WRITERS’ BLOC JOURNAL
SPACES
Editor’s Note Dear Reader, Welcome to the first journal of the year! Firstly, thank you so much to everyone who submitted for the ‘spaces’ theme, it was an absolute pleasure to read your work and I’m incredibly grateful to facilitate a wider audience. It was exciting to see the varying degrees of interpretation and there are some very cool pieces in this journal. It’s safe to say that the bar has been set very high for the rest of the year! Secondly, the pandemic stopped us from releasing a summer term issue this year, and I’m so thankful for your patience. The pieces submitted under the ‘entertainment’ theme were equally wonderful and I’m happy to have included them at the end of this issue. I look forward to creating more journals and hosting more editing workshops through the course of this year, especially since I’ll be engaging with such amazing writers. Happy reading! Mehar
Contents Last Orders by Rob Haslem Two Poems by Holly Jacob My Piano Teacher on How to Think about Playing by Vato Klemera The Woman in the Wall by Rosalie Wessel Our Bodies by Cara Scott The Absence of Me by Clara Morate Two Poems by Ellie de Satge Two Poems by Becky Watts Three Poems by Felix Chadwick-Histed Midnight Summer Dream by Clara Morate Safe by Riley Wells Three Poems by Laurie Spafford [untitled] by Charley Davies Blurb by Zarah Alam Three Poems by Hannah Burrows My Library Wall by Ameek
Six to Eight Word Stories by Laurie Spafford Haiku by Hamish Malcolm
From Our Summer Term: On Entertainment For Your Entertainment by Amy Larsen Some Words from the Start of a Novel by Luiz Felipe De Souza Time by Ellie de Satge I Remember Her by Georgia That’s Entertainment, inspired by the lyrics of Paul Weller by Frankie Rhodes
Last Orders Rob Haslem In Club Tropicana the drinks were freethat or we’d robbed the shot tray Julie couldn’t keep steady, cause I definitely heard shouting but that might have been when she’d tipped over on those hooker boots that gave me a broken ankle just lookingmy leg is wrecked &it wasn’t like that when I’d had it bent at the bar ignoring that Jamie is a short arse because for the first time he was speaking to me, saying he liked that I’d gone from a Smurf to Sinead O’Connor and that it was nice to see me down Canal Street after time away at uni. My bank statement shows no evidence of buying jaeger that night (or owt at Tropicana for that matter) so perhaps maybe Erin did- or he did but regardless I found myself arse deep in drain water, maybe two hour later with a phone screen like a fruit machine and an Angel waving Ice Valley across my face like how Charlie checks for concussion in Holby… Cigarettes, that’s all I could smell as the Angel, pixelated said that your mates were found and safe, to take it easy tomorrow morning, when my mouth felt like a sodden kebab carton and I read the last message, a DM from Jamie, about how I really stacked it and should take more care, what with everything in the news about Princess St, now a buzzcut made lads like me a bigger target.
Two Poems Holly Jacob Bourbon Street The drawled-out sermon you would receive about your plans to go down Bourbon: ‘Ah that shit ain’t real. Y’all go down Frenchmen for a g’d time.’ And they were right, I wasn’t transplanted across an ocean to become a tour guide. But if you want to see how to collect off the out-of-towners and has-beeners, Roll around in price-tagged hedonism: Find that waft of sewered shite outside the Walgreens, where you stock up on fortys That welcomes you into a crowd of hollers and beads. Each piece of neon stigmatizing you with each slow step ya took, With each puff of what might be yellow-haze, That your over-eager new friend bought at an over-inflated price, From wise ones outside the Popeye’s, where y’all gather to use wifi. Cradling sour daiquiris bought for you by southern boys, Who turned out less sweet than their sad charm, Then awkwardly chuckle, as the irony of the name ‘hurricane’ goes straight to your head, The pain of this city, grabbing cash. A shooting could go down, halt a block, but down a few more You wouldn’t know. Macabre - but exhilarating, nonetheless.
