yellerzine
spring 2013/FREE
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In Bloom: Rachel Lamb rachel-lamb.com
Flowers, Flowers, Ephemeral rows of the things; rasp gutturally.
Creatures from the gutter they are. Hauntings of publicans they are flowers fiscal, flowers drunk, drooping heads; they are the dilapidated, post mortem, tenants of the bar. Breathless things they are chased by honey hunting bees, by magical clause hungry escape artists, on paper trapeze, wove from sugar beet. Dead things they are stitched together with glue. Its a wasted world for them. The air is clouded. We have sold out, run out; of Chinese paper cups, and of everything.
Once I held a flower. It was dried, and pressed, and kept secret. It was hidden in a book of poems.
Flowers: Oisin Breen Illustrations: Yasmin Alquaddoomi
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James Clerk Maxwell: Julie Ritchie julieritchie.tumblr.com
Glass Case: Julie Ritchie julieritchie.tumblr.com
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Horse with an Attitude, sculpture: Dennis J. Reinmueller dennisjreinmueller.com
Forest Ceiling: Natasha Russell natasharussell.tumblr.com
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So ahm in the street, right? It’s a miserable day oot, grey clouds wi that rain thet sticks tae yer skin. Pure Edinburgh mah friend. Mist drippin ower the side eh North Bridge, the castle lit up like some kind o haunted hoose, taxis sloshin through puddles soakin everyone oan the pavement, and me withoot mah coat again. In mah holey auld jumper, ah’m stinkin like a man that hasnae washed in days. Mabee cos ah havnae. Aw the punters in the street walkin aboot, dour-faced, mooths like arseholes the lot of um, and ah’m jest needin another go. So ah’m there wi mah ‘ah’m so sorry pal, ah dinnae usually do this but’ patter, tryin tae get some pennies thegether. Jest fer another ride, ken? But on a day like this, there’s hardly any point. Mah trainers are soaked through, tootsies chilled tae the bone and ah’ve goat this cough that rattles through mah ribcage like ah’m dyin. Naebody wants tae touch us. Like ah’ve goat the fuckin plague. But ah havnae goat a choice in the matter, ah cannae give up. Ah want to be movin man, ken whit ah mean? A guy in a suit, lookin like a mentalist, talkin to himsel oan one o them spaceage headsets. ‘Beam me up Scotty!’ ah thinks, huvin a wee chuckle to masel. Must look like a proper radge though cos the guy sees me a mile off and jest shakes his heid before ah can open mah mooth. Fuckin dick Ah havnae eaten in hours, but that’s somethin that has tae wait. Mah hands are achin wi the cauld, red and raw. It’s like fuckin insects buzzin all ower mah skin. Ah cannae stand bein stuck here, in this bit o town. Ah need tae move. “Scuse me pal, ah dinnae usually dae this but,” ah starts oan this guy walkin past. “What is it pal? Money fer the bus? Lost yer wallet?” he starts, dead sarcastic. “Ah’ve heard it before pal. Yeh’ve asked us every day fer the past six fuckin months.” A wee glob o his spittal is stickin tae mah stubble. People are starin oot frae under umbrellas like that man’s a hero, makin me feel like a fuckin bawbag. Mah mind’s buzzin hot. He doesnae ken whit it’s like. Naen e them do. But ah’ve goat tae get oan it again or ah’ll end up doin somethin stupit, like the last time. Ah feel pretty guilty aboot it n aw. That poor bus driver man, it wasnae his fault, he wis jest doin his job. But it’d been so long since ah’d had a ride, yeh ken? Ah didnae mean tae hurt him, but he plain kicked us off the bus. So ah cracked him one, didn’t ah? Wasnae really mah
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The Ride: Suzy Pope
