Falstaff Creative Writing Journal 2022-23

Falstaff Creative Writing

Journal 2022-23

Edited

by Sophia Di Maida

Frontispiece by Katie Evans

Illustrations by Matthew Jackson, Niamh Daly, and Katie Evans

Copyright © 2023 by the University of Bristol Falstaff Society.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Firstly, I wanted to start off by saying thank you to everyone who sent in a submission for our 2022-23 journal. I had the greatest pleasure reading every single one – you all make such admirable writers. For the sake of the journal itself, we had to choose a smaller selection out of a much wider pool of talent. This body of work is, what we believe to be, an offering: an excerpt of the wonderfully talented, diverse range of writers that the University of Bristol has to offer.

I wholly believe that without the craft that is writing, the world would be such a frightfully dreadful place. I feel blessed to be surrounded by fellow creatives who value the intimacy involved in creating a piece of poetry, prose, and all other forms of art. It doesn’t matter if you’re a Humanities or a STEM student: it will always be literature that holds our imaginations together. Art keeps us going, and it is everywhere, even if you don’t see it as such – in the movies, the theatre, in your favourite songs, your professor’s speech written for their lecture. To create a piece of literature is to inspire and be inspired by others. So, thank you to our writers, for inspiring us: keep putting your pens to paper, for the sake of keeping our imaginations alive.

Sophia Di Maida Falstaff Journal Editor, 2022-23

Poetry

my ghost and me

Caitlin Atkins

Space twinkles with fairy lights, candles dripping jasmine wax, I look at my sultry velvet sheath and pry apart scarlet lips, searching for pointed teeth. My bones stick out, hollow, ready to take flight, elegant and emaciated. An artisté.

My hair falls to my hips, drowning in perfume, “I am alluring. I am special.” I whisper to an empty room.

My eyes flicker open, ocean grey not emerald green. The girl in the glass is short, with full cheeks, strong arms poking out from her ragged white sheet. I think her eyes are grey, lost in those little black holes, swimming with hope and drowning in dreams. She wants to be me, or so I’m told. She wants to be sophisticated, and… cultured, when she’s old. My heel catches on nothing, velvet too fine to be anything I crumple tumble - undone. My ragged white sheet is torn on the floor, my lips are dry and chapped, my old lines scatter the carpet, The woman in the glass tips her head back and laughs.

Warm in mouths staining chapped lips

Rosy tongues to match those windswept cheeks.

Red Wine Zara Connoley

Mismatched vessel

To clink in sophisticated manner, Though it is still trickling down the throat.

Is this maturity?

Forming in a seductive pour

Top me up, And make me coffee in the morning.

The Garden

Alexis Eaton

My head is like a garden, full of flowers of thought

Although sometimes what I think, doesn’t follow what I’ve been taught. There’s a heavy door to this garden, one which requires a key; I rarely give it out, because that’s how it has to be As sometimes it’s been trampled on, and certain flowers ceased to grow. But this has only taught me that not everyone is meant to know Your wildest aspirations and seemingly far-fetched imagination, as your flowers of thoughts are like the people of a nation. It’s not always going to be sunny; it’s not always going to be spring, But sometimes you take a risk, and see what someone will bring, If all you receive is snow and the constant hurricanes of rain, Know that your garden is not a place for others to plant their pain. This garden should be cherished, and looked after with care, Even though sometimes you might be the only gardener there. But you need to have rain to appreciate the sun, for how could you know boring if there was no fun?

Most people forget the responsibility of doing these deeds, But they should never cut or plant other flowers for someone else’s needs. Don’t forget to water your garden, and shine plenty of sun on it too Otherwise you’ll destroy your garden, which will eventually destroy you.

sometimes i swear i see dancing everywhere

Saskia Kirkegaard

the flicks of the choir conductor the steps of the barbers in their shop window the swirl of the hawthorns as they drop the screech of the steamer in the coffee shop i unwrap garlic like it’s a birthday present i read initials carved into benches, messages sent.

the world is a poem if you read it, the everyday is common prayer, a masterpiece, a waltz, an edit. a final form, a long hard stare.

Glossolalia

Edie Lyons

Loving you comes with the stares of strangers, glancing in the street for they want a peak. It comes with a strange sensation of being followed, but I now know that’s just the little pieces of yourself you leave behind.

