Issue 10
THE JOURNAL
Writers' Bloc
Welcome to the tenth issue of The Journal! That's right. The Journal has hit the big One-O and I believe this is one of the best collections of poems and stories the publication has ever seen. Thank you to all those who sent pieces! An extra little thanks to those who included bios with your submissions: some of them certainly tickled the editors. That's right. Plural editor. This issue is my last publication as editor and has been a collaborative effort with the wonderful and very capable new editor Georgia Tindale. I wish her all the best in her new role! I'd like to quickly thank Alana Tomlin who created The Journal three years ago, Charlie Dart for spending many hours with me over the last two years printing in The Guild and to everyone who has submitted during my time as editor. Your quality writing is what has made my job an absolute pleasure. And now enjoy some fantastic writing. Happy reading! Andy Cashmore and Georgia Tindale, Editors If you like what you read you can find more work on our website at www.writersblocuob.com and follow The Journal twitter @TheJournal_WB. You can also follow our society's activities on Twitter @WritersBlocUoB and Facebook at Facebook.com/writersblocuob.
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The Journal
Contents Charlie Dart
Freyya
Humma Mouzam
Stone Dead (Feature Piece) Joseph Sale
Who Are Ye That Challenge Ludo Cinelli
On The Desk Lily Blacksell
Chiswick
Elena Orde
Hibernation Ayshe Dengtash
2 Burgers, 20 Nuggets and a Large Fries Georgia Tindale
The Undergraduate Sell-out Kévin Montéro
How I Learned to Dance Rachel Eames
Wishbone
Siobhan O'Sullivan
I Just Stood There and Stirred the Pot Lucie Turner
Unrequited
Natasha Whearity
Trouble
4 6 11 13 15 16 19 21 23 29 33 38 39
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Writers' Bloc
Freyya It is evening in early summer. Crickets call from the rustling grass as the heat of the day begins to float away on the breeze. It is Lover’s Eve, and all across the Common Land couples take secluded walks together beneath trees which sing in the gentle wind. Beneath the wheat, rabbits chase one another and small birds court for the first and last time in the lime trees. For tonight, parents are once again just lovers, the children are sent to bed early. But not all of them can sleep; little Harold wanders out of his room and into the open air. He has not had his bedtime story yet, and his head races with the questions only 8 year olds can think of. Outside he meets his grandmother by the campfire. She is drinking her latest batch of ale from a wooden mug, and looks very comfortable in her wicker chair, thinking about all the nights like this when grandpa was around, occasionally stirring the fire with a stick. Harold wanders over and sits down next to her. ‘Grandma?’ he says, ‘I can’t sleep this early, will you tell me a story?’ Grandma looks down at him sitting beside her, cross legged on the grass. Her eyes refocus from the far-away depths of the fire. She smiles and says ‘Of course I can,’ her previous thoughts drifting into the sky like apple wood smoke, ‘I have just the tale for a night like this. Are you sitting comfortably?’ He nods, so she takes a long draught of ale and then begins. ‘Long ago, when all the world was a forest, lived a lady named Freyya. Freyya was very happy with her lot in life: she lived in a treehouse. A mile or so from her was a little village. The villagers didn’t have treehouses. To them, Freyya was a quick witted woodland waif who flitted from tree to tree, like some sort of forest spirit. They visited her occasionally, but they never quite trusted her. She knew things. To Freyya, Freyya was Freyya. And only she knew what that meant.’ 4
The Journal Little Harold is already full of questions. He knows not to ask what Freyya was really like, because Grandma would definitely tell him later, but he has two burning questions, and he doesn’t know which to ask first: ‘What was her treehouse like?’ [turn to page 1 0] or ‘What sort of things did she know?’ [turn to page 1 4].
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Writers' Bloc
Stone dead
Feature Piece
Words in the Mirpuri tongue: Berah: outside bare garden area Ghora: white man Ami: intimate informal word form of Mother
I stare outside at the bleak landscape and immediately I think of you. I think of the woman I thought I knew, but don’t really know at all. You are a stranger, a foreigner who shares my blood, but nothing more. No, nothing more. They tell me there are only a few more hours remaining. I shouldn't hate you then. Not when you have such little time left. Your breaths are numbered. As are your heartbeats. Can you feel them go by? One, two, three. So fast. How many do you have left? I can’t believe you did this. You have ruined everything. Papa's heart has been shattered. My heart has been shattered. Hardened, moulded into a cold blank stone and then shattered. You did that. And now your life shall be shattered. By God, they will make you pay with your life. I am standing outside. The berah looks empty today. I can't see you outside. You are normally out there every day; cleaning, washing, splashing water at me as I run around barefoot, the hot summer sun beating on my back. I close my eyes, then open them. The rough wind has muted your voice and that messy shrubbery in the back is hiding you from me. It must be, because I can still feel you, but I can't see you. Stupid wind. I look away. The neighbour’s yard has a red dress hanging. You made me one once, a long while ago. Do you remember? The one with the little border of hearts dancing at the hem? It took you so long to perfect. All your savings spent on that crimson velvet. All that scarlet thread, long, thick, like tight red ropes. All that blood, dripping, as the needle pierced you. 6