NYC, NOLA, S’OAK New York skyscrapers, like pencils in a pot, seemed like they were about to stab me, as the plane began to stop. EPSTEIN’S DEAD, In foreign letters I read, alone in a new country, That was for a new year home. New Orleans where my room reeked of all the colours of the Bronx, with its disjunctive art, wisps of incense, her breath, his breath, and the warmth of artichoke hearts. I would step into that green of laughs, guitars, and free kinds of spirits. Then, spectres in the smoke led me through neo-antebellum houses to the bars, And the boys Who were enamoured with my creamy accent. - but some lights glared too strong, and then switched off too quick. And brushes with that drawling Southern Charm, always ended with those bad trips. A murdered puppet peadophile masted on the Mardi Gras float approaches, and off it I collect my beads. Selly Oak American ice tea (sugar water) at one point tasted sour,
sometimes I see spanish moss in furs, Ginormous Walmart tills in the big Sainsbury’s, Blackened alligator in the grease left over on yellow styrofoam, And those fumbles by Lake Pontachatrian in crap cars, in the Cannon Hill puddles that are dressed with rotting leaves.
My Piano Teacher on How to Think about Playing Vato Klemera These keys are butterflies and smoke No weight whispers where your phrases roam Rumours writhe in place of ivory and wood_ Secrets your pressing fingers share with hammer-falls – but machinery is incidental, Outstretched strings now sing unbound from your once tightly wound hands; Your breath swells through the breadth of this mechanism Connected as you are to its resonant frame From gut to poised fingertips_ holding, gently, the ephemeral
The Woman in the Wall Rosalie Wessel The apartment wasn’t small, it was large, it was like the entire night sky swallowed into walls. She thought it was small during the viewing, with it’s toilet edging under the sink, the bed peeking into the kitchen. It hadn’t bothered her, the smallness. She’d liked it. Been excited by the proximity, the cuddle of the space against her. But she felt something watching her, prowling in the night. Convinced herself she was just nervous to be living alone. Outside, lights flashed off the dewy rain, and into her eyes. * You watch, as the space degrades around you. Pooling, it winks in dusk and the lamps the girl brought with her. You don’t like them. The only one you are vaguely interested in is the novelty light she’s stuck in the corner of her bedroom, modeled to resemble the provocative figure of a woman. Someone's attempt at low humour, or art, you’re not sure. The girl likes it, though. She giggles sometimes, as she turns off the light, her hand brushing the woman’s breasts as she clicks it off. As though she’s done something terribly naughty, defied the rules of feminism with this purchase of male objectification. You can’t decide if you like her or not. That’s your issue, at the moment. You’ve been stuck in these walls for an unknown amount of time, your body long gone, but she’s the first inhabitant of your former residence that you are interested in. The ones before her- musician, small family of three, an old sod who refused to die so his son carted him off to a care home- all refused to look at the space. Their minds couldn’t grip upon the obvious truth, that there were eyes looking out at them, wondering whether they’d realise you were right there with them. She does, however. Sometimes, when you twitch, or rustle against the nothing of the wall, she jolts, as though someone has just stirred her soul with the tip of a finger. *
At first, she thought it was rats. When she called up her father to ask him, he said to get an exterminator. “With a crappy apartment like yours,” her mother called from the kitchen, “you probably have a whole nest of them living in there.” She’d scowled, and her father had shushed her mother, who’d muttered something uncharitable under her breath. “Call an exterminator.” Her father said, and she could picture him, huddled on a kitchen chair, fending of her mother with his hands. The phone would be gripped under his chin, on speakerphone, because he claimed to never be able to hear her. “They’ll sort it out.” “Right.” She’d replied, and just then, she felt the eyes, a passing vibration going through her. She’d ended the phone call quickly after that, uneasy at the thought of those eyes- the army of rats eyes- seeing any other part of her life. She called the exterminator. A soft, kind voice answered the phone, and it immediately made her want to cry. “How can I help you, dear?” The voice asked, and oh, this woman was most definitely a grandmother, the kind who kissed little bruises better. “I think I’ve got rats in my walls.” She answered, biting her lip hard. Blood sprung upward, wet against her teeth. “Oh, well, that is a problem.” The grandmother replied warmly. “What signs are there? Do you hear any scratching? Any rat droppings, around the house?” “Uh-” She wanted to lie, she wanted to make it up, just so that someone would come, would tear down the walls, and yank whatever it was that was living in there out. There weren’t any rats. She knew that. But she wanted someone else to feel the presence, like she did. “No.” She replied, and hung up. * She calls up an exterminator. You want to laugh. As if that would scare you away, uproot you from your home. You’ve lived here for- years? Centuries? A millenia? You’re not sure, but
