is a criminal barrister and writer based in London. He is the author of three poetry pamphlets, including Hymn to the Smoke and No Other Life, available from timkielybooks.bigcartel.com, and his poems have been published in Magma, Under the Radar, Atrium and Ink, Sweat & Tears. His short story ‘Elegy for a Yellowjacket’ was shortlisted for the Writers Rebel Flash Fiction Competition 2024. |
| Dave Kurley lives in central Portugal with the lovely Ali and two cats. His first book of poems and photographs, ‘Irritating the Silver Lining’ is available to order from bookshops, physical and online. Currently, he’s writing a poem a day on Bluesky, and you can find him there at https://bsky.app/profile/badvibrations62.bsky.social. You might also bump into him on Facebook, Instagram and Threads as @kurleybobspoetrycorner. Wherever you find him, say hello when you get there. |
| John Lancaster is author of five poetry collections, most recently Potters: A Division Of Labour (Longmarsh Press, 2017), winner of the inaugural Arnold Bennett Book Prize, and Where The Trent Rises (Clayhanger Press, 2023). Widely published in magazines and winner of competition prizes, including being a runner-up in the National Poetry Competition. A jazz trombonist, he lives in Totnes, Devon. |
| Thomas Larner was brought up in Cheshire on the Wirral Peninsula. He currently works as an archivist in Bedfordshire. He has been writing poetry since 2018 and has been published by the Coverstory books, The Littoral Magazine, Crank Magazine, The Cannon’s Mouth and many others. |
| Richard Lister’s poetry draws you into stories of intriguing characters, images & places. His Scattered with Grace is ‘a sumptuous collection, sprinkled with humour and a generosity of spirit’. In Edge & Cusp, he ‘captured life like a vibrant painting’. Lister’s work is in 13 international magazines (including Acumen & Orbis). |
| Penny McCarthy has published widely in magazines such as Stand, Argo, Poetry Durham, P. N. Review, and Ambit. She has also published studies on Shakespeare’s poems and plays, arguing for earlier dates for his works: see her recent Antedating Shakespeare’s Poems and Plays, 2024, with Cambridge Scholars Publishing. |
| Iain McClure, originally from the North of Ireland, lives and works in England, teaching literature and politics. He began writing poetry during lockdown and has since been published in several anthologies and long-listed for a number of prizes. He writes about Ireland, the near and distant past, the natural world and landscape. His most recent work explores the intersection of lyrical and scientific language. |
| Freya Metcalfe is a queer, autistic, disabled poet based in Manchester, UK. They studied astrophysics at university but stumbled into the creative space after graduating, using poetry to articulate their experiences of the world. They mostly write spoken word poetry and feel most at home on stage at open mic events. |
| Denis Nightingale is an award winning journalist who has always enjoyed playing with words. His first poem at age six was about bodily functions. He has widened his range since then. |
| Jonty Pennington-Twist is an English poet, residing in Edinburgh. His work has been published in several magazines, anthologies and international collections and he is currently closing in on the final selection for his first collection. This is the fourth edition of New Contexts to feature Jonty’s work. |
| Based in Derbyshire, Janet Philo is chairperson of Ashbourne Writers’ Group and began writing after bringing up her family and a career in education in the North East. With work in two solo pamphlets, and numerous anthologies, she loves to share her poetry live and mix it up with her husband’s guitar music. |
| Jenna Plewes is a retired psychotherapist and gardener. She loves to walk her Welsh Collie in wild places and by the sea. She has published 4 poetry collections and 5 pamphlets. Her poems appear in journals and several anthologies. A Lick of Loose Threads came out in 2023, and Holding the Light in 2024. Both are sold in aid of ‘Doctors without Borders’, and ‘Freedom from Torture’, and are available from her at jenna.selvas@googlemail.com |
| Stephen Poole is a retired policeman. His poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Poetry on the Lake, and LPP Magazine. New Contexts: 7 is the tenth anthology to publish his work. He has performed his poetry to live audiences at various venues including The Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden, Maidstone Fringe Festival, and Maidstone Radio. |