The Journal Papa didn’t like it. He said it showed too much neck. I know you had worked hard on it. It must have hurt when you saw him afterward, ripping it into shreds, hearts torn and scattered on the floor. But you forgave him. He told me you did. I tear my gaze away from the billowing dress and raise my head to stare at the sky. Blue, your favourite. Just like the eyes of your lover ghora. But there are inky red lines across it today. I want to paint over them. I haven't seen Papa all day. Why did you do this to him, Mother? I thought you loved him. I guess I was wrong about that too. Love should conquer all. Well. I remember how you used to tell me of your marriage to Papa. You must remember? It was before those grey streaks of misery were woven amongst the thick black of your hair. You haven’t told me that story for a while now. A long while. Was it because he hit you? Because Papa promised me that was only once. It was only once, Mother. Wasn't it? I remember the purple bruises on your back. I hugged you once, and you winced. You didn’t let me hug you after that. It hurt. You told me that the scarlet ribbons appeared because you fell down the stairs too many times. Right? You fell down the stairs, Ami? Did you? It's morning now. They're taking me to see you. It is colder than yesterday. The wind is still here, menacing, and muttering wildly. But your blue sky has gone. It's been crudely ripped off. Wiped away, like Mrs Khan does with the blackboard at school. It’s disappeared, just like that ghora of yours. Gone, vanished, almost as if it were never there in the first place. There is a big crowd gathering here for you. Lots of people. I don't recognise half of them. Their faces are scary. All angry and carved in hatred. Hatred for you, Ami. I don't like it. I don't like them. I don't like any of this. The screams have become too loud now. The ground has erupted. I can't 7
Writers' Bloc hear anything else. There isn't anything else to hear. The earth has swallowed me because I can’t see anything. It’s just black. Nasty words are burning my ears. They are calling you so many bad things. I clap my hands over my ears. I don't want you to hear them. Their sneering faces are twisted, ugly. I can’t look, Ami. I scrunch my eyes. Don’t let me look. DONG! My eyes fly open. No, not yet, please, it’s too soon. The clock has struck twelve, Ami. You’re out of breaths, you’re out of heartbeats. The tears fall as I realise, hands shaking, that you’re out of time. The crowd kneel, one by one. From the shattered earth they pick up their stones, rough ones, jagged ones, hard ones. Grey ones. They’ll be red soon. I’m shaking, Ami. I’m shaking. The whole earth is shaking, shattering. I can’t do anything. You can’t do anything. No one does anything. They bring you out. Silence. They tie your hands. Silence. They ready their stones. Silence. A man faces the crowd, his voice unwavering. 'Aishah Sulayman. Guilty of adultery. Sentence: Death.' They applaud. You see me. You lift the corners of your mouth. I look in your eyes and I see it. Finally. The truth. I turn slowly, to see my father. Hands firm, he readies his stones, sneering. I claw my way through the crowd. I push past men. I push past women. I fall. But I get up. They have gathered in front of me, a mighty stone wall. Tall and strong and big. But I break it down. I move the stones aside. I shove past. They can’t take you from me! Do you hear me? I scream that he is guilty. I cry of your innocence. Nobody hears me. I look at you and I stop abruptly. There is no pain in your eyes. None of that hurt that father inflicted upon you with his bare hands. Now I understand. I scream no more. The mighty wall surrounds me. Tall and strong and big. 8
The Journal The stones are back in place. I don't try to break them down again. They begin. I don’t move. I hear your screams. Loud. Piercing. CeasingL I don't move. I don't even breathe. I just stand. Watch. Watch as they give you your escape. The sky's blue again now, Ami. Just the way you liked it. No grey streaks. No purple bruises. No more inky red lines.
Humma Mouzam
Humma is an undergraduate currently studying English at the University of Birmingham.
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Writers' Bloc ‘What was her treehouse like?’ says Harold as Grandma pauses. She laughs; she was expecting this. ‘It was woven out of branches, and grasses, and brightly coloured thick woolen yarn, and had many little oddities hanging from it, waving and spinning in the wind. There were little translucent rocks and cuttings from honeycomb that sang strange songs when a gust passed through them. There were old spindles and forge’s tongs suspended together like a child’s mobile, dancing a beautiful dance. Little birds and squirrels had made it their home also, flitting in and out of cosy holes with earthworms and hazel nuts. Beyond the driftwood door, where the villagers had never seen, Freyya slept in a handsome pile of freely given feathers. ‘Some of the villagers said that with the items that adorned her home she could tell what the weather would be, how the crops would fare, who would be the next to die. They fantasised endlessly about what lay inside, and the things she knew. ‘And so it was that on a cold winter’s night, a little boy came knocking at the trunk of Freyya’s tree.’ Grandma looks down, ready for more questioning, but Harold can’t decide whether he wants to ask 'Who gave her the feathers?’ [turn to page 1 8] or ‘What happened next?’ [turn to page 28].
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The Journal
Who Are Ye That Challenge? ‘We come from seaside starlit dances and the holy prayers of log-fire drinking. We come from “stay a week” hotels and underground gothic circus hells. We come from stag-parties spilled in the square, and rat-arsed hen-do squalls laid bare. We come from bikini beach-ball only the cool kids got to join in on. We come from rebel armies playing d&d; like gods we breathed thought to living fantasy. We come from ten hour xbox fixes in the attic and staggering back at five. We come from old stories that are told, retold and glorified. We come from sloped cliffs made for sliding down - their paths our summer pilgrimage. We come from beach hut marijuana dens and hunting bare-handed for fish in the fens. We come from books. We come from heroes: the ragtag urban airsofters – men of the Heorot. 11
Writers' Bloc We come from the smell of glue and paint drops from Sunday morning worships down the Warhammer shop. We come from black-magic bonfires where we burned effigies of ex-girlfriends. We come from continuing conversations though years estrange, and waking in cold sweats knowing the other is in danger. We come from embracing one another as the world closes in, and the embers of our log-fires dim. We come from both being told we’re born in the wrong time: past apparitions made flesh; a final flourish before the tumult. We come from this world’s end – exiled, cursed, spat on, yet the only answer to the madness that will run; summoned with old weapons on old backs from outcast deserts to stand against the tide. Though from different wombs and seeds, we are still brothers: two threads looped and wound together; you cannot cut one without ending the other.’