however long it is, it certainly has given you more than enough time to sew yourself into the very fabric of the apartment. You embrace the door, the plaster, the pipes and scatterings of debris that only your eyes can see. You have made yourself so wholly at peace here that no rat would dare to intrude on you. It was easier with the other families. They never questioned you. Tried to rid themselves of you. The misfortunes that befell them were attributed to bad luck, a freak accident, blamed on old age. No one ever suspected that it was you, you manipulating the weak strings that balanced their lives so carefully. The last one, the old man- he had been fun. He didn’t know you lived here, had never felt your eyes, but he was still able to see faucets turning on suddenly, hear floorboards creaking under an invisible weight. Ridding your home of him had been simple, as the infirm and elderly are always suspected to be mad before they are believed. The family of three had been harder, but shifting the stairs ever so slightly so that the mother fell down had been extreme measures, but not something you regretted. And the musicianThe musician. You always get caught on her. Like a tree, snagging a balloon from the air, before it can drift to freedom. She was the first one, you think. The first one after you became this thing. The thing in the walls, with the eyes this girl can sense. The girl reminds you of the musician. You aren’t sure why. The girl is weeping, now. Something stirs in you. It sounds like the notes of a piece that you once loved. * She decided to do research. There was something about the apartment, the way it molded around her things. Not rats, no, but something else. She couldn’t quite bring herself to say the word someone else. She felt her mind sliding around, loose in it’s foundations. Her parents would call, she would ignore the phone. She always felt the eyes awaken when she did. She went to the library.
The apartment was built in 1975, according to her landlord’s condescending drawl, when she’d inquired over the phone. Finding old newspapers was hardly difficult, and made her feel like some sort of detective, removed from the problem, trying to solve it for some other young girl who needed her help. There was nothing. The night quickened, and soon there was a soft voice at her shoulder, asking when she’d be done, because they were closing in five minutes. She really didn’t want to go back to the apartment. Home. Whatever it was. There was something there. Wasn’t this supposed to be the part where she discovered there’d been a gruesome murder, or a cult drawing satanic symbols on the floor? Something explainable? She went home, loitering at Dominos, picking up an extra cheesy margherita pizza, and then again on the bus, deliberately scanning her ticket wrong. The bus driver had bags under his eyes and a brain microwaved by days of the same route, same people, same mistakes, that he barely even sighed when she scanned wrong for the fifth time. He just took her ticket, his meaty fingers barely brushing hers, and scanned it, handing it back to her without a word. His eyes, dry and yellow, flickered closed for a brief moment as he closed the door behind her. When she opened the door to her apartment, she felt it wave over her. The presence. For the first time, she didn’t flinch. She wandered over to her radio, switched on the classical channel. She hadn’t listened to music since she first felt the presence. It was too personal. Too close to her. She didn’t want the thing to know or feel anything of hers that she loved. But as she sat there, listening to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 4, chewing her way through the grease and crisp of her pizza slice, she realised she really didn’t give a shit anymore. * You like it that the girl now plays music. It runs through you like delicate fingers against a harp. Plucking at your being with nimble, elegant hands, leaving you breathless in its wake. You like it when she listens to Erik Satie, the Gymnopedies aching like a river, winding through the apartment.
