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© Bunbury Publishing LTD


V ViolenceSexual Content- S Explicit Language- E


Poetry ‘Martello House’ James Johnson ‘The Bus to Carmarthen’ Dave Shannon ‘They Are Out There’ Jay Frankston ‘Night Out Katie Lewington ‘A Mote in the Sky’ ‘Channel Vision’ ‘Day Procedure’ ‘Daydreams’ ‘Distractions’ Ken W Simpson ‘Preparation for the Night Firefly’ ‘Still is the Night’ Mark Nenadov ‘Days to Idle’ ‘Ode to the Night’ ‘Poetry in Motion’ Ramesh Dohan ‘A Song from Leonard’ ‘The Old Man at the Sinking Ship Brothel’ Resoketswe Manenzhe ‘Half Quack’ Rhea Seren Phillips ‘Essence of One’ ‘Long Time, No See’ RV Skilton ‘Broken Shadows of Yesteryear’ ‘In the Depths of my Despair’ Skerdi Brahimaj Non-Fiction ‘We are the Borg’ Jasper Doomen ‘Intuition and Virtue in Miguel Delibes' Novel Las Ratas’ Pedro Blas Gonzalez Flash Fiction ‘The Home Life of Wile E Coyote Part II’ Benjamin Fisher ‘Empiricism’ ‘He Didn't Say 'I Love You' Until the Second Time’ Charlie Pashley ‘A Story of Harsher Times, A Story of Better Times’ E ‘Alone with the Birds’ V E Henry Beedle ‘Mad Max Three and a Half’ Jay Merill ‘The Last Petal’ Sherri Ellerman

Short Stories ‘Caldecott’ V S Andrew Lee-Hart ‘The Old House’ Charles Lea ‘Without Consequences’ David Turner ‘Tea and Toast’ E Henry Beedle ‘Wilfred’ Jack Fisher ‘Study for a Portrait of a Dream’ John Hanson ‘The Prison, Stuart Dybek, Jesus, My Ex-, and Corpus the Dragon’ Ron Riekki ‘Static’ Samuel Prendergast Co-Creators: Content Editors: Executive Editors:

Christopher Moriarty, Keri-Ann Edwards Christopher Moriarty, Keri-Ann Edwards

Scott Edwards Midlane, Rhea Seren Phillips Layout Editor: Matt Evans Graphics and Layout: Matt Evans, Joe Batsford Social Media Correspondant: Richard Hillier Cover photo: ‘Easter Moon’ Louie Clay Inside photo: ‘Blue Rail’ RV Skilton Contents: Pascal Little All work printed in the magazine remains the copyright of the author/photographer/artist. All we ask is a period of two months between issues where we have exclusive rights for the piece(s) after which you are more than welcome to try and have it published elsewhere. For more information on submission guidelines, please visit: If you have any queries, please visit: Bunbury Magazine © for the internet, 2013.-2015 Bunbury Publishing LTD. All rights reserved – 09467695



- page Art & Photography -page Pascal Little - page Non-Fiction - page Flash Fiction -page Short Stories - page The Weather - page Micropoetry -page


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Right, dear Bunburyists. We have a lot to get through this time so let's not dilly, lets not dally or we'll be here 'til the sun slips behind the horizon and we are covered by that starry blanket we call the night sky. Actually, given the theme of this issue is 'night' that would perfect. Yes, make yourself a cup of the finest drinking fudge, slip under something warm and cwtchy and fade away into the latest Bunbury Magazine. This issue we received a positive tidal wave of submissions from everywhere around the world. We may say this every issue but we are so proud to be at the helm of something that attracts such wonderful writing and art. For this issue, we have also had the pleasure of interviewing some brilliant musicians for the main feature. All of them have been featured on the podcast 'Welcome to Night Vale', a show we absolutely love. The music is always something you would not expect in the most delightful way. We are genuinely excited to be able to bring these interviews to you. As you know, we always have a big focus on grass-roots and local talent. This time round, we are thrilled to present an interview with Pascal Little, an artist who has a stall in Affleck's Palace in Manchester. His work is very bracing, very original and we are sure you are going to love it. All this and the usual mix of writing and art of the highest calibre. You are very lucky people indeed! As a last note, over the page there are details about a crowd-funding project we have started. We are trying to fund the start of a great support network for fresh talent in writing and art. We want to become one of the biggest advocates of grass-roots creativity and we need your help, dear Bunburyists. Remember, we are on pay-what-you-want. You can have all this wonderfulness for free if you like. We do this because we love it and we love you for reading. Until next time; Keep scribbling! Christopher and Keri.