Joseph Sale
Joseph Sale is a novelist, short story writer, and poet who lives in Birmingham Edgbaston, where he studies Creative Writing and Literature. His horror novel The Darkest Touch is due for release in 2014, published by Dark Hall Press. 12
The Journal
On The Desk A stamp stamps. Annullato - void. A hole puncher crunches. REPVBBLICA ITALIAN- the hole goes through the ‘A’. The hole goes through the pyramids, through a consulate in Manchester, through that wanker of a customs officer in New York. Now you have been nowhere. Annullato are twelve languages saying the same thing. But also a couple of volcanoes. And Julius Caesar. A boatload of African immigrants cannot find land, having sworn they could see it just a second ago. And Berlusconi and Dante now have holes in their temples. The Dolmio puppets and The Godfather stay intact. The Colosseum comes crashing down on The Pope; maybe it wants its marble back. Bribes and ultras fill the stadiums and are demolished along with them. Void is the notion that umbrellas and sunscreen and pyjamas are gay. Now you are from nowhere, and good riddance. The hole comes through the clouds, but they are too sparse to make it visible. The loud mother who promises punishment and threatens forgiveness floats off the terrace she stands on and up to her God, only to find that he went to lunch. But lunch is no longer the biggest meal, so he’s making an excuse for something bigger than lunch. Marcello melts into the Trevi Fountain one last time and Sylvia’s legs dry. Void is cannelloni and cannoli and pizza and zabaione. Clint Eastwood has a Mexican standoff by himself, in the wrong scenery. Void is the long hot lawn with pine nuts sprawled across it. The curtains closed on Dario Fo. Now you start to miss it. Christmas is quiet and easy and not exhausting. Calvino means nothing. Coffee tastes awful. Football takes effort without a boot. Rain. The piazzas are just for shopping and not for sitting. Now you see the hole above you, the size of the one at the top of the Pantheon. They used to let demons out of there, now they’re coming in. Now you’re annullato. Then it all comes back together, everything but the battered document, and escapism or breaking a stack of papers could never solve anything, for better or for worse.
Ludo Cinelli 13
Writers' Bloc ‘What sort of things did she know?’ asks Harold, who cannot resist such a mystery. ‘Well,’ says Grandma, ‘the villagers asked her questions occasionally, just little questions like “Where do I find the singing mushrooms this year?” and “How do I bind Grandpa’s leg like you did mine that time I fell out of your tree?”. They did not dare ask the bigger questions that tugged at them like the moon tugs the oceans, even though they knew she had the answers. ‘And most of the time she would answer them, or even bind Grandpa’s leg herself, laughing like a spring brook in the icy silence. But one day, a little boy came carrying a mind heavy with questions up the track to her treehouse, and knocked on the trunk.’ Grandma looks down, ready for more questioning, but Harold can’t decide whether he wants to ask ‘What are the singing mushrooms?’ [turn to page 22] or ‘What happened next?’ [turn to page 28].
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Chiswick I’m waiting for a bus on the corner to take me in turn to the tube station. The trains go slowly from Turnham Green, laden with movers and shakers who put family first. No truths are inconvenient when Colin Firth’s wife has an eco-shop. We recycle even our anecdotes. We treasure our trees and hug our hoodies and have never not cried when a neighbour has died. It’s amazing how far from the river our riverside properties are. My brother has moved back home and when the wind changes, he can smell the London Pride.
Lily Blacksell
Lily is a second year English and Creative student. She is very excited to be Writers' Bloc's president for 2014/15. Poetry is her first, biggest and best love. This is the first (sort of) sonnet she has ever written.
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Writers' Bloc
Hibernation It began on Monday, with cancelled trains. Commuters sighed into polystyrene coffee and reached automatically for mobile phones. Some headed home; one ended up napping by the radiator, arm curled around her dog. On Tuesday, a too-fresh wind whipped up, gusting with a tang of salt and surprise. Streets emptied as people stowed themselves indoors, and bright recycling boxes nudged from their nooks trundled slowly down the roads. The wind brought rain. Wednesday saw a skyful of droplets swarming, hammering, against, around, through. Workers returned home early, stuffed sodden shoes with newspapers, then took to bed. The country pruned. On Thursday evening, a couple drove through streets scattered with the limbs of tree-soldiers. One remarked to the other that the streetlights seemed drowsy – shedding a pale orange glow, they buzzed weakly like a wasp caught in autumn. Electricity gasped and died on Friday evening and children ate candlelit sandwiches on the living room floor. They heated water for tea, gas lit with a matchstick in a puffball bloom, the oven becoming encrusted with the drip of shiny pink wax. Someone chased the cat with a noisy wind-up torch, giggling. 16
The Journal On Saturday the priest they had heard about on the news, the one who took to the streets spouting plague and wrath, was reported missing. Someone said they’d seen him blown into the sky, a raving Mary Poppins. Twiddling the radio dials yielded twelve kinds of crackle. On Sunday it didn’t get light. Night extended like a protracted yawn. Bedrooms tumbled downstairs; a family-sized nest collected by the fire. They played slow, sleepy games of snap before nodding off comfortably, one by one. The clock ticked slower, slower.