Mozart, she knows off by heart, humming along, her fingers tapping out the cords of whatever tune is playing. You find yourself doing the same, the parts of you that remember how to move twisting and grasping against the grand crescendos and sweltering lows of his most famous pieces. The girl has stopped fighting you. You are relieved, if not perplexed. You’ve never lived in harmony with someone before. You’ve always longed for the lone, solitary standing of the apartment, the floors untouched, the walls bare. She brings out a violin, one day, nervously eying the spot where you look out at her. Her bow touches the string, and music flows- at first, with a jolt and quiver, and then more naturally, as she loses herself to it. She forgets you are there, and you forget you are there too, a sensation you never have had before. A musician. Familiar. You start to wonder, if this is the beginning of it all. * Time was slipping. The large plain of her apartment swallowed her, and she gladly lived in it as though it was her world, that and the music. Half the time she couldn’t remember if she’d eaten that day. She’d turn the radio on, listen to whatever was playing, laughing and talking to the presence, as she felt it agree with her. Massnet was the presence’s favourite, especially anything from the opera ‘Thais’. She was currently trying to master Paganini, in particular, Caprice No. 5. She had been, for a long time now. How long? Months. Years? Time began to slip. It wound through her fingers, and then untethered, as though the tied end that anchored her to reality unknotted and fell. The rope fell away from her hands, and she was left adrift. Paganini’s No. 5 was a beast to play, the chords twinging against her fingers. She played at night, during the day, and at one point, her fingers bled. She could feel the spirit- for she had begun
to think of the presence as a bodily thing, something that belonged to the apartment like she did, and thus was an identitybegging her to stop, to turn on Massnet, to rest. She couldn’t. Time began to slip. * You notice the girl, and the way she is fading. A part of you wishes to save her. The other part- the part that has seen the lewd lamp, the way she sings boy band songs in the shower as though it doesn’t count, her affection for ketchup smeared on toast- wants her to fade away, and knit into the walls. With you. * The first time she heard the pipes creak against her ears, was the day she realised she was leaving herself. Time had slipped, and night had come for three days now. There’d been no six a.m, not time to wake up, or go to sleep. She begins to dream. She dreamt of the apartment. Of it’s pipes. Of the floorboards. She dreams, sleeps. She awakened. She never eats. She was no longer nervous. She begins to drift. The presence soothes her. Soothed. * You remember something, one day. Your fingers, playing a piece. Your hands, bleeding with frustration. Of a face, one so familiar, it must have been yours. * You- she- we begin to see a new people in the apartment. A family of three, cluttering the bare walls, bare floors. An old man, feeding his singular cat, dragged out of the apartment when his son visits.
And a musician, nervous of the eyes she feels on her from the moment she steps across the threshold.
Our Bodies Cara Scott tight together; Warm chests breathing in time to our hearts pounding whilst our eyes are locked drowning in a blue sea. Lips pressed; your hand clasps mine with our fingertips touching and legs wrapped in yours holding each other forever.
The Absence of Me Clara Morate
I was full I was happy I was the light of my life I was carving the days and nights into my own path I was conquering I was adventure I was alone But I was happy You came I was full I made space for you You took that space You said you would guard that space Until you didn’t You took that space from me You let it cool until it crumbled And then you dared ask why it didn’t feel the same anymore U took my space and left it lonely The space you took up is weird now Its more of me again it will take time for me to fill the space again I have played this game before I will be alright, one day, not soon though The space I would still give back to you If you would only believe I wanted you to have it
Two Poems Ellie de Satge
Peppermint tea I chef up in my messed-up kitchen Pots and dirty dishes And an ant infestation Too many spices and a bit too much salt Still, you eat I’m sorry my kitchen is like this but listen: I’m glad I get to use my leftovers on you I’m glad I can nourish you in 0ne way I know how You see, food is a love language (As cheesy as that sounds) Chop everything up and throw it into a pan This pan contains nutrients for people who are close to me you are gentle, radiating peace Put knife to fork to plate to mug of peppermint tea (It’s always peppermint tea)
Empty space Down and out I listen to the Thames as if it were clean. Choosing it as the place my thoughts travel upstream with the rats and the dirt whilst I sit on the bank. I need blank spaces in between pages to let my thoughts dissipate constant clatter. Blank spaces should not be mistaken for lack of care. He told me not to worry about conversation at the dinner table. I unclenched my jaw, shoulders dropped, and I can taste food better now. The blank space fills me up with gratitude, not pestilence. Let the stigma of negative space alleviate She’s getting fed up of the blanks I leave in conversations But she doesn’t know I show love in other ways.
Two Poems Becky Watts at home my window faces north plants uprooted from one windowsill to another, it feels like summer without the warmth and plans to eat out on the grass. the sun sets in the west and I try my best to see the beauty in the way the pine needles are set in amber, but at home my window faces north. the leaves can smell the sun but not quite touch.
at university my window faces north east supposedly, trees share a network of roots stretched across miles of land. perhaps houseplants send perfumed messages from one windowsill to another, speak of how the sun feels in the mornings here, or how it sets in opals. for at university my window faces north east, and there’s a view across rooftops, but I can’t quite place where home is meant to be.
Three Poems Felix Chadwick-Histed
The 18:07 Rush on either side Ambushed by the tunnel Gobbles up the 18:07 in one Race out the other side Mud below us flowing past Endless troops and parades Spread into the fog All drear and dark A sight filled with gloam Blue hour is upon us, red flash As cars stampede past A herd of bison on the move. The corner of room fourteen by the guard’s chair A smog cast of twitches Festers in the oil, A half remembered evening Draping itself over a gloaming Drenched canvas as the mountains Sewn from the offcuts of the sky Fade away into final coughs of sunlight, As I drip down the back of my chair An obituary in ochre ringing through my eardrums.