I do not love you for the carnations that grow from your rosy cheeks. Nor the radiance emitted from your skin, carrying you in this life and the last. But I know that’s why the world loves you, they love you for all the things they can see –the flowery essence that scatters the path you walked.

I love you for the way your eyes catch mine as soon as they begin to glaze over, For the way your laugh harmonises with my own as though we’re speaking in tongues, For the way your hands guide me just where I planned to go as our hearts dance across the room, For the way the world dissolves away as soon as our souls hide in the shadows.

My love for you is all I know and all I’ll ever know, (For I was born the minute I walked through that door), My love for you is shrouded in a mystery even I cannot solve, (It seems I do not understand my own heart).

So close your eyes, my love

Lay your head on mine, my dearest

For I am nothing without that soft whisper from your heart to mine.

Nephrops Norvegicus Velvet Morgan

We’ve met before, still Langoustine, With senses, we have touched. By hands, I’ve held your carapace, And lifted up your hand, to know a thing of loss. But why instil yourself again, Must I always fear to forget? Your tawny bridge, clenched inwards now, Closing upon what life you had, That shelters silhouette.

Whiskered white, your sceptres float, Your moon-jet eyes washed by saffron sea. Yet, still you are, ice-stoned, in furnace heat: Time gifted you, so that I may eat.

My Father of the Sea, my fine-flamed Emperor, I want to know what moved you then. How did those daggered aquilines defend? And chase the living waters, unheld and free?

I draw you out, to know what moved you then. A bridge unfurling, A path to me, you send, With crusted, shellac bones, you move alive, How easy it is, in a moment’s breath, to fool the infested mind.

But why, the more I move you, does your stiffness fight, When I am gifting you a moment’s life? Must you survive this state, That stole you from the other? How quick you moved, and then to sudden, unstirring shudders.

I know I cannot rouse you, still Langoustine, Your silence is a rattle, The rattling of silence I’ve heard before, Of what I hear everyday: Unchanged, unremitting.

And now, I mutilate your body, as I mutilate my mind, Crackled shell, and extremities pulled To the flesh-filled meat, that guarded your heart, And I consume all that is left of you.

Do I keep your life inside of me? In the heightened slits of memories, Still gone, still there? With parts of your expiry slit, and sewn together: Over, and over again.

Still gone. Still there.

Time can never devour you, still Langoustine, No less me.

The Air’s Conditions

Yazmin Sadik

Here I fill more space,

feeling grander than these houses I know no attachments too.

Attacking, sofa leather cracking the peaceful air’s conditions. These temporary migrants are wearing pictures of me in their pockets; I don’t ask from which room they’re taken from. The bookshelf’s rock-face kiss the only comfort in them now. Even my mother, having to pull herself away from the clock to greet me, only dances with wall-attached-hands as a goodbye finale. Can’t help but perform a last hissing fit - A climax for the stages conflict

This flight will crash, ripped apart by thunder & the corners of dark rattling the glass bottles

on the attendant’s drink trolley, it’s sounding like little dry bones. That rattle, like death, a calling

Turbulence Rohan Sangha

to read the emergency instructions again for me & for him.

I don’t want us to die somewhere in an endless black sea, our bodies burnt into air like firewoodI’m telling

him all this. That I’ve analysed the flight path, memorised the nearest exit.

every screech of the metal wings calls for a fresh check that we both have our canary lifejackets.

& the rain is punching harder now so my toes are curling around the sand in my shoes the only land left to hold on to until his hand spread open on the armrest an island a lotus

I hold it every time I think I might crash

Prose

Exchange of the Solistice

Marian Hermez

The ballroom was draped with fabrics of different shades of blue: navy blue, icy blue, turquoise. Icy sculptures of couples dancing together were scattered around. Vivaldi’s Winter echoed from somewhere. Glass trays floated around, unsupported, as if being carried by phantoms. On the trays were small glasses filled with liquids of myriads of colors.

A bronze hand adorned with gold rings snatched one of the glasses and brought it up to full lips colored in light pink. Before downing the liquid, the lips drew up into a smile and the girl flicked her long brown hair from one shoulder to the other.