50 62 76

Christopher Moriarty

- co-editor

80 Keri-Ann Edwards

- co-editor

We are Bunbury Publishing LTD. Right now, we run Bunbury Magazine, an arts-and-lit magazine with a big focus on grass-roots creativity, giving a platform to creatives who would not necessarily get the exposure they deserve through mainstream routes. We are also preparing to publish two poetry anthologies from two very talented writers. Using this as a platform, we are looking to publish more anthologies, novels, collections. First and foremost in our mind are the writers and artists with whom we work. We always aim to deliver the best possible support and guidance to those who submit to the magazine and those authors who are publishing full collections with us. We also like to get out into the world and bring features on events to the magazine. In past issues, we have attended Verbose, a brilliant spoken word event in Manchester where we interviewed the organisers and poets who performed at the event about what they love to do and showcased a selection of their poetry, giving them all a wider platform for their passions to be noticed. Last year, we went to Edinburgh to do coverage of the Fringe Festival, with a huge focus on those performing as part of the Free Fringe - those comedians and performers the BBC would not necessarily showcase on its revues afterwards. These are the people who make the Edinburgh Fringe truly special and deserve a wider platform. On top of all this, we also run a writing group and regular events called Do The Write Thing. In the group itself, we help local writers shape and hone their work through both positive and more critical feedback. Every six weeks, we then give the writers a chance to perform their pieces in front of a warm and accepting audience in a safe space. We also have some of the finest poets from the Manchester area, and further afield, as headline guests. We want to be able to build on both the support we give to upcoming & established writers and keep bringing our dear readers (we call them Bunburyists) great and exclusive content. In order to bring this level of support to these people, we are asking for your help, you lovely people. There are many things we would like to do to increase the support we can give to both our readers and contributors. These are the key areas we have identified in order to start on the long road to - hopefully - becoming one of the leading supporters of grass-roots creativity in local-Manchester area, the U.K and the world!  Until we speak again, thanks for taking the time to read all this and know that your money will be going to a great project!

ht p:/


Martello House In the stairwell of A-Block, you were Gretel, chasing a trail of crisps. Martello House, our flat and the wall crumbled like shortbread. Through the window, our muse like secateurs nipping at the high blossoms of other lives. I would have liked to show you a bird. Fear. And then you went out, without a key; savoured every little dish that the world had to offer, as though they were the tapas of experience.

The Bus to Carmarthen or Mr Beynon’s Sausage Squealing, squealing, squealing it was; The old bus to Carmarthen... FIRST it said on the outside, Fourth, at best I thought, inside. Squealing, squealing, squealing, Like the pig in Mr Beynon’s field. On the way to Carmarthen, the bus Slowly waivers past that field: Mr Beynon’s pig stares enviously at the large blue Boar squirming, squelching and squealing With an obscene mechanical piggy delight, As it dances clumsily along the black country road. I sit in the bus behind another large bore. This one talks about football for 96 minutes. Squealing, squealing, squealing it was; The pig that is: Just before it became Another sausage from Mr Beynon; Cuddled up and curled on a the hungry Bus driver’s breakfast plate; Next to the silent eggs, far from the field, Squealing, squealing, squealing, it couldn’t, But, it wanted to now...

THEY ARE OUT THERE They're out there you know. They're still out there on Wall Street, on Madison Avenue, walking around in business suits white shirts and ties, carrying executive briefcases. They're still out there in offices, in board rooms, around conference tables making deals, making money, making mudpies with their head in the sand. They're out there in first class playing games on the stock market, gambling their lives without knowing it. Better still, knowing somewhere deep inside that they're on the Titanic and it has already struck the iceberg of their overindulgence. Don't wake them up! They don't want to know. The boat is sinking.

Night Out Can’t see my feet, just the lamp lit street. Washing my hair in the wind; music playing through my headphones at a perfect volume. Shadows of autumn leaves Skip alongside me. There’s an open door somewhere for me and I cannot get there quick enough.

A Mote in the Sky The gaping sky engulfs the night squelching through puddles where eyes gaze gloomily from the pavement to melancholy mirrors reflecting features and thoughts that drown where memories end.