City of Departures Pillars of pinstriped wool stand resolute in the 5am fog, Monoliths of the briefcase city sibilance, The dry rattle of keyboards punctuating The scalpel sharp tones of time, place and destination And the rhythm of the head down shuffle Thunders through the tunnels and halls That line the edges of my vision, Swirling down to the smog drenched depths Filled with rattle and rumble And the pacing of metal hulks in the dark.
Midnight Summer Dream Clara Morate The balcony is carved from white marble in an elegant rectangular shape. The walls of the balcony follow that of the building’s exterior, stony white gravel. Like many of the buildings in Palma, these rougher walls contrast with the smooth sea breeze that constantly flows over and around the island. Separating the balcony from the apartment is a glass sliding door, permanently featuring grubby children’s handprints. From the balcony much of the city of Palma and the port can be seen. The balcony sits tucked up in front of the Paseo Maritimo, the most beautiful coastal pedestrian route. Beneath the balcony lies a protected cove and harbour for small boats, the kind to hold a few passengers at most. The cathedral, the castle, the beach, it can all be gazed at adoringly from that balcony. But most beautiful of all, an image that transcends all, is the view of the horizon and sea meeting together to form a work of great splendour. The warmth and peace that radiates from this meeting between the heavens and the great blue deep reaches anyone who is able to gaze upon it and it is immeasurable. Although the city is busy and produces its own music, looking to the marriage of the sea and sky, particularly in the summer, all the noise and calamity fades to a soothing hum. It is this hum, feeling much like a warm embrace, that so often has led me to this space in my heart.
Safe
Riley Wells
Now that I am older, I understand. I understand the old money tree and the incense in your room The burnt iron stain in the carpet That my brother left And why you could never replace it I didn’t think it mattered When I was ten and didn't know myself But I’ve been choosing my future And reliving yours As I recreate your favourite home. When I was thirteen and wanted to be someone else I sat in her classroom With the smell of old books and chewing gum The echo of laughter From another time Until the door opened, and then I was the favourite I was seen And it didn’t matter anymore That I couldn’t go home. When I was eighteen and wanted to be myself I went to look to your yellow dining room With its cacti and cockatiels You made me dinner And I decided I was in love With you, or maybe your life I got to stop being her just for a day I have since come ‘home’ But I am safe at number 97 In your yellow dining room.
Three Poems Laurie Spafford Poem for Dressing I dress with the day daying unfolding, and shining, slowly after halloween night, on zoom with you, where the threshold between two worlds was thin and here I dress after showering with the window open and light addressing life... [....] ...and doing what it must do always, for light is curiosity itself, and its eyes see to know the every curve and corner, embracing all that is, with no illusion And There Is So Much to know under the sun, so sky we share each day, so window open, so threshold breeze, the sun's address, its listening ear
(the ecology of us and the machine) say thank you to the trees as they shelter you say thank you to the machines as they support you To the generous tap and hand dryer system that snakes its pipe around the tiles, offering itself up to you, and to the work of the tireless washing machine, say Thank You, as you gather its harvest and reach your mind through the tangled roots and histories to encompass the legs, trunks, and motors the hidden world that does the work that you rely on, blood, sweat, tears, and rust (world again collapses out colours spring independence fades and I am always carried by waves of overworked invisible and sometimes cruel dependence) start thanking small and never end
Poem for the Stretch of Canal between Selly Oak and University Stations, October 2020 Do we not live in a sky kingdom That heaves its wilderness through us And blows the seeds And grows them up How big it is Compared to Earth, The land we think we're from. (a train's roar fills air above and trees and herons cry) I wish not to pass under our origin, which silently fills most photos on my wall at home - the true land of our birth the space we occupy is writhing, wild and yawning Sky.