“A drink for confidence?” a voice whispered in her ear.

A tremor ran through her spine at the cold breath. She didn’t let that phase her. She turned around, still smiling, the glass hovering at her lips. Her dark brown eyes met icy blue ones and she slowly drank the indigo-colored liquid before letting go of the glass. It shattered at her sandaled feet, the pieces glittering on the translucent floor. Traces of blueberry and something sweet, but unidentifiable lingered on her tongue.

“A drink for peace of mind,” she replied. “You might need the confidence, however.”

The boy scoffed and ran a gloved hand through his dark hair. He was dressed in the finest fabrics, dark blue and black, bringing out his light eyes, dark hair and pale skin. Although she hated to admit it, he looked gorgeous.

“Ready to relinquish your power?” He took a step forward.

She didn’t move backwards. They were now so close, she could see the ice clinging to his eyelashes and the flurries of snow on the shoulders of his jacket. She could smell the fresh cold breeze and the petrichor on him, just like she knew he could smell the fresh fruit and the sea salt on her.

“We do this every year,” she murmured. “You ask the same question, and my answer remains the same.”

He stepped even closer this time, but they weren’t touching. They could never touch.

“Humor me,” he said so softly she wasn’t even sure if she heard him or read his lips.

“I don’t relinquish my power.” She let out a low chuckle, enjoying her role. “I just take a well-deserved break and let you take control of the reins.” She looked up at him. “But I know people are waiting eagerly for me.”

“Oh, how wrong you are, Summer. They’re not waiting for you. They’re waiting for the holidays.”

“The only beacon of light in this dark and dreary season,” she retorted. “But me? They love me from start to finish. In a couple of days, they will eagerly be awaiting my return.” She took a step back, feeling the smooth fabric of her gold dress swish around her bare legs. “And so will you, Winter.”

Winter laughed. The sound burned warm somewhere in her chest. “You’ve caught me. You know how much I look forward to this.” He raised his arm and gestured to the empty ballroom. “I do this just for you every year.”

Summer’s competitive nature ignited. “Well, I could arrange a lovely ball such as this one, but I prefer meeting in nature, where everything is as it should be.”

Her mind flashed back to their previous meeting in June. She could still feel the sand between her toes and hear the repetitive sound of the waves crashing. He had walked over to her, looking worse for wear. His boots were dusted with sand and his hair was soaked in sweat.

She had laughed, doing nothing to help him. “I bet you’re glad it's my turn now.”

His reply was merely a grumble. Impatiently, he had reached into his pocket and pulled out a rusted pocket watch, except instead of numbers on the face of the watch, there were the twelve months.

A cold breeze pulled her back to the present. She was met with Winter’s disgruntled expression, similar to last June.

rested.”

“You’re remembering the last time we met, aren’t you?” he accused. “You

look more put together now,” she said simply. “You look well-

“And you look wonderful,” he replied without missing a beat.

“Flattery doesn’t work on me, Winter. You know that.”

“And you know I don’t care for flattery. I’m cold and straight to the point.” He dug his gloved hand into his pocket and pulled out a pair of lace white gloves, the wrists lined with pearls.

Without a word, Summer extended her hand and he dropped the gloves in her palm. He watched quietly, almost curiously as she slipped them on. Then, carefully, she placed a hand on his shoulder. The velvet material felt smooth and warm beneath her gloved hand. His shoulder dropped incrementally.

This time when she looked at him, there was no trace of mirth or challenge in his expression. His eyes were filled with a tenderness that was only reserved for her.

“I believe,” his tone was just as soft as his expression, “I owe you a dance.”

She didn’t want to reply and break the spell of this moment. She wanted the peace that unfurled within her – cooling the heat that her body continuously burned with– to last forever, but she knew she could never get that. The only thing she could get were these fragments of time with him.

That would have to be enough.

She placed her left hand on his shoulder and her right reached for his hand. He wrapped an arm around her waist, careful not to actually let his arm touch her, and interlocked their fingers. The music rose to a crescendo.

It finally felt right.

No matter how repetitive these meetings got, Summer knew she was meant to meet Winter twice a year until the end of age. She knew she was meant to make these jokes with him, dance with him and dread the ending even though she knew it was coming. No matter how lonely the following months would be,

she knew she wouldn’t trade it for anything if it meant not having her meetings with Winter.