Elena Orde
Elena Orde is studying for her MA in English Literature. She writes poetry almost exclusively, which made writing this bio oddly difficult. She also enjoys baking and rock climbing.
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Writers' Bloc ‘Who gave her the feathers?’ asked Harold. ‘Why, the birds, of course! Like a mother goose she had let them into her home for many long years; she had warmed them in the cold of winter, and she had fed them when they were in need. When they came to her hall they forgot their differences, their territorial disputes and the blood feuds of many generations. The first year they came, she sang them strange songs in which they heard their true names and their place in the world, and they knew that her home was theirs. When they flew away every year they knew where to return, but she sang them home in the winter, regardless. And in return they would give her the feathers they no longer needed, and they would bring her news from the world in their lilting verse; she is one of the few who can still understand them. Her feather bed had been carried all over the world before it came to her, and it would give her sweet dreams as she sank into it at night, surrounded by the clothes of sparrows, geese, magpies, robins and wrens. There were some of the rarer feathers in there too, buried deep in the down. The rarest was the single feather she kept at the heart of her bed: the feather of a Bird of Jarlsberg. He did not know it yet, but that feather was linked inextricably with the fate of the little boy who came knocking that fateful day.’ For once Harold is quiet. He wants to know what happened to the little boy more than anything else, and he knows that if he is quiet, Grandma will tell him [turn to page 28]. But what Grandma had said about talking to the birds awakened in him the memory of a story his father had told him when he was very little [to read this story, turn to page 9 in Issue 6 of The Journal].
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The Journal
2 Burgers, 20 Nuggets and Large Fries Near the Monrovia airport in California stood a food stand. It was 1 937 and Patrick McDonald hopped from one leg to the other, easing the pain that had numbed his feet from standing for so long. Slim girls revealed their flat midriffs and tall slim model legs walked past, their hands clasped around those of handsome boys, their cheekbones high and distinct on their frail faces. Some stopped to buy a cheeseburger and a 20 ounce bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. 1 0 cents for burgers and 5 for orange juice. He would make about 2 dollars a day. Popularities of stalls were declining and Patrick McDonald was aware that people preferred restaurants. They hated eating whilst standing, ketchup seeping down onto their hands, dripping down their arms and staining their blouses. He knew that his stall was old-fashioned, as day by day his sales dropped. He had to expand and join in with the trend. ****** It is 201 4 and a chubby kid with big red flamy cheeks is staring out of the window, looking around as his mother speeds home to cook before her husband gets home from work. On the menu today is a roasted chicken, roast potatoes, brussel sprouts, carrots, broccoli and a mug of gravy. As they drive, the boy spots something bright red and yellow in the distance. He starts pointing at it with his small plump fingers which wriggle like worms slithering in the soil. His stomach gurgles. His mum doesn’t pay any attention to him. She has been through this scenario many times before and knows the ending. As they get closer, the yellow M stands out. M for morbidly obese. He starts crying. His chest heaves, fake tears well in his eyes and drip 19
Writers' Bloc down his puffy cheeks. He kicks his legs about, hitting the glove compartment, forming white dusty footprints. His thunderous screams are deafening. His mother’s calm face changes into a ball of fire. She clenches her fist, hitting the steering wheel to free her anger. She doesn’t want to shout at him. She never wants to break his heart. She immediately stops the car, does a swift three point turn and presses on the gas, driving off. The tires screech like chalk on a blackboard. He stops crying. A victorious smirk forms on his invisible lips, indented into his face by the force of his fluffy cheeks. She parks the car. He jumps out and skips into the restaurant, his red t-shirt two sizes too small for him revealing his skin stretched over his bloated belly. He looks at his mother as she walks in. His mother doesn’t ask him what he wants to eat. The cashier asks her how she has been. After a little chat, she says, ‘the usual’. They were home half an hour later. His mother prepares the food and puts it into the oven. A succulent velvety smell disperses into the house. Her husband arrives and they all sit to eat. The little boy doesn’t touch his food. ‘I’m full,’ he says. His father asks him what he has eaten. The boy caresses his belly, stroking it in circular motions. ‘I had a big mac, a cheeseburger, large fries and 20 chicken nuggets,’ he says.
Ayshe Dengtash
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The Journal
The Undergraduate Sell-out There is stardust on the pavement where your cigarette ash burned and melted it to gold. The night has turned to that colour you used to see when you mixed all the paint colours together. Words were your get out of jail free card. You waited for the big break: now you’re writing jingles for a company selling vegan toothpaste. But in those eyes lies a spark of stardom and the odd iambic pentameter sneaks its way into those empty-songs-of-brighter-pearly-whites. You feel the rhythm in the streetlights: the pattern of words in every smile. You scribble sonnets on cereal packets: every Christmas card an epic. I watch how your eyes glaze over as you wait on a street corner, the warmth of rain on your neck. You long to write and be read, to read and to think in your last short years of thinking at all.
Georgia Tindale
Georgia is a first year English with Creative Writing student. In her youth she adopted a dolphin called Rainbow. Rumour has it that Rainbow has been smuggled into her accomodation at Tennis Courts. 21
Writers' Bloc ‘What are the singing mushrooms?’ asks Harold. Grandma looks up at the campfire smoke for a moment, thinking, then returns her gaze to her grandson. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘the only person who really knew what the singing mushrooms were disappeared from the world, before even Freyya’s time. The Antlered Man, they called him, and he strode through the forests when everything was secret from humans. Some say he was the first, but I do not believe them. He planted the singing mushrooms where his cloven feet stepped, and left behind him sighing melodies that longed for the beginning of the world. They were deep long notes that began as he stepped, but were lost forever when disturbed by rain or animal. As you can imagine, not many survived, but by Freyya’s time there were still deep caves where they sprouted each winter. Only those that sang without interruption until they died sprouted more; the rest spawned normal mushrooms, many of which have changed beyond recognition. ‘The villagers prized the mushrooms above all, for they believed that by eating them they could eavesdrop on the thoughts of The First God, in their unfractured form. But the little boy was not interested in them, only in asking Freyya his question.’ For once Harold is quiet. He wants to know what the little boy’s question was more than anything else, and he knows that if he is quiet, Grandma will tell him [turn to page 28].