[Untitled] Charley Davies I open my tale at its close, which can be marked by the closure of tube station doors, ready to descend from Parsons Green station. It is 5am, and apart from a lady who is leaning against a navy pole at the centre of the carriage, and a couple of other commuters, I am very much alone. I am incongruous, even amongst the small flurry of commuters, all busy for business like bees in their hive. There certainly is no nectar here, for Parsons Green tube station is cold, concrete and caging, a conflation of monochromatic hues, yet which encapsulate spirits of active potential. Drifting away from the platform like an abrupt exhalation, we sit like organs in a centipede, its lower spine peeling around the bends of this artificial earth in assertive, curving motions. The other commuters, dressed in their uniform of camel and beige trenchcoats, are the insect’s brain, while I am the lungs: an uneasy ebb and flow of breath, stilted by my own fall from grace. Eve and I both had choices, and we capitulated, to temptation. But redeemed by the layers of tinny screeching gasping at and clasping my cocoon, I wandered through the vines of the District Line. Each interchange circle hung like an apple, and hanging off were two, rectangular strips which closed to a point, opposite each other. Like the leaves of an apple, I thought. Parsons Green, a station which I now watch disappear into the black hole of tunnels, was not decorated with such, much like Fulham Broadway and West Brompton. The names of these places did not amuse me beyond the trivialities of the football club and bicycle brand with similar names. Parsons Green, however, cast me back to a nursery rhyme which I would finger with my hands as a child: Here's the church and there's the steeple. Open the door and see all the people. Here's the parson going upstairs. And here he is now he's saying his prayers.
Although, now it is me who should be praying, to surpass this ungodly hour. That Parson-person is pas garçon, though I am a girl. Was. I had been eighteen for over five months, but it had only been the previous night when I, you might say, womaned. Though if Shakespearian was our language, we would argue that he was the one who womaned‌
Blurb Zarah Alam
Three Poems Hannah Burrows
Where The Lost Things Go green sea-bodied sirens sing of where the lost and broken hearts go: each wave hides what you swore you would not forget, but then again your hands don’t touch the air that is not air, nor see the portal from beneath your bed that swallows up old pill packets, your spare glasses, your mother’s gold necklace or dust bodies, half formed in the dim light from small clumps of hair no, only I know where the lost things go and still they dart out of reach kiss my fingers, then disappear. I hope they are good company, because the next glimmer I catch in the airflow is my ticket back to this myth; my intended home, where darkness burns on candle wicks and the part of me you stole is quietly waiting to rejoin this body.
After Eden the wind blows heavy with arms full of whispers catching syllables like butterflies in amber a comma, a breath there is so much space here. the sky is wide enough to hold our voices and twine their individual threads, conjoined bodies wide enough to fuck away the scent of spent clay, and roll in dust, and speak in symbols like some undiscovered kind of honesty. apple-bitten, apoplectic truth, apocalyptic knowledge lingering like acid on the tooth: there is so much space here. how nice it is, how nice, to lie in the gaping quiet and become anyone but ourselves.
Borderline I exist in the lines you do not push: my body turned borderlands, turned no man’s land with no clear distinction of what is yours and mine anymore. there is just this cartography of dotted lines, a chasm full of things unsaid doing the job (most days) of setting a notional boundary. in the day and night I am the dusk to your bright sun; not yet dying but held in life like a question. you leave me unanswered. there are moments when i want to make the idea of you press flush against me in a way your body never would- but you are stuck in starkness, don’t get close to that verdant little garden of dead things you exhume and rebury under the few stars still visible in the city sky. so I exist to be the line you do not push. I am a functional thing; a borderlands you choose to circumnavigate while you forget the way to your childhood house. and nowadays I can’t make distinctions between the parts of me you touched before I had a chance to name them.
 Six to Eight Word Stories Laurie Spafford "Empty space" - Nothing lost if we build here. The space between the space between. The bats sing: buildings are but stacked caves. Locked down yet, my bedroom will hold us. Standing, eerie, between two worlds, - yours and mine And with a face, a responsibility A secret room - memory left to decompose. Sudden flight - your bedroom left is beheaded roots. The room where you evaporated - fragrant steam now. They say we create space, why not otherwise? My world is what it hides. Your fragile touch builds new, in my body house. One world: us. Split - now yours and mine. What was hidden is what will show. Ancient ritual, a face in globs of dye. What if the only way through, isn't together? Impatient stories hidden beneath; crabs under a rock.
Haiku Hamish Malcolm
I didn't expect to end up here in space: I didn't planet.
Space thermometers: Known for putting Mercury into Uranus.
Somebodypleasehelp Ithinkthere'saproblemwith Mylaptop'sspacebar
I won the space race, But got disqualified for Using a-steroid.