They danced among the ice sculptures, balancing precariously on a fine line between a sad parody of a party and a romantic private dance between a couple. Not a word was spoken between them. This time was sacred because the end was near.

Or at least, Summer thought it was. Because after they finished dancing, they would step apart and Summer would hand Winter the pocket watch and leave without saying a word. Trying to prolong her stay or looking back would be too painful.

This time, however, when the music came to an end, Winter tapped her palm gently.

“I want to show you something,” he said. Then he cleared his throat, “before you leave.”

He held on to her hand and the room simply dissolved around them. Summer’s breath caught in her throat. Winter had never taken her away from the scenarios he’d created for them. She always met him in the ballroom, and he always met her on the beach.

They were now standing on a high street of a quiet village covered with snow. The warm Christmas lights that hung around the windows and the doors winked at them as they made their way down the street. Silhouettes of Christmas trees and warm fires burning in hearths beckoned them into the warmth.

Of course, Summer never felt cold. She radiated warmth, so she never felt the need to wrap herself in scarves and coats like Winter did, but she appreciated the beauty of the cold all the same.

Further down the street, in a small cabin-turned-tavern, the sound of Christmas carols and laughter filtered through a crack in a fogged over window. Summer and Winter exchanged a look before walking over to the tavern. Summer was about to pull the door open when Winter stopped her with a hand on the door.

“You can’t go in there like that,” he said with a laugh. “You need to be dressed for the weather.”

“Do I look like I have any winter clothes, Winter?” she shot back.

Winter grinned and reached for something over her shoulder. He had conjured, out of thin air, a sweater, a coat and a scarf. He handed them to her.

The sweater was red and the coat and scarf were black. The sweater felt soft against her skin. The layer of warmth that the coat and scarf were supposed to add went unnoticed by her. She met Winter’s eyes and twirled around.

“How do I look?”

Winter snorted. “Weird. I’ve never seen you dressed like that. It’ll take some getting used to.”

Summer rolled her eyes and pushed the door open. They headed inside the tavern and joined the crowd of people singing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Winter, Summer was surprised to find out, was an excellent singer. He poured his heart and soul into each carol and sang cheerily. He wrapped his arms around two drunk old men who kept offering him drinks. Summer joined in the singing and laughed giddily when a young girl in her twenties grabbed her hands and spun her around. Soon enough, Summer’s face started to ache.

She could not remember the last time she had smiled and laughed like that. The only thing she knew was that Winter had to be there. He was the one who always made her laugh.

After countless dances and a couple of eggnog shots, Summer made her back to Winter. He was sitting on a wooden table in the corner by the crackling fireplace, drinking a cup of hot chocolate. A full glass of milk, a plate of cookies and a plate of carrots sat beside him.

Summer stood at a distance, taking in his unguarded stance and expression. He seemed at ease, back resting comfortably against the chair. Then, as if feeling the weight of her stare, he raised his eyes to hers and his lips drew into a small smile.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked as she walked over and took a seat on the opposite chair.

“Very much,” she said earnestly. “I think this has been one of our best meetings yet.”

His eyes widened a little before he controlled his expression. “Really?”

She nodded, then added. “I see why people love Winter – er– you so much. You bring out the best in people.”

“You bring out the best in me, Summer. I don’t know how I could survive this without you.”

Summer cleared her throat. She pointed at the assortment of cookies and carrots. “What’s this for?”

Winter took her change of subject in stride. “Santa and his reindeer, of course. The owner’s children set it up. They live right upstairs.”

“How lovely.” Summer’s voice wobbled a little.

They both glanced at the Grandfather clock across the tavern. Their time was nearly up. The pocket watch had to exchange hands before midnight, so the Winter Solstice could be official. Summer’s heart felt tight in her chest as she reached around her neck for the clasp.

“Let me,” Winter whispered gently, almost reverently.

He walked around the table and grasped the clasp between his gloved fingers. Suddenly, the weight of the watch disappeared. This was it. Summer had no reason to stay. She blinked away her tears as she rose to her feet and briefly set her fingers on Winter’s shoulder.