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The Journal
How I Learned to Dance Somewhere on a chair
A few years ago, I was lost. My body was devoid of happiness but was full with questions and doubts. My life was a succession of days spent sitting on a chair, looking at people spinning around me, living their lives. Sometimes I wondered if everybody else whirling around my chair noticed the small, frail, motionless body I was inhabiting. ‘Why can they tread light-heartedly through life whereas I cannot leave this chair?’ And suddenly, out of nowhere, his blue eyes met mine. Just suddenly. Just a brief look. Suddenly. Among all the blurred shapes revolving around me, there was something flawless in the way he was moving. His movements gave the impression he was following the impulses of his heart. He was caressing the air with his arms, his feet were floating over the floor and with his look, as blue as an ocean of melancholia, he was beholding the whole room, as if everything here, including me, belonged to the beauty of his glance. Somewhere in his arms
Sitting on my chair, I observed him dancing around me, disappearing for a second – an endless second – reappearing for the pleasure of my lonely eyes, seducing me at each step. Unexpectedly he dissolved into thin sparkles once more but did not come back for a moment. My heart stopped. I realized then that my happiness depended on his presence, on the grace and elegance of his moves. It was when I stood up to scan the room searching for his turquoise eyes that I became aware that my body didn’t belong to my mind anymore – neither to my chair – but to his shapeliness. Unexpectedly, I heard a voice breathing in my neck: 23
Writers' Bloc ‘May I have this dance?’ When I turned back, I faced the melancholia of his look, diving even deeper into his eyes. ‘But there is no music to dance on.’ ‘Just listen to the music in my heart.’ ‘But I cannot dance.’ ‘Then I will teach you.’ He taught me how to walk, a simple thing I forgot while I was rooted to the apathy of my chair. I learned how to turn – always keeping my eyes to his. He helped me to reach my dreams with stag leaps for joy. I also explored the harshness of dance, the paroxysm of which I reached by whirling and leaping into his soft arms, until he suddenly left me alone on stage with my feet covered in the red of our passion. My body was shedding tears of pain but was begging to be swayed again. I had two options: going back to tie myself up to my chair, or to travel around the world and learn how to dance. Somewhere in the United States
As soon as my feet landed on the American ground, I started to slip by the dancers on the street to the pace of the music my feet played on the pavement. The faster I was going, the louder the music was, as if a piano was accompanying each of my movements. Without warning, a vague silhouette started to run with me. This dreamlike shape slowly turned into a vigorous body who was emerging from a vintage picture with his suspenders tying up his robust body, and his bow tie flapping its wings as if a colourful butterfly had decided to rest on his chest. This race gently became a dance as his right hand found mine flying in the air and spun my body, and my heart, around. His feet stopped running and 24
The Journal hit the floor. I just stared at him, at his vitality and at the intensity of his moves. Should I just follow him and rest in his arms like the butterfly on his chest or should I lead the dance and take him into my heart? Because of these questions swiveling in my head, my feet, instead of dancing, kept stumbling over his. ‘It is not about who is leading but about our bodies and hearts being a symphony,’ he whispered. Rather than following or leading, our bodies copied our lips which were playing the most beautiful silent symphony. I let myself go and, unaware of the rest, we began a Boogie-woogie; hitting the floor, twisting our legs , making our souls whirl everywhere in the United States. I was smiling and laughing, I was the butterfly on his chest, I was all the butterflies around us. Boogie-woogie is the dance of happiness, but focusing on letting myself go, focusing on my delight I was unaware that my feet were treading on my feelings and I finally hurt myself. I wanted to let it go, and eventually let him go, straight back to his vintage picture. Somewhere in Latin America
After two months in Latin America, my skin was covered in bites from the ardor of the sun which made my half-naked body sensitive to every touch. I was blinded by the sunlight and the only thing I could witness were shadow theatres. Suddenly, coming as an angel surrounded by a halo of luminosity, I made out a golden mane mixing with the sunbeams. When the half-naked body was close enough for me to feel his sweat, he murmured in my ear: ‘Would you like to join me on a trip through Latin America?’ I nodded. But we did not just travel. Hands in hands, skin against skin, we learned a new dance in each country. In Cuba, our hips were trained to undulate together 25