FROM OUR SUMMER TERM: ON ENTERTAINMENT
For Your Entertainment Amy Larsen Did it make you laugh? When I fell, Heart first, From the 50th floor, Wings forged from, How much you adored me, Meaning I failed to fly. From behind cold glass, You watched me. Breaking. Bones, Shattering, Against jagged stones, Merciless, Your zombie eyes, Settled on my body, As I, bled out every letter of your name. Did it make you smile? When you realised, What a mess of me you had made.
Some Words from the Start of a Novel Luiz Felipe De Souza Focused, one, two, three. He breathed in just like father taught him. He saw the muscles in her left arm twitch, her upper body shudder in preparation. Ready to lean into the jab aimed at his chin. But her eyebrows had furrowed in her effort. It was a feint. He knew better than to defend. Threw his own fist. A right hook aimed at her temple. When it landed, her right hand was already swinging up for her true blow. The skin of her face rippled from the impact. Her eyes shut tight. But her uppercut was still shooting towards him. Too low to block with his free hand. He was still caught in the arc of his own swing anyway. Only one option. He lifted his knee to meet her knuckles. Her eyes opened wide in surprise. She had expected to meet the soft flesh of his stomach. Instead she was served the resounding crack of a broken knuckle. She winced at the pain but that was it, her left fist was sent hooking towards him. He’d just set his leg down and could nothing but raise his hands in defence. But through the gaps in his forearms he saw her hand open. She was meaning to grab him. He breathed out. She caught him by the hair— too long. Pulled his head down and lunged her knee. His arms shielded the blow, but the pain ran a mile through his bones. There was no way to escape without tearing out hair. The knee shot up again and the pain did the same. He breathed in and, having counted the seconds, knew he’d have time. Pulling forward and abandoning his block, he grabbed her around the waist. In a scramble to push him off, she forgot about the kneeing. He lifted, using all his strength and forward momentum. For a second he had her over his shoulder. In a savage arc he brought her down. Breathed out. Her back and skull crashed against the floor. The impact sent shivers up his own spine.
Her eyes swayed in a daze, but sheer will was driving her up again. The ground of the ring was padded. He kicked her in the face— a Bastard brawl had no rules. With her nose now a shower of blood, she double tapped the ground. Surrender. He’d won. The crowd erupted. He could hear them now, their cheers rising high and low but with boos thrown in too. ‘Aaaaaand there we have it, you filthy animals! Lightning Hands Litch goes forward to the next round. Jugular Janet is out of the race, but hey, there’s always next year. Stay tuned for the next fight in this year’s prospect Bastard Brawl, and please, bet your life away.’ The announcer was a proper Bastard. His leather cut was a lustrous black, with the insignia of the Bastard stallion on its back. A white steed with light blue hair and the Northwind roaring down from its nostrils. The Northwind was propelling a spinning bike wheel and ‘Bastards of Boreas’ was patched in an arc above it. Below was a second rocker, which said only ‘Windbreak’. His back faced them as he spoke to the crowd but Litch didn’t need to see his front patch to know his role. This man was the club’s serjeant at arms and could wield heavy weaponry with his eyes closed. He offered a hand to Janet. They had been prospects together for six weeks so there really weren’t any hard feelings between them. At least he hoped not. She took his hand, which was a good sign. He lifted her up and then jumped over the ropes to join the crowd. Many were patting him on the back, saying ‘you won me a hell a lot of pearls kid’ or ‘ooo that was a mighty throw back there— you’re stronger than you look’. He got the side-eye from people who must have bet against him but that was to be expected. Working through the fervour of Windbreak residents who came to watch every year, he found the prospect table. It had been stashed towards the back of the warehouse to make space for the event, along with everything else. Bikes, chairs, sofas, toolboxes and even the target-practice mannequins formed large piles against the walls.
Time
Ellie de Satge
I wish my life wasn’t a sitcom series anymore. I always tell myself: this time will be different And hope that time can heal all wounds such as this. I would have followed her to the ends of the Earth but I let the truth become skewered. We spent that one night together at Darty and I couldn’t tell you that the timing - Now, here I am, at your book signing. But you co-exist with your co-writer co-exists And I’m not sick but I’m not well so I’ll still try to be your guy and I’d Throw anything out the window for you. Let’s ignore the time that has passed us by And put on a show as if I never left you after I promised I’d see you at the lecture. The truth is, I couldn’t have attended if I tried. Education is not free and I am still paying the price of studying Business Studies instead of Ancient History – But that’s all Ancient History now. He says I’m in love with the past-os, but really – I’m still in love with you.