fault, ah just got the blackoot, yeh ken? The polis, man. They didnae understand either, thought ah wis a proper bampot. Mabee ah am. Aw these people, like, they’ve aw got pennies on thum. An dae they need thum? Nah. Not a chance. Ah could jest take it from this wimpy guy walkin past. Arms scrawny as coat hangers, paokits full o smash. Jingle jangle along the street. “Alright pal? Sorry tae bother yeh, it’s jest ah need some change fer the bus, ken?” ah try. “Sorry mate. I’m skint,” the bastard shrugs. Ah have tae breathe deep. See ah’m needin tae get oan it, and this cunt is the only thing in mah way. Then it winks up at me; a fuckin gold dubloon in this shite situation. A fat wee pound coin oan the street. Naeone else has spoatted it, except, haud oan. That homeless radge, under his mouldy blanket. Not a chance mate, not a fuckin chance. Ah swoop doon like a hawk, it’s mine. “Aw, come oan pal, ah saw it first,” sais the homeless gadge, lookin up at me wi his glaikit, sunken eyes. “Fuck yeh. Mah need is greater. Yeh dinnae understand,” ah sais. He starts gettin up, slowly likes, makin a proper show o it fer the punters. Yeh’d think he wis a hunnerd years auld the way his legs creak an moan as he stumbles tae his feet. Ah’ve seen him in the shelter, Auld Cammy they call him. Meth man Cammy. Mah need is greater. Before ah get a chance tae leg it wi the money he’s oan me, jest thrown himself oan mah back like a fuckin mentalist. Even though he’s a scrawny wee bag o bones mah weak knees struggle wi his weight. Folk make room fer us, keepin as far away as they can withoot gettin hit by a bus, cos we’re strugglin all ower North Bridge. Auld Cammy’s boney wee fingers diggin intae mah tight fist, desperate fer the pound. We must look a proper sight, him wi his mouldy blanket still roond his shoulders like a foosty, tartan Batman. Auld Cammy falls tae the groond wi a thud and he’s aboot tae get up fer another go when some auld wifey, perm as tight as her cat’s arse lips, shuffles oot. “Whit is it yer wantin, eh?” she screeches. “Money is it? Aw this fer a pound?” Auld wifeys, man, auld wifeys and wee children; feared o nothing. Ah look at mah feet, cos there’s somethin aboot auld wifey’s screechin at yeh, turns any man intae a wee bairn again. “Here. Take it if it means that much tae yeh,” she sais, offering auld Cammy some pennies. Looks like more than a pound tae me. There’s probably some fuckin lesson there, some aw-mighty Philosophy. But ah’ve goat whit a need so ah dinnae give a shite now. “This used tae be a decent city,” auld wifey sniffs, turns and hobbles away, probably tae Jenners tae get her perm tightened. Auld Cammy flings me a wink. Smug bastard. See, hing is. Ah ken I should save up fer a monthly pass. But ah jest need it now. The next bus is tae Musselburgh. It stoaps and lets oot a sigh, droopin tae let us oan. Clatter clatter go the pennies intae the driver’s box, a fat jolly santa-man in his see-through cage. Ah give him a wink; brothers in arms oan the same journey tae Musselburgh. Windaes huv steamed up inside, a stew of people’s damp coats in the air. Beamin away at mah fellow nomads, ah stroll up the aisle. Ah can finally relax wi mah day ticket in mah poakit, sittin at the back like the king o the bus. A bald gadge in front o us, light boucin off his heid like a beacon o hope. It’s a juddery start, but soon we’re oan oor way. Colours melt thegether oot the windae, shoaps and hooses are lost. We’re movin, fast. This is it mah friend. Sittin at the back, bein taken away, it’s aw ah want. They cannae touch us now, no now thet ah’m in the system. Just the inbetween. Aw thet matter is the ride.
Illustrations: Vera Babida cargocollective.com/verababida
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A Brief Story of: Susana Delgado susanadelgado.com
Dusk in the Lilac Parlour: Oisin Breen Illustrations: Maisie Shearring; maisieparadise.tumblr.com
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List of Contributors: Yasmin Alquaddoomi, Vera Babida, Oisin Breen, Susana Delgado, Rachel Lamb, Joanna Lisowiec, Suzy Pope, Dennis J Reinmueller, Julie Ritchie, Natasha Russell, Maisie Shearring. Cover Image by Laura Griffin lauragriffinillustration.co.uk Editors: Nicola Herd and Lucy Wai yellerzine.wordpress.com Submissions welcome: yellerzine@gmail.com
Illustration: Joanna Lisowiec cargocollective.com/illustrography
Produced by: Edinburgh University Art Society