Then, she was gone as if she was never there…

The ballroom was draped with fabrics of different shades of blue: navy blue, icy blue, turquoise. Icy sculptures of couples dancing together were slowly melting. Vivaldi’s Winter came to an end. Glass trays sat on the floor. On the trays were small empty glasses. Shards of glass glittered on the icy floor.

Footsteps echoed in the empty ballroom. Pale hands reached out and pulled the doors shut, plunging the ballroom into darkness.

Until next year.

I aint Cowboy Charlie Kleft

In Montana, we used to go country dancin’, all of us, at The Elks Lodge or the Round Barn, and the band’d mostly play 4-counts built for two-steppin’, but they’d always slip in a waltz and that waltz was always “Waltz Across Texas,” and nobody danced it better than my mom and Uncle Sue. While Granny was able, Papa would dance with her, but once Granny was in memory care, Papa danced with his daughters: Aunt Joe or my mom. I, being a kid, also danced with Aunt Joe or Mom. Granny had what the family called “All-Timers,” but what was in reality a test of Papa’s love. Papa visited Granny at the care home every single day for five, six, seven years.

Papa’s hair was thunder black, combed straight back a windswept Space Age cowboy and if he drank, it was always a SevenSeven. See, Papa grew up on the Crow Indian Reservation, where his mother was a missionary, but she died when Papa was fifteen and he had to take care of his two little brothers. When he was eighteen, Uncle Sam sent him off to the Philippines, where he mostly drove trucks, but also shot a Japanese soldier dead. Papa used the word Jap like he used salt at the dinner table. Papa had this little, red pickup that he called a “toy car” just because it was Japanesemade, unlike the American junkers he kept out back. Papa once pointed out (with his middle finger, like all old guys) a man in a grimy boiler suit, said, “We call that fella Tiny” and hell if I didn’t laugh because Tiny weighed about 350 pounds.

Another time, Papa came out to visit us in Colorado. He saw me doing dishes for my mother and he told me I’d make somebody a great wife someday. Later Mom said, “don’t listen to him; he’s a dinosaur.” Papa’s plan for my mother had involved housewifery to some gentleman named Cowboy Al, but Mom fled Montana pretty much as soon as she could, went to college, built a new life for herself and her unborn children.

On our annual visits to Montana, Mom and I played ambassadors of an

outlandish place where not everyone drove a pickup, listened to George Strait, and had a well-practiced Yeehaw! and Giddyup! In our rental car, we’d pull up to the Butte House, where Mom had grown up. As we walked in through the front door, the smell of piston grease, cowhide, and horse breath would slide through my blood-brain barrier, an’ impart to my Montanan genes s1omethin’ that my suburban wits couldn’t grasp. Papa’d offer me a stale donut and I’d take it gladly, but I’d refuse the coffee because I was just fifteen and hadn’t worked a day in my life.

Blue Wind

When the fox howls in the blue wind and twilight scatters stars between the branches of trees, the past washes up to me all secret and furtively. It’s presence mighty and dark and thunderous in the lids of my eyes. When everything is so the same, it can be nicer to feel the heat of danger and the spark of despair. It’s nicer to walk in the darkness that is honest in letting itself be known than to traipse, ignorant as a dog, to the empty warmth of more solid stuff. You are better to reach out blindly to the misty pall of the unknown than to hold onto the thin oars of normality. If all is to be lost to the blue wind in time, we may as well learn to love it. Let this coldness burn so that it may become heat. Let this sorrow find a more permanent place amongst the treasured stars. Let this constellation of bewildering phantasmagoria embrace you. Become familiar with the nothingness and let contradiction be your brother. Because how can there be song without sorrow? Or the blue wind without blood?

Rhona Sleath

The nightgown

Adrian Wakeling

This is a very short account of my sister’s life: She was brought up in a devout Catholic household. She had sex for the first time out of wedlock, at the age of twentyseven. It ruined her. The end.

This is a slightly less short account of my Because I didn’t protest when she asked to borrow my nightgown, she slept with the man she had been seeing; and because she slept with the man she had been seeing, she had a breakdown, went back to Ireland to be looked after by mother and never left the family home; and because she never left, she didn’t get the treatment she needed and was forever a shell of the person she could have been. She died frustrated, mentally ill and sad. And far too soon. The end.

sister’s life:

This is what I see when I close my eyes: She’s in her room, listening to Fats Domino. Daydreaming. On Blueberry Hill. Thinking about the man. Or trying to forget the man.