I Remember Her Georgia I have an old friend lying in the corner of my bedroom. She has perfectly soft curves, and a slender neck. She has long, pin straight hair, longer than I had ever been able to grow mine. There are marks of use across her surface, but they show how she was loved and well-travelled. But despite her beauty, over the years I have neglected our friendship, and so we are barely even acquaintances. But now, with so little left to do, I decided to reintroduce myself. I pulled her out of the wooden case and her strings rang out in a painful discordance. Old powder sat on her neck, reminding me of times we had spent together years ago. I gently turned the pegs, but they would jump back in fear, or in a stubborn desire to be off key. After some time, I managed to convince the strings into place. I had gotten into habit of loosening the hair of the bow, having learnt the hard way the damage of twisted wood from unslacken hair. I turned the end of the bow between my fingers, checking the pressure every few turns until I was satisfied. I opened the tin to find the remains of rosin. It sat like shattered amber, but there was still a salvageable amount left. I ran the rosin between the point and heel, a familiar click with each round of the rosin meeting the metal. I tested the balance with a light grip. Despite all the years of practise, I still hadn’t learnt to curve my little finger at the end. With the shoulder rest fastened around the bottom of the body, I placed her into the curve of my shoulder. My wrist naturally pulled away from her neck as I placed my fingers across the strings. It felt familiar in a way that I shouldn’t have been allowed to feel. I could feel her distance. Old annotations covered my music, reminding me of when to retake, markings for half position or third, decisions of where to best place a diminuendo. I chose a piece that I found the most enjoyable to play, placing a mute across the bridge first to shield me from the dissonance of caught strings. My fingers worked almost without me telling them too, as if the rhythm of the piece had been held there, waiting in them for all these years. It really
was far from perfect, but I was surprised I was even able to play at all. Practising always used to frustrate us. Move my finger forward and it was too sharp, move it slightly back and it was flat. She seemed uncomfortable, trying to find a note that seemingly was not there. I tried to soothe her, patiently allowing us time to find the right sound, but she was stubborn from the neglect. We would argue, me pushing her to make monstrous, wailing sounds as I would let out cries of frustration. This would shortly be followed by the sound of the case lid slamming, so that she couldn’t make another sound. Not until I allowed her. We had many fights like these. These fights were always rooted in my own frustrations. She had the ability to sing more beautifully than I could let her. I know because I had let others try. Over the years I had bought the best strings, invested in a gorgeous bow, and tried countless different kinds of rosin. But she could not be persuaded with money. I neglected spending time with her, and so she would refuse to sing for me in the ways I wanted to hear her. It was a relationship I never put the work into the way I should have and so I never received the results that I desired. I became embarrassed, ashamed of the sound. I created more and more distance until there was hardly any relationship left. She has remained trapped in the wooden case for nearly 2 years. We used to go so many places together. We would go to orchestras together twice a week. She would be with me on the stage of every concert, and in the room for my yearly exams. We had once even travelled to London together to perform. But despite all of this I was never as good as I could have been. I left her behind when I came to uni. With not much else to do, there was little excuse left to not at least say hello. It was only brief. I quickly placed her back amongst the velvet, put down the lid, pulled the zip around and pushed in the buttons. I wasn’t ready to be reminded why I had given her up. It had been a decade’s worth of an up and down relationship together, but regardless I would never want to say goodbye forever.
That’s Entertainment, inspired by the lyrics of Paul Weller Frankie Rhodes These days are a wasteland A police car and a screaming siren I try to count the moments, not the hours A baby wailing and a stray dog howling But I can't get past 3 fingers before I'm hit with nothingness A freezing cold flat and damp on the walls The dull ache of being alive Pissing down with rain on a boring Wednesday In this age of empty, this epoch of nought Watching the news and not eating your tea How many times can I dance on the kitchen tiles Waking up from bad dreams and smoking cigarettes How long before the kitchen tiles, begin to dance on me Two lovers kissing amongst the scream of midnight I miss the enduring frustration of other people Cuddling a warm girl and smelling stale perfume I want to be hurt by stares and drenched in judgement A hot summer's day and sticky black tarmac Give me something I can hold on to Feeding ducks and wishing you were far away Give me a moment that will last Watching the tele and thinking about your holidays Give me something more than the endless cry of That's entertainment.