| Jenny Robb’s been writing poetry since retiring from a career in children’s and mental health services. She’s been published in online, and print magazines, and anthologies. Her debut collection is The Doll’s Hospital, (Yaffle Press 2022.) Her second collection is Hear the World Explode, (Yaffle Press 2024.) She lives in Liverpool with her partner and the family cat and has one grown up daughter. |
| Emily Roberts is an A&E nurse and uses her writing to explore the contrast of the darkness and the light that coexist in our world. Having written from a young age to untangle the complex emotions that can’t be verbalised, she finds it intriguing how this contrast shapes our experiences through life. How we must learn to live with both – whilst maintaining our sanity, relationships and comply with societal norms. |
| Elizabeth Robinson is a passionate poet and literature enthusiast, captivated by the evolution of language from medieval verse to rap lyrics and performance poetry. She finds joy in both the spontaneity of poems that seem to write themselves, as well as the meticulous craft of refining each word and line. Inspired by people and the world around her, Elizabeth’s work reflects a deep curiosity and love for words, embracing poetry’s ever-changing forms and possibilities. |
| Richard Side is a writer, musician, and former teacher and university administrator. Most recently he had two poems shortlisted for the Graham Burchell Award at the Teignmouth Poetry Festival 2024, of which one was awarded third prize. He lives in North Devon and is a member of The Poetry Society North Devon Stanza. |
| Dave Smith is currently working on a short collection of poems which reflect life in the 1960s. |
| Born in New York City, Nicholas Samuel Stember spent most of his life in the suburbs of Princeton, NJ, but his love of sci-fi, fantasy and horror ended up finding him a wife across the Pond and now he lives with her in the Faroe Islands. His works can be found in various magazines and anthologies. Member of the Horror Writers Association since 2024. For more information check out his website at https://nsstember.com. |
| Deanna Strasse is an award-winning playwright. Her most notable works include The Cafe Mocha Murders, Summers in Prague, and Mayhem at Camp Marigold. Ms. Strasse has seen her plays developed and produced through companies such as Network Theatre (London), Windfall Theatre (Milwaukee, WI), The Box Theatre Co. (Oconomowoc, WI), Bishkek International School (Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan) and more. Stay up-to-date on her adventures at DeannaStrasse.com |
| Debra Tillar has been an archaeologist, a teacher, and a freelance travel and food writer. Her short stories are included in several recent and upcoming print anthologies and online journals. Debra spends most of her time writing, creating art from natural and found objects, and traveling the world (she has visited over fifty countries and all seven continents). She grew up in New York City and now lives on the Seacoast of New Hampshire. |
| Eleanor Jane Turner is happiest when swimming. She enjoys the outdoors, especially remote Scotland. She presents her creative writing at the Forest Hill stanza. |
| Phillip Vine’s poetry has appeared in Acumen, La Vache, Outposts, and in Radio Free Palestine. His short fiction has been published in the USA by Mango and in the UK by Solaris, NewCon Press, and in prizewinning anthologies by Norwich Writers. In addition, he is the author of two acclaimed sports books brought out by Pitch Publishing: Manchester United, MIchael Knighton & the Football Revolution and The Immortals: Two Nines & Other Celtic Stories. |
| Sam Williams is an economist, songwriter and poet, based in St Albans. His debut musical Little Fiend, co-written with Scott Bramley, premiered in 2023 and he is currently developing a second (also with Bramley) around the story of Dylan Thomas’ tours of America. Sam grew up in rural Herefordshire on the Welsh borders and enjoys bacon. |
| Keith Willson celebrates words in poetry, prose, and song, performing regularly around East Sussex at open mikes and on local radio. Last year he was a winner in the Eastbourne Poetry Café National Poetry Day Competition, his poetry appeared in Dream Catcher as well as New Contexts, and his stories were found in Bridge House’s Good News anthology and ScribbleMagazine. His ambition this year is to re-visit some unfinished longer projects. |
| Charlotte Wilson lives in Ripon, North Yorkshire, where she is inspired by nature, spirituality and the ways we find meaning in our ordinary – or extraordinary – lives. She is a member of Write-on Ripon! and enjoys reading at their open mic nights and taking part in the Ripon Poetry Festival, where she won third prize in the 2024 adult poetry competition. She has had poetry published in the Ripon Poetry Festival anthologies for 2023 and 2024. |
New Contexts 