Channel Vision Time to celebrate the end of just another carbon-copy day. The TV emoted vacuously like a churlish child demanding to be recognised. Platitudes permeated the air with the smell of fries pot and stale beer. A grimacing face at a commercial break gabbled like an outraged cockatoo. Chaotic scenes flashed by as bland echoes of the evening news. There was the usual spin from politicians and the PM was posing with kids again.

Day Procedure I was waved towards the waiting-room by a nurse who said “Take a seat� which I did casually after a few steps.

Dubious as angels they posed for pictures captured and trapped emotionally vacuous inside the lenses of predatory cameras with reality lagging somewhere behind.

Covertly I noticed an old man among the patients with large veined hands and a Hebrew with a skullcap and pigtails tied with pink ribbons.

Dilettantes displayed smiles like gargoyles with breasts shiny as silicone elegantly dressed while sipping drinks and presenting images of promiscuity and sex.

No one seemed to be looking at anything in the sterile air-conditioned stillness of the cream-walled room where a remote TV projected images nobody watched.

Invitations to gaze were scattered like shrapnel on every page and a fabulous fop Mr Nice Guy married seven times white haired and randy was aiming for eight.

In that silent emptiness where only feelings existed anonymously and existentially in a desert of indifference and self-absorption I picked up a magazine from the table.

A toddler attached temporarily like a poodle to a model's indifferent hand smiled mechanically posing for the cameraman.

The pages slick and glossy smelled of soap and semen and featured gurus of glamour sophisticated and beautiful with exquisite faces cold as porcelain.

Boredom in the claustrophobia of the waiting-room with nothing to do but look until called and wait like a flower pot on a windowsill.

Daydreams Evoking the taste of red tomatoes at meal times in the empty solitude of an afternoon mentally wondering while wandering through yesterday's memories. A captive mind entangled as the past erupts from a crowded room and reflections from a sightless night shimmer under an arch of cerulean blue.

Distractions Distractions I was dwelling on abstractions in the penumbra of my mind fleeing yesterday's woes and the shadows outside. Caroline cried while fitfully sleeping and twitched as I dressed then left the room. The wind screeched like a wounded bird thunder rumbled and rain slashed against the window panes. After breakfast the rain stopped the wind sighed and Caroline embraced a tree instead of me. We strolled hand in hand despondently as thunder echoed growling threateningly. Caroline cried as the path tilted opening like a gaping grin into which she vanished laughing like a loon.

Preparation for the Night Firey He sits on the porch reading a scroll and his finches narrate a pedestrian's stroll It's Saturday afternoon. cool air skids off the road as a black pickup passes by playing Honky Tonk. The bluebird realizes that sun incinerates the day until it implodes and explodes like a container the lid still on packed into a microwave All this is in preparation for the night firefly which--glowing and pulsating skates before a star lonely sky and a balding moon.

Still is the Night Wondered I often at this breezy ease in this town with trees sprinkled across wrinkled land. A product of sower and seed joined at the hip shipping a pinch of wind the birds and the rain. Who am I to complain? Sitting on the porch my mind is being sifted my thoughts have drifted to 35 degrees chilly to April trees to bundles of metal blowing in the night. The light fades I ask myself where are we going with this incessant blowing. And it all prattles on another evening's marrow flowing between my fingers which linger in the doubts and fears.

Days to Idle In a deck chair Under castellated clouds Campari and Tonic Bitterness And through damp air The gleam of a distant lake The property of stillness In September With a few days Silence punctuated A piquant phrase And wake of laughter On wooden slopes And pale mountain Built on outrageous hopes

Ode to the Night The round white knob On the dresser drawer Lulls me with false hope Consider the white space Between words on a page I don’t just read I read Rilke and bleed The light that changes I have been courting sleep And catering to its taste in nightgowns You are in Bed And Ovid’s dead Between flapping wings

Poetry in Motion Moving as a mind across the math problem An eye across a lover’s body As if in answer to a primordial urge I longed for something Perpetual peace and blinding light From a distance It all seems graffiti You are born this way Or else you are not

A Song from Leonard As we danced I saw the water in her eyes and knew it would have the taste of salt. She smiled and kissed my cheek. The flame she lit on my face burnt in my heart. Yet I knew the sea would fall from her eyes. Ah, the sea, it wrinkled my desire, slew my lust, it spoiled her paint and changed her mask. She would not be a woman, not again, neither wife nor lover, her mystery still riddles me Was she beautiful—a man may appraise her and weep. Her beguiling charm departed with the rising sun and in the morning I only found her ruined. The moon had taken her mystery and pull. All that lay before me was coal: black and cold. Did she light the night fire only to turn to ash? And her eyes, was it the sea I saw, or heaven? Or was it only hell reflected in the sky? Was Marianne even her true name, or just a call meant only for the night?