Writers' Bloc at the pace of our excitement. In Brazil, our bodies were shook so hard by Samba that we needed to rest in the arms of each other. In Colombia, the softness and romanticism of Rumba helped us to confess our love. For the first time in my life, my body was responding to his without thinking, our hearts were playing the same music. For the first time in my life, I avowed an ‘I love you’. It was perfect until we arrived in Argentina to be taught the passionate Tango. Our love turned into lust, the caresses of Rumba were replaced by the kicks of Tango. Our bodies always wanted more, they were insatiable, eager for passion. This escalation of excitement finally stopped with a kick too strong, so strong it broke my heart. I was left alone, deprived of any hint of desire. Afterwards, I spent days redoing the choreographies we performed together, blinded not by the sun but by my tears. I learned Salsa, Rumba, Tango, and to never give all of my heart. Somewhere in London
As I wait behind the scenes to play the solo my heart needs, I hear someone snapping his fingers. One. He comes on stage. Two. Music starts playing. Three. Lights. In his dark clothes, he gives the impression that he is a lonely shadow slipping through the spotlights. Refusing to see my heart upstaged by his, I step on the boards and break the white conformity of the lights with my shadow. I start dancing on the jazz music, sliding on the curves of the trumpet. We both dance, watching one another, feeling our presence but keeping our distances. Softly, we start revolving around each other, but never touching our unfamiliar bodies. As we leap and turn on different points of the stage, our shadows slowly start dancing together. They disappear into a strange shape, motioning in harmony, disobeying their masters who without words, or glances, 26
The Journal seduce each other. Our shadows already fall in love and undulate as if they were becoming one. We would like to let our bodies merge, but we both know that a single touch would be enough for us to commence a too passionate Tango. And while our shadows are dancing, I can feel the pressure of his passion against my lips, the safety of his arms surrounding my shoulders, and the bewitchment of his perfume around me. Then, the music stops. The lights go off. We leave the limelight. I already miss this pressure on my lips, the safety around my shoulders and the bewitchment of his perfume. We both disappear into the darkness, without our shadows, which stay to keep on dancing. Somewhere on a sofa
Lying on a sofa to rest my leg and my heart, I behold the stage of my life and look at all the dancers I met, still whirling around me as if they will never leave me alone. I smile. Now, I can step on the scene because I am not afraid anymore of leaping, whirling, shimmying or swaying. This is how I learned to dance. This is how I learned to love.
KĂŠvin MontĂŠro
27
Writers' Bloc ‘“Knock, knock, knock,” went the trunk, and in reply Freyya appeared upsidedown from the little wood and wool woven balcony by the driftwood door. She had feathers in her hair and a sanguine smile on her face. ‘“And what can I do for you, young man?” said Freyya. ‘“I have a question to ask you,” said the boy, sounding calmer than he felt. ‘“Then you had better come inside,” said Freyya, with a distinctly mischievous look in her eyes. Her head disappeared and was replaced with a rope which snaked its way to the ground. The little boy grabbed hold of the rope, and as soon as he had a firm grip, it was hoisted up, boy and all. After placing him carefully on the balcony, Freyya pushed open the door and lead him inside. ‘The treehouse was wide and spacious, with two upper tiers suspended by woollen yarns like a spider’s web. Homely pieces of furniture stood on the bottom floor; a cabinet with glistening sculptures within, a small table and chairs, a bowl with a spout above it from which rainwater poured at the pull of a cord. ‘“Would you like a drink?” said Freyya, stepping towards a shelf full of dusty glass bottles with labels scrawled in spidery handwriting. The boy opened his mouth in surprise. ‘“Ah, I see. A bit young, aren’t we?” Freyya went and sat down at the table, smirking to herself, “Sit down then!” The boy sat down. “What’s your name?” she asked. ‘“Everard,” said the boy. ‘“And what’s your question, Everard?”‘ Grandma has stopped talking. She is trying to remember what happens next. ‘Did Everard ask about his mother [turn to page 31 ] or his father [turn to page 36]?’ 28
The Journal
Wishbone All this is happening at the same time. A man pulls out a cigarette, catches the air in his lungs and holds the moment like a vacuum in a bell jar. His sister slips into a coma. A woman draws her hair up into a bow: it will never be this long again, but - not knowing that she needs to she omits to savour it. A boy takes a blow to the back. A man in a checked trapper-hat says again that breathing is key to marksmanship. Breathe, boy, breathe. The boy scowls and takes aim, but the deer are just dimples left in the snow. A girl is knocked off her bicycle. She Catherine-wheels forward into the road and, for a moment, the rain hangs still in the air. All of it, at the same time. The pain in the man’s ribs is nothing, it has ten dozen causes, none fatal. Just the flexing pressure of a crushed spring. So he bounces back. Twice as hard, twice as fast, we bounce back. 29
Writers' Bloc The girl forgets her bicycle. You forget the scuffed knees when they heal. You wore tights for the longest time, but you forgot. Witnessed pain endures. A rabbit’s eyes flare in the trap. I don’t want to worry anybody, but even silent animals scream when the lights go out. All this is happening at the same time. We grew together like two sides of a wishbone. I guess it’s time to make a wish.
Rachel Eames
Rachel Eames is currently working on a novel about Victorian conmen; recently, however, this has led to poetry instead. Also, a lot of cake baking. Obviously.