This is why I feel so much guilt: She hardly ever left the house. The house of prayer. So full of neglect. Chain smoking away the hours. My chain-smoking sister whose entire life was destroyed by that one experience. That started with my nightgown.

This is how it began: I was having coffee in Bewley’s. The wedding was only a week away so I was sworn off the cakes. Heading for the exit, all virtuous, one of my aunts – Mauve, my mother’s sister – took me by the arm and said ‘just the young woman I was hoping to meet’. We went shopping and she bought me a silk scarf and the nightgown. I had to stop myself blushing as I knew she was thinking of my wedding night. It looked like something my great grandmother might have worn, hanging loosely from neck to toe.

This is how I spend my time studying the past:

I peer at Lillian, looking for signs. Were her eyes always scary or did that come later? There was the cigarette holder that made her look like that old Hollywood film star in Sunset Boulevard. And that time she came out of the kitchen pointing a knife at her wedding finger. I will have a ring on it she said. More of a threat than a promise.

This is my recurring dream about my sister:

I am trying to get to the top

of the stairs as quickly as I can so that I can stop her; so that I can interrupt that one tiny action that changed everything forever. Our childhood home in Ireland was a bungalow, so we are in one of our hospital houses in England. We were always moving, my husband and I, acquiring children along the way. We began in the South West, followed by stints in the North East and the South East. This all took place in the Midlands. The middle of everywhere. Bull’s eye.

This is the memory I have of what happened when I finally got to the top of the stairs:

Lillian was in our marital bedroom holding the nightgown in her arms like a sacred artefact. I had not intended to creep up on her and was surprised I could surprise anyone.

This is how I connect the dots: There is a dance at the Hospital Social Club tonight. She has met someone. She has been dropping hints and clues. Lillian is staying with us to help with the children and to have a change of scenery. What a quant expression that is. The presumption is that if the scene changes, then why can’t we? The truth is you are merely the same person somewhere else.

These are the facts as far as I know them:

My sister is away from Ireland. Good. Away from mother. Good. And closer to my nightgown and all it has to offer: a hitherto distant world of legitimate intimacy. Except. Except … Stop talking and let her speak.

This is how my sister told her story:

“I wondered if I could borrow your nightgown?”

“Well. Why would you need to?”

“I might stay out.”

She made it sound like a kid’s sleepover. I tried to think of all the ways in which this might be safe and respectable. There is a visitor’s room, but it has to be booked in advance. Has she booked it in advance? I don’t think so.

This is the practical question at the forefront of my mind that I should have asked:

‘If I lend you my nightgown, how will you carry it to the party?’

Her bag is fashionably small. I think of the act of hand washing it when she gets back. Unless she will be delicate enough to do this herself. How will I feel about wearing it thereafter? Perhaps I should present it to her as a (rather overly symbolic) gift. Of all that she has lost. Or all that she is about to lose, and I am not just talking about her virginity. I am hardly talking about her virginity at all.

It was my sister’s night off. Maybe I should have thought of a way of accompanying her without giving the impression I didn’t trust her.

This is the nub of what happened in the space of that one night:

She stayed over as she intended, and never came back, not the sister I knew or thought I knew. She got up late. I presumed she was just very tired. She never drank but that would have been the least of my worries. When she appeared she looked hollowed out. She was withdrawn one moment, hysterical the next. It was as if she had entered the adult world for the first time.

This is the rather selfish thought I had that morning:

Is she capable of looking after my children in this state, of keeping them safe? She barely said anything for days. The details slipped out bit by bit, but nothing that made much sense. I found my nightgown screwed up in a little ball at the bottom of her wardrobe. I knew religion was to blame; the way it had been fed to her and the way she had chosen to digest it. Sex outside wedlock is not merely a sin but an abomination.

This is what I think of God:

I’d like to punch him in the face.

This is how we tried to help:

We couldn’t let her return home in the state she was in. My husband arranged for her to have some treatment in a place nearby. It was quiet, and well supervised. She was given medication to calm her down. But when I visited, she never looked like she was about to explain, not really.