The Old Man at the Sinking Ship Brothel He is the sort that feels no shame, the sort that smiled and asked my name, the sort that smiled yet looked in pain, the sort of pain that gives me pain. He has eyes that rust his face, the yearning eyes that seek a face, the fading face he dreads to face, the undying face he holds in grace. He sits and asks if I know of mud, if my heart beats and gives a thud, if love has ever seeded into a bud, if I know of love, the glory of mud. He has told of snow and rifts and coal, of oceans of love and then a shoal, tales of passion and matter and coal, of eyes of mud and hair the colour of coal. Again he sighs and smiles to say, “Like you, my dear, they stole her day,” “the night she ruled but never day.” “She loved, I know. She loved, I say.” His eyes again, they sweep the room. “When I was young she ruled this room,” “of every man she made a groom,” “when I was young and in this room.” He says, he says, the aging man— He slurs promises, lyrics of a mad man— Adventures lived by a younger man, A love wasted by the younger man: He is the sort that feels no shame The sort that smiles and sighs her name The sort of name that excites his pain He who never takes yet always pays.

Half Quack1 I sang to the water: its black weeds tangling hiraeth that skyjack our half quack. They made us mute. Their ammonia rusts our thighs; gauche putrefies flesh, pulverise that pine box otherwise they'll dilute us. Sing for the land of our fathers in warbling arias that slathers and lathers quixotic aphelion; spuming, pulpous asafetida sullies flesh; skittering amoeba taunt the Nepa that bolide prion.

1 Poetic form: Cywydd Llosgyrnog with the superscript text not counted amongst the syllable count.

Essence of One Condescending authoritarian type, wearing a fake smile and a gravy stained tie. Ego personified, behind a cheap desk. Lord of his shabby pre-fabricated cabin, ludicrously masquerading as an office. ‘So?’ he says, pausing for affect. ‘What kind of person are you?’ ‘That’s a good question’ I seamlessly reply. Being highly economical with the truth; brazenly lying though my teeth. Thinking it a damn stupid question at the very least. Satisfying his conceit, while pacifying mine Stroking two egos at the same time. Surely he must realise I’ve been every kind of person at sometime? A good friend; generous to a fault Spiteful, malicious, cuddly and cute. Guilty of brutal honestly; known to commit a verbal assault. Kind, caring, cold and indifferent. No doubt you’ve got the idea; I don’t have to labour the point. Possessing infinite personality; complimenting my free will. Reacting to events, however I feel. Able to respond in a myriad of ways; Totally different on different days. So feeling mischievous; wanting to be frivolous. Wishing to irritate, by saying the inappropriate. Deadpan proclaiming ‘Sometimes like Satan; other times like God’ Needless to say; I didn’t get that job.

Long Time; No See what’s Dave doing? Nothing, his dead. ...What? Dave’s Dead? That’s what I said. But how did he die? Dunno. don’t know? Yep, that’s what I said. ....oh.

Broken Shadow of Yesteryear Broken shadow of yesteryear Of an image split in two Coming back to haunt me again As I’m still thinking of you Trying to arrange the events And find reasons that are clear Broken shadow of yesteryear Presents itself in my dreams Stitching back the memories Some are bitter but most sweet Broken shadow of yesteryear It's pain you make me feel Lost and confused again Yet you always follow tight Broken shadow of yesteryear Not letting me breathe tonight

In the Depths of My Despair In the depths of my despair I wrestled with a monster In the depths of my despair I was baptized by a saint Laying on the ground A child that begs for help In the depths of my despair By the devil held I fell as a hero But also betrayed my cause In the depths of my despair Nothing seems clear anymore Laughing and shedding a tear I often find myself alone In the depths of my despair I keep on getting lost I walk, stop and think Trying to see beyond This darkness is “ohhh” so cold Can barely stand it anymore In the depths of my despair I wonder like a lost cause.

Originally written in Albanian “Ne Brendesi te vetvetes ne Erresire”

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