30
The Journal ‘Everard took a deep breath, shut his eyes and blurted out “Who was my mother?” ‘Freyya smiled broadly. “I knew your mother,” she said, “she came to me with you when you were very young. Before she blew away on the breeze.” ‘“I know, that’s why I came to see you,” said Everard. ‘“They told you I was your mother, didn’t they?” ‘“Yes, they did. But you’re not, are you?” ‘“No,” said Freyya, looking proudly at the little boy. ‘“So who is she?” ‘“To tell you that, I’m going to have to tell you a story. Are you sitting comfortably?” ‘Everard nodded. He was not comfortable, but he had been waiting to hear this story for most of his short life. ‘Freyya’s story was long and winding. It told of the formation of the world, the creation of happiness and the way in which the forests grew. It told of the vanquishing of greed in the ancient world, and it’s reappearance in their own. Finally, it told of the Birds of Jalsberg, and it all made sense. Everard realised how it all came back to him, now, in these early moments of his life. How all the threads of the world’s story wound inextricably into his own. ‘“She was one, wasn’t she?” he said, excitedly. ‘“She was what?” ‘“A drifting woman; a Bird of Jarlsberg!” ‘Freyya laughed. “I see you’re eager to get to the point. Yes. She was. She had settled on the branches of Tolfrook, to the north of here, as the west wind wound her eastward. She stayed for her allotted year and a day and almost immediately fell in love with a man, a beautiful man, and they had you. But before she left, your father died, so she took you to me. She stayed with you until the one hundred and first day, and only let you go when the west wind dragged her from this very porch, an unwilling dandelion clock.”’ 31
Writers' Bloc Grandma’s voice falters. She stops talking and stares into the depths of the fire once more. Night has come and folded its cloak about the pair, sending one mind to sleep and the other into the past. After some time a log crackles and drops into a more comfortable position, bringing Grandma back to the present. She goes to take another sip of ale, but she had finished it long ago. The crickets have fallen quiet, and out in the forest she hears a young girl giggling. She carries her grandson to bed.
Charlie Dart
32
The Journal
I Just Stood There and Stirred the Pot I just stood there and stirred the pot, slowly. The world muffled around me as I wrapped myself in cotton wool. He was still speaking. I didn’t need to hear anymore. The pot blurred out of focus as I tried to hold back the tears: I wasn’t fast enough. I felt his hand touch my shoulder. My back was to him but he knew the tears were out too. I began to sob uncontrollably, my hand shaking as it grasped the handle of the spoon. I wasn’t stirring any more. The dinner was burning. My body ran red hot, my ears sizzled as his muffled words penetrated my solace. I beat his hand off my back and moved away to face him. He was stunned. He started flapping. His fists punching the air as spit flew from his mouth. I could see he was shouting, the veins in his neck stood proud. I always hated those veins; they were the sign that it had now become my fault. He came closer to me. The heat of his breath struck my face, drying my tears. Was I shouting back? I felt my hand reach behind me and grab the knife out of the sink and plunge it into his throat. My hand still clasped the handle as he fell back. Those veins were the target. Direct hit. I watched as he embraced his throat, the blood oozed between his fingers. He spluttered and more and more of my crimson joy danced from his mouth. I felt it sprinkle across my face. It was hot. It burned. The weight of it ran down my cheek, caressing it as though it was already my new lover. I liked it. A few of the splatters had tickled my lips, my tongue leaped forth to greet them. They tasted like acid. He collapsed to the floor. Lying in the pool of his venom, he twitched. Those beautiful brown eyes I had come to hate stayed transfixed on mine. It didn’t take long to drain him of his poison. I had stopped crying a while before and I watched him lying there. I was waiting for him to get up. My cotton wool fell away, leaving me cold; I wasn’t wearing a jumper. There was a ringing growing ever louder. I shook my head 33
Writers' Bloc but it was still there. I dropped the knife and grabbed a towel. I confronted the fire alarm and shook my flag of surrender before it. Peace. I floated back into the kitchen. He hadn’t moved. I turned the stove off and pushed the pot back. The poison pool had spread beneath my bare feet. I wiggled my toes. I felt like a kid. It didn’t last long; we had to get ready for dinner. I lifted him just enough to slot my hands beneath his arms and pulled. I had to be fast otherwise he would set. I dragged him through into the dining room. He left a bloody trail like a snail; he always liked to leave his mark. The ringing of the fire alarm started to bounce off the walls again. I set him down beside the table whilst I pulled his chair out. He was heavy but I got him seated. I laid the table around him, his eyes still on me. All the best plates, it was our anniversary after all. I put the flowers that he’d brought me in the middle so we could admire them. It’s weird, isn’t it, flowers as a gift? I mean, you can’t do anything with them. Just watch them die. And there they stood as a symbol of us. I plated up the dinner and sat opposite my love. I could swear I saw him smile. ‘Well, here we are again,’ I said, ‘six years... you’ve not touched your food. Chicken stew. Nothing that special but it’s your favourite... Well, have a bit then.’ He did nothing, just kept staring. ‘What is it? The salt? You never try my food first do you? I told you there’s salt in it. Try it first. Fine, have it.’ I got up from my chair and moved towards him. I shook the salt over his dinner. But he still wasn’t touching it. I pulled the cap off and tipped the whole shaker over the meal. He watched. ‘There you are. No reason to complain, now eat your dinner.’ I sat back down, and turned my food about my plate. I wasn’t hungry anymore. ‘It’s that blasted fire alarm! I can’t hear myself think!’ I pulled the battery out. That’s enough of dinner. I went to the bottom drawer of the dresser where he kept all the things we 34
The Journal might one day need. There were old batteries mixed with new ones, manuals to things we didn’t even own anymore, old remote controls, keys, old Birthday cards, and rope. All things that at some staged marked our lives. I grabbed the rope. We lived in this old house we’d bought when we’d gotten married. It was our little project to do it up and make it homely. A place where we would one day start a family of our own: there was plenty of space. I’d painted it all in a refreshing bright mahogany. We masked the walls with photographs of our families. There was this one big beautiful frame filled with a collage of photographs from our wedding, and smack bang in the middle was a picture of us, kissing. The light in the house would bounce between the walls. We had these big windows built to get more light in. It was a terraced house so every bit of light made all the difference. And the beams! We always liked the look of beams, so we spent ages sourcing old wood to make our beams look authentic. And they did. I took the rope back into the dining room and placed it on the table beside him. I pulled his chair back just enough to reveal his lap and I clambered aboard. I grabbed the rope and tied it around the beam above his chair, the wood there was warped so there was just enough of a gap to feed the rope through and tie a secure knot. Then I made the noose. It was perfect, just like the ones I’d seen on the internet. I placed it around my neck whilst I stood on his lap. He always liked helping me, it made him feel important. I stroked the coarse rope between my fingertips. We used it to tie the plants and bamboo sticks in the garden; we had a real project going on there. I pulled the knot around my neck and took one last look at him. It was like he was staring through my legs. He wasn’t interested anymore.