These are the words that echo most in my head: “I will burn in hell for what I have done.”

When she started to recover, she was angry. I wondered if she might be jealous of me, of what I had that she didn’t have. But when I hear her voice from those faraway years, she doesn’t sound bitter. As young women, I encouraged her to do modelling, partly to give her some focus, a way of being looked at without having to rely on male companions all the time. I think she was addicted to society. For her the dance never ended; the swirling gown, the perfectly coiffured hair. The only disappointment were the men. Why are they always so disappointing; so eager to please in this way; getting drunker by the hour; the facade of politeness and charm running off like the sweat from every pore.

This is the one question we should all be asking: What was God thinking when he created men (particularly those dressed in black with white collars, beady eyes and whisky breath)?

The voice that tries to speak to me stares, yearningly, from the room in the bungalow she lived in with our parents for the rest of her life. She died before them. That should never happen should it. That’s one of the very worst things that can happen, a child leading the way to the grave.

Her room is a child’s room or, more accurately, the room of a teenage girl. Remember your daughter or niece at fifteen. Imagine she becomes cocooned by her dreams, like a princess in a fairy story. She ages on the outside but not on the inside. The prince who finds her in a hundred years’ time will have quite a shock. But what does he bloody well expect? Not rotting teeth and emphysema that’s for sure.

This is what my husband did:

He went to see the man in question. The reception he got was brusque. We were making too much of something that happens every night in every town in the country. Probably even the world. That’s quite an image. All those buttocks going up and down. A simple human act. That’s all it was. Between two single, adults with nothing else on their minds. I imagine they were relieved that my sister wasn’t pregnant.

This is a summation of their thinking on the matter:

People fucked. So what?

People also get fucked up. But the young man in question couldn’t have known what would fall apart inside my sister. She always appeared confident, as if she knew exactly what she wanted.

This is the brutal truth that I cannot hide from:

My sister was very proud of her appearance in all situations. If I had refused to let her take my nightgown she would not have stayed over. This sounds stupid but it’s true. Otherwise, why would I be telling this story? You have to believe me. I am holding out my hand to her, pulling her bones out of the grave. To right the wrongs. No, my beloved sister would have stolen a kiss and gone back to Ireland with the warm glow of a holiday romance. She would have met a local fellow, courted for an eternity, got married, had children and only occasionally daydreamed about the English doctor while darning socks or getting her bunions seen to. The end. This was my mother’s reaction: She stubbornly refused to take an interest in the medication my sister had been prescribed, the dosage, the strict warning of the danger of not seeing the treatment through to its end.

“She is home now,” mother said, when I ring to ask after her; as if that was all the medicine she needed.

She certainly overdosed on the home-grown remedy – of prayer, isolation and deprivation. For decades I would send gift parcels, rarely visiting. Simple, comfortable items like socks and jumpers and pyjamas. It was

my way of sending love and showing concern. When I flew over for her funeral, I found many of the gifts still in their wrappers. This is how things would happen differently if I could go back in time:

I rush up the stairs and get to my bedroom before my sister. When she knocks, I open the door:

“I’d like to borrow your nightgown,” she asks.

“Well, why would you want to?”

“I’d just like to.”

“No. You can’t.” I reply.

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a reason. I just don’t want to you to. You can borrow my new scarf if you like; the one with red flowers.”

My sister is leaning over in front of my dressing mirror, tying the scarf. Smiling as she twists her head. This is the sister I want to have lived. The sister I want to remember. There she is, swooning with Fats on Blueberry Hill, waiting for her dreams to come true. And they will. They bloody well will, even if I have to create a whole other parallel universe to make it so. One without religions or belief systems that get in the way of love (and lust).

Contributors

Writers

Adrian Wakeling

Alexis Eaton

Charlie Kleft

Edie Lyons

Marian Hermez

Rohan Sangha

Rhona Sleath

Saskia Kirkegaard

Velvet Morgan

Yazmin Sadik

Zara Connoley

Illustrators

Katie Evans

Matthew Jackson

Niamh Daly

“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt, that you can set upon the freedom of my mind” – Virginia Woolf, ‘A Room of One’s Own’