Siobhan O'Sullivan
Siobhan is a forth year Classical Literature and Civilisation and Italian Studies Student, originally from Stratford-upon-Avon so Shakespeare sparked her interest in writing. She wants to go into the film industry as a screenwriter. 35
Writers' Bloc ‘Everard took a deep breath, shut his eyes and blurted out “Who was my father?” ‘Freyya smiled warmly. “I knew you would come asking at some point. Your father lives not far from here actually, but before you can meet him, I need to teach you about the world. I need to tell you a story. Are you sitting comfortably?” ‘Freyya’s story was long and winding. It told of the formation of the world, the creation of happiness and the way in which the forests grew. It told of the vanquishing of greed in the ancient world, and it’s reappearance in their own. Finally, it told of the Foxes of Gerund, and it all made sense. Everard realised how it all came back to him, now, in these early moments of his life. How all the threads of the world’s story wound inextricably into his own. ‘“He was one, wasn’t he?” Everard said, excitedly. ‘“He was what?” ‘“A crafty man; a Fox of Gerund!” ‘Freyya laughed. “I see you’re eager to get to the point. Yes. He was. One of the craftiest. Some years ago, when the Red Star still burned in the night’s sky, he came to the village in search of excitement, with lust in his eyes. He had bedded almost all the women in the village before he met your mother, but even the guile of a Fox of Gerund could not help him evade her charms. It wasn’t long before she had him all to herself, and they fell in love, and had you. I know that he was truly sad that the Red Star passed, and that he had to go back to his burrow. It’s a rare thing among the Foxes, love. He’s still waiting, you know. And he checks up on you occasionally. I cannot imagine the pain he must feel when your mother shoos him away. As if he’s just an animal.”’ Grandma’s voice falters. She stops talking and stares into the depths of the fire once more. Night has come and folded its cloak about the pair, sending one mind to sleep and the other into the past. After some time a log crackles and drops into a more comfortable position, bringing Grandma back to the 36
The Journal present. She goes to take another sip of ale, but she had finished it long ago. The crickets have fallen quiet, and out in the forest she hears a young girl giggling. She carries her grandson to bed.
Charlie Dart
37
Writers' Bloc
Unrequited I can look at him now, without staring at his hair that the sun glorifies with a halo stolen from the gods, or watching as his hands trace a pattern on the canvas that I long to feel on my blank skin. I can look at him now, No more than is accepted. When we speak I don’t listen to the way he emphasises words like reticulation because they roll on his tongue. Or the way his voice rises and falls in a softer melody than any lullaby I’ve ever heard. When we speak I don’t listen when I’m not supposed to. I can think about him now, and not feel his lips tracing constellations onto my shoulder, onto my neck, painting his love with blooming bruises. I can think about him now, In a platonic way. I can touch him now, without lingering on his elbow and angling my body so that I can feel his presence around me. I can touch him now, like I should do. But I still love him, more than is accepted when I’m not supposed to, in a non-platonic way like I want to.
Lucie Turner
Lucie Turner is 19 years old, currently studying English Language at the University of Birmingham. Whilst she loves Invictus by William Ernest Henley she can also quote Mean Girls with a similar capability. 38
The Journal
Trouble She named him Jack after the bottle of whisky she drowned herself in whilst he, bloody and screaming, slipped out from between her thighs with exclamations of “Oh Lord Jesus Christ!” His eyes enlarged at drips of crackling television, watching men being thrown around on bulls like a bag in the back of a pick-up. First word: “Rodeo.” Followed by: “Mamma.” Never said: “Dada.” Wrote music about his times on the ranch: smoking away the coffee-coloured sky, riding bulls the wrong way, listening to the peppery crowing of Billy’s harmonica. Blood type: A-whisky-positive; woke up most mornings pants soaked in his own piss, with bruises he couldn’t remember the names of. Found a girl in the bar of a northern highway: uptown, off the Jelm Mountain Road, Highway #1 0. She wore red cowgirl boots, the same colour as her lips, and had black eyes the same colour as her humour. She told him he was trouble. Then, ended up between his thighs, compressed against a bottle of Bourbon, feeling like her saddle was the wrong way up, rearing beneath a horse. Nine months later, she was there with a bundle and a frown. Handed him the bundle. Left with the frown. He called the bundle Trouble. He put whisky in her bottle to make her go to sleep. Took her to the rodeo, let her sit on his shoulders so that she felt taller than the world. Took her dancing, plaited her hair though bits always ended up sticking out. They called him at five sharp, the sky streaked with red like finger nail marks down a wall. There had been a fire, they said. We found a body, they said. She had such dusty lips when he saw her and they never moved. Coffin was red like her mother’s cow girl boots. Billy played harmonica drowning out the day. In the evening, he drove his car to the nearest cliff, watched the sun set and told himself he would drink as much alcohol as the amount of sky.
Natasha Whearity 39
The Journal will return next year! If you can't wait until then, you can find previous issues at www.writersblocuob.com Thank you for writing, submitting and reading.